Sun Alley

by Cecilia Stefanescu

  He was nervous about going back there. He hadn’t set foot in the hotel for a long time, and even though he wasn’t surprised by Emilia’s choice, he felt a threat floating in the air. He had been asking himself all the way there whether he should break the news of his splitting up with Matilda as soon as he went in, or if he should wait and see what she had to say first. At length, he decided he’d better confess right away. Emilia would be startled at first, clasping her hands together in prostration; then, while coming to her senses, she would instantly glimpse her future, bringing together all the missing pieces, the ones she hadn’t even dared dream of. He was somewhat afraid of her enthusiasm, and deep down he was hoping she would be rather composed. After all, he had left behind two girls that would be unhappy for the rest of their lives and who, most likely egged on by Matilda, would never forgive him. He had cast off a big part of his painfully built, dull, ordinary life. He wished that in those moments she wouldn’t leap into his arms, trumpeting her joy.

  He felt like having a drink on the way. He stopped by a local pub shrouded in a haze of alcohol and smoke and asked for a Swedish bitter. When he was a student, bitter had been a fashionable drink. Hoards of boys would sip the bittersweet liquid, belt down glass after glass and, thus well-oiled, grope their schoolmates and strip them down in the stench of aromatic alcohol. Many marriages had been settled after those sleepless nights sprinkled with booze and shrouded in bluish clouds of cigarette smoke. They groped about in dorms and universities as if through a magic forest, and the first one to come their way was the chosen one. He had met Matilda after one of those nights. Now he drank the bitter and asked for one more. It was hard to tell how long he had stayed in the filthy pub, but when he walked out a thick whiff of tobacco was trailing him like chewing gum stuck to his clothes, hair and skin. Ever since he had met Emilia again, he had quit smoking on her request.

  ‘Given the little time we spend together, it would be terrible if you got sick. I couldn’t take it,’ she had told him.

  And he had obeyed her. One fine day, he had ditched his pack of cigarettes in the rubbish bin and Matilda had cheered. Then he had overheard her boasting to her friends over the phone: ‘He loves the girls so much. I couldn’t believe for the life of me that he would do something like that for them! You know he smoked like a chimney!’

  Not even then, as so many times before, did he feel ashamed. He had let her believe whatever she wanted. Now, in the end, he craved to light one more cigarette, to puff it in her face, to tear down even this last image of a thoughtful father, to leave her at peace with the thought that shrugging him off was the best for her and the twins. Oddly enough, he felt freed from them, after all this time in which he couldn’t even have conceived of leaving his home and forsaking his daughters, because it was his obligation to stand by them – at least physically, if not emotionally.

  He headed to meet Emilia feeling rather elated: the alcohol had liberated him, his feet barely touched the ground, and when he spotted the brick-coloured turrets holding the old hotel sign, with its fat and rusty letters, he chuckled. Now, since they needn’t hide in such places any longer, he found it particularly amusing to meet her there. He told himself he’d ask Emilia to rent room 22 once in a while, so as to remember the way it had once been. What a strange twist of fate, he thought on fierily, to end up together again after such a long time. And when they would tell this story to their children – because, by all odds, they were going to have at least one child–they would leave them shocked, as such accounts were not to be heard every day. And their children would tell the story to their friends, who in their turn would tell other stories back, sewn in many golden threads, about their own parents. And the thought of being part of such a charming trade filled him with joy and assured him that life had been worth living after all.

  The hotel lobby was empty. He waited for a few minutes at the reception desk in order to greet his old acquaintance. Despite his repeated knocking on the counter, he didn’t get any answer, so he started up the stairs, climbing them hurriedly two at a time. Besides the familiar humming of the building, which he was amazed to notice he hadn’t forgotten, not a soul seemed to be in sight. Down the corridor, the same dim light sweeping through the dusty tassels made the place feel even drearier.

  Outside number 22, he knocked on the door. He did it softly at first, but as he couldn’t hear a sound, he started knocking harder. He wanted to be courteous and see her laughing at his appearance, like a knight in shining armour, on her threshold. Finally, he tiptoed inside.

  On the night table there was a lit lamp, its shade the same old silky fabric ending in linty tassels. Emilia was lying on the bed, dressed in her drab clothes, her hair spread across the pillow like a jellyfish. She was sleeping and dreaming as a wisp of a smile graced her face and her white, quiet skin reflected the light of the lamp back into the room. Her shoes were meekly set at the foot of the bed, tips aligned, and on the armchair next to the bed was her huge bag. Upon spotting it, he felt the urge to rummage inside; he could avail himself of her deep sleep to see what lay at the bottom of her trunk full of trifles. He had seen her taking out aspirins, lipsticks, keys, coloured pens, notebooks, planners, different sized boxes in which she kept pills, chewing gum or jewellery, wallets, key-rings, napkins – plain and perfumed, dry and wet – newspapers, hand and body lotions, balms and other things he wasn’t even aware of. But, among so many things of no importance, a significant one might very well have been concealed, one that could tell him more about her than all the years spent together.

