The Pink Hotel (6 page)

The moon and the stars became more and more improbable as Mr. Mather danced. Caressing zephyrs followed him, the throb and pulse of the orchestra gently agitated his extremities, and now it became Mr. Mather’s turn to whirl up to and away from things.

He could, he discovered, retreat at will from the moon and stars, from Emerson and Plato and Lowell, from Violet and Violetta, but there was no escaping Mrs. Dukemer. She was white and soft and lovely, and nothing lovely was wanting in her. No, no, that was Boccaccio. Mrs. Dukemer was like a field of flowering clover. She was really, Mr. Mather told himself, an extraordinary woman. Remarkable. Mrs. Dukemer was honey in the comb, clear water over stones, a sword on which to die with honor.

Mr. Mather’s head became a little confused: for a moment he had been quite sure that he was about to compose a poem. “Weave me a ah-clover crown,” he had said aloud. “Bu-h-h-d, sing a roundelay.” But it had passed over quickly, and Mr. Mather had told himself again that Mrs. Dukemer was an extraordinary woman. Remarkable, really. They would go wading again tomorrow, every day, Mr. Mather assured himself firmly. Every day. Hand in hand.

It was Mr. Mather’s nuptial flight; he did not want to be publicly familiar with Mrs. Dukemer, although to be sure he wanted nothing so much as to be very, very familiar with her indeed. Emerson and Lowell still constrained him, for Dukemer was Mr. Mather’s Rapunzel, his darling, his Snow White and Rose Red. He wished, in his seersucker suit, to be king, and to lay the whole of his kingdom at her feet.

Dukemer was touched. “My heart’s so soft it wouldn’t form a hard ball in cold water,” she told herself. She wanted to cry. Why, he hadn’t even made a pass at her!

“You’re cute,” Dukemer had said. “Sweet, too,” and kissed him on the cheek. “The old Cotton Candy Kid—”

“My dear Millie,” Mr. Mather had said on tiptoe. “May I call you Millie?” Remembering even then that Violet had always called him Will.

He had coughed and bowed and said “Not at all,” when his arms had gone suddenly around Dukemer in spite of the moon and the stars and the malevolent stare of the waiter with the sad eyes and the bad feet.
Cotton Candy Mather,
that was droll, really very droll. She was an extraordinary woman. Remarkable. “My dear, my very dear Millie,” Mr. Mather had groaned, forgot Emerson and Plato and Lowell and been lost in love.

Executive Suite

Purcell could hear Mr. Wenton before he got off the elevator. He couldn’t distinguish the words, of course, but he knew the script. The net was that the Old Man was right and everybody else was wrong.

Today the Old Man’s battle cry was so shrill that Purcell’s knock went unheard. Purcell listened a moment just to get this drift of
today’s
agony.

“. . . distinctly told me, Mrs. Conyngham, that the Sylvesters were a prominent New York family. I believe, Mrs. Conyngham, that you even implied that they were relations or connections of yours. And
now,
Mrs. Conyngham, what do I find booked into one of our best suites at off-season rates but a loud, vulgar
dress
manufacturer and his impossible wife. Sylvester,
indeed!
Silverstein, I say.”

“Rilly, Mr. Wenton,” Purcell could hear poor old Edie Conyngham say in her tarnished society voice, “when
you
said
Sylvester, I
simply
assumed
that you meant the
Sylvester
Sylvesters of New York, Bar—”

“You
simply assumed incorrectly, my dear,” Mr. Wenton said dangerously. Purcell knew that Conyngham was in for it,
that she’d had a bad night and that later—just as soon as she could break away—she would be found bolting doubles in the bar. But he also knew that the Old Man would never fire Edythe St. Clair Conyngham, not unless he caught her with her hand in the till. Mrs. Conyngham, for all of her alcoholism, her absenteeism, her pragmatism, was the one safe employee at the hotel. To anyone else she may have been a down-and-out, wet-brained, two-faced old has-been, but to Mr. Wenton Edythe Conyngham represented Culture, Society, the True Values and Good Connections. With her archives of visiting lists, Social Registers, card files and Celebrity Service reports, Mrs. Conyngham served as Public Relations Woman, advising Mr. Wenton on who was or was not worth cultivating, and keeping the Society editors informed, by means of ill-spelled hourly bulletins, of visiting, arriving or departing notables. Today she’s pulled one of her real boners.

“Now remember this, Mrs. Conyngham,” Wenton screamed. “No photographs, no news releases, not a word to the papers. And I want those Hebes out of here—out, out,
out—
before Christmas. Is that
quite
clear, Mrs. Conyngham?”

“Well, I mean rilly, Mr. Wenton,” Mrs. Conyngham trilled, “it’s hardly my place to
evict
them. They’re here for three months and I rilly—”

“You got them in here, Mrs. Conyngham. Now you get them out.”

“Well, I rilly think—”

“That will be all, Mrs. Conyngham. I can only imagine that you have work to do and I happen to be a busy man. Good morning, Mrs. Conyngham.”

The door opened and Edythe Conyngham emerged, pale and shaken.

“How goes it, Edie?” Purcell said.

