The miracle I hankered for did happen after all. A man and a girl, more or less conjoined in a dark car under dripping trees, told us we were in the heart of The Park, but had only to turn left at the next traffic light and there we would be. We did not see any next traffic light in fact, The Park was as black as the sins it concealed but soon after falling under the smooth spell of a nicely graded curve, the travellers became aware of a diamond glow through the mist, then a gleam of lakewater appeared and there it was, marvellously and inexorably, under spectral trees, at the top of a gravelled drive the pale palace of The Enchanted Hunters.
A row of parked cars, like pigs at a trough, seemed at first sight to forbid access; but then, by magic, a formidable convertible, resplendent, rubous in the lighted rain, came into motion was energetically backed out by a broad-shouldered driver and we gratefully slipped into the gap it had left. I immediately regretted my haste for I noticed that my predecessor had now taken advantage of a garage-like shelter nearby where there was ample space for another car; but I was too impatient to follow his example.
Wow! Looks swank, remarked my vulgar darling squinting at the stucco as she crept out into the audible drizzle and with a childish hand tweaked loose the frock-fold that had stuck in the peach-cleft to quote Robert Browning. Under the arclights enlarged replicas of chestnut leaves plunged and played on white pillars. I unlocked the trunk compartment. A hunchbacked and hoary Negro in a uniform of sorts took our bags and wheeled them slowly into the lobby. It was full of old ladies and clergymen. Lolita sank down on her haunches to caress a pale-faced blue-freckled, black-eared cocker spaniel swooning on the floral carpet under her hand as who would not, my heart while I cleared my throat through the throng to the desk. There a bald porcine old man everybody was old in that old hotel examined my features with a polite smile, then leisurely produced my (garbled) telegram, wrestled with some dark doubts, turned his head to look at the clock, and finally said he was very sorry, he had held the room with the twin beds till half-past six, and now it was gone. A religious convention, he said, had clashed with a flower show in Briceland, and The name, I said coldly, is not Humberg and not Humbug, but Herbert, I mean Humbert, and any room will do, just put in a cot for my little daughter. She is ten and very tired.
The pink old fellow peered good-naturedly at Lo still squatting, listening in profile, lips parted, to what the dogs mistress, an ancient lady swathed in violet veils, was telling her from the depths of a cretonne easy chair.
Whatever doubts the obscene fellow had, they were dispelled by that blossom-like vision. He said, he might still have a room, had one, in fact with a double bed. As to the cot
Mr. Potts, do we have any cots left? Potts, also pink and bald, with white hairs growing out of his ears and other holes, would see what could be done. He came and spoke while I unscrewed my fountain pen. Impatient Humbert!
Our double beds are really triple, Potts cosily said tucking me and my kid in. One crowded night we had three ladies and a child like yours sleep together. I believe one of the ladies was a disguised man [my static]. However would there be a spare cot in 49, Mr. Swine?
I think it went to the Swoons, said Swine, the initial old clown.
Well manage somehow, I said. My wife may join us later but even then, I suppose, well manage.
The two pink pigs were now among my best friends. In the slow clear hand of crime I wrote: Dr. Edgar H. Humbert and daughter, 342 Lawn Street, Ramsdale. A key (342!) was half-shown to me (magician showing object he is about to palm) and handed over to Uncle Tom. Lo, leaving the dog as she would leave me some day, rose from her haunches; a raindrop fell on Charlottes grave; a handsome young Negress slipped open the elevator door, and the doomed child went in followed by her throat-clearing father and crayfish Tom with the bags.
Parody of a hotel corridor. Parody of silence and death.
Say, its our house number, said cheerful Lo.
Parody of a hotel corridor. Parody of silence and death.
Say, its our house number, said cheerful Lo.
There was a double bed, a mirror, a double bed in the mirror, a closet door with mirror, a bathroom door ditto, a blue-dark window, a reflected bed there, the same in the closet mirror, two chairs, a glass-topped table, two bedtables, a double bed: a big panel bed, to be exact, with a Tuscan rose chenille spread, and two frilled, pink-shaded nightlamps, left and right.
I was tempted to place a five-dollar bill in that sepia palm, but thought the largesse might be misconstrued, so I placed a quarter. Added another. He withdrew. Click. Enfin seuls.[124]
Are we to sleep in one room? said Lo, her features working in that dynamic way they did not cross or disgusted (though plain on the brink of it) but just dynamic when she wanted to load a question with violent significance.