Strange Hotel

by Eimear McBride

  Then nothing comes of it.

  She knows it is a warning though. She really should pick up the pace. If there is such a thing as luck, she must be close enough now to out. So, by all means, ransack a little further in the deep but it’ll probably prove expeditious to leave the linguistic thread where it hangs. It exists alright but it’s been alive for nights and nights. There’s no plausible reason why this morning should be the time it chooses to unhelpfully express regret. Regret though. She was coming to that. Of course, she was. Inevitably must. All tall tales of being female insist upon it. She usually refuses but, in this circumstance perhaps, she could examine herself for any suggestions of it? However unlikely, uncovering a sprinkling might shed some light but … hurry now. Hurry up.

  So.

  Theory Five: she is taking this time in order to feel – or because she feels – regret?

  Displaying a natural antipathy to this proposed logic, she aligns the buttons on her cuff. Neatened to straight now, and of some silvery metal stuff for which she has no name, she notices how they might catch the light. Might make watch-face throws on a class wall to torment some poor teacher’s eye. She wouldn’t have but some more troublesome classmates might and she would have laughed inside – all outward signs of rebellion reserved for the aforementioned clamorous words. In here though, looking at and thinking about this, it’s a further procrastination. She is aware of it. Is she even taking her departure seriously now? Or has she succumbed to some weird notion of just falling in with whatever happens next? Surely, it’s too soon for that? Not unconcerned it might be though, she elects to usher a greater practicality in. So now, pose the question again. Is she taking so much time over leaving because she is experiencing regret? She despises the very idea of it. Regret, with all its soft shame. If she is experiencing regret however, then regret towards whom? It’s not an emotion which can hang by itself, twisting alone in the head. Moreover, what is it precisely she should be experiencing all this regret for? The manner in which she disports or comports herself is pertinent to no one and, unquestionably, not anymore. This reasoning she believes to be essentially correct and views her autonomy in this matter as little cause for upset. She prefers to think of it, when she thinks of it, as something of a relief. How pleasant to be a solitary body making its own way through time. If only this were quite as true as pat. But what person is in possession of every solution they want? And does she relish the implied finality of that choice really so very much? Yes. Or no, in a way. Of course, no immediate decision need be made. Better to allow it to continue its life as a question, if not one for answering here … or generally.

  Another full stop, yes, but at the expense of another few valuable seconds. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she had done it on purpose; employed digression as an obstructive. Not an entirely unreasonable assumption as it has plainly left her still sitting in this room. None the wiser either and only more anxious that irresolution is becoming an end in itself. To avoid this disaster, she insists she pull herself together. Then wonders if that directive means, or implies, that she is, in some way, apart? For God’s sake, she thinks, just get up and go. The assumption that action dispels inertia readily enough is hardly the call of the wild. Chances are, once she bestirs herself, the utilitarian persona she has latterly adopted will do all the inglorious rest. Then this uncharacteristic hiccup in her preferred etiquette will be forced to retreat back to from whence it came. Whether that whence will ever be investigated again is purely what remains to be seen.

  God, fatigued now by the chatter within and at last resolved, she stands to expedite the plan. Joints and spine and muscles, up! There it is, dark parquet firmly underfoot. High thread-count sheets let fall from her grip. Room viewed from a little above. She does not even glance around and steps into her decision purposefully now. Then … takes a detour to the window on the far side of the room. Her footfalls muted by the rug. Drapes obscuring the view beyond. Over there the shards grown whiter and long reveal the pelmet is dusty, and badly hung. She can see it even better now and how the too vigorous might easily, accidentally, pull it down. She considers if more light might wake him up. That’d be one way to bring a resolution about. Probably not the simplest but … She tugs hard on the cord anyway.

  Day.

