‘Oh. Right,’ I say, handing him the keys.
I don’t even ask how much. I just book in. ‘One night?’ the receptionist asks, her immaculate polished fingernail hovering over the return button on her keyboard.
One night? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I nod, and her fingernail glances against the key and she hands me a card and tells me we are on the top floor.
Luxury is so quiet. Everything slides and clicks and fits. Luxury has a particular taste and smell and feel. Like the towels for example. Kitten soft and enormous. They smell like lavender. The fruit in the bowl is tree-fresh. The chocolates are handmade, and the view of the lake is magnificent through a squeaky-clean window, unblemished by streaks.
Even the weather forecast – printed on ivory parchment with traces of leaves embedded in the margin and placed on a piece of jade sea glass on the bed – is luxurious, in spite of its prediction of rain.
So far, I have made tea, peeled a banana for Dad, put him to bed for a nap, and phoned twenty-seven hotels.
None of them have a reservation for an Iris Armstrong.
Or a Vera Armstrong.
Or a Terry Armstrong.
Or an Iris Shepherd.
Or a Vera Keogh.
I tried a few different variations. Some of the receptionists aren’t as patient as others.
My ear is hot and red from pressing the phone against it.
I can’t even go to the clinic and wait for Iris there. I don’t have an address. When I Google it, it just gives a PO Box number.
If Iris were here, if she were helping me search, she’d say, Think like a suicidal person.
But I can’t do that.
Even now, I can’t think of Iris as a suicidal person. She just isn’t the type. Is there a type?
Our family doctor killed himself, oh years ago now. Hanged himself from a tree. A young woman, walking her dog, found him, swinging from the end of the rope he had bought in Woodie’s that morning.
I was angry with him for a long time afterwards. He had a clever, beautiful wife, also a doctor. He had a mother. I remember those two women at the funeral, their faces collapsed with grief. And the young woman who found him. She was there too, her face stiff with shock. I imagined when she closed her eyes at night, she saw him, swinging from the end of the rope, like hopelessness.
Perhaps she sees him still.
I look out of the window. Across this city of a million people. I have never felt more alone.
THINK.
I pick up my phone. Ring the next number on the list of hotels that the receptionist downstairs kindly printed out for me.
‘Oh, yes, hello’, I say. ‘Do you speak English? Oh, good, great. Sorry? Yes, I’m hoping you can help me. The thing is, I would like to know if you have an Iris Armstrong staying there? No? How about an Iris Shepherd? Anyone called Vera? Terry? How about … Hello? Hello?’
I try the next number.
And the next.
And then I hurl the phone against the wall, which has two immediate consequences.
1) The phone remains intact.
2) Dad wakes up.
‘Is it morning time?’ he asks, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
‘It’s evening time,’ I say.
‘Oh,’ he says.
I wonder what it’s like. Inside his head. His consultant told us he would explain it to us in as simple a language as he could manage, then paused for ages as if such a language were too simple for him to articulate. After some time, he stood up and drew a rudimentary – or simple, as he kindly phrased it – picture of a brain, riddled with knots that he identified as ‘plaques’ and ‘tangles’. These ‘plaques’ and ‘tangles’, he went on to explain, aided and abetted by a great deal of hand gestures, prevented signals from travelling from the brain – he pointed at his rudimentary drawing with the tip of an HB pencil – to other parts of our bodies. Here, he drew an imaginary circle on his chest, to further demonstrate.
Even Mam commented afterwards. On how patronising he was.
Dad hung on his every word, none of which he remembered afterwards.
Now, he peers at me. ‘Do you work here?’ he asks.
‘No,’ I say, without explaining as I usually would. Who I am. What we are doing here. Where we are going.
I have run out of answers.
I don’t know anything.
Not a single thing.
I stand up, walk towards my smugly intact phone, pick it up off the floor.
It rings and I nearly drop it.
It’s Brendan.
