The Last Resort (22 page)

I would love to meet the person who so very invisibly controls the destiny of the guests at L’Hirondelle d’Or, for I would love to congratulate him or her for how well everything functions. Apparently, this person is named Miss Guêpe, and from what I can tell she must be quite a character. I have never seen her in person, but all you have to do is take a quick look around the hotel to appreciate the huge difference between this place and other fancy spas. At other places, the staff makes you feel like a recruit at boot camp instead of a guest or a patient of some sort—and I know what I’m talking about, because my husband, Jaime, and I used to be frequent visitors at two or three spas. But that was another life, a very different life, and I should put it behind me. It’s over, it’s done with. I must forget about it already.

As I was saying, nobody was around that day to drag me from one place to the other—massage here, therapeutic Vichy baths there. I smeared my face and part of my chest with a very smelly, dark-colored paste, probably a mixture of seaweed and some kind of local clay. Then I started to wash my face, but decided to leave the black goo on from the neck down, since I have discovered it is amazingly effective for getting rid of freckles. In that state, I made my way to the dining room. I hadn’t covered much ground when I spotted the Belgian couple striding a bit ahead of me, bundled up in their yellow terry-cloth robes.
Snap-snap
went the plastic yellow flip-flops that flipped on and off their heels with each step they took. My equally horrid flip-flops did the exact same thing, and we all flip-flopped down the hallway, all the way to the door that opened onto the garden, which is where the Sunday breakfast buffet is served.

“Good morning,” said the Belgian gentleman, which was rather unnecessary, since we had already greeted each other earlier that day.

“Lovely day,” commented the Belgian lady.

“Please, after you,” I said, ever friendly.

“No, no, please. You must go first,” she said, but I insisted, and followed them in, thinking about how early it was. We must have been the first ones to hit the buffet—three yellow ducks in flip-flops and terry-cloth robe. The two Belgians, of course, were sans mud, while I bore a frontal smear that peeked out above the neckline of my bathrobe, like the dark body hair of a macho man.

And then all of a sudden there he was: Santiago Arce, at a table underneath all the vines, not two steps away from me.

What bad luck,
I thought.
What goddamn bad luck!
Had it been possible to do so unnoticed, I would have definitely beat a hasty retreat to the door so that I could return later, looking a bit more presentable. But there was nothing I could do about it. He got up to say hello and smiled as (I imagine) he assessed my rather idiosyncratic look, and I had no choice but to say hello, with the distant conviviality that is the norm here at L’Hirondelle. Then, despite the difficulty of walking in flip-flops without dragging my feet, I somehow made it over to my table and ordered a yogurt and a tea as gracefully as I could, given that I was covered from toes to neck in sulfurous black goo that smelled, I am afraid to say, a lot like sardines. I tried to sink a bit deeper into my robe and I cursed myself for not coming up with a wittier comment regarding my unsightly appearance, but embarrassment inspires witty, ironic remarks only on the rarest of occasions. Most of the time it just leaves you speechless, and there I was, silent as a mouse, trying to use my robe to hide the dark muck smeared across my chest—without much success, I’m afraid.

From where I was sitting, however, I was able to ascertain a number of things about Santiago Arce. Had I been slightly less flustered, I probably would have focused on something other than his pants, which were tan and well ironed; his shirt, which was a pale blue color I always find so flattering on men; and his book, which hid much of his face, thank goodness. Arce was reading
Les malheurs de Sophie.

I have always been fascinated by what writers—or screenwriters, in this case—read, although I suppose their reading lists can’t be considered too indicative of anything, given that as a group they must read a pretty wide variety of things. Nevertheless, I was amused to see that Arce had borrowed the same book as I had from the hotel library—the same book I had hidden behind on my first evening dining alone at L’Hirondelle. I actually held on to that book and kept reading it for the next two or three nights out of pure inertia—my God, I would have read anything to pretend not to notice Bea and her friends, who sit very close to me in the dining room, far too close if you ask me. Anyway,
Les malheurs de Sophie
—that is,
Sophie’s Trials—
is the last thing I would have expected to catch Santiago Arce reading—it was a child’s book, and not a boy child’s book, either. It was definitely a book for a girl, purely female, and I found it so funny that I must have sat there looking at him longer than I should have, because after a little while I had forgotten all about my silly look and was happily gazing up at the ivy and thinking that life isn’t half bad if you focus on the little things instead of the big ones: the singsong of the birds, the flavor of spearmint tea . . . To make a long story short, once I had fully surrendered to those enchanting, nature-inspired thoughts, a dark cloud cast its shadow across my table and said:

“Oh, excuse me, Mercedes.”

