Hotel Living

by Ioannis Pappos

  “How are my plants?” Erik shouts.

  I look at the disco ball like it’s going to tell me what to say. “Squirrels,” I say.

  “Your teeth are grinding, Feta. Are you going to bathrooms now?”

  I meet his eyes. “When did you hear this song last?” I ask.

  A suspicious face. “What is this?” Erik asks.

  “Joy Division.”

  “Is this a trick question?” He smiles, and I see his wrinkles.

  Speculate! Lie! Why are you so fucking casual? Why’re you even here? I need more blow to sort things out.

  “Let’s go downstairs.” Someone taps my shoulder, and I instantly turn and follow Ray, who’s leading the group with Warren. Walking down the six steps—I count—I know that Erik’s behind me. I just do.

  The Disney girl kisses a guy outside the bathroom and the door magically opens. Six, seven, eight of us cut the line and cram into a dark square room, the only light a dying low-hanging bulb above a ratty table by the sink. I’m in Abu Ghraib.

  Ray and the tennis player push the table against the door. They take out two plastic bags and start cutting lines. Justin makes two twenty-dollar straws. I look at Erik, who looks at Warren, who’s checking me out. Justin gives the Disney girl a straw and holds her hair as she goes through two big ones. Then everybody jumps in. There must be fifteen lines on the table, getting picked up fast. People snort and pass the straw. I stay on the edge of the group, and once again I look at Erik, who looks at Warren bending over the table. He picks up a couple and passes me the straw, and I freeze.

  “Open the bloody door! It’s legal now!” someone yells, pounding from outside. The table rattles and messes up the lines.

  Warren puts some powder on his fist, on the spot between his thumb and his pointer. “Here,” he offers, and I snort from his hand.

  “You like the game?” he asks, sliding the leftovers onto my lips with his thumb.

  A score-settling excitement explodes in me, and I lick what’s left, looking at Erik, who looks at Warren, mad that he made a pass at me, at anyone. I could have been anyone. Then Warren turns and cups Erik’s neck from behind, pulls him closer, and shoves his tongue into his mouth.

  I kick the table, open the door, and spurt out.

  “Dick!” someone shouts at me as I bump through people toward the exit. Two short twin blondes stare at me, and I push one of them out of my way. It’s too fucking noisy.

  “Brother, what’s going on?” Ray grabs my shoulder. “Calm down, it’s all good.”

  It’s not. I want to fucking punch him.

  “Stathis!” Justin gets hold of us. “Gawel’s outside. He can’t get in.” He yells on his phone: “Gawel, Gawel! Can you get out of Andrea’s ass and call back!”

  I slap Justin on the back of his head, and his cell phone flies over the twins’ heads. I sprint up the steps and dash out.

  “Stathis! Stathis!” Gawel shouts from the crowd in front of the bouncers. I look down and make a sharp right. I can hear him running after me. There’s a thrash, and from the corner of my eye I see Gawel flat on the cobblestone street. A bouncer zips his jacket and begins to walk slowly toward where he lies, and I bolt left on Eighth Avenue.

  THIRTEEN

  November 2006

  YESTERDAY MORNING I GOT A text from Erik asking me to lunch this weekend, and I haven’t been able to write a single bullet point since. I gesture along in conference rooms, getting more and more consumed in my speculations about what exactly he could want out of this: friendship—my ultimate fear? Sex? And what do I want? Explanations? Respect? Justice? My mind turns into a labyrinth of convoluted paths, an endlessly expanding Excel model ready either to crash or to yield “spectacular shareholder value,” as Andrea says from across the table. And I nod like I am following her, but I’ve no clue what she’s talking about.

  Finally I go for a run by the Hudson River that morning, Saturday. I cross the West Side Highway and hit dog joggers, baby strollers, runners in bank-sponsored marathon gear holding Starbucks cups. I zigzag between them till I’m in the clear. I gain speed, and the wind off the river hits my face. The more I run, the more confident I get. I can do this, no matter where Erik stands on the bourgeois-bohemian scale. I start rehearsing jokes I’ll tell over the empty plates and glasses of tap water—Cheney and Rufus Wainwright are on a plane to Dubai . . . —to show Erik how clever I am, to make him fall for me again, or for the first time, really. I feel firm in front of uncertainty, something I haven’t felt since I ran in Fontainebleau in France. I’m back in the game, ready to shine over a plate of noodles.