‘Hello,’ I say, unable to inject even a modicum of interest or enthusiasm into my voice. The stocks of such things are depleted.
‘Terry? Are you okay?’ Brendan’s voice is anxious and already I am sorry for not scraping the dregs of interest or enthusiasm from the bottom of my depleted store.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I say.
‘You don’t seem fine. You seem … far away.’ He sounds worried. Like he was during that period after my mother died. When I couldn’t seem to feel anything and everyone thought it was because of the tablets the doctor had prescribed except I wasn’t taking them even though I told everybody that I was because they were all so worried about me and it seemed like the least I could do.
‘Where are you?’ Brendan asks.
‘Zurich,’ I say.
‘Terry, talk to me. What is it? Is it Iris?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has she …’
‘We had a big fight. I said horrible things to her. And she left. And now I can’t find her.’
Brendan doesn’t say anything and I think maybe the line’s been disconnected. Then he says, ‘Iris has an iPhone, doesn’t she?’
‘No, she has a Samsung. Why?’
‘Oh, I just thought I could try looking for her with that “findmyiphone” app.’
‘She has an iPad. Would that work?’
‘Yes. Do you know her email address?’
‘Why?’
‘Just humour me, okay?’
‘[email protected].’
‘Two? Hard to imagine there’s more than one of her.’
‘There isn’t.’
‘I know. I was just trying to … never mind. Now, do you have any idea what her password might be?’
‘I think she uses the same password for everything.’
‘What is it?’
‘smkcuf66.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Fuck MS spelled backwards and her lucky number. Twice.’
‘Okay. Hang on a sec.’
In the background, I hear the clickedy-click of Brendan’s fingers across the keyboard of his laptop. The typing pool at the insurance company was disbanded long ago. Brendan adapted better than I would have imagined.
Dad wanders about the hotel room, picking things up and putting them down, glancing at me at intervals as if he’s seen me somewhere before but can’t quite place me.
‘She’s at the Intercontinental,’ Brendan says.
‘What?’ I jump up, adrenalin fizzing through my body.
‘She’s at the—’
‘But so am I! I’m at the Intercontinental.’ Iris could be in the room beside me. Next-door neighbours. She could be that close.
‘Hang on a minute,’ I say to Brendan, setting my mobile on the bed and picking up the phone on the bedside locker. I ring reception.
‘Hello, this is Terry. From …’ I can’t remember my room number.
‘Hello, Ms Shepherd, I trust you are settling in well?’
Luxury has impeccable manners and excellent technology, but in spite of these things, there is no reservation for an Iris Armstrong.
Or a Vera Armstrong.
Or a Terry Armstrong.
Or an Iris Shepherd.
Or a Vera Keogh.
Or anyone who answers my description of Iris.
I hang up and lean against the wall, close my eyes.
THINK.
From the
bed, the tinny sound of Brendan’s faraway voice. I reach for it. ‘She’s not here,’ I say.
‘Well, her iPad is,’ says Brendan.
‘It must be in the car.’ I wait for him to tell me how it’s not best practice to keep valuables in the car, but he doesn’t.
Silence down the phone. Then a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Terry.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ I say.
‘No, but …’
‘It’s my fault.’
‘It’s not a question of fault.’
‘I’d better go,’ I say. Then I remember. ‘Wait. Are the girls okay?’
‘Yes, yes, it’s all … fine here.’
‘Thanks Brendan. For your help.’
‘I wasn’t very helpful.’
‘You tried. Thank you.’
‘Let me know how …’
‘I will.’
I check my watch. Nearly five o’clock. By now, Iris will be in possession of her prescription. Will have filled it.
Does Pax operate during normal business hours? Nine to five, an hour off for lunch kind of thing? Or is it a round-the-clock type service?
I don’t know.
I don’t know anything.
‘Let’s go, Dad,’ I say in a loud attempt at cheer.
‘Where?’ he asks, wary. I can’t blame him. I’ve dragged him so far from home.
‘To find Iris.’
‘Who?’
