Hotel Iris Read Online Free PDF Page A

late that night, his face so swollen and covered in blood that it was almost unrecognizable. After that, I stopped waiting.
    There was nothing of great importance in the translator’s letters—the arrival of summer, his work, the progress of Marie’s romance, references to our walk on the cape—but I enjoyed his formal, slightly peculiar way of expressing himself.
    The most important minutes of my day were those spent hidden behind the front desk, poring over his letters. I would cut open the envelope with great care, read the letter three orfour times, and then refold it exactly along the creases he had made.
    I found it hard to remember his face. There was nothing to distinguish it in my mind except the shadow of age. What I did recall was his downcast look, the way he laced his fingers from time to time, his breathing, certain tones of voice. I could summon up these separate features, but when I tried to bring them together, everything became vague and confused.
    In the early afternoon, when Mother was at her dance lesson and the arrival of the guests was still hours away, I would take his letters from my pocket and with my finger follow the blue-black characters, from the greeting—“My Dear Mari”—through to the very end. I could feel the words staring back at me from the page, a sensation strangely similar to the feeling of his fingers in my hair, of him seeking me, demanding something of me.
    “Have some more, Mari. Here, give me your plate.”
    An old friend of my mother’s came to help with the cleaning. Her husband had died some years earlier, and she made ends meet by working as a dressmaker and as a part-time maid at the Iris. She ate lunch with us every day, and Mother complained behind her back that she ate too much. But Mother tolerated her because she worked hard.
    “Young people have to eat,” she said, offering me more potatosalad. “It’s the most important thing.” Then she scooped some onto her own plate as well.
    She and my mother chatted as they ate their lunch, gossiping about mutual acquaintances, and they drank two glasses of wine each. If the telephone at the front desk rang or a delivery truck showed up at the kitchen door, it was my job to get up and take care of it.
    “Mari, do you have a boyfriend?” From time to time the maid would ask me something like this, but I would simply shrug it off. “It can’t be much fun being cooped up in the hotel all the time. You should fix yourself up a bit and get out. Even a pretty girl like you has to make a bit of an effort or the boys will never notice. I’ll sew a dress for you one day soon, tight through the hips but with a little flounce in the bodice, something sexy. Would you like that?” She took a sip of wine, giggling to herself. She had never once sewn anything for me.
    I had discovered that she was a bit of a kleptomaniac, though she seemed to limit her thefts to things of little or no value. What’s more, she never took hotel property or anything else Mother might have noticed.
    The first thing that disappeared was my compass. I had used it for math class but then stuffed it away in the back of a drawer. I noticed one day that it was gone, but since I didn’t need it, I hardly bothered to look for it.
    Next was a butter knife from the kitchen, then a rusty old razor from the sink, some gauze from the medicine cabinet.When my small beaded purse disappeared, I realized that something was wrong. One of my handkerchiefs, some buttons, stockings, a petticoat, all gone. But the things Mother used for my hair—combs, pins, camellia oil—these never went missing, perhaps because the maid knew how important they were to Mother.
    One day I noticed the beaded purse, the one I had bought at a temple fair when I was small, peeking out of her bag. She had stuffed it with a lipstick, change, receipts. I said nothing. I was actually more worried that Mother would notice my purse in her friend’s bag than I was about catching the thief,