“Oh, David darling,” Mrs. Conyngham said with all the regality she could muster under the circumstances. “Lovely morning. So like Capri when I was staying with the . . .”

“How’s the Madam this morning” Purcell said under his breath. “Still up to his old tricks?”

“Oh, Mr. Wenton is splendid, David darling. Rilly splendid.”

Purcell watched Conyngham make her way unsteadily down the corridor, her blue-rinsed head held very high. Of course she wouldn’t admit that the Old Man had just given her a chewing out, any more than she’d admit that she had a hangover, admit that her mink coat had been bought secondhand, admit that she had to hold down a job, admit that her husband had left her, admit that her social connections were tenuous at best. All of this was common knowledge to the staff—all except Mr. Wenton—but Edie admitted none of it. Conyngham wouldn’t confess to a slight twinge of pain if she were on the rack. If Mrs. Conyngham weren’t such a fraud and a snob and a bore, Purcell would almost have admired her spirit.

“Do it over, damn you!” Mr. Wenton bellowed. “I distinctly said
comma.
‘Receipt of your esteemed letter,
comma,
and beg to advise that. . .’ “

Purcell knew that Mary Street was getting it now. He burst through the door with a cheery Good Morning.

“Morning, Dave,” Mr. Wenton said, warming somewhat. “I presume that you can give me the house count. Miss Centralia, here,” he cast a withering glance toward Mary, “says she
thinks
it’s ‘pret-ty good.’
Thinks,
if you please. She doesn’t
know.
Doesn’t know how many hot cereals we served this morning. Miss Centralia only
thinks
that she thinks.” He shuddered delicately and held his brow. “Miss Centralia has the mind of a mouse. A mouse with dugs.
Mammalia Centralia.”
He smiled in appreciation of his little joke. He’d never once let Mary forget that she came from Centralia, Illinois, and never once had Mary stopped wishing she were back there. “Now, about the house count, Dave?”

“Three hundred and eighty-four,” Purcell said quickly and hoped he was close. “Better than the first of December last year.”

“Really, Dave? Could be better, though. Should be. Full house on the first
in
forty-five. Ate grits and grunts if they
had to. Never knew how they all got here but the point is that they did.”

“That’s an interesting point, sir,” Purcell said. “I’d like to go into that with you later.” He wondered what he was going to say next. If he kept talking, poor little Street could have a breather. He wheeled suddenly—a trick he’d learned from the Old Man himself, and tipped a haphazard wink at Mary. What a beating she took!

“Christmas . . .” Purcell began. “We’ve got to merchandise Christmas this year. Give them a real show.” It wasn’t much but it was a beginning. Mr. Wenton looked up with a glimmer of interest.
Eliza, cross that ice!
“The trouble is, Mr. Wenton, people don’t want to leave home.” He knew it was a blatant lie, that the railroads and airlines were already sold out for the holidays, that the garish new Miami hotels were booked solid and he knew that the Old Man knew it, too.

“I’m not so sure about that, Dave,” Mr. Wenton said. “All those houses down in Miami are doing big things for Christmas—not that a Christian could get in. Why, the Tropi-cayne is having a twenty-foot tree made of orchids and there’s already one of white fox fur at the Du Plage. Very vulgar,
I
think.”

“You’re right, Mr. Wenton. One hundred per cent right,” Purcell went on desperately. “And that’s what we’ve got to fight—the crass commercialism, the ostentation, the
Hollywood
approach.”

Mr. Wenton winced at the word “Hollywood.” Purcell knew that he was at last on the right track. “Our Christmas has to have class, just like the house. It should be refined, restrained and traditional. Christmas here should bear the stamp of J. Arthur Wenton.”

The Old Man smiled, preened,

“Christmas should mean family, kids, snow. A real, old-fashioned Merry Christmas.”

“By God, that’s it, Dave!” Mr. Wenton said. “A real, old-fashioned Merry Christmas! How well you understand me!”

Purcell could see it now: Artificial snow in the Pleasaunce;
potted poinsettias in every room; a bartender in a red suit with real nylon whiskers handing out eggnog on the house; a ski slide in the lobby—have to sit on it, of course. Purcell suddenly found himself so full of ideas for merchandising Christmas that he began to think it wasn’t bad.
We Three Kings of Orient Arrrrre! No-el, No-el, No-ell, No-ellll!
Bob Cratchit. Tiny Tim. Ernie, the room-service waiter, would be splendid on crutches. If necessary he’d break Ernie’s leg himself. Ernie could make enough on tips to buy a motel and retire.

“Dave, my boy,” the Old Man said feelingly. “You understand me. It’s a matter of two minds with but a single thought. Now you work out the details. Details. Details. No time for executive thought. No time for executive thought.” And again he shuddered delicately, gripping his brow. “Another letter from Pallas Athene,” he observed, pushing the mail away.

“And what about T. J. Sturt?” Purcell said quickly. “I’m afraid there was yet
another
Mrs. T. J. Sturt in his room last
night.”

“Mmmmmmm,” the Old Man said indulgently. “A little wild perhaps, but a splendid family. Good stock. He’ll settle down. Plenty of money. Nothing to worry about.”

