Via Dolorosa(16)

“If it’s not a problem…”

“No problem.”

“Thank you,” Nick said, taking the key from the bell captain.

“Listen,” the bell captain continued. “Now that it’s a new day and we are, at least in the scheme of days, both new people, I want to apologize again for my behavior last night at the bar. I don’t know what I was thinking, going on like that. And I certainly didn’t mean to embarrass you, Nicholas.”

“I’ve already forgotten about it. Anyway, you didn’t embarrass me.”

“Well, you’re just trying to make an old fool feel less like a fool, but we were both there last night. I’m sorry. I can be reflective and sentimental sometimes. It gets out of control on occasion, I’m afraid. Don’t let it spoil your stay.”

“We’re all prone to reflection. Nothing wrong with that. Not a damn thing in this world.”

“All right,” the bell captain said. He smiled and it was a weary, old man smile. For the first time, Nick wondered just how old Myles Granger’s father was.

The lights flickered and went out.

“It’s the storm,” Granger said. His head was tilted up, his eyes scanning the light fixtures in the ceiling, as if to identify the problem would be to rectify it.

The hallway was dark; the only brilliance came from the windows of the front lobby, twisting in a glowing, winding river of ephemeral light down the narrow corridor to the bank of elevators and to the spot where they both stood.

“There’s a generator that’s supposed to kick on,” Granger continued, but he did not sound hopeful.

“I take it the generator doesn’t always work,” Nick said.

“Observant.”

“This is a pretty big place to not have power.”

“Oh,” said Granger, “it’s a nightmare.” A pager at Granger’s hip suddenly went off. The bell captain snatched it up, scrutinized it, then said, “I’m sorry, I have to go. Will you excuse me?”

“Go ahead. I’m breaking for lunch now, anyway. Besides,” he added, “not much I can do in the dark.”

“Not much,” Granger said, and quickly departed, padding furiously down the corridor with his short, stocky legs. Nick watched him go.

Upstairs, back in the room, Emma had opened the sweep of curtains that covered the patio doors and had pulled open the shades over the windows, too, but the room was still dark. There was no sunlight and, because of the storm, there was no electrical light down the sloping beachfront that could be seen through the windows of their hotel room. The gloom made his stomach feel funny—the way it felt sometimes when he would have to wake up too early in his youth, before the sun had had time to rise. Emma stood against the patio doors, her body pale and ghostly in the lightlessness, the shadow of the heavy rain projected onto her skin.

“Did you get scared?” he said, coming in.

“What happened?”

“Storm knocked out the power.” He sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off his shoes.

“How long will it be out?”

“I don’t know.”

Room service had already come, and there was a tray on the writing desk. Nick could smell freshly brewed coffee. Emma stepped away from the patio doors and, in the half-gloom, moved to the tray. Nick did not go toward her; he stood and went directly into the bathroom, turned on the sink, washed his face for what felt like an hour. The conchs and clam shells had disappeared from the basin. Emma had most likely just showered, too: the bathroom was still dense with moisture and warmth, and the mirror above the sink was still slightly fogged and dripping with condensation. He wiped away an arc of moisture from the mirror and looked at his face in the glass. Some face, he thought. Then he continued to wash his hands, careful of his injured right hand (attempting to massage it beneath the numbing stream of hot water), and scrubbed the paint off, which had not had time to dry. For a moment, he sensed Emma’s presence at his back, but he did not turn and he did not look up to meet her reflection in the mirror. He felt completely aloof and unbalanced. Mindful of his bad hand, he shucked off his pullover and carried it back into the room. Emma had returned to the patio doors, looking out but not really seeing anything. She turned and Nick felt her eyes on him as he pulled on a fresh tee-shirt and, sitting on the edge of the bed, climbed out of his corduroys. He could smell his own sweat in his clothes.

“I got you a club sandwich without bacon and some tomato soup. I also got baked apples in sauce for dessert.”

“Thanks.”

“I had them send up a pot of coffee and some wine, too. I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for.”

“What wine?”

“Wha—?” She hadn’t understood.

“What is the wine?”

“Red Truck.”

“I don’t like red wine.” He said this on purpose.

“Yes, I know,” Emma said quickly, “but it’s the wine the bell captain suggested the other night. Do you remember? He said it was really smooth and not as bitter as regular red wine. You said you wanted to try it. That’s why I ordered it. But,” she added, her voice dropping, “I can pour you a cup of coffee instead.”

“I’ll get it myself,” he said, standing up in his underwear and going to the writing desk. He picked up a wedge of club sandwich and extracted a bite, then filled one of the two coffee mugs with coffee. The smell was instantaneous. He noticed the baked apples and the wine in its sleek, dark bottle, and the bowl of tomato soup, and nothing else. “Did you eat already?”