The Eldorado Network (4 page)

At last he was out of those silly cloches, shivering a little for no reason of temperature, breathing more deeply than necessary. He stood for a moment, toes worrying the carpet, and felt his skin make a million tiny shifts and adjustments to the touch of the air and the pleasure of her gaze.

The sheets were silky, cool as liquid. She was unexpectedly warm, almost glowing, and thrustful. Luis was not very good but that didn't matter because she soon took charge, and she was more than good: she was astonishingly, outstandingly marvellous. She led Luis on a grand tour of her universe: first gliding, then flying, then falling, then climbing; diving, racing, strolling, teetering, shimmering, stalling, flaunting, brawling, storming, pounding, blasting, bounding, surging, soaring and, at last, bursting. It was magnificent but it was not what Luis had imagined it would be like. There were no overwhelming spiritual insights, for instance. He had expected a new vision or two, yet the image which swamped his brain at the end was of himself plunging into a colossal bowl of melting cherry ice-cream. Still, he was grateful.

'Are you hungry?' she asked.

'Yes.'

'Good.' She stretched that slender, naked arm again and touched the coffee-pot. Not hot. 'Go into the bathroom and get dressed,' she said. 'I shall send for more breakfast.'

They ate together, she propped against a hill of pillows, he sitting on the side of the bed. He watched her all the time, seeking a flicker of animal passion in her delightful face and finding nothing but loveliness %They talked, but it was all about Luis: where he had lived and what he wanted to be. It was easy and utterly enjoyable, a taste of life at a level of luxury and confidence that Luis had never before known.

After half an hour she held out her hand. He stood, feeling adult and serious, and they shook hands. 'Goodbye,' she said.

And that was that. She had not told him her name, nor asked his. He went back to work, gave them some excuse for his absence which they clearly didn't believe, but he didn't care. He knew that he was utterly changed, his whole life was changed; he could think only of her, remembering and reviving every glorious detail. For the rest of that day he went about in a slight daze. The kitchen staff decided that he had fallen down some stairs and concussed himself.

He went home, shut himself in his room and indulged his impatience in an orgy of anticipation, mentally rehearsing their next meeting in every possible mood and manner  --  witty, intense, casual, noisy, brooding, friendly, dramatic.

Each would be a wonderful, incomparable experience. He tried to sketch her and made such a hopeless hash of it that he burned the paper. He studied his face in the mirror, wondering which part she found attractive and testing different expressions for impact. He took a long, hot bath, scrubbing his body until it tingled with purity, and then he examined it in his wardrobe mirror. He suffered a moment of despair when he noticed that his legs were not

quite as strong as his stomach and chest; but it passed. He lay on his bed and made glorious plans, while dusk slowly drained all the light from the room and his limbs grew cool as earthenware.

Next morning he was at the hotel early, before the other room-service waiters arrived. This reinforced the concussion theory. As the breakfast orders came in he worked with fearful speed, hastening back to the kitchen in a constant panic in case he missed the call from the suite on the fourth floor. Sweat made his shirt dank and his face sticky. Normally talkative, today he was silent. The kitchen staff watched him uncomfortably: if he wasn't working he was looking for work. It was unnatural. They preferred the old, argumentative, back-chatting Luis.

By nine o'clock no order had come. Luis was in despair. He refused food and straddled a chair in a corner, chewing his nails and watching the telephone. His legs ached from pounding up and down stairs.

9.05. No call.

9.11. The telephone rang. Luis felt all his gloom and misery lift like a theatre curtain, turning the kitchen into a place of colour and light. A businessman on the second floor wanted breakfast. The curtain thudded down.

Luis took the man's tray and was back by 9.20. No other orders had come in. He began to feel slightly light-headed with uncertainty. The obstinately dumb telephone became a hateful object; the whole kitchen was oppressive, unbearably squalid. The thought of that sun-splashed heaven waiting on the fourth floor made him feel as if he were trapped in a greasy tomb.

Waiting and stillness were impossible any more. He slipped out and began prowling the corridors. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes were strained, his fingers kept up a running battle with his thumbs. For the first time in his life Luis was sick with love, and it had sapped his wits.

