The Bookseller(27)
“Sure we did,” Lars replies. “It’s only a block.”
A mustached man walks up and hands Jean a fresh drink. “You looked thirsty,” he says to her, taking her empty glass from her hand. I notice that their fingers touch for a few extra seconds.
“Ah, George.” Jean looks impishly at the man over the rim of her glass, her green eyes large behind false eyelashes. “Such an attentive host.”
Suddenly I realize who he is. It’s the man with the dog, the one I saw on the street when I walked alone past where our house would be. When I walked there in the real world.
So actual, live people reside in the dream world, too. This strikes me as amusing, and I laugh aloud. Everyone looks at me, puzzled. “Did I say something funny?” Jean asks.
“No, of course not,” I reply quickly. “I’m just in a happy mood tonight.” I raise my glass. “It’s so nice to be here with you all!”
Lars still has a solid hold on my elbow. “Katharyn, do you need to sit down?”
Suddenly, what I need to do most is use the bathroom. How is that possible, when I am not even awake? I laugh again, absurdly wondering if I am wetting my bed in the real world. “No, thanks,” I say to Lars. “I’m off to the little girls’ room.” I extract myself from his grip and weave toward the back of the house, figuring there must be a bathroom somewhere in the vicinity, if I just keep my eyes peeled.
In the kitchen, a gaggle of maids is preparing food and placing it on trays. To my surprise, I see Alma, our own housekeeper, among the workers. Like Alma, the others are all Mexican. Even in my imaginarily inebriated state, I find the situation distressing. This world, this place in which brown-skinned people wait on white-skinned people—this is not how I live in my real life. I’ll concede that in the world where I’m Kitty, I don’t personally know many people of other races. But I do believe in conducting myself equally toward everyone. We have the occasional nonwhite customer at the shop, and I go out of my way to treat these patrons the same as I would a white person. It’s how I was raised. It’s just a matter of good taste and of being a decent human being, my mother would say, and she’s right. My father worked with men and women of all races at his job; my mother cares for babies in a rainbow of colors in her volunteer work at the hospital. I may have graduated from college, and I may travel in more educated circles than my parents ever did, but my blue-collar upbringing has made me who I am.
Who I am in my real life, that is.
In any case, I am thrilled to see a familiar face at the party. “Alma,” I hiss, catching her eye. She comes over to where I stand next to the dining room table, one hand on it for support.
“You okay, Se?ora Andersson? You enjoying lo borlo?”
I giggle. “I’m fine. I’m having a terrific time!”
“No bronca? No trouble, se?ora?”
I wave my arm about and almost knock over a tray of hors d’oeuvres on the table. Alma quickly reaches forward and catches it.
“I just have a . . . lil’ . . . dilemma,” I slur. “I cannot . . . for the life of me . . .’member where it . . . where it is.” I look around. “The bathroom, I mean. Do you happen to know?”
Alma smiles. She has a kind face, Alma—a warm smile with large, white teeth. Like me, she gets crinkles around her eyes when she smiles, and I wonder vaguely if she is as self-conscious about that as I am. “No hay pedo, se?ora. Follow me.”
I follow her down the hallway. I hazily make out several large abstract paintings on the walls, lit with small artist’s lamps bracketed above the canvases. There are a number of sleek doors with no panels on them, all of them shut. Closets, I suppose, and bedrooms. The woodwork is rich and dark-toned. At the third door on the right, Alma knocks gently. No one answers, so she opens it for me. “Lo ba?o,” she says, as if to reassure me. “You are all right?”
“Sure, honey. Just dandy.” I slip inside and close the door behind me.
After taking care of my business, I wash my hands and splash a little cold water on my face. I fish in my purse—it’s quite a cute little thing, gold-sparkled, with a rhinestone clasp—and find a compact and lipstick. I powder my nose, notice the high flush in my cheeks, and carefully fill in my lips with lipstick that matches the color of my dress. I note that my hair looks unusually fabulous. The cowlicks have been tamed and pressed into big waves, held in place with lots of spray. I must have had it set this afternoon, I think, and then I thank the dream gods, or whoever puts me in this crazy world, for at least letting my hair look stunning when I am out of the house for the evening.
I stumble back to the darkened hallway and bump into a shadowy figure making its way toward me. “Lars?” I ask.
“Nope,” says a cheery voice. “Just your friendly host, coming to check on you.” He gets closer, and I see it is George, of the mustache and the spaniel.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, but he blocks my way before I can sneak past him.
“Katharyn,” he says in a low voice. “You look beautiful tonight.” He places a hand lightly but persistently on my right hip.
Startled, I back away from his touch. “Yes, my husband said the same thing.” That word, husband, feels peculiar on my lips; it’s like speaking a foreign language. Yet I recognize the power in it. I am reminded of how satisfied I felt in high school Spanish class when, called upon to recite by Se?ora Torrez, I uttered some Spanish turn of phrase confidently, completely, and correctly.