There was a silence during which I tried not to think about anything. I read the front-page headline on one of the newspapers, over and over, without understanding a word of it. Just then, the sound of another telephone — a rabid ring of rude Rs—reverberated in both my ears at once: the one I was holding the receiver to, and the one that was free and open to the sounds in the room. I became disoriented, as though I were being confronted with the audio version of one of those optical illusions showing inextricable silhouettes that can’t both be seen at the same time and that force the eye to choose between them. Then she spoke on the other end of the line, over — or rather, alongside — the sound of the ringing phone.
“Excuse me one second.”
I understood suddenly, as though waking from a falling dream, that the ringing of the other phone came from both inside and outside the one I was holding. From outside my room, to be specific: the noise was coming, muffled by the ceiling, from the room directly above.
The double ringing stopped, and I heard her — now only through the receiver — answer the other call.
“Hello?”
Was she right above me, then? I couldn’t rule out some telephonic coincidence, or an odd side effect of the two whiskies I’d drunk on an almost empty stomach. I gazed up at the ceiling like an idiot, as if my eyes could pass as easily as the sound of the ringing telephone had through the plasterboard and hidden concrete, the elaborate parquet and knotted rug which presumably lay between me and the soles of her shoes — maybe those same snakeskin sandals she had had on at the Imperial. I pictured her seated on the edge of the bed like me, a couple of yards above my head, one floor up, in an identical room.
She spoke briefly into the landline, without lowering her voice or bothering to cover the mic on her cellphone. A Morse burst of curt yeses and noes. I was thankful, really, for every second of that short conversation, which gave me time to regain my composure — although I have to say that the sensation of coming unstuck from the trusty surface of solid land was not wholly unpleasant. It occurs to me now that maybe the instant preceding panic never is; I’m reminded of the treacherous jab to the back of the knee with which my fellow columnist greeted me at the Imperial.
I searched my memory: I couldn’t recall hearing any noise from the floor above me until now. None of the banging and stomping, furniture-dragging or marble-rolling that always end up making their way through from upstairs in hotels and houses (and that goes for the quietest and most sound-proofed, and even the uninhabited ones).
She finally thanked the person she was speaking to and hung up.
“Excuse me. Where were we?”
She didn’t give me time to reply, but went straight on to suggest an appointment for the following day, after lunch, in a nearby café.
“Well, it’s not exactly a café.”
It also served food, and apparently, it’s very well known. She told me the name assuming I’d have heard of it. But she didn’t seem surprised when I told her I didn’t know the place.
“OK, just ask. I don’t know the address, but I’m sure you can find someone to tell you.”
I was taken aback. Throughout this search, I’d never doubted that I would be the one going to see her. Out of a convoluted desire for symmetry or simply a habit picked up on the job, I had imagined our second meeting would take place in private, in another room at another hotel. I couldn’t work up the courage to ask her where she was staying and find out if we really were neighbors again in this one. I agreed to everything and she promptly hung up, having managed not to be friendly for a moment.
Well, at least it was interesting, even thrilling, to hear how she spoke to her aspiring models. She behaved exactly as I’d imagined she would, in fact.
But that only occurs to me now. I didn’t have time to think anything then, because the telephone in my room suddenly blared, making me jump. I picked up in full knowledge that it would be her voice on the other end of the line, handing down the summary judgment and the final sentence without any right of appeal.
But no — it was reception calling. A hurried, unprofessional voice confirmed that there was a strike and offered alternative lodging in a choice of different hotels. I declined, though they were plainly unhappy to be stuck with me, and hung up almost rudely. I wasn’t going to lose sight of her now that she was, conceivably, so near. If anything, this phone call struck me at the time as proof that she really was up there, treading the floor above my head. It must have been they who interrupted our conversation earlier, to offer the same thing to her.
I inhaled deeply and thankfully — I realized I’d been holding my breath. Feeling light-headed, I tried to steady myself by double-checking the furniture, the not-yet-unmade bed, the street beyond the window. Everything was still in its place. That was something, but not enough to make me feel better. Yes, things were still in their place, but there seemed no way to transfer a little of my vertigo off onto them, to discard them like the old newspaper or empty bottles in this room and walk out without a backward glance. I felt these things leering at me, while the backdrop of cars and traffic lights ignored me like a man condemned. All a wild exaggeration, of course. But at that moment, the imminence of the make-or-break encounter hung over me fearfully, and more fearful yet were the hours I still had to get through in the meantime.
It hit me that I’d always relied on the idea of acting surprised when we finally met. But I’d pushed things, I’d cheated. The phone call had put me in a tight spot and there was no good way out. In the café, I’d have to own up to my lie. I wouldn’t even have to speak — the minute she saw me in the doorway or waiting at a table, just exactly in the last place in the world I was supposed to be, the game would be up. Simply by seeing me there, all my crazy tricks, my schemes, my whole senseless quest would be exposed to her.
I had no way of knowing how far her sense of humor might stretch. Worse, I suspected it would only be all the more crushing if she took the whole thing as a joke.
As it turned out, I wasn’t able to wait a moment longer to find out. Before I could think twice, I was calling the receptionists I’d just hung up on. They took forever to answer, and sounded pretty grumpy when they did. There were strange noises in the background: yelling and whistling and banging on pots and pans. I almost shouted my request to be put through to the room exactly above mine. I had to repeat it twice; first they didn’t hear, then they didn’t understand. They laughed. Then for the first time in all my years in the trade, a receptionist hung up on me.
I rushed out of my room and sprinted for the elevators, dodging the plates and cushions strewn along the hallway. I wasn’t the first, either, judging by the broken crockery and coffee stains on the carpet and the baseboards. The elevators weren’t working. Their little call lights blinked in distress and one of the automatic doors yawned rhythmically, opening and closing in front of the empty cabin. I didn’t fall for the trap — I dashed up the emergency stairs two at a time. The sound of a chorus of throats bellowing out slogans in ragged unison rose up through the stairwell from below.
One floor up, however, all was quiet. It seemed to belong to a different hotel, one where the universal peace of collective bargaining reigned. A very solemn elderly couple stood motionless in front of the elevators, as if they didn’t see the distressed flashing of the luminous panels, or were completely undistressed by it. There were no obstacles to negotiate in this hallway, and every door was shut. I walked along trying to calculate the approximate position of the room above mine. I arrived at a door exactly like the rest. The last digit of the number on the lintel matched. I didn’t have the same luck as in the Imperiaclass="underline" this time there was no crack to spy through. When I finally raised my hand to knock, I had to resist the urge to beat down the door.