by William Boyd
He had imagined that the trees were merely a decorative screen but he was wrong. He found himself in a copse, a grove, a veritable spinney of weeping figs, silver birches and stands of bamboo. A soft greenish light filtered down from above; xylophonic music burbled from hidden speakers. Other paths bifurcated from his. CONVENTION RESERVATION he saw, TO THE INDIAN VILLAGE and SWIMMING CREEK. These signs were deliberately “Old West”: chunks of varnished wood with the message burned on with a branding iron. The frontier theme was enhanced by the sudden appearance from behind a tree of a waitress in fringed buckskin waistcoat and miniskirt. Henderson gave a shrug of alarm. There were stripes of war paint on her cheeks and forehead.
“Cocktails, sir?” she asked. “At the Indian village.”
“What? Oh, no. I’m looking for the atrium.”
“Keep right on to the end of this path.” She slipped away into the trees.
He followed her instructions and broke out into a towering atrium some twelve or fourteen stories high. Before him stretched a lake, blocking his way, some thirty yards across, dotted with islands furnished with seats and sprouting plants. Over on the left of the far bank was a cluster of wigwams, which on closer inspection turned out to be a large restaurant and bar area. On the balconied far wall, a dozen scenic elevators rose up and down, some of them disappearing into holes in the roof like silent glass scarabs.
Henderson let out a spontaneous gasp of surprise. He had heard of this new breed of American hotel—the hotel as wonderland, as secular cathedral, as theme park—but his imagination had been deficient. Plants grew everywhere; fountains splashed; the light was pale, neutral and shadow free.
A cowboy wandered over and handed him a wooden paddle.
“Good God, what’s this for?”
“For the canoe, sir.”
Henderson looked to his right. Sure enough, a dozen canoes were tethered to the concrete bank.
“Do you mean I’ve got to paddle myself across to the elevators?”
“I can do it for you, sir, but a lot of our guests like to make their own way.”
He saw an intrepid aged couple set off, little shrieks of delight coming from the wife.
“Oh. Right.”
The cowboy led him down to a canoe, deposited his bag in the bow and helped him in. Henderson settled down.
“Listen, are you sure these things are stable? Perhaps you’d better—”
The cowboy pushed him off. “Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000, sir.”
Henderson found himself drifting into the middle of the lake. He looked about him. The various islands were linked to the far bank by large round stepping-stones. Indian maidens tripped across these carrying drinks from the huge gloomy bar area. Hesitantly, Henderson dipped his paddle in the water and performed a couple of gentle strokes. The canoe, thin aluminum painted to look like birch bark, skidded easily across the surface and clanged into the side of another canoe traversing the water. This was occupied by a high-ranking military man—a general, judging from the stars that flashed on his shoulders—in a smoky-green uniform.
“Sorry!” Henderson laughed. “Haven’t quite got the hang of this. Ha, ha.”
“Remember to paddle on both sides,” said the general, with a false grin, and pushed him away—a little more forcibly than need be, Henderson thought, as his canoe turned through 180 degrees and he found himself facing the forest grove again.
He dug his paddle in and the canoe moved off in a smooth arc. He cut across the bows of some more-competent guests.
“Hey, watch out for the rapids!” one of them called—or at least that’s what Henderson thought he said.
“What?” he shouted back over his shoulder, a little alarmed. It seemed to him not inconceivable that in Mono-park 5000’s fanatical pursuit of verisimilitude they should have installed genuine wilderness hazards: rapids, submerged rocks, alligators … However, his call went unheeded and, his attention distracted from his course, he soon had another collision, this time with a cocktail island.
“Pow! Pow! Pow!”
Henderson looked up. A little boy shot at him with leveled fingers from behind the cover of the circular banquette seating.
“Waylon, stop that,” his father commanded. “Having trouble?” he called to Henderson. “Can I throw you a rope?” Other people on the island stood up, smiling at Henderson’s seaborne invasion of their territory.
“Hit the beach!” called one, to tumultuous laughter.
“Pow! Pow!”
