Apotheosis

by Joshua Edward Smith

  Cynthia stared at the note. Thank you for what? She counted the money again. Then she had a thought. Cynthia opened her laptop and went to her guest services worksheet. Everything she did—every reservation she made, every masseuse visit she arranged, every taxi she called—was recorded in this spreadsheet. She looked at the reservations and counted. Over the past month she had made reservations for a total of 27 people at Chez Claude.

  She put the money back in the envelope, along with the note and picked up her keys and her purse. “Back in a little while,” she called to Emma as she headed out the door.

  Fifteen minutes later she burst into the restaurant. It was early afternoon and there were no patrons. It was much like her first visit a few weeks ago. “Claude! Get out here!” she yelled.

  A beat passed, and then Claude stepped out of the kitchen. “Ah! Mademoiselle Cynthia, from Phillips House! It’s so nice to see you!” He took long strides toward her and then leaned in to kiss her cheek. She dodged him and shoved the envelope into his chest.

  “What the fuck is this?” she demanded.

  He looked down, considered the envelope and then replied, “Oh, that. That’s nothing. Just a little thank you.”

  “I think that it’s pronounced kickback,” she said. “Five dollars a guest, it seems. Is that the going rate for bribery?”

  “Such words,” he said, waving his hand as though to clear them away. “Gratuity. Because I am grateful.” He took the envelope from her and presented it again.

  “No thank you,” she said. “It would be completely unethical of me to recommend a restaurant that is providing me kickbacks. I stand behind my recommendations on their merits.”

  Claude looked at her with a concerned look, which broke into a smile. He shrugged and put the envelope in his pocket. “Very well. As you like.”

  “Thank you,” Cynthia said.

  “My deepest apologies. I never intended to offend you, or imply that you have anything less than the highest ethical standards. You are a high-end hotel. We are a high-end restaurant. We scratch each other’s backs. It’s just the way things are usually done.”

  Cynthia stood silent.

  “You have been very good for business, Mademoiselle. Let me thank you another way, oui? Something that is less gauche than this cash,” he swept the back of his hand across the pocket holding the envelope.

  “What did you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Hmm,” Claude paused and thought a moment. “Well we are closed on Mondays, oui? I assume you are not busy on Monday nights either?”

  “Generally things are pretty slow on Monday nights.”

  Claude kissed his fingertips. “Magnifique. I will pick you up Monday. Seven thirty? No. Eight. Avoid traffic into the city, non?”

  “Are you asking me out?”

  “Oui! As colleagues, of course. We can discuss trends in digital marketing in the age of social media.” Half his face quirked into a silly grin which broke right through Cynthia’s wall of outrage. She burst out laughing.

  “You are too fucking much, Claude.”

  “So it is a date? Monday?”

  “Are you married, Claude? Engaged? Steady girlfriend?”

  “Oh, no, Mademoiselle. I am much too busy with the restaurant for such things. Why do you ask? After all, this is just a business meeting, non?” The same side of his face quirked into the same silly grin.

  “Of course. Just curious. Okay, I’ll see you Monday,” Cynthia said. Then she gave him a stern look and pointed at him with her index finger, “No more envelopes,” she ordered.

  Claude stood at attention and saluted her. Cynthia laughed again and turned on her heel to leave.

  ¤

  Cynthia was roused from a deep sleep by knocking on her door. “Uh. What? I mean… come in?”

  The light from the hall hit her hard in the face and she instinctively lifted her hand to shield her eyes, preventing her from seeing whoever was standing in her doorway.

  “I’m really sorry to wake you, but we have a bit of an emergency.” Emma’s voice was strangely calm, considering the content of her words.

  Cynthia sat on the edge of the bed and forced her eyes open wide. “What is it?”

  “Seems there’s a bat in the Seahaven room.”

  “A bat?”

  “Guess so. Woman came screaming into my house. Said she slammed the door and the thing is still in there.”

  “Okay. I’ll take care of it,” Cynthia said.

  “I appreciate it. You know I don’t get around like I used to.”

  Cynthia went to her closet and grabbed a bed sheet, then put on her robe and headed upstairs to room 5—Seahaven. Each of the rooms had both a number and name, which Cynthia found irritating and confusing, but it was the way things were when she arrived and she hadn’t yet done anything about it.

  She stood at the door and listened. There were intermittent “thump” noises at seemingly chaotic intervals. She opened the door and quickly closed it behind her, fumbling to find the lights. There was indeed a bat doing laps around the room. She went to the window and opened it. She figured out how to remove the screen, which slipped from her hands and went crashing down into the bushes below. She sighed.

  After a few more steps, she had the upper sash down, so the bat had an easy escape path. She moved to the opposite corner, picking up the sheet she had left on the bed. She watched as the bat flew a circular path around the room, constantly changing its elevation and never coming anywhere near flying out the window she had opened.

  She took an edge of the sheet in each hand and held it high over her head. The bat merely changed course to avoid this new obstacle. She tried throwing the sheet up in the air as the invader passed, but that failed miserably. She picked the sheet back up and held it aloft, hoping she could cage the bat in, making the open window a more regular part of its raceway circuit. The bat decided otherwise and simply went around behind her.

