The Digger's Rest (9 page)

When he walked in the door, he
immediately asked the concierge for Madame Duvalier. Oddly enough,
during the fifteen or so years he’d been coming there, the French
woman had been running the establishment. A few minutes later a
very stylishly-coiffured woman in her late seventies wearing a
bright red scarf held to her shoulder by a huge rhinestone spray
over a tailored navy blue suit came out of the office door. The
colors of the French flag flitted through Mitch’s mind.
Nice touch, Madame!

“
Doctor Bramson!” she said in perfect
English with only a slight French accent. After all, she’d been in
residence in England since shortly after her father was killed in
the war, executed by the Nazis for being with the French
Resistance.

“
Madame Duvalier! Comment ça va?” Mitch
greeted her, taking both her hands affectionately in his and
kissing her continentally on both cheeks.

“
Tres bien,” she answered kissing both
his cheeks in return. “I was so pleased to find out that you would
be coming back to us for a visit.”

“
Always a pleasure to be back at the
George and to see you, Madame,” Mitch said, smiling sincerely.
Since they first met so many years ago, they had taken to each
other like fellow travelers in a storm and she always made sure he
had the best of service. Just then Simon came up behind him,
accidentally nudging him with the tip of a suitcase. Humorously
jolted, Mitch didn’t even have to turn around to see what it
was.

“
Madame Duvalier, I’d like you to meet
my assistant, Simon Holly. I’m training him to take over for me,
when I get too old to carry on the way I do,” he said smiling
mischievously.

“
Bonjour, jeune Monsieur Holly,” she
said to Simon and put out her hand to shake his. He took it and
bowed like a gentleman, thinking to himself,
Oh my God! She’s French. I’ve never met a French person
before. What do I say?
and struggling for the proper
words to say to her that wouldn’t embarrass Mitch, finally deciding
to keep it to her own words, “Bonjour, Madame.”

Never one to miss a beat, Madame Duvalier
observed Simon casually and saw the small bit of shiny metal
peeking out from his trouser leg and instantly knew what it was.
Ever the gracious hostess, schooled by both profession and her own
kind nature, she said to Mitch while still looking at Simon, “And
such a handsome young man, Dr. Bramson. I’m sure he will have no
trouble filling your shoes in that regard.” Then she looked back to
Mitch and winked slightly to let him know she was on with his
program. Simon blushed bashfully but managed to step up to the
plate, surprising both Mitch and himself.

“
Thank you, Madame,” he said bowing
slightly again. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be staying at
such a beautiful hotel with such a charming hostess,” but thinking
to himself the whole time,
Gee, I hope I
did that right.

“
Why thank you, ma jeune Monsiuer Yeux
Bleu,” she said, reaching out to touch Simon’s face.

Mitch looked sideways and said to Simon,
“That means ‘my young Mr. Blue Eyes’.” Simon blushed again.

Madame Duvalier looked back to Mitch, smiled
and said, “No, my dear, Dr. Bramson, I don’t imagine he’ll have any
trouble at all. Tres charmant.” A few seconds later a bellman came
up behind Madame Duvalier and said quietly behind her ear. “Shall I
take the bags to the rooms, Madame?”

“
Yes, please, Robert, if you would be
so kind. I’m sure that Dr. Bramson and his protégé would like some
refreshment before they go to their rooms,” she said, smiling again
and motioning fluidly with her hand for them to follow her to the
bar.

After about a half an hour having cocktails
with Madame Duvalier, catching up and giving her a thumbnail sketch
of the reasons for their visit, Mitch and Simon went upstairs to
their rooms.

“
So how ya feeling? Mitch
asked.

“
Fine, Dr. Bramson, a little
overwhelmed, I guess, but I feel good…energized.”

“
Well, enjoy it while you can, that’s a
sign that jet lag is probably going to kick your ass soon, so let’s
take advantage of it while we can and go out and do some
sightseeing to burn it off,” Mitch said and laughed.

Simon looked puzzled, he’d never experienced
the thing called jet lag, so he had no idea what to expect.

“
Sure, sounds great to me.”

