Woman in the Fifth

‘Then how do you propose paying for the room?’

‘Traveler’s checks.’

‘That will be acceptable — provided they are valid ones. Are they American Express?’

I nodded.

‘Fine. I will call American Express. If they say that the checks are valid, you may stay. If not …’

‘Maybe it would be better if I left now,’ I said, knowing that my budget couldn’t really afford multiple nights in this hotel.

‘That is your decision. Checkout time is eleven. You have just over two hours to vacate the room.’

As he turned to go, I leaned forward, trying to reach for a croissant on the breakfast tray. Immediately, I fell back against the headboard, exhausted. I touched my brow. The fever was still there. So too was the pervasive sense of enervation. Getting out of this bed would be a major military maneuver. I could do nothing but sit here and accept the fact that I could do nothing but sit here.

‘Monsieur …’ I said.

The desk clerk turned around.

‘Yes?’

‘The traveler’s checks should be in my shoulder bag.’

A small smile formed on his lips. He walked over and retrieved the bag and handed it to me. He reminded me that the room cost sixty euros a night. I opened the bag and found my wad of traveler’s checks. I pulled out two checks: a fifty-dollar and a twenty-dollar. I signed them both.

‘I need another twenty,’ he said. ‘The cost in dollars is ninety.’

‘But that’s way above the regular exchange rate,’ I said.

Another dismissive shrug. ‘It is the rate we post behind the desk downstairs. If you would like to come downstairs and see …’

I can hardly sit up, let alone go downstairs.

I pulled out another twenty-dollar traveler’s check. I signed it. I tossed it on the bed.

‘There you go.’

‘Tres bien, monsieur,’ he said, picking up it. ‘I will get all the details I need from your passport. We have it downstairs.’

But I don’t remember handing it over to you. I don’t remember anything.

‘And I will call you once American Express has confirmed that the traveler’s checks are legitimate.’

‘They are legitimate.’

Another of his smarmy smiles.

‘On verra.’ We’ll see.

He left. I slumped back against the pillows, feeling drained. I stared up blankly at the ceiling — hypnotized by its blue void, willing myself into it. I needed to pee. I tried to right myself and place my feet on the floor. No energy, no will. There was a vase on the bedside table. It contained a plastic floral arrangement: blue gardenias. I picked up the vase, pulled out the flowers, tossed them on the floor, pulled down my boxer shorts, placed my penis inside the vase, and let go. The relief was enormous. So too was the thought: This is all so seedy.

The phone rang. It was the desk clerk.

‘The checks have been approved. You can stay.’

How kind of you.

‘I have had a call from Adnan. He wanted to see how you were.’

Why would he care?

‘He also wanted you to know that you need to take a pill from each of the boxes on the bedside table. Doctor’s orders.’

‘What are the pills?’

‘I am not the doctor who prescribed them, monsieur.’

I picked up the assorted boxes and vials, trying to make out the names of the drugs. I recognized none of them. But I still did as ordered: I took a pill from each of the six boxes and downed them with a long slug of water.

Within moments, I was gone again — vanished into that vast dreamless void from which there are no recollections: no sense of time past or present, let alone a day after today. A small foretaste of the death that will one day seize me — and deny me all future wake-up calls.

Bringggggggg …

The phone. I was back in the blue room, staring at the vase full of urine. The bedside clock read 17.12. There was street-lamp light creeping in behind the drapes. The day had gone. The phone kept ringing. I answered it.

‘The doctor is here,’ Mr Desk Clerk said.

The doctor had bad dandruff and chewed-up nails. He wore a suit that needed pressing. He was around fifty, with thinning hair, a sad moustache and the sort of sunken eyes which, to a fellow insomniac like me, were a telltale giveaway of the malaise within. He pulled up a chair by the bed and asked me if I spoke French. I nodded. He motioned for me to remove my T-shirt. As I did so, I caught a whiff of myself. Sleeping in sweat for twenty-four hours had left me ripe.

The doctor didn’t seem to react to my body odor — perhaps because his attention was focused on the vase by the bed.

‘There was no need to provide a urine sample,’ he said, taking my pulse. Then he checked my heartbeat, stuck a thermometer under my tongue, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my left bicep, peered down my throat and shined a penlight into the whites of my eyes. Finally he spoke.

‘You have come down with a ruthless form of the flu. The sort of flu that often kills the elderly — and that is often indicative of larger problems.’

‘Such as?’

‘May I ask, have you been going through a difficult personal passage of late?’

I paused.

‘Yes,’ I finally said.

‘Are you married?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘By which you mean … ?’

‘I am legally still married …’

‘But you left your wife?’

‘No — it was the other way around.’

‘And did she leave you recently?’

‘Yes — she threw me out a few weeks ago.’

‘So you were reluctant to leave?’

‘Very reluctant.’

‘Was there another man?’

I nodded.

‘And your profession is … ?’

‘I taught at a college.’

‘You taught?’ he said, picking up on the use of the past tense.

‘I lost my job.’

‘Also recently?’

‘Yes.’

‘Children?’

‘A daughter, aged fifteen. She lives with her mother.’

‘Are you in contact with her?’

‘I wish …’

‘She won’t talk with you?’

I hesitated. Then: ‘She told me she never wanted to speak with me again — but I do sense that her mother has convinced her to say this.’