  “Fuck! I give up,” she told the bat, apparently, and headed for the door. She slipped out quickly, to avoid letting it out of the room.

  Emma had made it up the stairs and was perched on a fainting sofa she kept in the hallway. “No luck?”

  “No,” Cynthia said, listening to the periodic thumping. “I opened a window. I’m hoping it finds its own way out.”

  She joined Emma on the sofa and waited. After a few minutes the thumping noises stopped. “Maybe it’s gone. I’ll go check,” Cynthia said. “Where’s the guest?”

  “Outside on the front porch. She said she was scared to death of bats and to let her know when it was gone.”

  Cynthia slipped back into the room. The bat was no longer flying in circles. She searched the whole room, to make sure it hadn’t decided to take a nap someplace. She was fairly certain it was gone, so she closed up the window and went back to the hallway. “I think it’s gone. Room 6 is open. She could move over there if she would be more comfortable.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Emma replied, groaning as she made her way to standing. “I’ll go talk to her.”

  The quiet of the night was broken by a piercing shriek. Cynthia and Emma both turned to look as a man and woman came running out of room 1, at the end of the hall, slamming the door behind them. “There’s a bat!” the woman yelled.

  “Calm down,” her husband groaned. “It’s really not that big a deal.”

  “I hate bats!” the woman said, rushing down the hall to hide behind Emma and Cynthia.

  Her husband shook his head. “You got a tennis racket lying around?” he asked.

  Emma looked at Cynthia, who shrugged, then at the man. “Little dark for tennis,” she joked.

  He smiled. “Or a sheet maybe?”

  “It’s okay,” Cynthia said. “I’ll take care of it. Emma, why don’t you take these folks downstairs and fix them some tea, or warm milk or something.”

  “Good idea,” Emma agreed. “Come along folks. Miss Cynthia will take care of it.”

  Cynthia took ano
ther peek in room 5, to be sure. Still no bat. “I think the coast is clear in here. Maybe just tell her it’s safe to come back,” she called quietly to Emma before heading down to do battle in room 1.

  TWENTY

  Claude strode into the inn a little before eight on Monday evening. Cynthia was ready early and was killing time updating all the Phillips House social media accounts. She was getting ready to run a new campaign and was playing with different demographic settings to see how they would impact the cost and reach. She also scheduled several posts for later in the week. She had found that being constantly active on social media was time-consuming, but appearing to be active by scheduling things in advance really wasn’t. She could spend a few hours on the weekend and create the illusion she was updating her pages several times a day for the rest of the week.

  “Good evening, Mademoiselle,” Claude said, standing in front of her desk in the lobby. “How are you this evening?”

  Cynthia looked up, “Good evening. I’m well. Shall we go?” She stood up as Claude took her hand and kissed it gently on the back. She felt a flutter in her belly, which annoyed her. Her physical attraction to Claude was substantial and undeniable, but she had serious reservations about him in every other regard. His attempt to bribe her, Emma’s contention that his accent and even his name were made-up, even the fact that he hit on Sam—they all added up to a judgment that she should keep her distance.

  Yet here she was, about to go on a date with him. A fucking date! She hadn’t been on a date with a man since… she didn’t even know. Her ex, Randy, she supposed. Well, there was dinner with Evan, but that didn’t count as a date. That was something else entirely. So her first real date in maybe fifteen or twenty years, and it’s with a known criminal using a fake accent and a fake name? Well, perhaps not a criminal. Is it a crime to bribe a hotel concierge? Probably not.

  “Is something wrong?” Claude asked, breaking Cynthia out of her trance of self-flagellation.

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I was just thinking about… we have a bat problem.”

  “A bat problem?” he asked, glancing dramatically at the ceiling.

  Cynthia started walking toward the door as she talked. “Yes, a couple appeared in guest rooms the other night. And then yesterday evening there was one doing laps in here.”

  “Can you call an exterminator?” he asked.

  “I did. But they said bats are protected, and they aren’t allowed to kill them. They referred me to a company that specializes in bats.” They had reached his car, which was a sporty Lexus. She settled into the leather passenger seat and waited for him to get in and start the car before continuing her story. “So I called those guys.”

  “If they are not allowed to kill the bats, what do they do? Trap them?”

  “They come and seal up every way the bats could possibly get into the inn. Then they install a one-way door so the bats can get out. The bats leave at night to feed through the door, and they can’t get back in. So they go fuck up someone else’s life.”

  “How do the bats know where the door is?” Claude asked, navigating the streets heading toward the highway.

  Cynthia looked at him and then laughed. “I have no idea. That’s a very good question.”

  “It seems odd that you would have this problem all of a sudden. Have there been bats before?”

  “Maybe someone else used this trick to get them out of their house, and we were their next target. I have no idea. The bat man said it’s baby bat season, which is why they are coming down into the rooms instead of going outside. The babies get confused.”

  “Did he answer the phone, ‘I am bat man’?” Claude asked, completely dropping the accent and doing an impression of one of the dozen people who have played Batman in the movies. Cynthia had no idea which one, but he did the voice well.

