1985 - Stars and bars (23 page)

‘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 35 K.
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 glimpse 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 round 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 the 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 rough-hewn 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 head-dress, wampum beads and buckskin. He raised his hand and said, ‘How.’

Hang about, Henderson thought, this is taking the leitmotif 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..

Here at least some sort of orthodoxy and normal scale prevailed: white tiles and chrome. He had half expected to be issued with a spade and instructed to go and dig a hole. He took his place at the urinal trough, unzipped and let fly. His gaze rested blankly on the white tiles in front of him.

‘Hi there,’ came a voice from his left. He ignored it. People just didn’t talk to each other while they urinated—it wasn’t done.

‘MrDores.’

He looked round with genuine irritation. It was Sere-no, in the next but one stall. To Henderson’s astonishment Sereno leant sideways and extended a hand over the vacant space. Good Christ! Henderson gasped inwardly, he surely doesn’t expect me to shake hands while I’m peeing? This was intolerable. But Serene’s hand remained. Henderson, swapping hands, shook Sereno’s briskly and briefly.

‘Hello,’ he said stiffly, and returned his gaze to the tiles.

‘You remember my partner, Peter Gint?’

Henderson looked round. Beyond Sereno was the pebble beach of Gint’s face. Why were they peeing together? Like girls at a discotheque?

‘Hi there,’ Gint said softly, reaching round Sereno’s back. After a horrified pause, Henderson leant over and shook his hand. I don’t believe I’m doing this, Henderson thought. Why don’t we hold each other’s tinkles?

‘Good to see you again,’ Gint said.

‘Mng.’

‘Some hotel,’ Sereno opined. ‘Eighth wonder of the world.’

They all finished simultaneously. Henderson washed his hands with untypical thoroughness, lots of soap and hot water. Sereno combed his hair and moustache.

‘Please join us,’ he said as they walked out. He indicated one of the nearer cocktail islands. Henderson saw Freeborn, Shanda and—to his surprise—Cora.

‘Really, thank you, but I’m meeting—’

‘HEY, HENDURSIN!’ Shanda waved and called. He saw Cora’s shades snap round.

‘Come on,’ said Sereno. He seemed annoyingly confident. Shouldn’t they, as rivals for the Gage collection, be warily circling each other?

They made their way to the island, Henderson being extra careful with the stepping stones.

‘Why, hello there,’ Cora said. ‘Is your ‘colleague’ here yet?’

‘Expecting her any moment.’

‘Sit here,’ Shanda ordered. She was clearly drunk. In front of her was an enormous beaker full of blue liquid and chunks of fruit. She dragged him down.

Sereno spoke. ‘Would you and your colleague—what did you say her name was?’

‘Dr Dubrovnik. Dr Irene Dubrovnik.’

‘She’s Czechoslovakian,’ Cora said.

‘—like to have dinner with us?’

‘I’m afraid duty calls. But thanks all the same.’

‘Did you say ‘Czechoslovakian’?’ Shanda asked.

‘How’s her English?’ Cora asked.

‘Excellent.’ Henderson desperately scanned the open surface of the lake. He saw Irene being paddled across by a cowboy. She was looking about her with an expression of aghast incredulity. Henderson rose to his feet.

‘Well, good to see you,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your dinner.’

‘Do bring your colleague over, we’d love to meet her,’ Cora said disingenuously.

‘Oh. Right.’ He picked his way back across the stepping stones and strode round to the place the canoes berthed. Irene was being helped ashore.

‘My God, Henderson,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘This hotel. I can’t believe it.’ She leant forward to kiss him.

‘No
kissing?
Henderson said, trying not to move his lips. ‘Don’t kiss me!’ He shook her formally by the hand.

‘What?’

‘We’re being watched.’

‘Who by?’

‘The Gage family.’ He took her elbow in one hand and her small case in the other and began to walk her round towards the cocktail island.

‘But so what? For Christ’s sake.’

‘Listen. You’re called Dr Dubrovnik, you’re an art historian from Czechoslovakia.’

Irene stopped. ‘Henderson, I’m warning you.’ Her voice was stern. ‘I’m not playing any of your stupid games.’

‘Please, it’s vital. Just for a minute or two. I’ll explain later.’ He felt a light sweat moist on his face. They made their way across the stepping stones. He glanced at Irene. Her eyes were narrow.

‘Dr Irene Dubrovnik,’ Henderson announced, and introduced her to the other members of the family.

‘A pleasure to meet you at last,’ Sereno said. ‘I’m familiar with your work.’

‘How. Do. You. Do?’ Cora said slowly, as if talking to a peasant or simpleton. ‘Welcome. To. Our. Country.’

‘D’you miss Czecho, Chechlso, Miss Dubronik. Nik?’ Shanda burped.

‘May we offer you a drink?’ Sereno asked, all oleaginous charm, signalling an Indian maiden.

‘Yeah. I’ll have a large scotch, straight up with a twist,’ Irene said, looking at Henderson.

They sat themselves down. More drinks were ordered. Some sort of tremor had established itself in Henderson’s left thigh and, mysteriously, his indigestion had returned. He felt a fire in his throat. To his alarm and dismay he found himself sitting between Sereno and Freeborn. Cora lit a cigarette and exhaled. Irene vigorously fanned the air.

The drinks arrived. Henderson buried his head in the cool clump of celery frothing from the top of a new bloody mary. Please God, he prayed into the leaves, let her play the game.

‘Dr Dubrovnik,’ Cora said. ‘Excuse me, Dr Dubrov-nik?’

Irene refused to acknowledge the pseudonym.