“I’m fine,” good sport Henderson called out with artificial gaiety. “Lost my compass.” More laughs.
“Pow! I got him. Dad. Pow! I shot him, I shot him!”
“Waylon, stop it, I told you.”
Cursing under his breath, Henderson leaned forward and pushed off. He would have liked to connect the flat of his paddle with the little brat’s head. The canoe shot backward in a tight spiral.
“Watch out!” someone screamed from behind.
Panicked, Henderson thrust his paddle into the water too forcefully. His arm plunged under the surface up to the elbow. Furious, he threw his paddle down and tried to wring his sodden sleeve dry.
“Watch where you’re going!” shouted two angry guests avoiding his drifting canoe.
“Sorry!” Henderson called merrily, though his throat was thick with anger and frustration. “Lost control.”
“You’re not supposed to fool around like this, you know,” a heavy-jowled, blue-rinsed matron admonished from the prow of a canoe being maneuvered by a grinning cowboy.
“I know,” Henderson replied, then forced his “jolly” voice out between gritted teeth. “Sorry!”
After a couple more minutes and half a dozen more cheery cries of “Sorry!” he finally gained the opposite bank. Utterly exhausted, he was helped ashore by two vastly amused cowboys who assured him they’d never seen anyone have such difficulty before. Henderson felt as if he’d just completed a two-week Outward Bound course. His arm dripped water, the muscles in his neck were in spasm and his shirt was transparent with sweat. What sort of demented, perverse architect had designed this hotel? he wondered. He was going to write to the owner, insist that some sort of causeway or bridge be provided for those not aquatically inclined.
He held his damp sleeve away from his side as he ascended in a scenic elevator. The splendor of the panorama below—grove, lake, islands, scudding canoes—was entirely lost on him.
He walked down the corridor on the thirty-fifth floor, past Suites G, H and I, toward Suite J, which lay at its end. As he fiddled with his piece of card, inserting it in a slot at the side of the doorframe, the general with whom he’d collided on the lake stepped out of Suite K opposite. The smile on his face dissolved.
“Oh,” he said, badly concealing his disappointment at the sight of Henderson. “Finally made it.”
“Yes,” Henderson said. “Great fun.”
The general looked up the corridor, grunted and disappeared back inside. He was obviously expecting someone, Henderson thought, as, with a buzz, his door swung open.
Suite J was plushly and lavishly appointed, right down to a scattering of little china ornaments on various surfaces. There was a small sitting room, and off this was a bedroom with a canary-yellow, king-size bed. In the bathroom the large triangular bath was canary yellow too. Moreover, it was oddly ribbed, and provided with several curious movable chrome nozzles and handgrips. This was the whirlpool he’d so blithely requested, he realized. He looked at the luxury of the room and hoped the expense would be worth it. He thought Irene might be taken by the whirlpool bath.
He took off his wet jacket and pungent shirt and decided to try the bath out. A hot bubbling soak was just what he required. For ten minutes he studied the instruction manual on how to operate the whirlpool mechanism, then set various dials and switches on the wall and ran the water. When it was full he stripped off and climbed in. The hot water was ideally soothing. For a moment he wondered if he should even bother with the whirlpool
option, but decided that he might as well get his money’s worth. He reached up and flipped the switch. At first nothing happened apart from a humming and grinding noise. Then suddenly the bath erupted in foam, as if he’d been attacked by a shoal of piranhas, and heavy fists thudded simultaneously into his body.
He screamed with shock and pain—one thundering misdirected jet had pulverized his groin—and leaped out of the bath. His body was red and throbbing. He felt like a huge bruise. The tub frothed and gurgled like an acid vat in a horror film. He switched it off and within seconds it became an ordinary hot bath again. He decided not to get back in: the pleasure had been spoiled, somehow.
