The Last Resort (31 page)

I know him . . . what is his name? Ah yes, Karim. I have exchanged a few words with him from time to time, a most handsome young man with eyes black as coal . . . he reminds me of Reza, my neighbor in London. Of course, I can’t distinguish all of these details right now through the darkness. All I can manage to make out is the very large roll of tape bundled under his arm, shining in the oddest way, like a giant green snake. He has left the glass door open, which makes it much easier to watch him as he winds the tape around the perimeter of the pool. I can even see how he wraps the tape around four posts, one at each corner, and from my position I would say it is similar to the fluorescent tape policemen use to prevent onlookers from sticking their noses into an accident site.
Do not cross; police line. Do not cross; danger zone.
Oh, how attractive he is, that gardener, how early he rises to begin the day’s work, how carefully he winds the tape around the pool before emptying it—because, of course, why else would he wind that phosphorescent snake around the pool area? Obviously, it is because he is emptying it. It takes a bloody long time to empty a pool—it takes a bloody long time to even
notice
that a pool is being emptied, and as such it is extremely important to place very clear indicators to this effect, a green snake whose job is to warn all those
très sportive
types who like to use the pool early in the mornings when no one else is around: twenty laps of the crawl, a few laps of backstroke, who knows how many lengths of the butterfly. You know, those very athletic types who head downstairs and dive in without even looking. The swimmers, after all, must be warned:
ATTENTION: BATHING PROHIBITED. ATTENTION: DANGER.
The tape is crucial, because people are so idiotically accident prone at hotels. Even at L’Hirondelle d’Or, a seemingly very tranquil establishment where nothing ever seems to happen . . . My God. My God—what a magnificent idea!

Meanwhile, the Sun Rises

(A SILENT JOURNEY THROUGH THE HOTEL)

1. The Yellow Room

The fine red line marking the beginning of a new day filters into the room through a tiny crevice.

Miss Guêpe is a staunch believer in ventilation, she feels it is an indispensable measure for ensuring proper sleep, and for this reason she sleeps with the window open. The blinds, however, are another story. She did not discover this sublime Mediterranean invention until rather late in life, due to her strict Calvinist upbringing, and she thinks the world of blinds, for they make it possible to air out a room without allowing a single ray of sunlight to assault the retina. And so Miss Guêpe sleeps away, tucked beneath a yellow duvet dotted with little yellow daisies—a well-deserved rest for the secret force behind L’Hirondelle, whose alarm clock rings out at 6:45 on the dot each day.

At this moment, the second hand slowly advances toward 6:10 and Miss Guêpe’s dream life continues to transport her through a series of immaculate, pleasure-filled subconscious experiences. A very good sign—whenever Miss Guêpe dreams in an orderly fashion, all will be perfect the following day, and her tidy little dream is responsible for the serene smile gracing her face as she sleeps.

She sees a mountain of towels: large towels, small towels, towels for the bidet, towels for the bath, almost all of them yellow, soft towels piled up in the giant, glass-enclosed precinct of the winter pool. The air is warmed by the early morning sun, and Miss Guêpe envisions someone wrapped in the immense fluffiness of a giant towel. It is the silhouette of a male figure, small but well toned, with tight, wet pectoral muscles and strong legs covered in the finest layer of masculine fuzz. The man is lying face-up, practically nude, and Miss Guêpe suddenly feels the need to approach him—to cover him, of course, for what else could she possibly want to do to him? And then a mental click suddenly erases the entire scene—not because it was an unpleasant vision, of course. But there are certain mental clicks that are hardwired into the subconscious, protecting the dreamer from certain visions. The dreams continue, and they are generous dreams, for they present their mistress with yet another welcome vision. Now she sees the pool filled with people. There is animated conversation, a bit of
blah-blah-blah,
women in bathing suits and straw hats and men in golf attire who have forgotten to take off their shoes with cleats. This last detail is a minor flaw in an otherwise perfect dream, for cleats absolutely destroy the clay tiles surrounding the pool. Even so, Miss Guêpe still finds the dream very pleasing. Just last night she told Karim, the gardener, to empty the winter pool as quickly as possible, using the water pump at maximum power. Speed is of the essence, because Miss Guêpe wishes to refill the pool in the afternoon and then mix in a special product she has just received from Zurich—a delicious, vaguely aquamarine-colored substance that she hopes will encourage the guests to take advantage of the pool early in the day, because it has been seriously underutilized in the morning hours and this error must be remedied as soon as possible. The dream clearly indicates that the guests will respond positively to her maneuver—that is why so many people are gathered around the pool, chatting away in such a lively fashion. Perfect. This is exactly what she was hoping for. After all, she is a master when it comes to gently modifying the habits of her guests through subtle persuasion, almost undetectable schemes. These are the classic methods of our good Miss Guêpe, now sleeping peacefully, comforted by her very promising dream. It is 6:40.

