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She
cupped her right hand and wiggled the fingers on her left hand
to represent a pouring stream. The woman’s red varnished
nails danced in front of the hotel night porter’s face.
He simply stared down at her bizarre pantomime.
“Water, yes, you want water, don’t you?” he realized
after a beat and went behind a soiled maroon curtain to a little
room. The porter returned with the water in a coffee-stained
mug. “Now, miss, have a seat? No? You want to stand? The
hotel is all full so no rooms to be had here. What can I help
you with?”
The woman stood on the other side of the counter, sipping the
water. The red nails formed a polka dot pattern as her pale
hands held the white mug. She opened her mouth to speak—only
a squeak and a rasp could be heard. She pointed across the counter.
“Oh,” the porter said, “you want to use the phone!
No, yes? The pen, is that it?” She nodded slowly as he
handed her a pen and a small hotel writing tablet. Her hands
took both items and she sat down in one of the leather armchairs
across the lobby.
The phone on the counter rang; the porter answered. “Cosgrove
Park Hotel—oh, hello, Mister James. Yeah, everything is
quiet and normal tonight. Nah, the plumber fixed that yesterday.
Well, have a good night too. I’ll see ya in the morning
at seven.” He looked up at the woman as he hung up the
receiver: “My manager. Always checks in around midnight
before going to sleep. I would have introduced ya, but he’d
never believe a beautiful lady walked in and ya can’t say
hello anyway…”
“Stupid, stupid,” the porter thought to himself. “Of
course she can’t speak. That’s why she’s here
in this dump with me. She is an attractive gal—thin, pale,
perhaps from the rain. I should offer her a towel to dry off
from the rain. Classy woman, rich maybe. Those nails…”
He called out to the woman, “Hey miss, would you like a
towel or something?”
The woman ignored his banter and held the pen above the pad,
ready to strike if inspiration should be so willing. The porter
opened his mouth to say something, anything, to fill the space
between him and the lady. Words, for a minute, failed him. He
picked up a copy of the morning newspaper and turned a few pages.
His standard comment to anyone in earshot was that all news
was old new by the time he read it on the night shift But this
evening he didn’t feel like saying it to the woman or even
to himself.
Her red nails caught his attention from across the room. The
bright spots pulled in the available light and his attention.
He looked down at his newspaper. “Business as usual, nothing
strange here…” he muttered. He spread his hand out
on the newspaper page. With his fingers he slowly touched his
own, plain nails. A buried memory surfaced from interior folds
and layers. He was looking up at something--he was a small child.
Someone sat him in an ornate velvet cushioned chair. To his
left was a bed covered in heavy blankets. A woman’s head
at the edge of the blanket, a non-descript face written in greys.
Hands attached to arms from the blanket’s end reached for
him. He felt their cold touch under his skin; bright red nails
on grey hands holding his arms. A voice whispered in his ear:
“Say good-bye… tell her you love her…”
The woman stood up from the chair and walked across the lobby
to the desk. “Anything else, miss?” he asked as he
closed the newspaper. She set down the pen and pushed the pad
across the counter. On the page in an elegant writing was “Thank
you for your time”. Their eyes met; he nodded. The woman
turned around, walked to the door and was swallowed by the dark.
Thoughts ran through his mind: “What to say… She’s
gone—she took her nails out the door. My grandmother has
been dead for twenty years… that color must be back in
style.”
Mister James walked into the hotel lobby at seven in the morning
as usual. “Good morning, how did everything go on your
watch? Not a peep, great!” he said while investigating
the light fixtures and straightening a frame on the wall. Mister
James didn’t notice that the porter only nodded in reply.
He squinted at the morning light reaching across the lobby floor
and took a step back.
| Matthew
Patrick, September 2002 |
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