Wearily he got dressed and checked the time, four-thirty. He wondered when Irene would arrive. The evening, she had said. He sat down and phoned Beeby. He told him only that Gage was unhappy with his valuation of the Dutch paintings and was stalling on fixing a date for the auction. Beeby couldn’t understand. Was Henderson absolutely sure they were insignificant pictures? Yes, Henderson said, no doubt, very run of the mill. However, he was checking out the portrait—which was why he was in Atlanta, needed a reference library, he lied fluently. Beeby sounded worried and impressed on him the need to bring matters to a speedy conclusion. Henderson told him the results of his valuation and said he thought Gage was looking for another half million for the Dutch paintings. Out of the question, Beeby said, they’d make a huge loss, especially if they underwrote the reserve. They batted ideas back and forth for a while to no great effect. Eventually Beeby exhorted him to do his utmost and told him he had Pruitt Halfacre on another line.
“Henderson. How’s it going?”
“Well, up and down, Pruitt.”
“You know that painting, the allegory? I’ve been doing some work on it; it could be Demeter and Iambe.”
“Good God, you’re right.” Henderson was very impressed.
“But it’s not.”
“No?”
“It’s Demeter and Baubo. Very unusual.”
Pruitt told him it was a variant myth. After Persephone had been stolen by Hades, Demeter had wandered the world, crushed by her grief over the loss of her daughter. However, in Eleusis she had been jolted out of her sorrow, and had broken her fast, by a serving maid, either called Iambe, who in one version told her dirty jokes, or, in another, called Baubo, who made Demeter laugh by raising her skirts and exposing her genitalia. After that Demeter ceased to mourn for Persephone and the world got its harvests back.
“The fascinating thing is you only find that myth in the Songs of Orpheus and Protrepticus by Clement of Alexandria.”
Henderson wrote it all down. “Pruitt,” he said, “I’m phenomenally impressed. Great help.”
“Who’s the painting by?”
“I don’t know. But it’s no good. It was just the myth that floored me.”
“It is a little arcane, for sure.”
“Absolutely. Listen, Pruitt, do you know a New York gallery by the name of Sereno and Gint?”
“Never heard of them.”
“I thought so.” He said goodbye and put down the phone. He took out his Polaroids and looked at the painting again through his magnifying glass. He put the magnifying glass down and thought about what Pruitt had told him. Odd myth. It made no sense. He phoned Melissa.
“Henderson! At last. When are you coming home?”
“Very soon, I hope,” he said with feeling.
“How’s Bryant? She sent me a postcard. She seems to be having a good time.”
“She is.” He swallowed. “She’s made friends with a … a very nice girl called Shanda.”
“Oh, good. Darling, I’m so grateful to you, honestly. You’re sure she’s no trouble.”
“Not. Not at all.”
“Baby, I’ve got to run. Dying to see you. Irving sends his love.”
She hung up before Henderson could send his love back to Irving. He felt suddenly uneasy about the barriers of deceit he was erecting. To Beeby about Sereno and Gint; to Melissa about Duane; to Irene about their planned holiday …
Beeby phoned back. How much did Gage want for the Dutch paintings? Henderson repeated the Sereno-Gint estimates.
“Good Lord,” Beeby said. “But if they’re so mediocre how can he ask so much for them?”
“He’s a shrewd old devil. He knows we want the others.”
“All right. Go to fifty thousand dollars each. But he must pay for insurance, printing the catalog and advertising. We might just break even. Let’s pray one of the others comes good. The Sisleys are fine, you say?”
“Yes. I’ll do my best, Tom.”
“I’ve never done this before, Henderson. It goes against the grain. We must have a date for the auction soonest too. When will you be back?”
“Monday or Tuesday,” he said without much confidence.
He hung up. He passed both hands over his face, tugging at his features, pulling his eyelids down, flattening his cheeks. He felt disturbed and unsettled but not just because of the farcial events on the atrium lake. They were deeper qualms he was suffering: more spiritual and metaphysical. His self-doubt, his lack of faith in his own capacities, always considerable, had grown these last few days like a tumor. He was beginning to feel unable to cope. The struggle to fit his personality to his new environment, to emulsify with his chosen culture like oil and vinegar, just wasn’t happening. It was too unyielding; he and America just weren’t creating the harmony he had expected. It simply wasn’t enough, clearly, to be keen, to wish earnestly for something to happen. Perhaps all marriages were made in heaven, he thought glumly. He had an awful foreboding nothing was going to work out.