  At the loft I do push-ups, shower, towel off, and overdose on Tatiana’s hair gel. I try to fix my hair, sculpt it the way she does, but I’m no Tatiana, and she’s still sleeping. I look at Erik’s X-Men joke in the mirror, and I’m back in the shower.

  I throw on some clothes and step outside to get breakfast rolls. I feel like I’m running in circles.

  “COME AND HAVE BREAKFAST WITH me,” Tatiana says, spreading butter on the toasted bread lying right on the kitchen counter. “I made a pineapple omelet,” she continues. “Do you want tahini, honey, or jam on your roll?”

  There must be at least six jars of spreads open around her. Why does everything always have to be to the max with her? Aren’t addicts supposed to get tired? Give up? Her mouth is sticky.

  “I already had a roll,” I say, sitting on the stool next to her.

  She’s in one of my shirts under the cashmere blanket she wraps herself in to move around the loft. She looks happy.

  “What should I wear?” I throw a Command at her, a serious question played as a joke. “For fun, tell me.”

  No matter the drugs, the crashers, and all the other beastliness around the loft, outfits remain a stronghold, a topic of precision. Tatiana guards her sense of style (and everyone’s around her) with strict rules. When I join her at Mr. Chow, it’s her job to loosen my tie. For Sunday brunch at Sant Ambroeus I’m ordered into one of her father’s cashmere turtlenecks.

  Now her eyes ease, something that worries me, exposing my obvious panic. “I love Erik,” she whines.

  “You haven’t met him,” I say, tasting her eggy pineapple thing. I can’t eat anything.

  “That’s correct. But now I have an excuse to take you shopping.” She sips her coffee. “We don’t want to scare the proletariat, so why don’t we give your Wall Street coat a rest?”

  I’ve long ago given up trying to explain to her the difference between corporate finance and management consulting—for her, every white-collar job is a Wall Street job—but today my stress makes me snap at her. “For the hundredth time, Tati, I don’t work on Wall Street. I’m in management consulting.”

  “No, seriously.” She is talking clothes; her face shines. “Why don’t we get you the leather jacket? Your wardrobe will never be the same.”

  “Fine.” I smile. “What the hell. You cooked breakfast, how can I say no.”

  She puts her slice down and touches her tummy. “God, I’m curvy.” I can tell she’s ready to cry.

  “You’re beautiful, no matter what they say,” I hum, and Tatiana turns to the screen behind her, where Christina Aguilera sings in mute.

  “Ha!” She leans and kisses me on the lips—jam, crumbs, and butter. “I’m so in love with you,” she yells. “Speaking of food, I’m having brunch with Alkis uptown.”

  “Where are you guys going?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” she says, dismissively. “I’m meeting him at the Four Seasons.”

  “Isn’t this the third weekend that he’s come over?” I ask, glad for the digression.

  “Fourth.”

  “Things are heating up,” I say, carefully.

  “You are ruining our breakfast, silly. And since when are you offering advice on relationships?”

  “I don’t want
to be the bad guy here, but we both know that Alkis still lives with Cristina in London. They just had a baby together.”

  “I’m smitten,” Tatiana says, faking shyness—she’s not a good actress.

  I love her and hate her. I want to protect her, but also lay bare her game of using Alkis for his wallet, of treating him like a bet with Kate, of fucking him up and then dumping him. But she’s an addict, and Alkis is an adult. And who am I? An extra who lives through others.

  IN THE MEATPACKING DISTRICT, TATIANA picks out a biker jacket for me.

  “Try this on,” she orders.

  “Are you sure this is age-appropriate?” I ask.

