Hotel Iris (4 page)

He turned at the bottom of the stairs. The sunlight was too bright for me to see his face clearly, but he must have spotted me in the window since he raised his hand to wave. When the ship sailed, I put my hand to the spot where he had touched my hair. It was still neatly combed into place from the morning.

“Yes, she was very nice to me. She served tea and lots of sweets … cream puffs and fruitcake and sherbet … all kinds of imported things I’d never seen before. She’s kind and very elegant. She lives in a fancy apartment on the other side of the square, with five big rooms all to herself. She thanked me over and over … even though all I did was help her get to
the clinic. She must be very lonely. She brought out her old albums and showed me her collection of drawings, played records—anything to entertain me. I told her I had to get home, but she kept finding something else to show me … which is why I’m so late. I’m sorry, Mother.”

The lies came to me much more easily than I would have imagined, and I felt no guilt at all. On the contrary, it was almost amusing to watch the first lie give birth to all the others. As I talked on and on about imaginary sweets and apartments, I was thinking about the translator—the wrinkles in his tie, the cabbage moth at his feet.

“Is that so?” My mother seemed only vaguely interested. “But she didn’t send anything home with you? She isn’t a very thoughtful old lady, is she?”

“I ate so much while I was there,” I said, afraid she might be suspicious. “I couldn’t have eaten anything more. I’m so full I don’t need dinner tonight.”

I was anxious to be alone, to hide behind the front desk and think over everything that had happened today. I was worried it would fade into shadows if I didn’t.

Very soon, I began waiting for the mailman, who arrived each morning at 11:00. The translator had come up with a name that seemed suitable for a wealthy old woman, and if Mother intercepted a letter, I was prepared to say that I was corresponding with my new friend. Fortunately, she was always elsewhere when the mail arrived.

The mailman was a nice young man who brought the letters and packages all the way to the front desk, and he
usually had something to say about the weather or business at the hotel. I just nodded in answer.

Once his bicycle had disappeared down the street, I would wait awhile before reaching for the packet of mail he’d left on the counter. It seemed a shame to end the pleasure of anticipation too quickly—or perhaps I was afraid there would be no letter that day.

I realized that I had waited like this in the past for my father to come home. Each night I prayed that he would be sober, and I lay awake in bed, listening for the smallest noise. My nighttime job was waiting, but I usually fell asleep, exhausted. In the morning, I would wake to the sound of my parents arguing, and the knowledge that my prayers hadn’t been answered.

Then one night my father didn’t come home at all. He was still missing the next day, and my mother scolded me for running out of the lobby again and again to see if he was coming down the street. His body was found late that night, his face so swollen and covered in blood that it was almost unrecognizable. After that, I stopped waiting.

There was nothing of great importance in the translator’s letters—the arrival of summer, his work, the progress of Marie’s romance, references to our walk on the cape—but I enjoyed his formal, slightly peculiar way of expressing himself.

The most important minutes of my day were those spent hidden behind the front desk, poring over his letters. I would cut open the envelope with great care, read the letter three or
four times, and then refold it exactly along the creases he had made.

I found it hard to remember his face. There was nothing to distinguish it in my mind except the shadow of age. What I did recall was his downcast look, the way he laced his fingers from time to time, his breathing, certain tones of voice. I could summon up these separate features, but when I tried to bring them together, everything became vague and confused.

In the early afternoon, when Mother was at her dance lesson and the arrival of the guests was still hours away, I would take his letters from my pocket and with my finger follow the blue-black characters, from the greeting—“My Dear Mari”—through to the very end. I could feel the words staring back at me from the page, a sensation strangely similar to the feeling of his fingers in my hair, of him seeking me, demanding something of me.

“Have some more, Mari. Here, give me your plate.”

An old friend of my mother’s came to help with the cleaning. Her husband had died some years earlier, and she made ends meet by working as a dressmaker and as a part-time maid at the Iris. She ate lunch with us every day, and Mother complained behind her back that she ate too much. But Mother tolerated her because she worked hard.

“Young people have to eat,” she said, offering me more potato
salad. “It’s the most important thing.” Then she scooped some onto her own plate as well.

She and my mother chatted as they ate their lunch, gossiping about mutual acquaintances, and they drank two glasses of wine each. If the telephone at the front desk rang or a delivery truck showed up at the kitchen door, it was my job to get up and take care of it.

“Mari, do you have a boyfriend?” From time to time the maid would ask me something like this, but I would simply shrug it off. “It can’t be much fun being cooped up in the hotel all the time. You should fix yourself up a bit and get out. Even a pretty girl like you has to make a bit of an effort or the boys will never notice. I’ll sew a dress for you one day soon, tight through the hips but with a little flounce in the bodice, something sexy. Would you like that?” She took a sip of wine, giggling to herself. She had never once sewn anything for me.

I had discovered that she was a bit of a kleptomaniac, though she seemed to limit her thefts to things of little or no value. What’s more, she never took hotel property or anything else Mother might have noticed.

The first thing that disappeared was my compass. I had used it for math class but then stuffed it away in the back of a drawer. I noticed one day that it was gone, but since I didn’t need it, I hardly bothered to look for it.

Next was a butter knife from the kitchen, then a rusty old razor from the sink, some gauze from the medicine cabinet.
When my small beaded purse disappeared, I realized that something was wrong. One of my handkerchiefs, some buttons, stockings, a petticoat, all gone. But the things Mother used for my hair—combs, pins, camellia oil—these never went missing, perhaps because the maid knew how important they were to Mother.

One day I noticed the beaded purse, the one I had bought at a temple fair when I was small, peeking out of her bag. She had stuffed it with a lipstick, change, receipts. I said nothing. I was actually more worried that Mother would notice my purse in her friend’s bag than I was about catching the thief, so at the first opportunity I discreetly closed the bag. But little items continued to vanish one by one from my world.