Mary relaxed behind her typewriter with a sigh. If she was careful, Mr. Wenton probably wouldn’t notice her any more than he did the rest of the furniture for a while. He always seemed to enjoy talking to Mr. Purcell.

“. . . and their defecating cat,” he continued. That would be the Mellotts’ Chiang, she supposed. She didn’t like Chiang very well herself, but Mr. Wenton made everything sound so awful. Mrs. Dukemer and Mr. Purcell swore a lot too, but there was something sort of cute about the way
they
did it. A lump rose in Mary’s throat. She was suddenly very lonely, very far from home.

Florida hadn’t been a bit the way Darlene had told her it would be, except maybe for Darlene. Mary didn’t like to think of herself as a quitter, but if she had the money, she’d catch the very next bus for Centralia. Dad would send the
fare like a shot but she didn’t want to admit defeat. She’d made her letters home a little
too
convincing, she decided.

Mary thought about her old job on the Centralia
Sentinel.
Mr. White had certainly never called her a Mammalia Centralia, whatever
that
was, when she was
his
secretary. Almost everyone had been nice and she had had a good time at home, too. Playing Canasta with Mother and Dad and Bud. Trying out a new Betty Crocker recipe. Making a summer dress on the sewing machine that looked like an end table. There was always lots of milk and cokes, cold beer in the Frigidaire at home. And the
food!

Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin were awfully
nice,
she supposed. Mr. Baldwin had asthma. He was terribly thin and somehow Mrs. Baldwin’s cooking didn’t seem to satisfy her either. Half an hour after dinner she’d be at the drugstore for a chocolate ice cream with marshmallow dope.

She wondered where Darlene was now. The last Mary had heard of her, she’d been in Las Vegas. Mary felt a grudging admiration for Darlene. Darlene hadn’t stayed in Florida very long. Even if she
had
started it. She and Darlene had been best friends since they had been in the fourth grade. (There had been a lot of talk, even then, about Darlene and the Bittner boys but Mary hadn’t believed a word of it.) They had stayed friends, too, even after they graduated from High and Darlene went to work in the A. C. Brown Shoe Factory, while Mary went on to business college.

The big, double room at the Baldwins’ hadn’t been lonely with Darlene in it even some of the time. Her perfume, her talcum, her bath salts, her dresses, even her dirty underwear, her stockings on the towel rack, were sentient parts without her, alive with Darlene.

Darlene had talked Florida up for maybe as long as a year before she had been able to get Mary to agree to go, telling Mary how they would go down by bus and stop off a lot of different places, see the country. They could go swimming in the ocean every day, lie around on the beach. Orange juice and sun tan and rich husbands would be marvelously theirs. Dad hadn’t wanted her to go. He’d said that she was too
young, that she’d never been any farther away from home than St. Louis and Chicago, that the world was an evil place. Mary didn’t suppose that she’d ever have had nerve enough to do it if it hadn’t been for phrenology. Mother believed in it. She was always looking for marital bumps on the fellows who came to see Mary, kept going on about it even at breakfast.

Mary’s mother hadn’t been able to find a marital bump on any of the boys Mary went around with except Ronald Kohler, and even Mary’s mother hadn’t liked Ronald. It had used to make Mary so darned
embarrassed
when her mother started maneuvering around a new boy until she’d had a good look at the back of his head.

Her mother meant well, she knew that. Mother only wanted Mary to get a good husband, a nice steady fellow like Dad, but it had made Mary feel like such a darned
fool
to have mother gauging a new man’s intentions before he even had time to hand her his hat, Mr. Purcell’s marital bump, now, was pretty well developed, but Mr. Wenton didn’t seem to have any. She giggled. Mother would have
loved
Mr. Purcell. . . .

She and Darlene had arrived in Miami on Friday, just before the hurricane. It was raining quite a lot and the sky had been a funny color, like hot lead. “You don’t want to go to no beach hotel today, girls,” the cab driver said. “I’ll take you to the Seminole. It’s been there a long time.”

Darlene had said that there was no point in getting a room. They’d clean up in the Ladies, check their bags and have something to eat, drop into the bar for a beer.

It had all been sort of fun, at first, but it kept getting darker and darker and the rain came down like nothing she’d ever seen before and the wind howled and there seemed to be more and more people around, looking worried, and out in the wet night she could hear things crashing and breaking. It was just palm branches and glass and street signs and fancy store fronts, but she hadn’t known that then.

Darlene made friends a lot quicker than Mary did. Darlene had been talking to a couple of Cubans, and then somehow
the Cubans had been buying them a drink, and then after-while they had all gone up to somebody’s room for a drink and the one Cuban had flashed his teeth and sort of grabbed at Darlene saying, “You wear size fourteen, Yes? You are be-au-di-ful, No?”

Then Darlene had seemed to disappear into an adjoining room, and the other Cuban—his name was Mr, Santos—had made Mary a Rum Collins and they had talked about bananas for a while until he, too, had started flashing his teeth and saying that she was be-au-di-ful, No?

Mary knocked at the door that Darlene had disappeared into, and called her and said that she thought they’d better be going now, but Darlene hadn’t answered and the door had been locked.