Leaving the Atocha Station - Ben Lerner [45]
Two men cleared our plates and scraped the tablecloth and gave me a dessert menu that I handed to Isabel and I asked if they had half bottles of champagne; they did, I ordered one, and Isabel asked me what I wanted for dessert. I wondered if she’d ever had crème brûlée. She said she hadn’t so we ordered it and they brought chocolate–covered strawberries compliments of the chef with our champagne. I began to make fun of the waiters’ seriousness and Isabel found it hilarious; we were laughing loudly, attracting glances. We had a few bites of the dessert and finished the champagne and were by then quite drunk. I did not look at the check when it came. The waiter returned my card, I signed the receipt, and left a large tip in cash, probably a faux pas.
They called us a cab and we stumbled into it and I asked for the Ritz, the very name of which struck us both as hysterical, and we made out for the length of the ride. I paid and we went into the hotel and I spoke to the receptionist in English.
“I’m just in from New York and need a room for the night,” I said, as if the words “New York” explained everything. Isabel seemed impressed by my English.
The receptionist typed on a computer and said, “We have available to you sir a classic room with a king bed and a balcony.”
“Remind me how much those rooms are,” I said, my eyebrows suggesting I was only curious how these rates compared to New York, Milan, Paris.
“They are three hundred and ninety euros per night sir,” she said.
I considered telling Isabel that no rooms were available, but even without English, she would discern it was a lie. “O.K.,” I said, thinking of my apartment two hundred yards away; my rent was three hundred and seventy–five euros a month.
I asked if I could pay in advance and did. The receptionist began to say something about luggage, then coughed her way out of it. A bellboy, if that’s the word, led us to our room, which was as fancy as the restaurant, and I asked him in English if he would bring us a bottle of the cheapest white wine they had; he said of course, but refused to return my conspiratorial smile. Isabel slipped off her shoes and opened the windows and said she was going to take a shower. The wine was there by the time she came out of the bathroom wearing one of the hotel’s plush white robes; we drank, made love, and then smoked near the window. I ordered another bottle, my affectedly formal manner on the phone uproarious to Isabel. Then we made love again and smoked again, Isabel now drunker than I’d ever seen her; she held my head in her hands, mumbling something I couldn’t understand, barely Spanish. Finally she passed out and I stood alone at the window, the room dark, and looked across the street at the Prado. I thought of the great artist for a while.
4
I WOKE UP IN THE FIFTH PHASE OF MY PROJECT AS IF IN RESPONSE TO a loud noise. Isabel was still sleeping, maybe because of all the wine. I got out of bed, dressed, splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth with the complimentary brush, gargled the designer mouth-wash, and smoked a cigarette near the window. It was still early, rush hour. A few fire trucks passed by on El Paseo del Prado, sirens blaring. I was hungover, disoriented. Then several police cars passed. I leaned out the window and looked down the street, but couldn’t see anything. I told Isabel I’d be back soon; she shifted in her sleep as I left the room. I took the elevator to the lobby where people were huddled around TVs. I asked the bellboy in English what happened but he was distracted by other guests; I left the hotel and walked into the sun. Or was it cloudy?
Now trucks full of what looked like soldiers or special police were passing. I followed them toward Atocha, about a ten-minute walk, more and more fire