At the reception desk, a man in black checks my reservation, looks at my ID without interest, and gives me a key, not a magnetic card this time. I ask the bartender if he can have a bottle of whiskey sent up to my room. The room isn’t the same as last time, it seems older or statelier, with red velvet curtains over the windows. Walls decorated with hunting scenes, nondescript furniture, an air-conditioned tomb. A TV, a safe with a keypad, a minibar with mini bottles, a king-size mattress, a red bedspread. Everything is always in the same place. It seems as though the architects employ a common layout so that regular customers can get their bearings and find the bathroom or the light switch in the dark. The bellboy brings me the whiskey with two glasses. “Are you by yourself? Buddy,” he says, and I don’t like his air of confidence, “we have an escort service.” I give him twenty dollars and he gives me a phone number. A woman with a cautious voice answers me. What would you like? she says. “Whatever’s available,” I say. They’re all available. “A blonde,” I say. We have photos online, you can choose, I’ll give you the password. “No need,” I say, “just a blonde.” Justine. “What?” Justa, her name is Justa. “Whatever her name is, I’ll be expecting her.”
There is a sound of water inside the walls of the room, as though the heating is running at full blast in the pipes. The bell rings a short while later. The woman is platinum blonde and dressed in black, with high heels. Vaguely Asian features, a spray of white in her hair. “I’m Justa, the Blonde. Thank you for choosing me,” she says, and caresses my mouth with her fingers as though tracing my lips. She speaks in a nasal, childish voice. She has dark, beautiful eyes, one of her eyes is alive, the other is sterile and her right hand seems to be made of white metal and she keeps covering it up with the sleeve of her silk blouse, which is missing a button at the cuff. She wouldn’t have taken so long if she hadn’t had so much trouble finding the exit on the freeway, she says. She used the pluperfect subjunctive, and her syntax was odd because that verb form exists in Spanish but not in English. (Does it exist in Spanish but not English?) I thought it would only get worse if we kept talking. Then she went to the bathroom to “freshen up,” which she said in a way I found ridiculous and sublime. I’d never paid a woman before. I could tell them that I’d come here looking for a sweetheart at the hotel and that I’d also gone for the same reason the two times before. It would be an alibi like any other. I feel lonely, I could tell them, I’m a foreigner. I come from Buenos Aires. But they already know that. The heat was making me drowsy. The bathroom door opened, and the girl stood in the doorway, under the harsh light, naked except for high heels. “Do you like me?” she asked, in Spanish. She had a red scar on her stomach, and her pubic hair was shaved. I stood up and moved toward her. There was a crow on the dresser, alive. It had its beak nestled under its wing, keeping one eye fixed on me… It was 5:03 a.m. on the illuminated clock. At least I can dream, I thought, and awoke, lying faceup in bed, sweating. Had I been able to dream about her? I couldn’t remember the dream, only fragments, Room 341, a blonde woman. What was she doing there? The dream had erased itself, but the feeling that remained was one of squalor and fear. I went over to the window, the sun was rising. At the far end of the garden next door I saw Nina looking after her plants, the haze of her breath like a fog in the transparent air. I sensed that behind me, inside the room, on top of the table at the back, the crow was lifting its wings.