  Unspectacular and only again. Blind spinning on its roller. Another curtain undrawn. Irrefutably another night spent in a similar room to the one for which she has paid. Handsomely. Enough. Her presence in this morning’s room is something of an aberration and certainly no longer the a.m.’s expected jump-cut whenever she is far from … home. Fog on the glass. She touches that and its cold shoots a fern up her arm. Flesh and bone cannot be fooled. She’s journeyed far from the building blocks of youth, and need make no noise to ensure she’s solid, so emits no audible response. At least this is what she thought until he turns behind her in his sleep. In his bed. She twists to the sound and sees the chill on his back. But is her intuition about the cold right or is it only how this body hits this light? Rangily. Cadaverously. And might she be merely reconstructing a memory, one of many, from the time before? Here now finally is a thought which gives some meaning to her pause so she relinquishes her other diversions to further study him. There is something in his breathing out and breathing in. What exactly remains unclear and she is relieved there’s no need for an immediate answer, were there even someone to ask. There are only the two of them in this room and he, despite the warning turn, is still far off in sleep. But even were he wide awake, he’d know nothing of that life or have cause to take an interest in it. How either arrived in this transitive place is irrelevant to the subsequent acquaintance they made. Her order of tea at the bar while rubbing heat back into her hands. His suggestion of a brandy which she gratefully declined – after all it’s not winter yet. Something lighter then? A glass of wine perhaps? From this simple crossing they had proceeded to the odd joke parried. All suspicions dispelled by their increasingly nimble chat and a quick-found shared interest or two. Nothing of greater import has passed between then and now and everyone probably knows everyone’s name. Nice to keep the knife-edge nowhere in sight. She appreciates the pleasanter hygiene of it. It’s just how the cold looked on the skin of his back which caught her slightly off guard. She knows she can rally beyond it, although she might also fall in. It seems, briefly, so likely she takes the preparatory breath. Closes her eyes. Memory assembles. Then she refuses to collaborate. There was a time before she knew how to do that but she can’t really recall now how she managed it. Youth, probably. And it’s not that the past hasn’t earned its weight, its weight just never helps with the pull.

  On that sobering note, she turns to the window again. The city palpable, if enigmatised, by the condensation. Undeniably there has been some breach though, through which all of these questions now begin to pour, unluckily for her. Why is it better to stand in his room? And why better at his window than door? She knows it’s not a matter of dreading the time after this. It invariably arrives and she’s rarely not welcomed it. So, this demurral is not forestalling that. On the contrary, it’s comforting to still find this odd: the inexact ebb between knowing someone and forgetting again. Besides – and not to further distract herself but – if she breathes onto the glass and carefully wipes, she can see to the fjord. To the promenade. To the opera house. To a damp sky beyond weakening into day. Not very beautifully, she thinks – although liking, as always of late, a high-up view of the streets. Of people too, who perhaps also don’t admire it. Of people starting to dress for the cold. Of people at tram stops. Of people crossing roads into buildings for what she supposes are about to become their working days. Where she can’t see, she imagines workstations and desks, up to which people will catch lifts or climb the stairs. There’ll be hooks or castored chairs where they’ll dump their coats. Laptops they’ll carelessly prise open, maybe bowing their heads to log on? But before they sit, they’ll fetch a coffee – if that’s what Norwegians like? At tea stations, fill t
heir mugs while swapping some life – did you see that thing or hear about this? Perhaps books – noir, she hopes. Prob ably sport. Some local outrage or international disgrace. Politics. Europe. TV. The United States. Like all of this will forever be and invariably begin again. She envies their faith that the future continues to be approaching them. She has long since ceased living that way. Yet she remembers the certainty she and he once possessed of possessing no enemy but Time. Sat on the couch with her legs over his, reading the paper as he smoked a cigarette. His long fingers through hers making knots on their quilt. Laid on cut grass with her head next to his. The rain running all down his face. No.

  Stop.

  Turn.

  She should and should not think of this. If the past comes in it will wring her neck. So, she prevails upon her memory to recollect it as though from far away. And it is far away. Now, very far away. Perhaps a little far. All the Chinese takeaways eaten or pairs of shoes bought in the years from then to here. What a poor choice of gauges. She doesn’t even like Chinese anymore, it’s just what they often ate together. And she knows perfectly well she has never gone unshod but if asked she could not describe a single shoe. Not offhand. Not right now. But she refuses to give up. Blue. More likely black. Some with heels. Boots probably – she does have a fondness for those. His she could summon up more easily, from that last time when she picked them out for him. Black leather with a good-as-new lace. She’d been there when he bought them, on her exhortation. ‘For God’s sake,’ she had said as they passed the shop. ‘Just go in and get a new pair right now, you’ve almost walked yours through.’ The look on his face at her imperative tone and the laughter wreaking havoc round his eyes. Then he’d capitulated with ‘I don’t want to be a source of shame!’ and then he … And then she had followed him in. Men’s shoes, the eternally worst kind of dull. She suspects he bought the first pair upon which his eyes fell. But they were fine, they were plain and would do. Also, he was happy enough to wear them out and leave the old ones for the bin. ‘Satisfied?’ he’d enquired, back out on the street. Ignoring his obvious tongue in cheek, she indicated she was and knew he was pleased and then they walked for ages despite the heat but he didn’t getmuchmoreuseoutofthem … As for his love of a Singapore fried noodle? It didn’t matter then. It certainly doesn’t in here. Christ, memory. What is the purpose of remembering that?