  He stopped in the middle of the room. He shivered, nauseated, turned away and walked out again. Out in the corridor, he felt his weariness at last. The vapours of the bitter alcohol had gone to his head and made him dizzy. But despite the dull pain buzzing around his temples, he needed another glass to walk back into that room. He went down to the reception desk and found a skinny young guy with a shaved head and a round, crimson face. He flaunted his hotel uniform cockily, showing he hadn’t been working there for long. Sal thought that he’d rather see his old acquaintance instead of this young guy. It would have been more convenient to ask the former guy what he asked this round-faced man instead, after greeting him in a soapy voice: ‘Do you happen to serve drinks?’

  The room clerk looked him up and down, and then blinked a few times as if to better comprehend his question. He answered after a few hesitating seconds that they didn’t, but that, if he wanted, he could rush to a nearby kiosk, where his girlfriend was working, and bring him a bottle of homemade wine from her grandparents. Without waiting for confirmation, he asked him in a commanding voice, ‘What kind of wine would you like, red or white?’

  After a brief reflection, Sal mumbled that he wanted white, and the young man nodded, smiling as if he had made the right choice. ‘Wait here, I’ll be right back!’

  He barely had time to sit down cross-legged on the broken springs of an armchair from the lobby when the young man popped back in, holding a plastic Coca-Cola bottle full of yellowish liquid. He handed it to him, his face beaming with joy. ‘The wine! You owe me a hundred.’

  Sal gave him a long, hard look to see whether he was mocking him or he really meant it. But the young man kept his arm stretched out, and the cloudy bottle did give off a sourish smell of wine. He fished through his pockets and took out a hundred from the wad of notes. Their trade lasted only a second. Finding himself with the bottle in his hand, Sal realised he wasn’t at all in the mood to drink alone. If he was going to get drunk on sour wine, he wanted some company at least.

  ‘Would you join me for a glass?’

  The young man faltered. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate – I’m still on duty!’

  ‘Oh, come on! One glass! My wife’s sleeping upstairs and I’ve got no one to toast with.’

  ‘Are you celebrating something?’

  He mulled the question over. He would have liked to be honest, but he had already called Emilia his wife and that confused him.

/>   ‘Yes. It’s been twenty-five years that we’ve known each other.’

  The young man stared at him, sizing him up. ‘But how long have you really known each other?’

  ‘We’ve known each other since we were kids. Since we were eight. We used to be childhood pals.’

  ‘Wow! A lifetime!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’ve stayed together, ‘ the room clerk mused. ‘This really does call for a celebration!’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘I’ll fetch some glasses and take a sip myself, so you don’t drink alone.’

  It was better this way. He hadn’t told a lie, although it wasn’t exactly the truth. The old trickster wouldn’t have bought this story. He’d have had to tell him the truth: that he had run away from home and it was his mistress, sprawled in the sheets, waiting for him upstairs. Had he added that they’d known each other since forever, maybe he wouldn’t have even believed Sal and would have thought him a liar. Not that he cared, but he felt safer like this. One more glass, and he’d be right back in the room where Emilia was sleeping sweetly; he’d hold her in his arms and lift her up high, until she touched the ragged tassels and signed her name on the dusty ceiling, scribbling their initials and putting the signs ‘= love’ next to them. It was this single glass that stood between him and the love of his life. He felt intoxicated with joy even before taking a sip from the wine that the young receptionist smilingly handed to him.

  ‘And what brings you to our hotel?’

  ‘Oh! Well…’

  The neon lights were droning like bumblebees, and the wine, once it was flowing down his tongue, tickled him pleasantly and warmed up his joints and thighs, adding to the faint sensation of arousal he felt, like a promise. He couldn’t ask for more.

  ‘We’re just passing by.’

  ‘But where are you from?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘What town are you from?’

  ‘Oh, we live in Bucharest, but we thought it would be nice if we didn’t stay at home on our anniversary.’

  ‘I see. And your wife fell asleep.’

  Behind the round crimson face, little wheels were spinning. Deep down, Sal was sure that the young man behind the counter was cut out for his job. For one second, he had doubted this and pitied him; he had imagined him to be the victim of sham customers. But the young man understood more than he let on.

  ‘She was tired from work. She arrived before me. You know how it is nowadays; women work as much as we do.’

  ‘Hee hee,’ he laughed, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth,’ some of us don’t work at all. Take my girlfriend, for example. She stays out all night at the kiosk selling stuff. It’s dangerous – you never know what hot-headed guy might come up and put a gun to your face.’

  ‘Well, not really a gun –’

  ‘Why, but it is like that,’ he interjected. ‘It really is. Haven’t you heard of that salesgirl that was shot right here, on the boulevard next to Inter? They might look normal to you, but you know, plenty of loonies roam out in the streets.’

  Sal shook his head. He didn’t know Bucharest like that. The city whose streets he walked was peaceful and calm, but he thought the very same city could be different at night.