His legs carried him upwards, floor by floor; his brain was too swamped with desire to have an independent opinion. Groups of guests walked past him, talking of leisurely, pleasureful things; and when Luis met a curious glance from one young man  --  snowy blazer draped fashionably about the shoulders --  he wanted desperately to explain that he didn't really belong in this silly uniform, that he deserved to be one of them, if only . . .

The door to the suite on the fourth floor was shut. Luis stared, unblinking, trying to see through the wooden panel and summon the mistress of his delight who lived and breathed so easily on the other side. His stomach muscles kept clenching and relaxing and suddenly clenching again, as they used to do at school just before he went into a boxing-match. He raised an arm to knock, lost his nerve and walked away. Stupid feeble fumbling braggart! he shouted silently. Last night you were spilling over with big plans. Now look at you. Gutless. Brainless. Useless.

For ten minutes he paced up and down the corridor, thinking up things to say when she opened the door. 'I was afraid you might be feeling unwell, and so ..." Or: 'It would give me great pleasure to know your name . . .'Or:'I just came to say thank-you,' plus an irresistible smile which would add: Please . . .

The sound of a door opening made him twitch guiltily. It was the wrong door. Somebody placed a breakfast tray in the corridor and went back inside.

Luis walked over and looked at it. He had no reason to look at a used breakfast tray, God knows he'd seen plenty of them, but by now he was beyond reason. Grapefruit, boiled eggs, rolls, coffee. Rind, shells, crumbs, dregs.

These people had eaten. Why hadn't his goddess eaten? She needed food. How could she give unless she also took? He shook out the napkins, covered up the debris, and lifted the tray. Without actually making up his mind he reached a decision; or maybe a decision reached him. He walked to the suite and knocked quite firmly, one-two-three. His balls ached pleasantly with desire.

The sound of the door handle raised a broad, brash grin to his face. Flowers, he thought, should have brought flowers.' The door swung open and a black-bearded man with a wrestler's chest stared down. He had gangster's eyes and he was wearing only a bath-towel. 'What?' he snapped. Luis wet himself a little.

'Room service, sir,' he said in a voice which cracked. His grin had fallen off and left his face vacant.

The man's black and heavy brows drew together: gun-sights searching for a target. Despair descended on Luis like a sudden sickness. He knew at once that the man knew everything: he knew when Luis had been here before and what had happened and why he had come again. The man reached out and Luis flinched, but all he did was lift a napkin, to reveal a gutted half-grapefruit. Inside the suite Luis briefly glimpsed the woman before she moved quickly away. She was still very beautiful but now she looked nervous.

The man took the ruined grapefruit in his fingers and collapsed it. His other hand clasped the back of Luis's head. He rammed the grapefruit into Luis's mouth, prodding the edges home until Luis's lips were stretched and his cheeks were bulging. He dumped the dregs of milk and coffee onto Luis's head and flung the sugar after them. He hooked his fingers around Luis's belt, tugged savagely enough to bend his spine, and dumped a dish of marmalade inside his trousers. Then he placed one enormous bare foot against Luis's quivering stomach and heaved him ten feet backwards until he hit the opposite wall with a mingled crash of body and crockery. The door slammed.

Even then, Luis didn't think of giving up. He pulled out and spat out the tattered grapefruit, found an empty bathroom, cleaned himself up. And the more he thought about it, rinsing shreds of marmalade from his pubic hair, the more he saw that duty now reinforced desire. Obviously this big bastard was a bully and a brute; he kept the poor girl in a state of terror. If Luis could somehow liberate her, he would get his reward in heaven and on earth. He didn't believe in heaven, but she might, and now he was doing all this for her.

Having the job was going to be a great advantage. It gave Luis access to the fourth floor at any time, and sooner or later blackbeard would have to-let her out. Or else go out himself. That would be the moment for youth and gallantry to strike a blow in the cause of chivalry and true love. Luis dragged on his soaking trousers, combed his sticky hair and took the tray down to the kitchens. He was ready to begin his crusade. Instead, he got fired.

'Cabrillo, damn you, where the hell have you been?' an assistant manager demanded. 'Every time you're wanted you disappear. You're sacked, get out.'

Luis was appalled. 'It wasn't my fault,' he protested. 'I . . Something went wrong, I had to . . . I had an accident, that's all.'