  And so, it comes. Anyway. She pushes it back. She is certain she hasn’t made a sound but then, from behind, the stranger turns again. She holds still, deathly so. Every muscle alert to the disaster which seems to be imminent now, should he open his eyes, should he see this look on her face. Not that he has any possible context through which to read what it means, it’s just … she’d rather he did not. He’d rather he did not or flounder around in an abortive effort. She works to organise her expression. He deeply breathes. She wills the emotion roving her face to congeal back into repose. There is a dicey moment. There is the next dicey moment. He breathes again. And then it is gone. His back might be cold but enough of him’s warm to remain disinclined to wake up.

  Breathe yourself.

  Turn and go.

  Why don’t you? Why aren’t you already gone? You should. It will be time for breakfast soon. Doubtless far below hotel kitchens churn so, while he remains unconscious, she should make her way now and go back down to her room. Besides, isn’t it always preferable to be decent, were they later to chance-meet in the lobby or dining room, even in the lift? She wasn’t listening when he mentioned the duration of his visit. She was just deciding she would. Perhaps he was too because he didn’t seem unduly concerned by her fleeting lapse in attention, the way the touchy get. That’s also how she knew no trouble was afoot. Transactionally, they were evenly pitted. Both – or so it seemed to her – equally willing to do or do without. Uncanny, all things considered now, his favouring the same unsentimental directness she does and his correct assumption of how this approach would suit her fine. Well, well, this must be who she is. Or who she presents to be read. Or else it all just fell into place because … he resembled who he did.

  Yes.

  Now she thinks of it, as he watched her rub the heat back in through her fingers it may have briefly crossed her mind. Some fleeting similarity caught out of the corner of her eye. But no, that can’t be right. That would be so appallingly trite. It was only his back, just now. Or was it? It’s almost funny how last night she failed to notice it. Wilfully? No, presumably she was just preoccupied with everything else: the drinking of drinks, the lighting of cigarettes, the ongoing sub-conversational assessment. This morning though, it’s so obvious. And this is why she cannot leave. Damn. This is the reason and knowing it now cannot be undone. But is it so wrong to play looking at him again? I mean, I do know it isn’t him. It isn’t even a very good impersonation. Just blue light falling over hollow ribs, pale skin and how his hair falls on the bone of his cheek. Older too than he was … but not than he would have been. I’m only looking now. And I miss him. And the part of me that thought I would never learn to live without.

  Turn and look at the sky instead. Look and envy it. Brightening now and fading grey-white as far as the eye can see. As far as her eyes can see. Her eyes can see so far.

  He turns too, yet again. It’s almost a signal that she is cutting it too fine. He must be so close to waking now. Not that she doubts he would be alright. She imagines he’d be as ambivalent about finding her gone as finding her by his side. She thinks he’ll probably say his good mornings, stretch and rub his eyes. He may even insist on ordering room service to be polite. Unless she’s been very much mistaken, he is the type and there’s nothing at all wrong with that. But his courtesy, his directness, even his fastidiousness in bed – not fastidious pernickety, it’s just the world stayed on its axis. It was alright though. She has no complaints. A good job was done and … never mind – these are not the reasons why she is still here. She’d rather she could continue having no idea why she is still here but that would not be true. So, she allows herself to be what she is and permits herself another look at his back, his ribs and the dawn light on his hair. She is not really seeing what it is she longs to see again. She’s seeing something though. An artist’s impression. Seeing enough to help her pass through this awful moment of longing and on into the safer next. Sometimes, she thinks, there are rewards which accompany this occasionally not seeing clear.

  But – and she swears this is her final digression – if she just stayed until he woke and said, ‘Good morning,’ what might happen?

  Something intimate?

  Something pleasant?

  Maybe something more?

  No.

  And a resounding no.

  I do not belong here now.

  I do not belong here anymore.

  So.

  She turns her gaze back to the window and into the ineffectual dawn, as a city she scarcely knows begins to do what it wants. She bears it no ill will but can’t arouse in herself the slightest interest in whatever that might be. Instead, she touches the cold glass once more and once more feels the fern. It’s good to know, despite all that’s passed this hour, she has a body still affected by the world. Then far north, above, a gull passes aslant, grey-white in the grey whitening up into light. Another. Another. And another after it. Discrete in themselves but perhaps loosely a flock. She watches as a current guides and carries them further off to where, she supposes, lies the sea. From all that way up there what can they see? And if she were to listen carefully would she hear the sound they make?

  Birmingham