‘My friend.’
‘Okay.’
He puts his shoes on the wrong feet, takes out his top dentures, puts them in his pocket. ‘I’m ready,’ he says.
31
MOTOR VEHICLES MUST BE TESTED FOR THEIR ROADWORTHINESS.
Zurich is a neat and efficient city.
If it were a person, it would be a businessman striding to work in a well-cut suit and shoes that end in a sharp point, with a rolled-up Financial Times under his arm.
A city of banks and brands. There are no beggars on the streets. No buskers. No graffiti. No litter.
I glance at a shoe-shop window. Iris could buy a pair of the strappy sandals she likes for €359.99.
If she were here, she might try them on. ‘How much for one?’ she might ask the immaculately made-up shop assistant.
Where would Iris go in a city like this one? What would she do?
I check my phone. No missed calls. No texts. I ring her number.
The number you are calling cannot be reached at this time. Please try again later.
We walk along the banks of the lake. I walk as slowly as I can, but even so, Dad lags behind me. ‘Are you okay, Dad?’ I ask him.
‘Are we going home soon?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say, linking arms with him. It seems absurd somehow. The notion of going home.
I feel unmoored. Directionless. I don’t know what will happen next.
The only person who knows is Iris.
In the restaurants and cafés along the lake, I show disinterested waiters a photo of Iris.
Have you seen this woman?
The answer is no and, would I like a table for two?
I would like a table for three.
In the fifth such place, Dad declares himself hungry. I look at my watch. It’s seven o’clock. Of course he’s hungry.
Dad orders raclette, which the waitress says one must eat when one is in Switzerland.
I order a beer.
Raclette turns out to be melted cheese served with jacket potatoes, gherkins and onions.
The beer comes in a bottle nearly as big as a wine bottle. ‘Have some, Dad,’ I say, reaching for his glass. He shakes his head. ‘No thanks, I never touch the stuff,’ he says.
He really believes it too. Never drank, never smoked, never arrived home late. Never missed an occasion. Never raised his voice. Or his hand. Never let anyone down.
He has reinvented himself. He is a curriculum-vitae version of himself.
I wonder how I will see myself if I get dementia. Outgoing, adventurous, brave. A no-nonsense kind of a woman. A woman people respect and are slightly fearful of. I imagine describing myself thus to my daughters. I can’t imagine them letting me get away with it.
Back outside, we walk along the lake. The evening has cooled as the sun slips towards the horizon, as if tired after this long day.
The longest day.
In the distance, singing. I use my hand as a visor and peer ahead.
Yes. Definitely singing. Young people, it sounds like, their voices high and joyous and defiant, more interested in being heard than being in tune.
Up ahead, through the gaps of the evening strollers, they come into view.
Dancing as well as singing, most of them in bare feet, all in brightly coloured robes, walking in messy procession along the path, banging on drums and triangles, shaking maracas and tambourines.
Hare Krishnas.
I haven’t seen them in such numbers in years.
There is something so positive and cheerful about them.
Even Dad, who keeps asking when we are going home, is smiling. They’re infectious. Also, they have cake.
One of them sings and dances her way towards Dad, holding a huge wedge of chocolate cake in her hand, which she hands to him. He accepts it and I try not to think about germs and contamination and general food hygiene issues. In fact, when she hands me the wedge she holds in her other – bare – hand, I say thank you – actually I say danke – and then I steer it into my mouth and keep pushing until I can fit in no more.
It’s delicious. Sweet and sticky and dense with chocolate. Dad holds up his fingers, which are smeared with icing. I look in my handbag, but I have finally run out of tissues. ‘Lick them,’ I say. I have to shout to be heard over the singing, which is all around us now. It’s like being in the middle of a song. Not necessarily a great song. An enthusiastic song. Like a Eurovision song. Dad and I stand in the middle of the song, licking our fingers clean, regardless of germs and contamination and general food hygiene issues.
‘I don’t know what’s happening,’ Dad shouts over at me.