“
But just one thing,” Mitch said to
him, looking at him with an intentional seriousness. “We’ve known
each other a long time now—over six years isn’t it? And you’re a
Doctor in your own right now, all but for the paper to hang on your
wall. So please call me Mitch. If you want to call me Doctor in
public for the sake of professionalism that’s fine, but in private
or among friends, it’s Mitch. Okay?”

Simon didn’t know how to respond. Even though
it had been almost seven years, he never once considered himself to
be Mitchell Bramson’s equal, as a person or a scholar, not even
close, and although their relationship had grown far beyond that of
traditional student and teacher into something more akin to a left
hand’s relationship to the right, he wasn’t sure he could ever call
him by his first name. It just didn’t seem right somehow.

“
Oh, I don’t know about that, Dr.
Bramson. It just doesn’t seem right,” he said shyly, shrugging his
shoulders slightly. Mitch looked at him closely, deep into his
eyes, sensing Simon’s very real discomfort with what he’d
asked.

“
Okay. I’ll tell you what. Just think
about it for awhile. I would never look on it as a sign of
disrespect. I would look on it as a sign of friendship and what
would the world be like if we all went around calling our closest
people “Mr. Jones and Mrs. Smith or Dr. Blue or Officer Black?”
Then he jabbed Simon playfully with a left hook and a right cross
and laughed. “Just think about it, will ya?”

“
Yes, Dr. Bramson,” Simon’s replied,
his voice filled with light laughter as if he were being
tickled.

“
Cool; that’ll do for now. Now let’s
get out of here. I’m feeling restless. How does the Tower of London
sound to you?”

Simon’s eyes got wide with excitement. “Off
with their heads!” he said, pointing at the air commandingly as if
he were Henry the Eighth.

“
Off with their heads!” Mitch repeated
laughing as they headed out the door.

After they took the tour of the Tower of
London where Mitch made a fool of himself by putting his head on
the same chopping block where Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard lost
theirs so Simon could take a picture, they walked through the
gallery where the crown jewels were kept without Simon ever closing
his mouth, then went to Buckingham Palace and took the tour there.
Mitch, of course, had seen it all before so it was really all for
Simon’s benefit, to see the world, feel a part of it and have some
fun with it. Maybe it was the early onset of Mitch’s own jet lag or
the fact that it seemed like he was seeing it all again, except
this time through Simon’s eyes, but he felt unusually
lighthearted.

When they got to the throne room, Mitch
suddenly called out loudly, “Yo! Lizzie. I’ll be by for tea at
four. No need to break out the good china, but you’d better lock up
the jewels to keep them away from Simon,” and gave Simon a deranged
smile.

Simon just blushed and laughed bashfully,
saying to him with ghetto cadence, “Dr. Bramson, you so crazy.”

From there, they went to dinner in Chinatown.
By the time they were finished with dinner, both their energies
seems to be dwindling, but Mitch, never one to pass up an
opportunity for a good time, took Simon to a real London pub close
to the hotel on the way back. After three pints, Mitch, who was
well used to strong English ales, had gotten his second wind and
was becoming the life of the party, chatting animatedly with the
bartenders, the locals, anyone who would listen. Simon, on the
other hand, was not used to English beer, and as a matter of fact,
wasn’t used to drinking beer at all, so it had a decidedly
different effect on him.

After three, he started to sway. After four,
he became introspective, thinking about where he was and how far
he’d come from being that misfit of a boy at Holy Family and how
he’d gotten there. By the end of the fifth, he was drunk. For the
first time in his life he was officially drunk.

He looked out of the window at the flashing
lights along the streets. One neon light stood out more than the
others and it suddenly came to him like thunder from heaven, giving
him a courage he’d never felt before. He told Mitch that he was
going to step outside and get some fresh air and maybe pick up a
few postcards, then staggered out the door onto the street, the
neon sign beckoning to him more and more the closer he got.
Finally, when he got right up underneath it, he looked up. “Ageless
Tattoos and Piercing,” and he went in.

When he came back into the pub no more than
fifteen minutes later, something about him had changed. It was
small, hardly noticeable because of the length of his big black
curls, but it was a monumental step for him nonetheless, because
when he walked back in the pub, he was just a little bit more like
him with a tiny gold hoop earring in each ear. When Mitch saw him,
he was too drunk himself to notice the earrings. He was just
relieved that Simon hadn’t gone out and got himself lost.