‘Isn’t this hotel quite astonishing?’ Henderson piped up. ‘I had quite a problem with my canoe, I must say.’

‘What’d he say?’ Shanda asked Gint.

‘His canoe,’ Gint said.

‘Mr Dores,’ Sereno breathed in his ear. His large moustache and glossy purple lips were close to his face. ‘We may be rivals, but I’m glad that we can behave in a civilized way.’

Henderson stood up. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We must leave you good people to your dinner.’

‘Wha’shesay?’

‘Thanks for the drink.’ Irene drained hers in a gulp.

‘Goodbye, Dr Dubrovnik,’ Cora said.

Irene ignored her.

‘Dr Dubrovnik?’

‘Goodbye,’ Henderson said, hauling Irene away by the arm.

They walked off. Henderson waved farewell. Just made it, he thought, as nausea joined forces once more with indigestion.

‘Don’t ever land me in that kind of shit again,’ Irene said coldly. ‘I don’t want to play in your fantasies.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It was necessary. Things aren’t going so well…’ He sensed this wasn’t the moment to tell her of the cancelled trip. ‘That chap Sereno’s trying to buy the paintings too.’

‘Who’s that weird girl in the shades?’

‘Gage’s daughter, Cora.’

‘God, spooky.’

They were in the scenic elevator. Irene looked out at the vista and laughed. ‘Jesus Christ, Henderson, only you would choose a place like this.’ She leant against him. He took in her appearance for the first time. She wore a dark green jersey dress with buttons down the front and flat-soled beige shoes. He ran his hand down the warm furrow of her spine. No bra.

In the room the champagne and sandwiches had been delivered. They had a glass of champagne. They kissed. He pulled her through into the bedroom and they fell on the bed. Irene propped her head on a hand and looked down into his face.

‘Has it been a bad week? Really that bad?’

‘The worst ever.’

‘Poor Henderson.’

‘Let’s not talk about it.’

‘But I want to hear everything.’

‘Later.’

‘Well at least it’s all over now.’

Henderson swallowed. Was this the moment to tell her? But Irene ducked forward and kissed his forehead. He shut his eyes. Then he felt her lips on his left eyelid. Her dark mouth closed hot over the socket. The tense tip of her tongue massaged the eyeball through the lid. Technicolour photomatic explosions seemed to brighten the inside of his skull. His left side erupted in goose-pimples.

‘Stop it, please,’ he said weakly. She pulled back and he opened his eyes. Her face was blurry through warm pink tears.

‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Where did you learn that? It’s appalling.’

‘I like to feel your eyeball squirm beneath my tongue. It sort of throbs.’

‘But I can’t see any more. It hurts.’

‘It’s designed to stimulate
me
, dummy.’

He unbuttoned her dress at the neck and pushed it back to reveal one breast, pale and flat with its small immaculate nipple, milk-chocolate brown. He pressed his weeping eye against it. He felt his nausea and indigestion dissolve into relief. At last, he thought, at last.

He got up and took off his tie and shirt. He kicked off his shoes with pantomimic abandon, removed his socks and trousers. Irene lay on the bed and watched him with a smile. He eased off his increasingly taut underpants.

‘Well, hello there,’ Irene said.

He slid onto the bed to join her. He found it pleasantly erotic to be naked while she was clothed. Methodically he undid more buttons to expose both breasts. He bent his head.

‘Let’s stay here tomorrow,’ Irene murmured. ‘This hotel is fun.’ She kissed his crown.

Henderson sat up. ‘Ah,’ he said slowly. ‘I was going to tell you. There’s been a hitch. I’ve got to go back.’ Blankly, he watched himself detumesce—the organ showed uncanny prescience, he thought.

‘What? To New York?’

‘No. Luxora Beach.’

‘Bastard,’ she said with chilling matter-of-factness, doing up her buttons. ‘But you needed a quick fuck, just the same.’

‘Listen, it wasn’t like that, honestly,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ve only just found out. Everything has suddenly gone horribly wrong. Nothing but disasters.’ He launched into a garbled desperate narrative about Gage, the picture, Beeby. The arrival of Sereno and Gint, Freeborn’s man-oeuvrings, Gage’s second thoughts, Bryant’s shocking betrothal to Duane…

‘And who the shit is Bryant?’

‘
Oh Christ
…Ah, she’s a girl…’

‘You can’t help it, can you? You sad fuck.’

‘She’s only fourteen. She’s not a friend. Jesus.’ He shut his eyes and pulled the coverlet around him.

‘So what are you doing with a fourteen-year-old girl?’

‘She’s the daughter of…Thomas Beeby. I promised him I’d—’

‘Bullshit, Henderson. You prick. You English prick.’

Why, he thought wildly, should the adjective make the noun more pejorative?

There was a knock at the door.

‘Bloody hell!’ Henderson swore. He jumped off the bed and grabbed his dressing gown. But Irene had already gone to the door. He heard a voice. A woman’s voice.

‘Oh. I’m sorry. Is this…is this 35}?’

Henderson fought furiously with an inside-out sleeve.

‘That’s what it says on the door,’ Irene replied coldly.

Then he heard a wail, a keening, distressed cry. Christ, who can it be, he thought? Bryant? Cora? Melissa? Shanda? Fearfully, he peered through the crack at the door jamb. He saw Irene, her arms folded sternly across her chest, confronting a young blonde woman in military uniform with corporal’s stripes on her sleeves. She was sobbing fiercely into her cupped hands. A WAF or WAC, he thought: what ghastly new nemesis is this? Then the woman looked up and screamed in his direction.

‘
Alvin, you bastard! I never want to see you again!
’ She turned and ran down the corridor.