Hotel rules.”
“We already paid once. When we bought it.”
“How much?”
“Almost a hundred pounds. It’s a purebred. Did you think we got it for free? And with a nanny to take it out for walks? You didn’t think that, did you?”
“You’ll have to pay in advance,” the desk clerk said. “Four pounds. And I don’t want to see that dog running around the hotel.”
“The dog is always with us,” I said. “Goes wherever we go. We have no secrets from it.”
The desk clerk looked at me again. I knew he wanted to give me a nasty smile, but it didn’t come off. His face barely twitched. The day was too hot.
“Some day you’ll overdose and that’ll be the end of you,” he said to me. “You barely made it last time. They had to give you oxygen. I thought you were a goner.”
“That’s because I hadn’t eaten a decent supper. Anyone can make a mistake, Harry.”
“But you already made one in Jerusalem,” he said. “They had to lock you up in a psychiatric ward afterwards. Room fourteen.”
I went over to the board and got our key. “I collected a whole bundle that time in Jerusalem.”
“You are old.” He picked up his book and turned around to put our money away. He placed the bills in a desk drawer which he left half-open, too lazy to shut it properly. “What time will you be back?”
“Before midnight,” I said. “We’ll just take a quick shower now and be off.”
“Have you got your own towels?” Harry asked.
“No,” I said.
“Two towels … that’ll be half a pound extra.”
“Half a pound won’t make us broke,” I said.
Harry pulled two towels from the drawer. I took them, but Robert grabbed one and gave it back.
“One is enough,” he said.
“Frankly, I’d prefer to have my own towel,” I said.
“You’ll have to learn how to save on little things,” Robert said. “Otherwise you’ll never get rich. I read the other day Chancellor Adenauer demanded he get paid for a TV interview, took the money from the reporter, and pocketed it right there, right there while eight million Germans watched. You should learn from him.”
We walked down the dark hallway. A hunchback was sitting at the far end, reading a book. I made out his face in the slanting rays of a dim light bulb. It had that fake sweet and painful look that cripples often have. I glanced at the book he was reading, The Life of St. Paul of Tarsus.
“A fellow Catholic,” I said. “Though not for any idealistic reason, I assume. And a hunchback at that.”
“I converted to Catholicism because the priests promised to help me get a Canadian visa,” the hunchback explained. “What’s new? You still alive?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “And you, I see, are still sitting in front of the john, huh? Nothing’s changed, has it?”
“Well, I feel safer here,” he said, pointing at the toilet door. “If I get the runs, it’s only one step away. Anyway, none of your business.”
“I’ve known this jerk for three years now,” I told Robert. “And all that time he’s been sitting in front of the john. Ain’t he something?”
“We could use him,” Robert said.
“How?”
“Oh, I’ll come up with something. A hunchback has plenty of potential. But all I can think of now is taking a shower.”
“Hey, blondie,” the hunchback called after me, “the priests promised to give me some cash at the end of the week. Find me a broad, okay?”
“That’ll cost you thirty or forty pounds,” I told him.
“Why? Everybody pays twenty.”
“Yeah, not everybody is a hunchback.”
“They say I’ll get the money when I learn the catechism. I’ve already memorized the Ten Commandments. Now I’m reading the life of St. Paul.” He got up, his face twisted in pain. “Excuse me. I’ve gotta rush.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Robert asked.
“He couldn’t stand the heat. Started drinking fresh water. It was during a khamsin that lasted for eight days. He caught some kind of stomach disease. Doctors are giving him charcoal, other stuff, but nothing seems to work. Now he wants me to find him a broad.”
“I’m not surprised,” Robert said. “I bet his whole sex life consists of half-assed jerking off. Let’s go shower.”
Shortly afterward we left the hotel and went into the nearest cafe. It was a little cooler inside; the rubber blades of an overhead fan quietly cut the air. Watching them you had the illusion of coolness. And after sixteen hours under the scorching sun, even the illusion wasn’t something to be sneezed at. Robert ordered two beers, and a waiter quickly brought them to our table.
I looked at our dog. It was lying motionless, its thick paws stretched out to the side.
“He gets on my nerves,” I said.
“Who? The dog?” Robert asked.
“No. Harry. The desk clerk. What does he know? Does he know how much money I made for us last year?”
“Don’t give him a thought. Think of your new bride.”
“Maybe he’s right,” I said. “I’m old. It might not work this time, Bobby. If they find me too late, that’ll be it.”
“No.”
“You know it can happen.”
“You’ll be all right. Just remember to eat more beforehand. Have a big supper first. Besides, your body has built up some immunity by now.”
“Don’t count on it. One day it can turn out real shitty. Don’t tell me you don’t know that.”
“Sure, it can happen,” he said. “But do you know how dumb I am? I haven’t even insured you. And I don’t intend to take out a policy naming me as your sole beneficiary. You’re not a movie star and I won’t play your widow.”
“Hey, I swear I never suspected you of anything like that.”
“Anyway, neither of us is into this for kicks. Hell, I never expected to make my living this way. My specialty, you know, is Shakespeare. I studied English at the university so I could read him in the original. That’s exactly what I’d like to be doing now.”
“Let’s not talk about that, Bobby.”
“No, I don’t mind. Did I ever tell you how I think Macbeth should be staged?”
I remained silent. He had told me at least a hundred times—in Jerusalem, in Haifa, during those endless trips together, and during all those nights when it was too hot to fall asleep. It was when he talked about Shakespeare that his ugly face began to light up. Now, I thought, comes the boring part.
“Did I?” he said. Shakespeare was his one true passion and like all cranks he never tired of his favorite subject.
“You did mention it,” I finally said, feeling a little sorry for him. “You really are a great director, Bob. It’s too bad I happen to be your only actor. And I feel pretty worthless now. My face looks lousy. I don’t think the girl is gonna fall for me. Sorry, but I really don’t expect it to work this time.”
“It will. It will. Stop worrying. Trust me. I’ll make her fall for you. Just remember this, the last time anybody called her a girl