“
Simon! Where the hell have you been? I
was just about to send out a search party to look for you,” Mitch
said, struggling to focus the double-vision Simons he was seeing
into one, relief washing over his face. “C’mon, I think it’s time
we went home, if we can find it,” he laughed, putting his arm
around Simon’s shoulders.

After they’d walked only a few blocks, Simon
suddenly stopped in his tracks. Mitch staggered a few paces ahead
before noticing and looked back. “Simon, what’s wrong?” he slurred,
seeing Simon standing still, swaying left and right. He asked him
again, “Is something wrong?” Simon looked up, swaying more and
more, looking like he might tip over.

“
I jus’ wan’…to tell yooouuuu, Dr.
Mitchell Bramson…” he said, looking like he was holding back a
waterfall of tears. “I jus’ wan’ to tell yoooouuuu,” he started
again, pointing his finger at Mitch, “…how much all you’ve done for
me has meant to me in my life…” He stopped to wipe his face on his
sleeve “…and how proud I am to be with you wherever you go…and be
your friend, and how you’ve always made me feel like…a person.” He
stumbled, falling against the wall behind him. Mitch jumped up to
grab him.

“
Come on now, Simon, it’s time for us
to go home,” he said, taking the boy by the arm and guiding him
down the two remaining blocks back to the hotel, Simon’s words
echoing through his head as they walked, “How proud I am to be with
you where ever you go…and be your friend, and how you’ve always
made me feel like…a person.” It made him feel closer to him than
having Simon call him by his first name ever could.

When they went through the door of The
George, Mitch just smiled at Robert half dozing behind the
reception desk and said, “My friend here isn’t used to the strong
beer,” as he pulled Simon into the elevator. Once he had Simon back
in his room, he sat him down on the bed. Simon looked up at him,
his eyes swimming with alcohol and started again. “I jus’ wan’ to
tell yooouuuu…” he said pointing at Mitch the same way he had done
earlier, “…how much…” then fell over on the bed— out cold.

Mitch went over and straightened him out,
unstrapped his brace and took it off, then his shoes and socks, and
covered him with the blanket. Then as he went to turn off the light
and leave the room, he thought about when he found him and what
he’d just said to him, drunk or not, and looked back, “How could I
have ever done anything else?” he said, flipping the switch and
staggering out.

By the time he’d gotten back to his own room,
Mitch was flagging badly himself. His head was spinning and his
stomach was churning like he’d just stepped off of a ship after
having spent many long days at sea. He’d only managed to take off
his pants and boots before it got to him as well, and he passed out
sideways over the bed. It seems the beginnings of jet lag had
finally jumped up and bitten them both on the ass with a
vengeance.

The next morning came much too early for
Mitch. When he woke up finding himself still half dressed and lying
sideways across the bed, all he could manage was a groan and enough
strength to force himself to move lengthwise. His head thumped
mercilessly and the light from the gap in the curtains hurt his
eyes. “Bloody hell,” he groaned as he turned his body away from the
light. Then what seemed like only minutes but must have been hours
passed and he heard the sound of a lock click from the room
adjoining his with Simon’s. He opened his eyes without moving to
find Simon wearing the same clothes he’d passed out in, standing
there looking like whatever it was—the proverbial it that the cat
had dragged in. His eyes were barely open, but what he could see of
them was flaming red with bloodshot, his hair shooting out in all
directions, looking like he’d been frightened out of his wits.

“
Dr. Bramson. I don’t feel so good,” he
said sounding like a small child with tummy trouble.

“
No. I don’t imagine you do, Simon.
Neither do I, so let me introduce you. Simon, this is a hangover,
hangover this is Simon,” and he waved his hand like he was making a
formal introduction, laughing weakly. Even that simple movement and
the mild sound of his own voice made his head throb with a drum
beat like a tribe of Apaches on the warpath. “But, since you’re the
one standing, why don’t you do us both a favor and go in my shaving
kit and grab the Advil bottle. I’ll take two and so will you,” he
croaked, his throat dehydrated from the libations of the night’s
festivities. Simon turned and walked slowly to his
bathroom.