At such close range, looking at him from the bottom up as I did now, Santiago Arce was even more attractive than before. I am terrible in situations like this: Attractive men have a way of making me extremely uncomfortable. It is horrible. Nobody would ever guess that I am forty-two and the survivor of a long-term marriage as well as a few innocent flirtations here and there, and yet . . . oh, anyway. What I am trying to say is that I am hardly a schoolgirl, hardly the kind of woman who should go spilling her spearmint tea all over the place just because a good looking man says, “Oh, excuse me, Mercedes.”

Luckily, I saved the tea from spilling all over the place but the near mishap left me so jittery that for the rest of the conversation I didn’t dare lift my teacup for fear of being betrayed by my racing heartbeat, which manifested itself through my nervous, trembling wrist. It was a trivial conversation. I believe, in fact, that Sophie and her various travails were our primary topics because, after all, a book in common is such a perfect excuse for conversation and we couldn’t just let it slip by. Maybe some people think it a cliché to engage in superficial conversations like that, but clichés are wonderful. They are so reassuring.

And so maybe it wasn’t the most auspicious beginning. I looked appalling, which I always feel is a strike against a woman’s intelligence—women say the stupidest things when they feel insecure about the way they look. But in any event it was a beginning. And from that day onward I started running into him everywhere. By now, thank God, we have gotten past that tedious phase of conversations like the first one we had:

“So what are you doing here, anyway?”

“I just got over the most awful experience, and I came here to forget about everything for a while. You?”

“Something along those lines, I guess.”

“So you mean you’re not writing a screenplay about spas? You’ve been missing for days, my friend, and I figured you were hidden somewhere in the bushes plotting some kind of movie about L’Hirondelle. I don’t know, a murder mystery or something?”

“Murders? Screenplays? I don’t want to see another piece of paper for the next six months. I just finished my last movie. You can’t even imagine. All you want to do is figure out some way to murder everyone on the crew. One day you feel like killing the star, then the unit manager, then you could strangle the director [laugh, laugh]. No, no, I’m not working on any screenplay. But I wasn’t hiding out, either. I got sick, actually. Montezuma’s revenge, if you can believe it.”

After that everything became easier, and a lot more interesting. Not just because I discovered that you could indeed pick up Montezuma’s revenge on the continent of Africa, but because I have a very strong feeling that my relationship with Arce has become something of a topic around here. Ever since we started going on morning walks together, I swear I’ve seen more than a few people watching us. Not that it surprises me to catch Bea and her friends spying on me—my God, I can just imagine what they’re thinking:
My, my, how quickly the little widow got over her mourning,
or something like it. What intrigues me far more is the quiet vigil of my Marquis de Cuevas.

Such a strange man. He has never said a word to me and yet I feel as if he knows every last detail of my life. But that would be impossible.
Nobody
knows—I have been very careful about that. I don’t know what to think, and after all, there is really nothing to learn. I’m sure that if Cuevas (or whatever his real name is) ever did find out about my life he would probably think it terrifically boring. That’s right—boring, despite all the things people have said about me. And in the end what does it matter? People always like to think the worst about you, don’t they? Very well. They can say whatever they like, because in the end, what does anyone
really
know about my life?

It’s odd. Before Jaime died I was always so worried about what other people thought of me, and now I simply don’t care. It’s actually a lot more fun to be thought of as a bad girl. I’m tired of being a good girl, and that’s what I was for far too many years. The Marquis de Cuevas is not the only person I’ve caught spying on me, either—there are plenty of others. They size me up from far away, and though they hide it slightly better than the Marquis, I can tell just the same—you pick up on this kind of thing pretty fast in hotels. Plus, it’s so easy to get caught up in the lives of those around you. Take that Antonio Sánchez, for example. I am absolutely sure that he is watching me like a hawk. In his case it’s probably just an occupational hazard—he happens to be a very well known radio announcer—but still, every time I catch him looking at me it sends a shiver up my spine. The worst part of it all is that his room is right next door to mine, and we run into each other far too often. Of course, we don’t talk much, and if we do it’s usually about vitamins or health food, nothing very significant, but I can tell he is dying to know what the hell I am doing here alone in this hotel. “Hello, darling,” he always says when we cross paths in the hall, and I watch him as he plays with the key to his room, which is called
Rose de Thé.
Such a pretty name, so sweet.
Antonio SSSSS in Rose de Thé . . .
Why, it sounds like a snake hiding in a box of bonbons. Oh, stop it, stop it. I shouldn’t say such things about someone I know nothing about aside from what other people have told me. It’s not right, and anyway, I really do despise speculation.

How to Use the Secret Language of Flowers

When we offer them to someone as a gift, we must always remember that yellow roses symbolize betrayal. This belief goes back to Aisha, Mohammed’s favoured wife. The prophet suspected that his wife was unfaithful to him and asked the archangel Gabriel for his advice. Upon his return, Aisha welcomed him home with red roses and, following the instructions he had received from the archangel, Mohammed commanded her to throw them in the river, knowing that if they changed colour his suspicions would be confirmed. The roses turned yellow.

