Fair Play (7 page)

And now Jonna's turning off the television and rewinding the video. She's brushing her teeth and coming to bed and doesn't say a word.

Mari asked, “Was it good?”

“No. But I'm saving it anyway.”

“Still, I liked ‘My Darling Clementine,'” Mari said. “They use that same song every time, but somehow it's right.”

Jonna got up and closed the window because the snow had begun to blow in. The room was very peaceful.

Before Mari fell asleep, she asked if they could watch this same B-Western some other evening, and Jonna said yes, she supposed they could.

A
FTER
a long bus trip through Arizona, Jonna and Mari came late in the evening to the great city of Phoenix and checked into the first hotel they could find near the bus station.

It was called the Majestic, a heavy building from the 1910s with an air of shabby pretension. The lobby with its long mahogany counters beneath dusty potted palms, the broad staircase up to the gloom of the upper floors, the row of stiff, velvet sofas—everything was too grand, everything except the desk clerk, who was tiny under his wreath of white hair. He gave them their room key and a form to fill out and said, “The elevator closes in twenty minutes.”

The elevator operator was asleep. He was even older than the desk clerk. He pushed the button for the third floor and sat back down on his velvet chair. The elevator was a huge ornamented bronze cage and it rattled upward very slowly.

Jonna and Mari entered a static, desolate room with way too much furniture and went to bed without unpacking. But they couldn't sleep. They relived the bus trip again and again, through shifting landscapes of desert and snowy mountains, cities without names, white salt lakes, and brief pauses in little towns they knew nothing about and to which they would never return. The trip went on and on, leaving everything behind, hour after hour, a long, long day in a silver-blue Greyhound bus.

“Are you asleep?” Jonna asked.

“No.”

“We can get our films developed here. I've been filming blind for a month and haven't any idea what I've got.”

“Are you sure it was a good idea to shoot through the bus window? I think we were going too fast.”

“I know,” Jonna said. And, after a while, “But it was so pretty.”

They left the films to be developed, which would take a couple of days.

“Why is the city so empty?” Mari asked.

“Empty?” repeated the man behind the camera counter. “I never thought about it. But I suppose it's because most people live outside of town and drive in to work and then back home.”

When Jonna and Mari came back to their room, they noticed a change, a small but sweeping change. It was their first encounter with the invisible chambermaid, Verity. Verity's presence in the hotel room was powerful. It was everywhere. She had reorganized their travelers' lives in her own way. This Verity was an obvious perfectionist and at the same time a conspicuous free spirit. She had laid out Jonna's and Mari's belongings symmetrically but with a certain humor; had unpacked their travel mementos and arranged them on the dresser in a caravan whose placement did not lack irony; had placed their slippers with the noses touching and spread out their nightgowns so the sleeves were holding hands. On their pillows she'd put books she'd found and liked—or perhaps disliked—using their stones from Death Valley as bookmarks. Those ugly stones must have amused her greatly. She had given the room a face.

Jonna said, “Someone's having fun with us.”

The next evening, the mirror was decorated with their Indian souvenirs. Verity had washed and ironed everything she thought needed washing and ironing and placed it in symmetrical piles, and in the middle of the table was a large bunch of artificial flowers, which, if they remembered correctly, had previously adorned the lobby.

“I wonder,” Mari said. “I wonder if she does this in all the rooms, and is it to cheer up the hotel guests or herself? How does she have the time? Is she just teasing the other chambermaids?”

“We'll see,” said Jonna.

They met Verity in the corridor. She was large, with red cheeks and a lot of black hair. She laughed out loud and said, “I'm Verity. Were you surprised?”

“Very much,” replied Jonna politely. “We wondered what made you so playful?”

“I thought you looked like fun,” Verity said.

And so, quite naturally, they began to be friends with Verity. Every day she was interested to know if Jonna's films had come back. No, they hadn't. It would take a whole week before Jonna and Mari could travel on to Tucson.