2.
Pistache and Muguet

The Pistache and Muguet rooms face each other; both are free of bothersome alarm clocks that threaten to go off at any given moment. The first room faces east, while the other room faces west. One room receives the morning sunlight that rises in varying shades of red, while the other room remains shrouded in penumbra. The bed in this second room is large, super–king size, and the two bodies sleeping in it, their breathing perfectly synchronized, are enveloped in inky darkness, making them almost invisible to the naked eye. They reach out for each other, searching for the contours that have grown familiar from years and years of spending such early morning hours together. Bea and Bernardo breathe in unison. Bernardo’s pajama top, with its embroidered monogram on the left breast pocket, rises and falls in time with its master’s breathing, as does his companion’s short nightgown. His arm rests upon her thighs. Up and down goes the peaceful slumber of a lazy morning, and in the darkness Bea’s skin seems to blend into Bernardo’s. Even their faces have similar expressions. They move and breathe identically, too. It’s a good thing we cannot watch ourselves while we sleep, for we might be very surprised indeed by the sight. We might discover, for example, that sleep has played a terrible practical joke on us—by separating two bodies that, when awake, want only to passionately devour each other, or by creating an intimate cuddle between two people who, in their more rational state, act as if they no longer need each other.

At this moment, Bea and Bernardo are unknowingly locked in an embrace, still dwelling in the kingdom of sleep. Soon enough, consciousness will arrive with its retribution. It is just before 7:30.

In the Pistache room, on the other hand, things are much easier to discern. Its occupants’ faces are greeted by the sun as the day commences. The red line on the horizon is now a yellowish sliver and easily filters into the room, happily revealing a woman’s arm flung across the pillow and pointing very clearly toward the temples of one Santiago Arce, the man of the moment, the moviemaker everyone so admires. He faces the light source directly, but his eyelids are closed and so he does not see the bright red reflections, nor is he conscious of the pressure exerted upon his temple by Mercedes Algorta’s index finger. Their bodies are nude but separated, one behind the other, both facing the light that grows more intense with each passing minute. They are like two strangers on a train.

Last night, in the flurry of their lovemaking, they must have forgotten to close the blinds, because a strong glow now burns down on them, so persistently that Mercedes must open her eyes for a few moments. Arce opens his eyes as well, but only to look at his watch:

“God, it’s early.”

Now the two bodies move closer together, seeking each other out, coming together in new caresses.

“What do you say we stay in bed a little longer? It’s so nice snuggled up here, isn’t it, baby?”

“I’ve never been better, Santi. You know I adore you, don’t you?” It isn’t quite seven-thirty.

3. The Garden Shed

Hello, my name is Karim. I come from Morocco.

Hello, my tailor is rich. My mother is in the kitchen.

Seven forty-five in the morning usually finds Karim in the tool shed, surrounded by gardening implements. As he cleans and sharpens his tools, Karim often sings a few choice suras with the help of a little book
English in 20 Lessons.

My brother is tall. Is your brother very tall?

Yes, very tall, and very fat too.

There are days, and today is one of them, when Karim gets up before sunrise so that he can take care of certain things early on so that he may dedicate the rest of his workday to more important tasks. This morning, for example, he was to empty the winter pool and block it off very visibly with fluorescent green tape. Very good: mission accomplished. One task done. Now he can focus on more pleasant duties.

Karim begins sharpening a set of rose clippers. He continues reading:

Do you like bananas? No, but my sister likes bananas very much.

Young Karim dreams of prosperity. For this reason he makes a great effort at work, and tries hard to perform all his tasks to perfection. With a bit of luck, he will soon have a good command of English and then, who knows? Perhaps the hotel chain affiliated with L’Hirondelle might recommend him for a position in another country, perhaps in Europe.

