On
the morning of the day designated for their picnic, Brother Skunk arrived at
the hotel a little early. With time yet until their meeting he strolled about
the grounds where he watched one of the porters run the flags up their poles,
then stood spectating some tennis on the courts until finally, understanding
himself to have exhausted every obvious possible interest, he made his way to
the main entrance.
Stopped
by a couple on the steps in whom he recognised the qualities of money ache1
had described to him in hospital, and American money by dress and demeanour,
his assistance was requested in their photographing each other between checking
out and moving on.
cog:
Excuse me, I wonder... Could you take a photograph of me and my wife here. This
is such a beautiful building.
passing
Skunk an automatic camera.
Skunk:
Uh-huh. Whereabouts do you
cog:
Just right here, so’s we can have all this in back of us.
Skunk
framed the image and
Skunk:
Say Jesus.
the
shutter capturing that single minuscule fraction of a second in which was most
manifest their evident confusion.
Handing
them back the camera he stepped up past them into the building to be greeted by
the doorman.
cog:
Good morning sir, can I help you at all?
Skunk:
Ehm, I’m meeting a guest here. I’m a bit early.
cog:
Would you like me to let them know you’re here sir?
Skunk:
Yeah, that would be great, if you could, yeah. Her name’s ache1.
sounding
odd even inside himself.
cog:
The young lady. Right you are sir. I’ll just let her know you’re here, if you’d
like to take a seat sir.
Resisting
the temptation to flit through the leaflets neatly arranged on two tables by
the door (maps, theatres, zoos etc), he instead settled in to one of the four
couches forming a square central to the lobby. Through double glass doors he
could see an adjacent lounge walled in with full bookshelves amongst which he
felt the sudden need to locate dutch-courage Faulkner, listening:
cog
(telephone): ..thank you madam... Yes, I'll tell him, thank you.
and
crossing to Skunk from the porters’ tiny doorless cubbyhole office
cog:
She’ll be down in a minute sir. Can I get you anything while you’re waiting
sir?
Skunk:
No thanks, I’m fine... thanks.
The
rumour borne out of this now complete would by the time of their arrival back
have spread throughout every department of the hotel, for Brother Skunk had
arrived second only to the recent doctor.
He
sat quietly, observing the elevator as guests passed to and from breakfast,
porters came and went with luggage and without, and the telephones maintained
their rhythmic backdrop sheet of electronic squealing until the elevator doors
parted again in noiseless presentation and there she was: a smiling young woman
carrying a picnic basket, her facial bruising proficiently obscured by a lamina
of skintone make-up, but her eye itself still obviously blooded.