“Mari is still a child,” Mother said, lighting a cigarette.

“By the way,” said the woman, reaching for a piece of fried fish Mother had left on the plate, “a customer who came in to have a coat hemmed mentioned that man who made a fuss with the prostitute.” My fork froze in the potato salad. “It seems that wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that.”

“I’m not surprised,” Mother said. “That kind never learns. I’m sure he wanted that woman to do all sorts of disgusting things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Now how would I know?” Mother laughed and drained the rest of her wine. I looked down at my plate, poking at the food with my fork.

“They say he’s very odd. No one knows what he does for a living, but he wanders around in a suit, even when it’s sweltering.”

“Like all perverts.”

“My customer said she saw him at the supermarket one day, complaining that the bread he’d bought was moldy. He was putting on airs and being terribly rude—though apparently he’s usually quite timid—and he had this awful look on his face, as though it were a matter of life and death. He was shaking his fist, and he even made the young woman at the store cry—all over a loaf of bread.”

“He was hateful here, why should he be any different there?”

“And did you know that he lives out on the island?”

“A regular lunatic.”

“There’s even a rumor he’s hiding here because he killed his wife.”

“A murderer? Really? That’s all we need!” Mother blew cigarette smoke above the dirty dishes as her friend licked grease from her fingers.

I churned my fork in the potato salad, less upset by the idea that the translator might be a murderer than by the fact that they felt free to talk this way about him. I stuffed some salad in my mouth and tried to swallow, but the potatoes caught in my throat.

T H R E E

The most memorable guest we’ve had at the hotel was a foreign woman named Iris. A fax in English arrived one day: “I’d like to reserve a single room with breakfast for the nights of September 17 and 18. I’ll be arriving at 5:00 p.m. by taxi.” I translated it for Mother.

The woman appeared at the appointed time with one suitcase, peering out from under a wide-brimmed hat with a ribbon.

“It’s a pleasure to have a visitor from so far away,” Mother said in Japanese. “We’ve put you in our best room.” Foreign guests were rare at the Iris, and Mother was unusually hospitable. “I’m afraid I’m not much good with languages, but my daughter speaks a little English, so feel free to ask her if you need anything.” I don’t know whether the woman understood what Mother said, but she smiled brightly as she took off her
hat and ran her hand through her brown hair. She was slender, with long arms and legs, and her dress was very simple. Then there was an awkward moment—“as though the air had been let out of the room”—and it dawned on us that the woman was blind.

“I’ve always wanted to stay at a hotel that bears my name. Now I wonder if I could ask you to explain the layout of the building and take me to my room? Then I can manage on my own.” Her English was quite easy to understand.

“Of course,” I said. Mother was nudging me, so I began describing the hotel as best I could.

Mother leaned against the front desk and stared at the woman. She frowned and pressed her finger to her temple. There was no sign of the welcoming smile she’d worn a moment ago, and when I finished my explanation, the key she handed the woman was not for the best room but for the smallest one with the worst ventilation, least reliable plumbing, and no view.

The woman thanked me politely when I carried her bag upstairs for her. I wanted to tell her she should let me know if she needed anything, but I realized I couldn’t say this in English. She had just taken off her hat, so instead of speaking, I guided her hand to the hook on the wall. The ribbon on the hat added a touch of color to the somber room.

I stood for a moment in front of the hat. The woman’s pale blue eyes had an unearthly beauty, as if they weren’t eyes at all.

“Why didn’t you put her in 301?” I asked Mother when I got back to the desk. “We have plenty of empty rooms.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Mother hissed, keeping her voice low as if to remind me that the woman could hear even if she couldn’t see. “What difference does it make if she has an ocean view or not?”

Miss Iris surveyed the hotel from one end to the other, counting the steps in each staircase, pacing out the length of each hall, memorizing the location of the dining room. With her fingers she took in even the tiniest details—light switches, dusty picture frames, door hinges, curtains and sashes, gashes on the banisters, peeling wallpaper. … All these things we had long since forgotten she gathered up one by one in her hands, caressing and warming them until they came back to life. It was as if she had come in place of the goddess of the rainbow to offer her grace and affection. She was perhaps the only one who ever truly loved the Hotel Iris.

I had promised the translator that I would have lunch with him, and he had made a reservation at the fanciest restaurant in town, a place I had never been. Thanks to Mother, I didn’t have to worry about my hair. I would have liked to have added a ribbon, but I didn’t want her wondering why I needed to be so dressed up to go see the old woman.

I decided to wear my yellow dress with the little flowers. It was old, but it was the only good one I had. My purse was cheap and a bit babyish, my straw hat faded. But my shoes were real leather—they had been left behind by a guest. The address she had written in the guest book was fake, so we
had no way to send them on to her. “Just keep them,” Mother had said. Except for being a bit tight in the toes, they were perfect.

Before slipping out the door, I crept over to Mother’s dressing table. There were several lipsticks scattered about. They all seemed too bright, but I chose one, thinking I could use just a tiny bit. The tip was worn to the exact shape of Mother’s lips. I touched it to my mouth, releasing its forbidden scent. My heart beat faster. I wondered whether the maid felt like this when she was stealing from me. I drew it across my mouth, pressing as lightly as I could, but when I looked in the mirror, I saw that my lips had become an indecent gash in my face. Rubbing them with a tissue only made matters worse, and I was petrified that Mother would walk in and catch me. I had to leave soon if I was going to be on time, so I made another desperate attempt to apply the lipstick, as though the translator’s deepest desire was that I would do this skillfully for him.