And what then? Back to England? But he had been miserable there. All his hopes resided here. To fail to find himself in the U.S.A. didn’t bear contemplation. He felt, for the first time in his life, slivers of black despair begin to insert themselves into his spirit. Like the first pins in a voodoo doll. What was it Gage had said? “We all want to be happy and we’re all going to die.” It didn’t leave you much.
He heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor and immediately recognized their weight and cadence as Irene’s. He ran joyfully to the door and threw it open. Across the corridor the general did the same. They both looked at the astonished face of a black maid.
“Mo’ towels, sir?”
Henderson and the general sheepishly accepted a towel each. Henderson noted that the general was in mufti.
“I thought—” Henderson began, smiling.
“I’m expecting someone,” the general said. He was wearing loud checked trousers of the sort favored by champion golfers, a short-sleeved shirt and a silk scarf tied at his throat. It looked incongruous beneath his hard taut face and cropped gray hair. Out of uniform he had lost all his confident authority. Just another man. He raised a palm and stepped back inside.
Henderson called the front desk and asked where the best reference library in Atlanta was and, after a brief pause, he was given the relevant information. He heard more footsteps in corridor—not Irene’s, he was sure—followed by a knock on the door. He got up and opened it.
“Room service, sir.” A white-jacketed waiter carried a tray holding champagne in an ice bucket and a large plate of smoked salmon and brown bread.
“There must be some mistake.”
“This is 35J?”
“Yes.”
“And you are General Dunklebanger?”
“No. I think you’ll find him in there. In 35K. K, not J.”
By this time the general had come to his door.
“General, I think this is for you.” Henderson was amused to see the embarrassment on the general’s face.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess.… Just take it right on in. Sorry to bother you,” he said to Henderson.
Henderson shut the door, and smiled. He doubted somehow that the champagne was for Mrs. Dunklebanger. Mind you, he thought, it’s not such a bad idea. He phoned room service and ordered the same for him and Irene. The episode—a gli
mpse of the human face behind the military machine—had cheered him up somewhat. He went back into the bathroom and ran his electric razor over his chin once more, concentrating on the skin around the lips, until it was completely smooth. Irene often refused to kiss him if there was a hint of bristle. “What do you think it’s like for me?” she would say. “You try rubbing your face with sandpaper, see how sexy it is.”
The phone rang.
“Henderson?” It was Irene. “I’m at the airport. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll see you downst—” But she had hung up.
He felt hollow-chested with pleasant anticipation. He shut his eyes and tried to conjure up Irene naked. The broad shoulders, the low flat breasts with their tiny nipples, her unshaven armpits, the black dense hair on her cunt, her strong legs … He took a deep breath. God, how he had missed her.
On the way down in a scenic elevator he scanned the canoes plying back and forth but none of them contained Irene. He debated whether he should meet her at the front desk but decided not to deny her the pleasure of seeing and experiencing the atrium and its marvels herself. It was certainly busier than when he had arrived. The cocktail archipelago were fully populated and noisy. All the canoes seemed to be in demand.
He went into the bar area. The wigwams were in fact canopies over private booths. Vegetation grew lushly everywhere. The tables and chairs had a roughhewn makeshift aspect and the long bar looked like a reconstituted corral. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a few ponies tethered here and there. At the bar the barman sported a feather headdress, wampum beads and buckskin. He raised his hand and said, “How.”
Hang about, Henderson thought, this is taking the leitmotiv a little far, isn’t it? He checked that no one was looking then raised his own palm—swiftly turning it into a neck scratch.
“How. A bloody mary, please.”
“Right away, sir.”
The drink arrived in a glass the size and shape of a storm lantern. A whole hand of celery sprouted from the top. Henderson picked it up and sucked self-consciously on a straw. Everything in this “hotel,” he thought, conspired to make him ill at ease. He put his glass down and went in search of the gents’ toilet.