  ‘And where the hell do they get guns from? I mean, if I wanted to buy one tomorrow, where could I get it?’

  ‘Well, because you’re an honest man, you couldn’t get one, but if you speak to the right person, you could get one in no time. Just like that!’

  They stood silently for a while. The room clerk gazed at him, as if to read something on his face. ‘So you really mean it?’

  ‘What?’

  The young man shook his head. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘The gun, you mean? If I wanted to buy one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He resumed his look, and as Sal wanted to have some fun before going back to his room and was eager to continue the conversation, he felt encouraged.

  ‘Well, if you want it, I think you could get one. But you have to tell me exactly what you want and we’ll see what can be done. Discreetly and all.’

  ‘I get it.’

  Sal got up, stroking his beard.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I have to go up now. Thank you for your company.’

  He left quickly, leaving the room clerk with the glass raised in his hand. He couldn’t wait to tell Emilia the story and have a good laugh together. He had taken the plastic bottle with him, and all of a sudden, while looking at it, he thought this night had shown them a friendly face after all.

  He crossed the corridor again, but this time, despite the lights that had unleashed fine and graceful shapes from the silky walls, he was looking around confidently. He found Emilia in the same position. At first, he thought it was only her smile that had faded away but there it was, still pinned there on her lips. He went to the bathroom and rinsed his face and hair. He couldn’t wake up completely, and back in the room, he still felt that bliss for some time before it slowly started melting away into a grim slackness. He sat on the edge of the bed with a vacuous, glassy stare, and after a while, he stretched alongside Emilia and shut his eyes, lying in wait.

  All their friends had gathered in room 22 of the Banatul Hotel. They filed into the room one at a time, slowly knocking on the door, the way he had done himself. They sat down cross-legged, encircling the bed in silence. In the beginning, Sal didn’t dare to look at them; when he did, he peeked through his eyelashes at first. He couldn’t recognise them. Just like him, they were grownup people now; Harry, for example, had a moustache that gave him the rough air of an outlaw. Toma wore thin-framed eyeglasses and cut an athletic figure, which could have been a true impression judging by the way he was sizing everyone up with restrained wisdom. Max had some tight, flared jeans on and a sleeveless, clingy T-shirt. He looked funny, as he had the quaint air of someone who had come down straight from the set of a 1970s movie like Charlie’s Angels. Johnny lingered somewhere in the shadows; Sal could barely make out his features. They were all acting like they had back then when he had summoned them in the park following Toma’s beating. They were all confused, and Sal expected that any minute now one of them would ask why he had conjured them up. He wanted to wake Emi, too, but he couldn’t find it in his heart. Sleeping made her skin radiate an intense glow that almost dazzled those who were lucky enough to be within its reach.

  Sal clenched his fists and struggled to ignore the boys’ presence. He was trying to get some rest, as the mix of alcohol had taken hold of him and he wanted to be clear-headed when he broke the big news to Emi. But after a few moments, he sensed a buzz and realised his childhood pals were talking to each other. Undoubtedly, the only thing they could have talked about was them: the two who seemed to be lying sound asleep on the bed, unaware. He wanted to sit up and beckon them to stop whispering, but his flesh was weighing him down and his dismembered body, having a mind of its own, wouldn’t obey the commands of a single master. The voices rose and eventually came to sound like a choir, whispering and mumbling arcane words at random. Only the sound of their names came through distinctly, chanted in multiple voices. In the end, just their names alone could be heard and the voices melted into one.

  He looked at her from his side of the bed. Her hands were down at her sides, and he noticed her ringed finger. She didn’t look like the other one and that puzzled him. He would have expected to be taken over by the twin image, by her emerging in a waxen skin, with black-dyed hair and pale lips, with red-polished, slightly grown nails revealing a fine pink semicircle. But she looked just as before, with bristly curled hair and bony cheeks, dark-circled eyes and a rounded mouth. Her boyish body was unveiling itself more accurately as she lay motionless. The only similarity was the ring on her finger, but Sal understood it was not enough.

  He stood up and started taking off her clothes, piece by piece. First he took off the grey collared blouse fastened with tiny, ivory buttons, then her sta
rry-blue pleated skirt, her cotton bra and panties. He contemplated her as she lay naked, but he was still unsatisfied. He struggled to smoothen her hair, to groom it. He felt her breasts, but instead of coming across the tip of the iceberg, he found flaccid, lifeless flesh. He shivered and swung around to his friends to ask for help, but they had left. Most likely, they had had enough of the charade, were sick of all the pretence and lies. They couldn’t stand the two of them anymore; they wanted a different couple of friends who would be honest and selfless, kind and gentle, with no secrets to hide behind. They didn’t want to sniff the sickening, sweetish smell of decomposing female corpses or to breathe the same air in which they were preserved, or to be compelled to host their stiff bodies in the same lodgings in which they were now raising their children and spoiling their women. Abruptly, they had decided that nobody should ever talk about Sal and Emi or utter their names again. And thus they’d see them vanish.

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