  She laughed. “You do that voice very well. I guess voices are kind of a skill for you, huh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said. “Everyone does that impression, non?”

  “Let’s test you out. Give me your best Sean Connery.”

  Claude thought for a moment and stretched his neck muscles the way actors do before they go on stage. “I like women. I don’t understand them, but I like them.”

  “Great line,” Cynthia said. “But you sounded more like Crocodile Dundee than Sean Connery.”

  Claude laughed. “You’re right! Give me another one. I’ll try to do better.”

  “Okay, let’s see… how about a generic Midwest accent. Some guy named Charlie from Indiana.”

  Claude looked at her, shocked.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, Charlie. The traffic on this road can be very unpredictable.”

  “How long have you known?” he asked.

  “That’s very convincing!” she said.

  Charlie smiled. “Honestly, it’s a bit of a struggle. I’ve been speaking with a French accent for so long, it’s hard to switch back to my old voice. Like when I call my mom or something.”

  “A good boy from Indiana who makes time to call his mother. How about that?”

  He glanced at her. “So? How long have you known?” he repeated.

  “Pretty much the whole time. Emma told me when I got home from that first time we met.”

  He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Oh fuck. And you let me keep it up?”

  Cynthia smiled and said nothing, watching the road out the windshield.

  ¤

  Charlie handed the keys to the valet and came around to open Cynthia’s door. She took his hand and stood on the sidewalk admiring the restaurant before her. “This looks pretty swanky, Chuck.”

  “Oh God, please don’t call me Chuck. I know I’m in deep shit here, and you can kind of do whatever you want at this point, but please. Not that.”

  Cynthia gave him the full teeth smile. “I’ll think about it, Chuck.” She laughed as he cringed. She took his arm, and he walked her into the restaurant. It was even nicer inside than it looked on the outside.

  He gave the maître d’ his name, who took them to a small table in the corner and held the chair out for Cynthia. Charlie seated himself. A petite woman swooped in and moved their napkins to their laps, filled their water glasses, and handed them menus. Charlie said something to her in French and she blushed.

  “What did you say?” Cynthia asked.

  “Oh, just some nonsense,” he replied.

  Cynthia sighed. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t flirt with other women while you’re on a date with me, Chuck.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh shit. I’m so sorry. Ugh. You must absolutely hate me.”

  “I’m withholding judgment for now. So you really do speak French, huh? Are you from French Lick, Indiana?”

  Charlie laughed. “Larry Bird! No, I’m not. Indianapolis, give or take. I fell in love with the French language in high school, studied French lit in college, and I spent some time in Paris to study cooking.”

  “Cordon Bleu?”

  “École Lenôtre, actually. It was great. I really learned a lot.”

  “I can’t argue that Claude is a great chef. So the other people in your restaurant? Are they all faking it, too?”

  Charlie laughed. “Oh, no. They all know my secret, of course. The restaurant business is a small world. Everyone knows everyone else, and they know everyone’s secrets. It’s very catty. But anyway, yeah, I do try to hire French people as much as I can. It gives the place an authenticity.”

  “Something has to,” she barbed.

  “Ouch. Yes, okay. Well it seems to work. They all speak French to each other behind the scenes, so I get that immersion, too. Keeps my skills up. But I’m glad you like my cooking. Is that why you are even still giving me the time of day? My escargot recipe?”

  “Mostly.” Cynthia turned her attention to the waiter, who was standing there waiting for them to finish talking.

  After he filled them in on the specials, Charlie had a short discussion with him in French, which Cynthia g
uessed was about wine, based on words she could pick out here and there. The waiter bowed slightly and disappeared.

  “Do you know the chef here?” Cynthia asked.

  “Wait. Do you speak French?” he asked.

  “No. Why?”

  “Oh, after I ordered the wine, I asked our waiter to give François my regards. I thought maybe you picked that up.”

  “Nope. Just making conversation. But since you said it’s a small world and all, I just thought you might.”

  A large man dressed like a chef from central casting appeared at the table. Full whites, giant hat—the works. Charlie stood and they embraced each other. Cynthia watched as they had a spirited discussion in French, drawing curious looks from people at tables all around them. While this continued, the waiter appeared with the wine. Cynthia motioned him over, and he reluctantly showed her the bottle and poured her a sample, never taking his eyes off the réunion de chef across the table. She tested the wine—it was excellent—and caught the waiter’s attention with her assent. He filled both glasses, placed the wine on the table, and vanished.

  “This is Cynthia,” Charlie finally said, motioning to her. “She is concierge at the Phillips House, up near me. Although I think that title is misleading, because I think she runs the place.”

  “Enchanté mademoiselle,” the chef said, taking her hand and bowing deeply. His voice and his touch gave Cynthia a chill.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she said.

  “François insists on preparing something special for us this evening. Not on the menu.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Cynthia said. “Thank you. I have a pretty adventurous palate, so go crazy.”

  The chef got a wild look in is eye and mumbled something to Charlie in French. Charlie laughed and pushed him away. François went back to the kitchen and Charlie returned to his seat.

  “What was that about?” she asked.

  Charlie rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It’s a good thing you don’t speak French.”

  “Rude, Chuck,” she chastised.