'So I see,' the assistant manager said glumly. 'Oh God . . You'd better tell the housekeeper when you hand in your uniform.'

'Not that sort of -- '

'Look, I don't care. I'm fed up, understand? Just clear off.'

'No! You can't do that!' Luis cried. His voice was harsh and his eyes were leaking tears. If they fired him he would never see her again: unbearable: like being sent to prison. Give me another chance. I'll work for nothing. Please let me stay. Please.'

The assistant manager gave him a profoundly cynical look. Any room-service waiter who wanted to work for nothing had to be mixed up in some kind of racket. 'You're out, Cabrillo,' he said.

Luis fumbled in his pocket, 'Look, I'll give you fifteen pesetas,' he pleaded. 'Twenty-five, thirty . . .' The grubby notes trembled in his outstretched hands. 'That's all the money I have, Just let me  --  '

'If you're so much in love with this damned place,' the assistant manager growled, 'book yourself a room.'

Luis did just that.

He turned up an hour later, in his best suit and with all his savings, and took a cramped and stuffy room on the top floor. He calculated that he had just enough money to stay for three nights, provided he spent nothing on food. Hunger did not worry him: there were always scraps to be scavenged from trays, and besides, a little starvation would be a good test of his love.

Nothing rewarding happened on the first day.

The hotel was busy, which allowed Luis to stroll on or near the fourth floor without looking conspicuous. All the same it was not possible to keep a constant watch on the suite. He heard nothing as he loitered near the door. The couple failed to appear when he was nearby. The long, repetitive hours drifted past in a daze of resolute plans and erotic fantasies. Get a revolver, charge in and rescue her . . . Push him down the stairs and break his legs . . . Sound the fire alarm and when they got separated in the panic and confusion, gently steer her into a vacant room and . . .

No, smuggle a note: Meet me in my room at midnight. Pitter-patter; gentle finger-tap; trembling kiss; flimsy gown; silky skin; radiant embrace; liberty, triumph, sunburst! Luis let out a soft groan which was heard by a group of residents on their way down to dinner. He thumped himself on the chest and cleared his throat loudly, but they were not fooled: he looked as lovesick as he sounded. Lovesick and obstinate: it was 2 a.m. before he grudgingly gave up and went to bed.

On the second day nothing happened, except that Luis began staring after, and lusting after, every desirable woman he saw.

On the third day, privation and obsession began to tilt the balance of his mind. He had eaten very little, spoken to nobody, and continuously flogged his brain like an overloaded donkey up his mountain of infatuation. Still he heard nothing from the suite; still the couple did not appear. By mid-afternoon Luis was trembling with tension and anger, but it was boredom and hunger that drove him to action. Abruptly he abandoned his vigil and went down to the tea lounge, a chattering arena of potted palms and beige music. He saw her as soon as he went in.

She was sitting alone, reading a magazine; coffee and cakes stood on a sidetable. Luis did not hesitate, did not even think; he strode over, bowed and said: 'Good afternoon. May I join you?' He felt quite marvellous; exhilarated.

'If it pleases you,' she said lazily, and went back to her magazine.

Luis sat down and studied her. Even more beautiful than he remembered. Ravishing. Overwhelming. His unfed stomach made a noise like a distant lion in a cave.

'My name is Luis,' he said.

She nodded without looking up.

He rested his arms on his knees and wondered what to say next. Why was she behaving so coldly?

'I am staying at the hotel at the moment,' he announced. The lion rumbled again.

Without looking, she offered him the plate of cakes. He took one. 'Have them all,' she said. He took the plate. 'Now let me read my magazine,' she told him.

While Luis ate a cake he began to feel offended. 'We have met before, you know,' he remarked.

She turned a page.

'Inside your suite,' he added.

The magazine slowly sank to her lap, while a finger kept her place. She looked ahead and slightly upwards, over the crowd.

'In those days I wore silly clothes,' he mentioned, helpfully. Her expression did not change. 'Only sometimes I didn't wear them.'

She raised her left index finger as a signal of recognition. 'Yes. From the florists. You delivered flowers.' -   'No..'

'The electrician, then.' The finger was still raised. 'You changed a fuse or did something of that sort.'