—Sheila Pickles,
The Complete Language of Flowers

Rose de Thé

Hotel rooms have a remarkable way of assuming the characteristics of their inhabitants, transient as they may be. The room adapts and conforms to the guests at hand until, after a short while, it seems as if it belongs to them.

The room known as Rose de Thé, the third room off the stairs, is a happy room, illuminated by weak rays of sunlight that dance on the ochre-hued fabrics until they turn deep orange. The furniture is neutral and simple and the mattresses are perfect, with no personality whatsoever—they simply sit waiting for the next guest to come and warm them up. During these empty hours, the room tends to smell like a combination of Pledge furniture polish and a very excellent soap product called Saponetta Macaccini that Miss Guêpe special-orders from Italy. A gentle aroma, a tranquil atmosphere, and a spotless environment: That is how Rose de Thé may be described—but only when it is free of guests.

At the present moment, the Rose de Thé room is very different: Over the past several days, a variety of extremely personal odors have invaded it, effectively banishing the scent of Macaccini and Pledge. Nevertheless, a hint of its former scent can still be detected in the folds of a white piqué robe lying on the bed, as well as in the bathroom, where the soap product emanates a bit more intensely from a tiny glass jar nestled among the various cosmetics products lined up next to the sink: a light-pink lipstick, a jar of hypoallergenic foundation, creams, tubes, and an odd assortment of medicines. And C’est la Vie by Christian Lacroix, a very feminine-smelling perfume. C’est la vie!

Another highly personal scent is discernible on a number of clothing items littered about the room—you can smell it, for example, on a polo shirt, slightly damp with perspiration, that has been tossed upon an easy chair. There are other items thrown about the room that also exude this second odor. The tight runners’ briefs, for example, which lie just beneath the television set. Or the still-wet bathing suit that proudly displays its pink mesh lining on top of the bidet. And a pair of short, thin black socks. Every last item smells to high heaven of that most masculine essence, that oily perfume by Chanel, EgoÏste. Its master: Antonio Sánchez.

In addition, there is one more spot in the room where we may observe, even more patently, the evidence of each guest’s imposition. That spot is the desk. Upon arrival, perhaps Sánchez and Ana agreed to share it (“This side is mine. That side is yours if you’re a good girl and don’t hog too much space.”). But as the days wear on, one side begins to encroach upon the other in a slow but implacable onslaught, with the determination of a Panzer and the agility of a chinook. The last bit of territory Ana Fernández de Bugambilla has managed to hang on to is not difficult to identify: It is very clearly at the far side of the desk and covers no more than one fifth of the entire surface area. It should be duly noted, however, that she has done an excellent job of maximizing her space, occupying it with a teetering pile of four fashion magazines, a Nintendo Game Boy, two jars of American pain relievers, and one bottle of Milk of Magnesia.

The rest of the table belongs to Sánchez. On the right-hand side, a pile of newspapers sits alongside a Sony VAIO laptop, while the left-hand side is occupied by a dictionary of modern slang, six well-sharpened pencils, six Pilot Razor Point pens, one cellular phone in its leather case, and a shiny new pair of crescent-shaped sunglasses, everything arranged as if for a magazine layout.

If it were any hour other than four o’clock in the afternoon right now, Rose de Thé would exhibit a bit more activity on the part of its occupants. Early in the mornings, for example, this very elegantly named room has borne witness to a ritual that has been faithfully observed every day since the guests’ arrival. A shrill alarm clock puts the ceremony into motion: Antonio S. jumps up from the bed, with a determined spirit and messy hair, while Ana Fernández de Bugambilla (who tries to avoid looking at him so early in the morning) vacillates between horror (“Good Lord, I survived another night. Only five left to go.”) and delight at the thought of having the entire room to herself for a considerable portion of the day. Still, it will be a full half-hour before Sánchez disappears from sight: First he will take his time darting about the room, going in and out of the bathroom. Then she will have to wait patiently as he makes his forty-five minutes’ worth of phone calls to Madrid so that he can catch up on the latest news and scandals. And then, once his mission is accomplished, his teeth brushed, his belly emptied, his bald spot shiny from the coat of Vaseline he has applied, Sánchez will finally leave the room clad in robe and yellow flip-flops and go downstairs not to the thermal baths like the rest of the world but to the winter pool, which is always deserted at that hour of the day. And there, he will begin his daily athletic regime: forty laps, fifteen of breaststroke and the remaining twenty-five divided between freestyle and backstroke, as well as a prolonged period underwater for respiratory endurance training. He does all of this long before he changes into his clothes for his second athletic date of the day: golf with Bernardo Salat. And off they go, driving their little cart beyond the palm trees at the edge of the hotel property.