EDVARD TUSK without his face

Pablo D’Stair

[Part 4]

Giving up on sleep by the time I recognised the movie on television was coming to its conclusion—not even still angry about the conversation with Justine, just in that numb space I’d feared, slumber not coming no matter how I desired it, no ability to concentrate on a thought, an unspooling of semi-insomniac hollow—I shuffled into shoes and coat, decided to get some air.

It didn’t surprise me one bit that the man from the next room was also outside—his room door propped open with a paperback novel I recognized as the one I’d left at the diner—leaning over the railing, looking down while smoking a cigarette.

I closed my door after double checking I had the cardkey, tested that it was correctly locked, started to walk past but decided against it when the man turned his head as though expecting to see me moving by, turning his head back down to observe the lot after he caught on I hadn’t proceeded.

‘I locked my lighter in my room,’ I lied, asking if he had one I could borrow. The man, again in his beige tinted glasses I discovered, turned to smile up at me, handed his Zippo across and gave a nod to my ‘Thank you’ as I handed it back after getting my smoke lit.

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, still smiling but the expression off-putting due to the glasses—or due to the closed eyes I assumed were behind the dim lenses—waiting until I literally said he could before he went on.

‘I know it’s odd, but may I ask who you were on the phone with, a bit earlier? I only ask,’ he held up a hand, overplaying the part of being apologetic for having violated some social taboo, ‘because the phone in my room rang, just before—I heard your phone ring then heard voices,’ and here he trailed off, a chuckle down his nose that obviously I knew he was full of it, was asking for some altogether other reason than idle curiosity, his whole interaction, in fact, seeming to have been rehearsed to lead to this very junction, all of it a playact I didn’t quite understand, the conversation designed to allow him to glean something from my reaction.

Snippy

‘It was my sister. My step-sister. I’m driving out to see her. We get a little bit snippy. Sorry if it got loud, if it bothered you.’

He told me it hadn’t bothered him one bit—and maybe he got the idea how directly I was looking at what there was of my reflection in his glasses, because he turned his head down to blow out his next breath of cigarette, didn’t look back up.

‘Funny thing,’ I started in, my own little playact to get a reaction off him, ‘I wasn’t on the motel phone with her.’ He turned back to face me, leaned to a different mock-up of casualness on the railing. ‘In fact, I was just dialing her on my cell when I heard your room phone ring. Then mine did. And—weird—right after that, the phone in the next room over started ringing, too. But I was talking on my cell.’

He puckered his lips out as though this was all very intriguing—too intriguing, the expression of his mouth again an obvious put on, one more playful than before, as though we both got how we were a tad curious about the other, pointless trying to hide the fact so why not use it as an entertainment, between us.

‘You notice things,’ he said, ‘you notice weird things, strange little things.’ I nodded, but mugged my face like nothing was so odd in what I’d remarked, the expression—even though I very much thought his eyes were closed, still—meant to prompt him on.

‘See, I’ve noticed a few odd things going on around here, tonight—you notice anything else strange?’ If his eyes were open, the sudden ripple of skin across his brow indicated they were open extra wide, teasing at something.

I didn’t know how to play back this volley, exactly. My thinking was he wanted to see if I’d noticed he’d been eavesdropping—how his typing had stopped, how he’d obviously been pressing against his room wall to listen as best he could to my conversation with Justine—but if this were the case I didn’t see his endgame, was uneasy at the indication it was something quite particular. Then—thinking myself quite clever—I on the spur decided to say ‘As a matter of fact, yeah—I noticed you’re wearing the exact style of glasses I lost when I ate at the diner, over there, just tonight. You mind if I have a look—not accusing you of stealing, but if they’re mine they’ll have a distinct bit of discoloration on one of the sides.’

Like nothing about it bothered him or was the least bit odd in my asking, he handed them over—putting his hand up to his brow, turning his head down, all as though shielding his eyes from the general brightness around, his eyes which were closed and very obviously had been the entire time they’d been behind the reflective lenses, too.

I gave the glasses a look, feigning mild surprise when I did not find the “discolouration” I claimed to have expected. ‘Well, there you go,’ I said, ‘not mine at all’ and I put them on, taking a step back, looking around, ‘and, wow, yes a very different prescription to the lenses, all around.’

The fellow didn’t make any grab for them back, and after a moment moved his hand down from his forehead, eyes still closed, only the mildest wince to his brow, as though he had adjusted enough to the surroundings to bear whatever discomfort the light caused him. I removed the glasses, was just about to hand them back, when a way to test things further occurred to me. I put a few more paces between us and leaned to the railing, scanned the parking lot, said ‘Good god, do you see that there by that truck?’

When he turned to me, his eyes closed, I nodded my nose in the direction of a bit of rubbish—a bag and a soaked pile of napkins—on the lot pavement next to a green work truck.

Though he did not open his eyes, he turned to look exactly where I was subtly indicating, asking what I meant, to which I said ‘On the ground there,’ nodding my nose again, he leaning, looking right at the spot as though giving an extra squint to be certain for himself what he saw. He asked if I just meant the trash and if not where he should be looking. I laughed—though, frankly, my stomach dropped a little—pretending a huge sigh of relief.

‘That’s just trash—you’re right,’ I kept laughing, awkwardly, holding out the glasses to one side without a mention I was handing them back, he reaching casually to take them without opening his eyes, no problem, ‘it’s just some trash. It looked, from where I’m standing, like it was a dead cat. I really need to get to sleep.’ He put the glasses back on, gave the trash in the lot another glance, sniffled as though he didn’t see what I meant about it resembling a dead animal, but also didn’t see how it mattered.

‘But other than you thought I stole your glasses, you’ve not noticed anything weird?’ he suddenly turned to look straight at me, a swaggart tone to it, like he was sure there was something I was holding back, could get out of me with a cocky ring to his voice.

‘Well,’ I said, another little bit of cleverness upon me, one I delivered on a bit clumsier than I’d have liked but still had a dash of pride about, ‘just now I mentioned the glasses only because I noticed that that,’ I pointed to his paperback doorstop, ‘is a book I had with me at the restaurant, wanted to see what you’d say if I brought up losing something without being too direct.’

His smile widened—clearly indicating he was enjoying my gameplay on a very specific level, totally aware of my angle—and he flicked his cigarette stub off the balcony, holding up his hands in a you-got-me gesture. ‘I saw you left it when you paid, figured why pass up a free book.’ Then he smiled somehow even wider. ‘Though obviously,’ he indicated the book’s current resting place, going into his pockets for another smoke, ‘I figured out pretty quick why you’d abandoned it, found a more proper use for it than as literature. You want it back?’

I shook my head No and he turned, immediately after—as though we now had nothing more to transact with each other—to the business of getting his new cigarette lit.