Hotel Iris Read Online Free PDF

so at the first opportunity I discreetly closed the bag. But little items continued to vanish one by one from my world.
    “Mari is still a child,” Mother said, lighting a cigarette.
    “By the way,” said the woman, reaching for a piece of fried fish Mother had left on the plate, “a customer who came in to have a coat hemmed mentioned that man who made a fuss with the prostitute.” My fork froze in the potato salad. “It seems that wasn’t the first time he’d done something like that.”
    “I’m not surprised,” Mother said. “That kind never learns. I’m sure he wanted that woman to do all sorts of disgusting things.”
    “What kinds of things?”
    “Now how would I know?” Mother laughed and drained the rest of her wine. I looked down at my plate, poking at the food with my fork.
    “They say he’s very odd. No one knows what he does for a living, but he wanders around in a suit, even when it’s sweltering.”
    “Like all perverts.”
    “My customer said she saw him at the supermarket one day, complaining that the bread he’d bought was moldy. He was putting on airs and being terribly rude—though apparently he’s usually quite timid—and he had this awful look on his face, as though it were a matter of life and death. He was shaking his fist, and he even made the young woman at the store cry—all over a loaf of bread.”
    “He was hateful here, why should he be any different there?”
    “And did you know that he lives out on the island?”
    “A regular lunatic.”
    “There’s even a rumor he’s hiding here because he killed his wife.”
    “A murderer? Really? That’s all we need!” Mother blew cigarette smoke above the dirty dishes as her friend licked grease from her fingers.
    I churned my fork in the potato salad, less upset by the idea that the translator might be a murderer than by the fact that they felt free to talk this way about him. I stuffed some salad in my mouth and tried to swallow, but the potatoes caught in my throat.

T H R E E
     
    The most memorable guest we’ve had at the hotel was a foreign woman named Iris. A fax in English arrived one day: “I’d like to reserve a single room with breakfast for the nights of September 17 and 18. I’ll be arriving at 5:00 p.m. by taxi.” I translated it for Mother.
    The woman appeared at the appointed time with one suitcase, peering out from under a wide-brimmed hat with a ribbon.
    “It’s a pleasure to have a visitor from so far away,” Mother said in Japanese. “We’ve put you in our best room.” Foreign guests were rare at the Iris, and Mother was unusually hospitable. “I’m afraid I’m not much good with languages, but my daughter speaks a little English, so feel free to ask her if you need anything.” I don’t know whether the woman understood what Mother said, but she smiled brightly as she took off herhat and ran her hand through her brown hair. She was slender, with long arms and legs, and her dress was very simple. Then there was an awkward moment—“as though the air had been let out of the room”—and it dawned on us that the woman was blind.
    “I’ve always wanted to stay at a hotel that bears my name. Now I wonder if I could ask you to explain the layout of the building and take me to my room? Then I can manage on my own.” Her English was quite easy to understand.
    “Of course,” I said. Mother was nudging me, so I began describing the hotel as best I could.
    Mother leaned against the front desk and stared at the woman. She frowned and pressed her finger to her temple. There was no sign of the welcoming smile she’d worn a moment ago, and when I finished my explanation, the key she handed the woman was not for the best room but for the smallest one with the worst ventilation, least reliable plumbing, and no view.
    The woman thanked me politely when I carried her bag upstairs for her. I wanted to tell her she should let me know if she needed anything, but I realized I couldn’t say this in