Verity was amazed. “Why Tucson, of all places? It's just another town, except it's the closest city on the map. Why do you have to keep traveling, here or there or somewhere else? Is there such a big difference? You've got your health and each other's company. Moreover, now you've got me. For that matter, you should meet the residents. They can be very interesting if you take them the right way.”

“The residents?”

“Pensioners, of course. Aren't you pensioners yourselves? Why else would you have come to the Majestic?”

“Nonsense,” said Jonna, somewhat sharply, and headed for the stairs.

Verity said, “But aren't you going to take the elevator? Albert likes people to take his elevator. I'm going down myself.”

Albert stood up and pressed the button for the ground floor.

“Hi, Albert,” said Verity. “How are the legs?”

“The left one's working better,” Albert said.

“And how's the birthday coming?”

“I don't know yet. But it's all I think about, all the time.” In the lobby, Verity explained. “Albert's going to be eighty, and he's terribly anxious about his birthday. Should he invite all the residents or just the ones he likes and then the others will be hurt? By the way, would you like to have some fun this evening? Of course everyone goes to bed early at the Majestic ...”

“Not us,” Jonna said. “But this city is empty and quiet in the evenings. You know that.”

Verity looked at her for a moment, almost sternly. “Don't talk like a tourist. I'll take you to Annie's bar. I'll come and get you when I've finished work.”

It was a very small bar, long and narrow with a pool table in the back. Annie herself tended the bar, the jukebox played constantly, and people came in steadily and greeted one another in passing as if they'd seen each other an hour ago, which perhaps they had. No ladies among the clientele.

Verity said, “Now you're going to have Annie's banana drink, an Annie Special, her treat. Tell her you like it, then you can get a real drink to chase it. Annie's my friend. She's got two kids and she's a single mother.”

“On the house,” Annie said. “And where do you come from? Finland? Oh, I didn't think you were allowed to travel to other countries ...” She turned her smile toward new customers, but after a while she came back and wanted to give them another Banana Special. They had to toast Finland.

“In that case, Annie, I think we'll need some vodka,” Verity said. “Am I right?”

Somebody played the current hit, “A Horse with No Name,” and Annie poured vodka into three small glasses, raised a quick, invisible glass of her own, and disappeared to take care of other customers. Jonna opened her tape recorder, and a Stetson to their right hollered, “Hey, Annie! They're stealing our music!”

“They like it!” Annie hollered back. “How did it go with that job?”

“Nothing came of it. How are the kids?”

“Fine. Willy's had a sore throat, so John's bound to catch it. Getting sitters is hopeless.”

The bar had grown crowded.

“Give these ladies some space!” Annie yelled. “They're from Finland.”

Verity turned to the Stetson and told him cheerfully that her new friends, among other curious undertakings, had traveled a great distance out of the city “in order to see a cactus garden, of all things—cactus that doesn't even flower—and there's an entrance fee!”

“Very bad,” said the Stetson sadly. “Pure weeds. I cleaned out a whole patch of them at the Robinsons' last week. They didn't pay much.”

“Let me show you something interesting,” said their neighbor to the left. “Look, a wonderful little item that ought to sell like nobody's business, but doesn't.” He put three small plastic dogs on the bar, one pink, one green, one yellow, and the dogs began marching side by side, the green one in the lead. Mari looked at Jonna, but Jonna shook her head. It meant, no, he's not trying to sell them, he just wants to amuse us.

The friendly crowding, the jukebox, the pool balls clicking from the curtained-off section of the room, a sudden laugh in the even flood of conversation, a voice being raised to object or explain, and people coming in the whole time and somehow finding space. Annie worked as if possessed but with no trace of nerves, her smile was her own, and the fact that she was hurrying did not mean time was short.

They left the bar and walked back to the hotel. The broad street was empty, and there were lights in only a few windows.