Does your uncle like bananas, too?

Yes, but my uncle is a tailor.

A hotel in Europe would be a very important step. Karim has a cousin who lives in Liverpool. From gardener in a Casablanca hotel to dishwasher in a very famous London hotel, and now he is the owner of his own laundromat in Liverpool. That is exactly how he made the leap. So smart, that Mohammed. Mohammed of Liverpool.

Yes, madam, my uncle is a tailor and my tailor is rich.

Karim selects a scraper from among his pile of tools and gets to work cleaning the small hoe and the boxwood clipper. He still has fifty-five minutes before he must return to the pool for a quick checkup, a routine inspection to make sure that the water is still draining and that everything else is functioning properly, like the extraction pump and the grating on the drain on the pool floor. He must also double-check that the green tape is still in place around the perimeter of the pool with the very visible warning,
ATTENTION: DANGER. ATTENTION: SWIMMING PROHIBITED.
Karim scrapes away at the blade on the hedge clipper, still practicing his English.

Hello, what time is it?

It is eight o’clock.

It is eight o’clock on the dot.

4. At the Winter Pool

Waking up at the crack of dawn is so unpleasant. Interrupting one’s slumber at such an unnatural moment feels like the slow, excruciating removal of a Band-Aid that rips off a field of innocent hairs in its wake. This, at least, is how Rafael Molinet feels. This laborious, annoying, and agonizing moment inevitably puts a man in the foulest of moods.

Staying awake for an entire night, however, does present a person with a variety of other, far less odious sensations. True, the insomniac may feel languid and lethargic, but he does acquire a kind of detached clarity about what is going on around him: everything becomes crystal-clear and yet distant at the same time. This is exactly what Molinet is experiencing right now as he observes the tips of his caramel-colored moccasins. They seem so far away to him, a thousand miles away down there at the base of his legs, which are stretched out on one of the lounge chairs by the winter pool. His torso rests lightly against the back of the chair, but his feet seem so far away, down past most of his body, which is enveloped in one of his best caftans, the whitest one of them all.

Gomez rests at his side, having selected a choice patch of terrain warmed by the oblique, early-morning sunlight that has entered through the glass walls and illuminated the tile-covered vicinity surrounding the pool. His ears are spread out like the wings of a biplane, and his jaw rests atop his crisscrossed paws, thick and heavy. Such an innocent creature, sleeping away as he always does through life’s most critical junctures. Molinet looks out onto the water. Nobody would ever guess that the pool is being emptied—not just because the fluorescent tape with the “swimming prohibited” sign has been removed, but because the water level seems to be exactly the same as it was when the draining process began. The only signs of today’s pool maintenance are a faint burbling near the water’s surface and a very wide, almost imperceptible swirl of bubbles by the far end of the pool where the drain is located, indicating that the pump is indeed extracting the water. How big can the hatchway be? Ten by ten inches? Fifteen by fifteen? Molinet is unable to see that corner very well, but he knows that a dark, almost invisible hole beckons just a few feet further down at the bottom of the pool, its mouth wide open.

Fifteen laps of the crawl and several more laps of various other styles. This, Molinet knows, is Antonio Sánchez López’s morning exercise routine, kicked off by a sporty, confident first lap of vigorous, masculine strokes that begins with a dive, head first, from the north end of the pool.

Molinet hunkers down in his lounge chair. Sleepless nights give the insomniac such a special kind of clarity. Right now he is not wearing his wristwatch, for it doesn’t go well with his caftan, but there is a very visible clock mounted on the wall that reads 8:15. A splendid hour: Nobody but Antonio Sánchez would ever dream of coming down here so early. How convenient that the great man has such an original early morning routine, because with a bit of luck there will be a
petit accident
and in all probability Molinet will have enough time to put the fluorescent tape back in place around the perimeter of the pool, just as it was before he removed it. The minute hand of the big wall clock advances in slow jumps: 8:20. Perfect. If Antonio Sánchez comes down according to schedule, there will be plenty of time left to leave everything in its proper place, because it wouldn’t be right for that hardworking young Karim to be blamed for whatever might happen. A few minutes go by and the second hand jumps again: 8:30 on the dot and . . .
Le voilà
!, Molinet says to himself as he sees the figure of Antonio Sánchez emerge from the foliage like Tarzan of the Apes.