‘Neither do I,’ I say, and this strikes both of us as funny and we stand there, in the middle of the song, and laugh and some of the Hare Krishnas form a circle and hold hands and dance around us and a memory ignites in my head, like a match. A birthday party. For my sixth birthday, maybe. Musical statues. And Dad was there, dancing with me. Spinning me and lifting me and twirling me. Me, squealing with excitement and dizziness and attention. And Mam putting her hand on his arm, stilling him with a hissed whisper and the laugh fading from his face so that I was reminded of a sky darkening for a storm and him shrugging her hand off his arm and leaving the room, then leaving the house. The slam of the front door. The cough of the engine turning over and then he was gone and the music stopped so that we all froze like statues. Even Mam, when I looked at her. Her bright smile frozen on her face, her eyes on the window through which I could hear the wail of the engine, fading.
Memory is a strange beast, isn’t it? It throws up such random things. Presents itself to us in different ways. Sepia-tinted, some of them. Black-and-white, others. Glaring technicolour. Some are magnified. Larger than life. Insistent. And others are like the images you see when you look through the wrong end of binoculars. Distant and small. You doubt the truth of them.
I have no idea why I’m remembering my six-year-old birthday party. Did I even have a birthday party? In the memory, the house is crammed with six-year-olds, which seems unlikely.
I abandon myself to the Hare Krishnas and the chocolate cake and the singing and the dancing. So does Dad. I see myself from a distance. See the shape of the memory that this will become. A technicolour memory. A gangly, middle-aged woman dancing with her father and singing a Hare Krishna song even though she doesn’t know the words. She doesn’t know the language.
Afterwards, when the Hare Krishnas move on, I realise that they didn’t try to convert me. Aren’t they supposed to do that? Maybe I’m mixing them up with the Mormons.
Those door-to-door young men in pressed suits.
The Hare Krishnas just fed me. How kind of them.
But I am no closer to finding Iris.
I consult my guidebook. There is a money museum. Iris would not go there. There are murals painted by an artist called Augusto Giacometti on the vaulted ceilings of the police station. Iris would like to see those, but maybe she already has? While I was dancing with the Hare Krishnas?
And now it’s getting dark.
What on earth was I thinking?
I wasn’t thinking at all.
I need to think.
THINK.
There is a mountain in the city which seems comfortingly Swiss. You can take a train to the top. This seems like an Iris thing to do. I look at Dad. He is leaning against the trunk of a tree, his head nodding as if he is agreeing with something only he can hear. His eyes are closed.
I can’t take him to the top of the mountain.
‘Come on, Dad.’ I put my hand on his shoulder, shake him gently. His eyes spring open, startled.
‘Bedtime,’ I tell him, holding out my hand. He takes it. I don’t have to pull hard to get him upright. He is as light as a bag of feathers. Barely there. The taxi I hail drops us at the back of the hotel where the guests’ cars are parked. I find Iris’s iPad in the glove compartment. Underneath it is Iris’s ancient copy of The Secret Garden.
I pick it up. Back in the hotel room, I give Dad his tablet, get him to open his mouth afterwards, stick out his tongue, which he does like the obedient child he has become. He hands me his dentures, I brush them, settle them in a glass of water on a high shelf in the bathroom so it doesn’t occur to him to take them and hide them.
‘Will you keep the light on?’ he asks when I tuck him in.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘And I’ll be right here too. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘You’re a good girl,’ he says, tapping my shoulder. ‘You were always a good girl.’ He smiles, and I want to say, ‘Wait!’ Ask him what he means. Why he said that. What it is about me he remembers. Or maybe it’s just something he says. Like the way you say, Fine when people ask, How are you?
Dad turns on his side and closes his eyes. Within seconds, the sound of his low, gentle snores.
Otherwise the room is quiet.
I unfold the list of hotels the receptionist printed out for me. Pick up my phone. Start again, from the top.
Rules of the Road Page 28