Steady Sleeper
It’s time for me to leave. I have stayed at the Hotel Terminus for what feels like an eternity, and I have amassed more loyalty points than I will be able to redeem in this life or the next.
Today is Friday, as good a day as any other day to take my leave.
“I’m checking out”, I tell Mr. Peter at the front desk.
“I know”, he says.
I just made the decision. Spur of the moment. How can he know?
“You do?”
“I have made it my business to read our guests. I’ve gotten good at it over the years.”
“Evidently.”
“We will miss you, Sir.”
“Nothing is forever.”
“If you say so, Sir.”
”I suppose I could stay another day.”
”An excellent idea, Sir.”
“No need to rush things now, after all this time.”
“Quite.”
“So I’ll leave on Sunday.”
“Very good, Sir.”
“Would you book a train ticket for me?”
“There is no need for that, Sir.”
“Why not?”
“You have an open return ticket for the Sunday Special.”
“I do?”
Mr. Peter opens a drawer in the desk, takes out a piece of paper, and hands it to me. It’s a plain white notecard that reads TAKE THE ELEVATOR.
“This is my train ticket?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I trust Mr. Peter more than I trust myself. I put the card in the pocket of my jacket.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today, Sir?”
“No. Yes. Well, maybe.”
“I’m listening, Sir.”
“In all this time, I haven’t really explored the area.”
“A pity, Sir. There is so much to see.”
“If you were me, what is the one thing you would do on your last day?”
Mr. Peter doesn’t hesitate.
“Take the joyride.”
“The joyride?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What is it?”
“It’s hard to describe, Sir.”
“Why?”
“It’s different for everybody.”
“That sounds interesting.”
“It is. It is whatever you want it to be, Sir.”
“I’m sold.”
“Very good, Sir.”
“How do I get there?”
“Leave everything to me, Sir.”
“What will I do without you, Mr. Peter?”
He smiles.
“I will have a car pick you up after breakfast tomorrow, Sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Peter.”
“One more thing, Sir.”
“Yes?”
He hands me a slim book bound in black cloth. I open it to the first page. The title is “The Secret Power”. The author’s name is given as E.M. Yelich.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It will help you get into the right state of mind for the joyride, Sir.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, Sir.”
I take the book to my usual spot at Cloud Nine, the hotel’s basement bar, and order a White Lily. I wait for the drink to arrive. I don’t have to wait long. I’m the only guest. The bartender places a bright blue napkin on the table in front of me and sets the long-stemmed glass down on the napkin. I pick up the glass, take a sip, nod to the bartender, and wait for him to retreat to the backroom. Only then do I begin to read the book. It’s the story of a troubled girl, told by herself. She has a deformation, or a disability of some kind. She never says what it is exactly, but describes her condition as “disfiguring” and herself as “monstrous”. The people she meets don’t seem to mind, or even to notice, but she feels ugly and deplorable. She is never at ease when she is around other people. She feels she can only be herself when she is alone.
It’s not a book I would have picked. It’s well-written, but it’s also quite depressing. Yet I can’t deny that it speaks to me. I put it down and order another White Lily. Again, I wait until the bartender has disappeared. When I am alone, I turn back to the book. The girl meets a man. She has mixed feelings about him, but he is crazy about her. He tells her that she is beautiful, that she is the love of his life, and that he wants to marry her. She can’t help thinking it’s a prank, that the man is a deceiver, if not a serial killer. But he never wavers, insisting that they are meant for each other, and eventually she gives in. They get married. She goes through all the motions of being a wife, but her heart isn’t in it. It all feels like a sham to her. She is certain that the man doesn’t really love her, and that he is only waiting for an excuse to leave her. The book ends with the words “What’s real for him is fake for me.”
I close the book, and then I fall asleep.
When I wake up, Mr. Peter is waiting a few steps from my table.
“Your car is ready, Sir.”
“Huh?”
“To take you to the joyride, Sir?”
I feel hung over. I look for the book, but it isn’t there.
“Can I go upstairs to take a shower?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t time, Sir.”
He helps me to my feet. We take the elevator to the lobby. He walks me to the door. A black car is waiting right outside.
Mr. Peter helps me into the back seat.
“Enjoy your ride.”
Mr. Peter closes the door with a thud and taps it twice. The car pulls away from the hotel. There is a dark partition between the back seat and the driver’s seat. I can’t see or hear the driver. I’m relieved. I’m in no shape to make conversation. I feel dizzy. But the ride is very smooth, and soon my dizziness subsides. I sink back into my seat and go back to sleep.
When I wake up, the car has stopped. I try to open the door, but it’s locked. I fiddle with the rocker switch in the armrest to lower the window, but the window doesn’t move. Just as I am about to panic, someone opens the door from outside.
“Good morning, Sir.”
The driver holds the door for me. He wears a black uniform, a peaked cap, and a pair of neat white gloves. I don’t think I have seen him before, but he looks like a younger version of Mr. Peter. His younger brother perhaps, or his son? In all this time, I have never asked Mr. Peter about his family. I climb out of the car. It’s cold outside. We’re on a dirt road, surrounded by tall trees that block out most of the light.
