The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [119]
Norval nodded. “You know, Mrs. Pettybone, now that I think of it, it may be more convenient for me to get a room in town—”
“Come this way,” she said. And for some reason he obeyed, penetrating deeper into the maze of the house, ascending a back staircase, steep and narrow, perhaps for servants, at the top of which Mrs. Pettybone pushed open an unlocked door. She stood before a renovated en suite bathroom. “Do you know what a bidet is for, Mr. Black? Are you aware of its function? Last year, I had an American boy who defecated in it. I’ll have none of that in my house, do we understand each other? No Yankee gangsterism in my house.”
“I’m French, Mrs. Pettybone. We invented the bidet.”
“There’s the shower, there’s the soap.” She pointed to translucent antibacterial bars on dishes and racks. “Use them.” On this congenial note she left, closing the door behind her, giving it a click on the other side, as if locking him in.
Like walking into a spider’s parlour, Norval thought as he looked around the room. Tapestried four-poster bed with a picture of the Holy Child over top, plastic pink roses in a vase on the bed table, curtains with the red flounce put in coffins, milky iridescent wallpaper with bunches of pinkish lilies cascading in each corner. The same pink lilies, Norval noted, on the white ceramic of the toilet, sink and shower. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was as cold as a crypt.
Norval shed his clothes and opened the sink cupboard, searching for shampoo. It contained nothing but cans, aerosol cans, lined up in groups of three: Alpine Rose, Cinnamon Apple, Citrus Fresh; Country Air, Country Breeze, Country Cornucopia; Hawaiian Breeze, Island Breeze, Jasmine Utopia; Lavender Meadow, Lavender Mist, Minty Jamboree; Mountain Berry, Mulberry, Oceanside Breeze; Ocean Spray, Passion Fruit, Spicy Potpourri; Spring Rain, Summer Rain, Wintergreen Bouquet ...
“This can not be happening,” Norval muttered in the shower, while lathering his hair with anti-bacterial soap. “Alphabetical order, for Christ’s sake. The woman’s a burning lunatic. This is a must-flee situation.”
When Norval opened his eyes the next morning, a fierce ray of sun blinded him. Mrs. Pettybone had hoisted the hospital-white blinds and was now securing the draw string. Wearing a red jogging suit, white apron and red garden gloves, she began plucking articles off the floor. A look of disgust warped her features as she dropped each article of clothing into a large white sack. “Breakfast at seven,” she barked while striding out of the room. “Sharp,” she added from the hallway, hauling away the sack like an anti-Santa. “And no smoking!”
Norval squinted at the alarm clock. Six thirty. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, threw the bedclothes back, swore, swore again, turned over and instantly fell back to sleep.
Fifteen minutes later his body was vibrating from a loud, hollow noise, repeated at regular intervals. It was the sound of a gong.
“Mr. Black!” a voice shouted, as if from under the bedsprings. A few seconds later Mrs. Pettybone reappeared in the doorway, releasing vapour from a violet can.
Norval watched, one eye glued shut. “What’s the fragrance of the day, Mrs. Pettybone? Guest Neutraliser? Norvalicide?”
“His lordship’s breakfast is served.”
And so it was. Plates so full that Norval wondered if a party of stevedores would be down any minute. Fried eggs, rashers, sausages heaped on one plate, mounds of fried potatoes and tomatoes on another, stacks of toasted brown bread dripping margarine on yet another. Jars of marmalade and honey, two miniature boxes of Corn Flakes, a pitcher of milk, a pitcher of orange juice, and something grey and viscous that looked like a pot of glue.
“You’re late, Mr. Black. I believe in the three p’s: punctuality, propriety, cleanliness.”
Norval arched an eyebrow,