  “Belstaff has no age. If anything, you’re too young for it,” Tatiana lies, but I’m not used to being tended to. The last person who dressed me up was my sister. She bought me new pants and ironed my shirt before my interview for a high school in Athens. I check the price tag on the jacket, and I calculate the weeks, the months, that my father would have had to work in order to buy this ridiculously overpocketed Bel-shit—fashion always worshipped crap. Still, I see it through Erik’s eyes. Could it be over-the-top? A joke? There he is again, snatching up my memories and wallet.

  “Stathis?” Tatiana yells. “What do you think?”

  “Mm?”

  “George Clooney wears one. It’s perfect for clandestine brunches like yours,” she says.

  “Did you just say clandestine? Do you read books?” I ask her.

  “It’s from Teresa’s new movie, don’t get too excited. Save it for your Niçoise.”

  “We’re going Chinese,” I say awkwardly, as if Erik’s choice of a restaurant said something about my place in his new life. “Do you think I’m too old for this?”

  Tatiana stops flipping through cashmere sweaters. “Yes.” She smiles; we are not talking about the jacket.

  It’s too late for doubts. I’m doing this.

  “What about my pants?” I ask.

  “They’ll do fine,” Tatiana says. “Just pull your shirt out.”

  I give my credit card to the saleswoman. She removes the security tag, and I put the jacket back on. Tatiana yanks my shirt out. “The leisure way,” she murmurs. I’m not Greek anymore; I’m just an actor with an accent.

  We hail a cab and Tatiana gives me a kiss, and I decide I’d rather walk.

  “Changed our minds,” I tell the cabdriver who pulled up next to us.

  “Malaka!” the driver yells, and tears off.

  Not a good sign. “I’m just around the corner, really,” I tell Tatiana.

  “I adore you. Fuck him,” she whispers into my ear. She waves good-bye. My old coat is in her hands.

  I wave back and switch off my cell phone.

  ERIK IS READING THE NEW YORKER at a window table in the large Chinese restaurant on Hudson and West Eleventh. It’s past lunchtime; there’s hardly anyone in the empty-walled room. I walk among barren tables like I’ve been summoned to a corporate cafeteria for an off-hours, off-the-record one-on-one with Andrea.

  “Where’s the bike?” Erik laughs in his old North Face jacket.

  He’s still Erik, though his black hair looks wavier. His skin is cleaner, whiter—if that’s possible.

  “Want a ride?” I ask.

  “Still sharp, I see,” Erik says.

  “Takes one.” I realize that he’s not going to get up to hug, shake hands, or whatever exes are supposed to do, so I sit down. Now I stare at the wrapped chopsticks, the two bottles of soy sauce, and the veins on the backs of Erik’s hands, which look exactly as they had when he worked on the tomatoes on my patio; a declaration that life goes on, perfectly unaltered. I can hear my breathing.

  “I’m glad you said yes to lunch,” Erik says, cautiously. “We left things . . .” He makes one of his involuntary half smiles. “You know. You were there. I needed some time to myself.”

  “Right,” I say. “And Warren’s helping you with that?”

  Erik clears his throat. “Let’s not go there. I’m sure you needed perspective too. Whatever that means in your case.”

  My case? He can’t judge; he has no right. Plus, wasn’t he in the same bathroom? I’m sweating in this stupid un-broken-in jacket. What if the tag’s still on? Why do I ever listen to her?

  “What did you do with my voice mails?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What did you do with my messages?” I repeat as casually as I can. “Did you save them or delete them?”

  Erik frowns, so I immediately backtrack: “It’s a trivia question. My roommate and I have a bet about saved voice mails, that’s all,” I say, trying to conceal my nervousness. It’s a ludicrous lie and he sees right through it. I’m in the dentist’s chair.

  “Tell me about your roommate,” Erik says with made-up interest, like he’s letting me off the hook.

  I’m afraid of him, but I can’t stand his pity. “Are we going to be friends now?” I ask.

  “If we choose to.”

  “Oh, thank you.” I return his fake interest.

  “For what?” he asks seriously.

  “For not saying: ‘We always were.’”

  “Stathis, I’m not here to have old debates.”

  “Why are you here, then? Why are we here?”

  “I want to talk to you as someone who cares,” he says, and looks out the window, which is not very Erik. “And I know you care too.”