“Where are we?”
“Almost there now, Sir.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just follow me, Sir, if you will.”
The driver locks the car and leads me down a narrow path that takes us deeper into the woods. Before long, it’s so dark I can barely see beyond the next tree.
“Are you sure this is the way?”
“Quite certain, Sir.”
We keep walking. The forest feels alive. Not the way I know it is alive, the trees, the animals, all the little critters, but as a whole. As if the forest itself were a single living organism. A dark force. After what feels like a long time, we reach a small clearing in the woods. It’s just big enough for the old-fashioned coach that blocks our path. There are light bulbs all along the edges of the carriage and around the windows, picking out the contours of the coach against the darkness of the forest. The coach looks like it should be drawn by horses, but there are no horses here. The whole thing looks so completely out of place I decide it’s pointless to be puzzled.
The driver opens the door of the coach for me. What choice do I have? I get into the coach and settle into the cushioned seat. I am the only passenger.
“One more thing, Sir.”
“Yes?”
“Have you read the book?”
“What book?”
“The Secret Power.”
He says it like it is the only book there is, or at least the only one that matters.
“Oh, that. Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why? Is that important?”
“I wouldn’t know, Sir.”
“Then why do you ask?”
“I was told to make sure that you had read the book, Sir.”
“What if I hadn’t?”
“I was given specific instructions for that case, Sir.”
“What are they?”
“Since you have read the book, it doesn’t matter, Sir.”
“What if I lied to you?”
“Lied to me, Sir?”
“About the book.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sir.”
“What if I told you I had read the book, but I hadn’t really read it?”
“Why would you do that, Sir?”
I don’t know how to answer that. The driver looks at me with a flicker of impatience.
“I’m asking you again, Sir. Have you read the book?”
“Yes. I have.”
The driver smiles and tips his hat.
“Enjoy the ride, Sir.”
“You’re not coming?”
He shakes his head.
“This ride is yours and yours alone.”
He shuts the door of the coach from the outside and taps it twice. The coach starts to move – slowly at first, but then it picks up speed. It feels like it is moving forward and downward at the same time, as if it were in orbit around an unseen center of gravity, a giant mass behind my back. I look out the window, but all I see is the reflection of my own face. I try to open a window, but the windows seem to be the kind that don’t open. Again, I find myself sinking back into the seat.
The interior of the coach is warm and comfortable. There even is a built-in bar tray, stocked with half a dozen bottles, a set of ornate crystal tumblers, a stack of paper napkins, and a silver bucket filled with ice. I help myself to a no-nonsense version of a White Lily: two fingers of gin, one finger of rum, half a finger of absinthe, and a single cube of ice. I take a sip. Not bad. I take another sip. Not bad at all. I feel myself drifting off. When I look up, a girl is sitting across from me. Her dark hair is cut short. She is dressed all in black. Flat-heeled boots, tight pants, and a high-necked top. Her skin is very pale. There is a tiny tattoo on her temple, a half moon and a single star. Her arms are folded across her chest, and her legs are crossed. Everything about her says “Leave me alone.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Ella.”
“You don’t look like an Ella.”
She shrugs.
I wonder what that means. Her name isn’t really Ella? Her name doesn’t matter? She doesn’t care what I think? All of that?
“How did you get here?”
She shrugs again.
“Did we make a stop?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Are you the girl from the book?”
She looks at me like I have lost my mind.
“What are you talking about?”
“I have no idea. Can I offer you a drink?”
I point to the bar tray. She shakes her head.
“I will cut you up”, she says.
“Excuse me?”
“From your skin, I’ll make a tambourine. From your teeth, the keys for a concertina. From your guts, the strings for a guitar.”
“Nothing will go to waste.”
“Exactly.”
“I like that.”
“For once in your life, you’ll be good for something.”
“But I’ll be dead.”
“On the contrary.”
“What does that mean?”
“You will live forever.”
“In pieces?”
“In the music.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
I look for my White Lily, but it’s gone. When I look up again, the girl, too, is gone. I’m on my own again. I wonder if I imagined her. Or maybe she imagined me, and I’m the one who’s gone.
I touch my chin, trying to guess how much time has passed since I shaved this morning. There is a fair amount of stubble. Then I remember that I didn’t shave at all this morning because I fell asleep in the bar last night. I didn’t even wash my face. There was no time. At least that’s how I remember it. I examine my reflection in the window. I look like a hobo. I take a napkin from the drinks tray, dip it in the ice bucket, and use it to mop my face.
Then, all of a sudden, I notice a change in the movement of the coach. For a moment, it feels as if it is swinging back and forth, like a pendulum suspended from some giant structure overhead. I still have the impression that the coach is going down, but now it feels like it is moving backward at the same time, instead of forward, as it felt before. I am aware that none of this makes much sense without a point of reference, but that is what it feels like. Maybe it’s just my inner ear playing tricks on me.
Eventually, the coach slows down and stops. The door swings open, seemingly of its own accord. It is dark outside, but the air streaming in through the open door is warm.
