The elevator doors opened on a dark hallway. I stood there uncertainly, listening and sniffing, like prey. The hallway smelled like insecticide. From the end of the hallway came a rhythmic buzzing sound, like the sound of a trapped fly. Music. Another hotel guest was in there, playing music. I identified the song as a ubiquitous pop song that had been following me, yes, like an insect, for weeks, months, the way pop songs do. I'd learned the chorus by heart without trying, without wanting to. It went, "Whoa-woo-whoa-woo-whoa-woo, whoa-woo-whoa-woo-whoa-woo, I'm fallin', and I'm takin' my time on the ri-yee-yi-yee-yide." I willed myself not to sing along.
What if they opened their door, right then, in the dark, to find me standing here? There must be a light, I thought. Don't panic. Just look around. Hovering in the air in front of me was a tiny orange light. I reached for it, miscalculated the distance -- it was closer than I'd thought -- and poked it, hard. The hallway lit up, though still dimly, enough for me to see a long dark stain on the carpet. I said something aloud, I don't know what, and started down the hall, looking for my room number.
The room smelled of insecticide and baby powder scented air freshener. It had badly peeling wallpaper, and two twin beds pushed together instead of a queen. I opened the curtains to see out the window, which overlooked a black roof and faced another building. A shirtless man appeared in the window directly across from mine. He raised his forearm and pressed it against the glass and leaned his forehead against it, looking down, lit a cigarette.
"Who are you, Jean Paul Belmondo?" I said. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and rubbed his two fingers against his lips -- I swear he did -- like Belmondo did in "Breathless." I pulled the curtain shut. I said, "No," I said. "Nope. I will not be nice about this. I am not going to be nice about this."
Downstairs, I told the desk clerk that my room was not acceptable to me. She was young and shy and at first answered me in halting English, then switched back when I continued in French. I did not tell her about the smell of insecticide or the unlit hallway or the stain on the carpet or Jean Belmondo in the window, all of which, in the aggregate, had been what had propelled me back down to the lobby. I told her about the twin beds. She lowered her eyes and countered, timidly, that I had reserved a room with two twin beds and that is why I had a room with two twin beds. As she said this she checked the computer as if she didn't believe herself. I said, "Why would I do that? It's just me. Why would I reserve two twin beds?" She showed me a piece of paper that documented her assertion. I repeated myself, speaking louder and faster. I recalled someone once saying something about "speaking from a place of fear," and I had laughed, despising, as I do, expressions like that. It was the kind of thing people said for effect, but at this moment it was what I felt I was doing: speaking from a place of fear. And what did I fear so intensely? Discomfort. A failure of complete strangers to recognize what I was entitled to. The outrage of twin beds.
She fled, in any case. There was urgent whispering, alternating with a placating murmuring, in the tiny office off to the side. The girl returned. She handed me a key. As I took it, feeling sheepish, I heard the creak of a chair in the tiny office, where a woman with curly gray hair and tired, dark eyes with identical gray pouches hanging under them leaned back into the open doorway and smiled grimly at me.
"Is okay?" she asked. "Yes? Is now good?"
"Yeah, sure," I said in English, taken off guard.
"Dickensian," I remarked as I rode the elevator up to the new corridor and the new room. I jabbed the orange light. The dark carpet was stained, but there was no sound from the other rooms, and no smell of insecticide. I found my room. It also smelled neutral. The wallpaper adhered to the walls. One double bed was bolted to the wall. I opened the curtain just as Belmondo closed his, hanging his head, defeated.
In a corner opposite the bed a small black television seemed to be trying to find a hole to crawl into.
"Don't worry," I told it. "I won't watch you, I promise."