“The cactus garden,” Mari said. “That was nothing to laugh at. It was done with great care, with great love! Just sand and more sand, all the plants prickly and gray—they were as tall as statues or so tiny they had to put up barriers so people wouldn't step on them, and everything had its name on a visiting card. It was a brave garden.” She added, “Verity, you're brave yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“This city. And the hotel.”

“Why do you take everything so seriously?” Verity asked. “Cactuses like sand, they grow, they do all right. Visiting cards, that's dumb! And I'm doing all right myself. At the Majestic I know all the codgers and all their tricks and dodges, and I know Annie, and now I know you. I've got everything I need. And Phoenix is just the place where I happen to live, right? What's so remarkable about that?”

The desk clerk woke up when they came in.

“Verity,” he said, “you'll have to take the stairs, you know. But the elevator will be running again tomorrow.”

The elevator was decorated with bows of black ribbon. As they were climbing the stairs, Verity explained. “Albert died this afternoon, on the second floor. So we're paying our respects.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” Mari said.

“No need to be sorry. He never had to face that birthday he was so worried about. Jonna, when will your films be ready?”

“Tomorrow.”

“And then you're going on to Tucson?”

“Yes.”

“There's probably no Annie's bar in Tucson. I've heard unpleasant things about that town, I really have.”

In the room, Verity had put all the shoes she could find in marching order toward the door and turned the flower vase upside down. The curtains were drawn, and the suitcase lay open. Verity had been explicit.

Jonna's films were ready the next day. They could see the bus trip across Arizona on the camera store's picture screen, a small device that the owner had placed on the counter for the convenience of tourists. Jonna and Mari watched in silence. It was dreadful. An incoherent, flickering stream of pictures sliced to bits by telephone poles, pine trees, fences. The landscape tipped over and came up straight again and hurried on. It was a mess.

“Thanks,” said Jonna. “I think that's enough. I haven't actually had this camera very long.”

He smiled at her.

“But the Grand Canyon,” Mari said. “Can't we see just a little bit, please?”

And the Grand Canyon made its entrance in the majesty of a fiery dawn. Jonna had held the camera steady and taken time. It was beautiful.

They walked back to the hotel and ran into Verity in the corridor. “Are they good?” she asked at once.

“Very good,” Mari said.

“And you're sure you want to go to Tucson tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Tucson is a horrible place, believe me. There's nothing there to film.” Verity turned on her heel and continued down the corridor, calling back over her shoulder, “I'll see you at Annie's this evening!”

Nothing had changed at Annie's bar. The regulars were there and greeted them in a careless, friendly way. They each had a Banana Special on the house. The pool players were hard at it, and the jukebox was playing “A Horse with No Name.”

“Business as usual,” said Mari and smiled at Verity. But Verity didn't want to talk. The man with the plastic dogs was there. The green, the pink, and the yellow had their race across the bar.

“Take them with you,” he said. “They're great for making bets when things get slow.”

On their way home, Verity said, “I forgot to ask Annie if John caught that sore throat. When does your bus leave?”

“Eight o'clock.”

When they came to the Majestic, a fire truck screamed by through the empty streets. It was a windy night, but very warm.

Verity said, “Shall we say goodbye right now and get it over with?”

“Let's do,” said Jonna.

In the room, Jonna opened her tape recorder. “Listen to this,” she said. “I think it'll be good.”

The jukebox through a torrent of people talking, Annie's bright voice, pool balls clicking, the jingle of the cash register—a pause, then their steps on the sidewalk; finally the fire engine and silence.

“But why are you crying?” Jonna said.

“I don't really know. Maybe the fire truck ...”

Jonna said, “We'll send a pretty postcard to Verity from Tucson. And one to Annie.”

“There aren't any pretty cards of Tucson! It's a dreadful place!”

“We could stay here for a while?”

“No,” Mari said. “You can't repeat. It's the wrong ending.”

“Of course. Writers,” Jonna said and counted out the next day's vitamins into two small glasses.