  “Yes. I care too,” I echo, and laugh nervously.

  “Something bad happened,” Erik goes on.

  “If you’re talking about the Beatrice, I wasn’t the one who—”

  “Zemar’s gone missing.”

  Fuck me. What about me missing? What about my pain, my burning eyes from not sleeping last night?

  “Isn’t Zemar always missing?” I try to keep my cool.

  “This time is different. He may have been kidnapped.”

  “Where?” I ask.

  “Somewhere in the Middle East,” Erik answers, and once more he gazes out the window.

  I’m so immaterial to him I want to laugh. “After four years together, you tell me: ‘somewhere in the Middle East’? Somewhere in the fucking Middle East? Did you promise Paul confidentiality, or is this a Warren exclusive that you can’t leak?”

  “I know you’re bigger than that, Stathis.”

  “Don’t patronize me, and don’t bet on it.”

  “Listen, I know you and Zemar had a connection. Maybe it was the Greek thing, whatever. But right now, you could make a difference if you share any information you have.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as those postcards Zemar sent you.”

  “This is why we’re here, isn’t it?” I feel robbed.

  Erik says nothing. Then, “Not just that. Seeing you the other night. I worry about you, Stathis. You were—”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Stop marketing. Marketing’s my job. Is this Warren? Some extra drama for his latest story? Some postcards from hell? Or are you the conventional rebel now? Okay with handing over Zemar’s cards to the mercenaries in Iraq?”

  “Is that a no, Stathis?”

  “Stop saying ‘Stathis’ every time you say anything to me!” I shout. I breathe. “I only got three cards from Zemar,” I say. “You’ve seen them. One-way cards. There’s no return address on them.”

  “Anything could help. Remember the night you met him in LA? We ended up at the Chateau. When I woke up—”

  “The Chateau?” I ask. “When did the Chateau Marmont become the Chateau?”

  He shakes his head, ignoring me. “When I woke up, Zemar was gone. But you saw him, you guys hung out. You never told me what you talked about.”

  “You never asked,” I say, pleased.

  “Tell me now,” Erik says uncomfortably, and I realize I still have a little sw
ay over him. His hero, who liked me and bonded with me, gives me negotiating power. The tiny influence I may have on Zemar’s future might be leverage for a quick fix with Erik. It’s tempting, even if the consequences could be life or death, even if it turns me into The English Patient, a selfish prick who knows that in the end some punishing wrath might descend upon me.

  “Well?” Erik insists.

  “Zemar said that life is full of circles,” I say. “That people reach some kind of threshold and then they change. He changed. He said that you would change too.”

  “Interesting,” Erik says. “What else?”

  “He said that unlike your brother, you are tough but vulnerable.”

  Erik looks at me curiously.

  “Why?” I shrug. “Was he wrong?”

  “Know what?” Erik says.

  But I go on. “He said that your brother is obsessed with you.”

  “I don’t believe that Zemar said that.”

  “Zemar was doing heroin,” I shout in mad panic. “He showed up with two syringes, two passports, two everything. He was a fucking ghost. Why wouldn’t he say that? Why do you always have to question me?”

  “I’m not going to fight with you. What else did you see in his bag?”

  Fuck you. “Is this why Warren put a move on me?”

  He gets up.

  “I’ll give you the cards,” I say, and Erik stops. “If we fuck one more time.”

  Erik leans over me. “Go fuck yourself,” he whispers. “Does that work for you?”

  A waiter approaches. “I need more time!” I yell, and grab Erik’s hand. “Why are you with Warren and not with me?”

  I see Erik processing his anger into mercy. “’Cause Warren comes from money, like me. Isn’t that what you want to hear, Stathis? Wasn’t that always the case with you?”

  I WATCH ERIK’S NORTH FACE jacket vanish down Hudson Street. The waiter comes back to take my order. I drop a ten on the table and walk to the exit, but the waiter is trailing me. I open the door as he says something in Chinese to the girl behind the register. She chuckles and puts her hand over her mouth. I stop, struck by how steady she looks behind her cash register and how shaky my hands, and my life, are right now.