EDVARD TUSK: without his face

A Novel by Pablo D’ Stair

[Part 8]

I woke up staring at the ceiling - or perhaps not “woke-up,” but was staring at the ceiling.

I rather expected it to be morning, see day leaning against the covered windows of the room when I arched my back, twisted my head around yawning, but it obviously the middle of the night—that particular quiet of a generic room in a motel full of folks asleep, a titter of what I imagined was light frozen rain hitting against the door and the window glass.

Sitting up, my foot cramped, and while I pressed it hard against the flat of the carpet, waiting out the pain, roughing the tip of my big toe in place like trying to force a cigarette stub into the shape of a coin, I surveyed the room, little peak of disorientation that evened out, things normalising, locking in to place.

The clothing in the small suitcase was not to my liking—one shirt, patterned, I enjoyed the look of, but everything else felt decidedly ill-sized and not to go well in any configuration, the socks with the shoes, the pants with the shirt, and the coat I took up from where it was lumped on the floor was awfully atrocious, commonplace and badly cared for—cat hair in patches of the lower back of it, one shoulder, lapel contorted as though it had never been washed, ironed, anything.

Still, I dressed and made due with my appearance, soaking my hair in the shower to be able to give it some semblance of respectability, the thought pressing out of my mind that first thing (before anything, before any of this rotten business) would be I’d need a haircut. Of course this wasn’t true—haircut was last on “the list” if on it, indeed, at all, but it felt good to pretend I’d not have to deal with the embarrassing nonsense on my head, that my grimace at my reflection was proactive.

Horried set

When I found the wool cap on the chair of the corner table, I tugged it on with relish, caressed it even, more like I’d discovered the biological top of my skull than merely a garment (cap just as cheap and worn down as the coat—it seemed as though they had come as a horrid set, discount shop, decade ago).

There was no food or drink around—not even a travel bottle of water, baggie of crunched up chips, pretzels—which was vexing almost beyond reason but something I was able to turn into an actual laugh.

“Not the best traveller, are we?” I mocked, hissing at my reflection in the sink mirror from across the room, image there lit light a stage set.

The larger trouble was I didn’t exactly feel hungry—indeed, felt I was bloated with something dreadful, pockets of sweat breaking out greasy on my forehead, lower back if I found myself moving around with even a bit of speediness. So, a last touch up to my appearance, a check to be certain I still had this room key, I exited out into the relief of the sharp toothed cold.

In the coat pocket I found cigarettes, but some ghastly variety I recoiled at the sight of—no wonder I felt this way, if this is what I’d been inhaling, no one could feel human having sucked in this brand, I thought as I tossed them down to the parking lot pavement (only three cigs left, the sight of the crinkle of the soft pack, the knowledge I’d swallowed so many of them revolting me).

Sluggishness

Descending the stairs, I breathed in deeply as I could, over and over, to rid my body of the creep of sluggishness all on it, eyes stinging pleasantly as I shook my face, took the steps at a hop, both feet together, threw punches around, anything to get me feeling energetic, going, anything to lose the sensation of sloppiness I felt embedded in. By the time I was to the main floor, moving in the direction of the motel office, I’d managed to shake myself up proper, as though I’d unburied myself from a muddy grave.

It was an older woman working the counter—just then eating some microwave noodles, watching the television mounted in the office corner, overtop of the complimentary coffee I helped myself to a cup of (not taking any of the cookies, though some residue of desire for them caused my mouth to briefly water)—and she smiled at me dutifully as she chewed. I took a moment before addressing her, sipped the overhot drink I held and took stock of the surrounding area out through the frosted window: long stretch of empty parking lot seemingly surrounded by absolutely nothing, train track nearby (I heard an approaching horn).

Leaning against to the counter, smiling, I said, “I believe someone should’ve left a room key for me—room two twenty four?”

She took another mouthful of noodles, nodded, shuffled around for a binder she opened, examined some pages out of. “Yes,” she said, “do you have identification?” Her accent was difficult to place—pronunciation not bad at all, a kind of permanent suspicion towards any statement laced in every syllable.

Making a show of patting my pockets, but not digging in to any of them, I mugged an aw-shucks sort of expression, roughed the wool cap on my head and said, offhand, not directly to her, “Naw, sorry. The flight lost my bag—I was stupid, hadn’t realised I’d stuck my wallet in there after getting through security for my flight.” She stared at me, gave me the hairy eyeball up and down, while I chuckled more warmly, bit the knuckle of my thumb with all apologies across my furrowed brow. “Who left the key?” she asked.

“A friend of mine was to take out the room for me,” I said, hurriedly following right in with, “the key should be held for Edvard Tusk—that’s me,” I bowed my head slightly, did a sort of curtsey gesture with a flick of my wrists as I took a step back from the counter, “and I understand it should all be paid for, but if not I can cover it.”

It was not an issue, she explained, of the room not being covered, but a matter of there being a policy of showing identification.

I attempted some more down-home charm—little things like promising I wasn’t “out to get Edvard,” wasn’t “sneaking in to lie in wait”—but when I saw this was having the inverse effect I’d intended, I altered my angle to sincere apology for the inconvenience and a protest that I was fatigued, just needed a pillow, soft bed, could easily get her identification when the airline called me about my bag, even leave an extra deposit of cash or something for the trouble (this last bit, I hoped, not being what it would take, as my earlier glance through the wallet I had on me had revealed no more than a ten dollar bill and debit cards). “Would it be possible to telephone your friend, I could have them confirm, by your voice, the room is yours?”

My best false smile—pretty much all of my expressions basely false, of course, but this a real lacquer job of insincerity—I looked at a clock and said “Think of the time…but if it is essential.”

The woman was slightly put off her footing by this, seemed to be considering this a valid point at the same time she hunted through her little mind for a way to subvert it, I taking the pause to say, “Hey, how about I leave her a message, that way she can call as soon as she wakes up—describe me, you know? Or I can come down to the office after, we can call again, confirm?”

My patience was grinding down—for a moment I considered strangling her or using the counter lamp as a bludgeon—though the flash I felt take hold in my eyes must have had a different tenor to her, as she relented, just asked what my friend’s name was. Careful not to pause—she hadn’t looked back to the paper, after all, so I doubted she had a name there to verify with—I said “Donatta Cartwright. I’d prefer not to give out her number, you understand, but I’ll leave her a message, now, if you’d like.”

She took another two mouthfuls of noodles, her eyes darting to the program on the television and just like that it seemed enough was enough. I signed for the room keys, refilled my coffee, and thanked her kindly, making haste to exit the office before whatever had grabbed her attention (the program on the television some obscenely garish thing, game show loud as a gunshot) lost its lustre for her, and breathed in the bitter cold thickly again, whispering a vulgarity as though over my shoulder at her as I started back up the stairwell.