The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [78]
“Every hotel in Paris is booked up,” the guy said. “I’ve been to every one.”
“Did you ring the doorbell?”
“Three times so far.”
They had to ring twice more to summon the concierge. She arrived fully dressed, her hair in order. She looked them over with a cold eye and said something in French.
“She only has one room,” the guy said. “She wants to know if we’ll share.”
“You were here first,” Mitchell said generously.
“It’ll be cheaper if we split it.”
The concierge led them up to the third floor. Unlocking the door, she stood aside to let them inspect the room.
There was only one bed.
“C’est bien?” the woman said.
“She wants to know if it’s O.K.,” the guy told Mitchell.
“We don’t have much choice.”
“C’est bien,” the guy said.
“Bonne nuit,” the concierge said, and retired.
They took off their packs and set them down, water puddling on the floor.
“I’m Clyde,” the guy said.
“Mitchell.”
While Clyde washed up at the minuscule room sink, Mitchell took a guest towel and went down the hall to the WC. After peeing, he pulled the chain on the toilet, feeling like a train engineer. Returning to the room, he was gratified to find that Clyde had already got into bed and was facing the wall. Mitchell undressed down to his underwear.
The problem was what to do with his money pouch.
Not wanting to wear a fanny pack, like a tourist, and yet not wanting to carry valuables in his luggage, either, Mitchell had bought a fly-fishing wallet. It was waterproof, with a leaping trout design and a reinforced zipper. The wallet had elastic loops for wearing on your belt. But because wearing the wallet on his belt would be the same as wearing a fanny pack, Mitchell had tied the pouch to his belt loop with a string, slipping it inside the waistband of his jeans. It was safe there. But now he had to find somewhere to keep it for the night, while sharing the room with a stranger.
In addition to traveler’s checks, the pouch contained Mitchell’s passport, immunization records, five hundred francs exchanged from seventy dollars the day before, and a recently activated MasterCard. After failing to dissuade Mitchell from setting off for India, Dean and Lillian had insisted on giving him something for emergencies. Mitchell knew, however, that using a credit card would create a running balance of filial obligation, which he would then need to pay off in monthly or weekly telephone calls home. The MasterCard was like a tracking device. Only after resisting Dean’s pressure for a solid month had Mitchell given in and accepted the card, but his plan was never to use it.
With his back to the bed, he untied the pouch from his belt loop. He considered hiding it under the dresser or behind the mirror but finally carried it to the bed and put it under his pillow. He climbed in and switched off the light.
Clyde remained turned toward the wall.
For a long time they lay without speaking. Finally Mitchell said, “You ever read Moby-Dick?”
“Long time ago.”
“Remember where Ishmael gets into bed at the boarding house, at the beginning? He lights a match and there’s this Indian, all covered with tattoos, sleeping next to him?”
Clyde was quiet a moment, thinking about that. “Which one of us is the Indian?” he asked.
“Call me Ishmael,” Mitchell said, in the dark.
Circadian rhythms woke him early. The sun wasn’t up but the rain had stopped. Mitchell could hear Clyde’s deep nocturnal breathing. He managed to fall back asleep, and when he woke up again it was broad daylight and Clyde was nowhere to be found. When he looked under his pillow, the money pouch was gone.
He leapt out of bed, instantly panicked. While tearing off the blankets and sheets and feeling