The Two Hotel Francforts: A Novel Read Free Page A

and patted me on the back. We resumed our walk. “A curious word, ‘nearsighted,’” he said. “I mean, to say someone’s nearsighted—isn’t it like saying of an armless man that he has twolegs? Or to call someone who doesn’t eat fish a meat eater? Why, if we talked that way all the time, how would we ever say anything to each other, any of us? But we
do
talk that way all the time.”
    I had no idea how to reply to this—which, I suppose, was illustrative of his point—so I said nothing. We had now reached the opposite side of the Rossio, the one on which the swankier cafés—the Brasiliera, the Chave d’Ouro, the Nicola—were situated. Edward still had his hand on my arm. He was not so much leading me as pulling me, the way one might a dog on a leash. Not that I minded. Indeed, it was a pleasure, after so many weeks shouldering the burden of Julia, to be able to lean on someone else’s shoulder. And Edward’s shoulder was—how to put it?—reliable. In part this was because he was tall. I am five foot eight—seven inches taller than my wife, but seven inches shorter than Edward, whose stature was particularly noteworthy in Portugal, where few of the men exceed five-five or five-six. Yet there was more to it than just that. He had the quality that certain dogs do, of seeming always to have a destination in mind, even when they don’t.
    He asked me what I did for a living and I told him. (I worked for General Motors then. I managed the Buick sales division in France—or did, until the Germans came.)
    “So you’re gainfully employed,” he said. “That’s refreshing. I can’t remember the last time I met someone who was gainfully employed, other than waiters and hotel managers. Needless to say, I’m not gainfully employed.”
    “No?”
    He shook his head. “I’ve never had a job in my life. Wait, that’s not true. The summer I turned sixteen, I worked in a shop. I sold yerba del sol tea, homemade preserves, and books on occultism. I never got paid, though. They still owe me seven dollars.”
    “Where was this?”
    “In California, in the Theosophist community where my mother lives. Or perhaps I should say the Theosophy community that lives on my mother.”
    I didn’t know what Theosophy was. “And where will you go once you’re back in the States?”
    “Oh, New York. I mean, where else is there?”
    “Are you from New York?”
    “I’ve lived in New York. I’m not really from anywhere. My father was Hungarian, but by the time I was born, he’d long since left Hungary. As for my mother—well, technically she’s Polish, though she grew up in England. Which meant that they could only ever communicate in second languages. And given that my mother speaks excellent English but not very good French, and that my father spoke excellent French but not very good English—well, is it any wonder that until I was five I didn’t utter a word?”
    “But your English is perfect.”
    “That was luck. I had a great-aunt who lived in New York. She took me under her wing. Thanks to her, I got an education.”
    “Where?”
    “Harvard, then Heidelberg—briefly—then Cambridge for the Ph.D.—the one I never finished. That was where I met Iris—at Cambridge. What about you?”
    “Oh, just a little college in Indiana. Wabash College. You’ve probably never heard of it.”
    “I have, actually. I just can’t put my finger on where.”
    We were now approaching the Francfort—our Francfort. I’m told the hotel closed a few years ago. It was on Rua Santa Justa, at the foot of the famous Santa Justa Elevator, from the turreted roof of which you could get a splendid view of the city, the docks, the distant hills in the shadows of which, on clear nights, Estoril and Sintra glinted. The Francfort had a revolving door. I have always lovedrevolving doors, the mirror and whirl of them, how, when you pass through one, for a brief moment you’re sealed in, coffined, a hostage in a wedge of glass … And now