I get up and step outside. I’m at the bottom of some sort of chasm. There is a sliver of light above. It looks like it is very far away. I turn around. I see now that the coach is really not a coach at all, but a gondola on a giant Ferris wheel. There are countless others like it, stretching upwards in a gentle curve. The wheel is lodged in the chasm like a patty in a burger bun. I must have gotten in at the top, when the gondola was just above the edge of the abyss, and now I have reached the bottom.
I feel dizzy. I walk along the floor of the chasm until I get to a door. Above the door, there is a sign that reads TRANSFER CENTER. I open the door and step inside. The transfer center is a bleak affair: a water cooler, a potted plant, a single counter. The water cooler is empty. The plant is dead. The counter is deserted. I turn back to the door, but the door has disappeared. When I turn around again, a woman has materialized behind the counter. She looks like the pale girl from before, but her face is made up with eye liner and lipstick, and her outfit is different: a crisp white blouse, a tailored blue blazer, a tiny pill box hat. The word JOYRIDE is stitched onto the hat. On the lapel of her blazer, there is white tag with blue lettering. It reads “My name is MARY”. She flashes me a practiced smile.
“Welcome to the transfer center.”
“Hello again.”
She doesn’t seem to recognize me, or if she does, she hides it well. I look for the tattoo on her temple, but it isn’t there. Maybe she has covered it up with concealer.
Or maybe this is a different girl after all.
“On a scale from one to five, how would you rate your experience so far?”
“Come again?”
“On a scale from one to five, how would you rate your experience so far?”
Apparently, she if following a script that allows no deviation. I guess I’ll better play along. I don’t want to upset her. She looks harmless enough in her preppy uniform, but appearances can be misleading.
“How is the scale defined?”
She blinks and pauses, as if she is a retrieving an obscure piece of information from deep inside her memory.
“One is poor. Two is fair. Three is neutral. Four is good. Five is great.”
“I don’t know. Four?”
She nods.
“Four is good.”
She pushes a button on the panel in front of her and points to the wall across from the counter. Out of nowhere, five doorways have appeared in the wall. Doorways one through three and five are framed by red lights. Number four is framed in green.
“Thank you for your feedback. Please proceed through the green gate.”
“What is this? A game show?”
“Please proceed through the green gate.”
“Where does it lead?”
“Please proceed through the green gate.”
Perhaps she is a robot, or a hologram. I am tempted to poke her to find out, but I resist. Instead, I do what I always do. I do as I am told. The green gate slides open as I approach it, and it slams shut behind me as soon as I have passed it. I’m in some sort of tunnel. It’s very dark. I can’t see a thing. I blink. No change. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they don’t. That’s how dark the tunnel is. There is darkness, and there is darkness. This is darkness.
I wonder where the other doorways would have taken me. Maybe I made a mistake. If this is good, what would poor be like? It doesn’t matter now. I close my eyes. I see an afterglow of the lit-up Ferris wheel, overlaid with the made-up face of the robotic agent. I decide to go exploring before I start seeing more things that aren’t there. Without a light to guide me, I have trouble walking in a straight line. I bump into the tunnel walls repeatedly. I slow down. What if there is a hole in the ground, or an obstacle ahead? I proceed very carefully, step by tiny step, like a blind man, with my arms stretched out before me. If there is a way out, I will find it. As soon as I think that thought, I see a light ahead. It’s very dim. It must be very far away. Or maybe it’s only in my mind. I walk on regardless, and, very slowly, the light grows brighter and bigger. And then suddenly I’m there, at the end of the tunnel, in front of a revolving door. I grab the handle of the door and hold on to it, like a sailor holding on to the boom of his ship in a storm.
The door spins me around in a semi-circle and ejects me into what looks a lot like the lobby of the Hotel Terminus.
I stagger towards the desk. Mr. Peter greets me with a smile.
“Welcome back, Sir. You are just in time.”
“Just in time for what?”
“The show, Sir.”
“What show?”
“The singer in the dark, Sir.”
“Right now?”
“They’re just waiting for you, Sir.”
“I really need a shower and a shave.”
“There’s no time, Sir.”
Mr. Peter glides out from behind his desk, takes my arm, and gently nudges me in the direction of the elevator. The elevator door slides open. We get inside. Mr. Peter presses “B” for the basement. The door closes. I hold on the handrail.
“Are you alright, Sir?”
“I’m a little dizzy.”
“How was your trip?”
“I don’t know. It feels like I’m still on it.”
“I know exactly what you mean, Sir.”
“You do?”
“Oh yes, Sir. I’ve been there.”
The door slides open.
“Enjoy the show, Sir.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Oh no, Sir. I’m needed upstairs at the desk.”
The elevator door slides shut behind me.
A little stage has been set up right across from my usual table in the basement bar. The bartender is out of sight, but a fresh White Lily is waiting for me on a bright blue napkin. I have barely taken my seat when the lights go down and the band begins to play.
At first, it’s just a beat. Then a concertina and a guitar join in. Finally, a woman’s voice wells up from the darkness. When she gets to the chorus, a spotlight flares up and picks out the singer’s face. It’s Ella, the pale girl from the gondola. The song she sings sounds like a lullaby.
I close my eyes and let the music carry me away.
