the mortis Read Online Free PDF

says.
     
     
    Park brews coffee with the in-room maker, but it can only output one cup at a time, so he makes hers first, then his.  He uses white ceramic mugs with the hotel ’s logo, a green tortoise.  Lee accepts the cup and says thank you, but then she immediately sets it down, goes into the bathroom and slides the door closed.  He hears the shower start to run.
    While Lee is in the bathroom, Park sits and pages through a thick magazine, the kind that hotels like to leave on a glass-topped table by a window.  Mostly just glossy ads.  Jewelry and celebrity-endorsed watches and luxury cruise lines.  He ’s not looking for heavy reading material, so the ads don’t bother him.  In fact, for some reason, nothing really does at the moment.  Nothing at all.  He sits and sips coffee and browses products he’ll never be able to afford, and he feels oddly content about the entire thing.  Where he is right now, the things he’s witnessed here.  Everything is going to be okay.
     
     
    After they ’re both showered and dressed, Park suggests going to the cooking class, for the hell of it.  Why not?  Think of it as a broadening activity, he says.  Trust me.  It’s fun.  She hesitates, staring at him strangely, but eventually she agrees. 
    He packs a tablet computer in his satchel in case the class is boring, and when it ’s time to leave, they go through the exit ritual.  A checklist of questions about topics such as the whereabouts of the room key, how much money they should leave as a tip for Housekeeping, whether any valuables need to go into the in-room safe embedded in a wall inside the closet, and if so, what four-digit code will be programmed into the lock.  When these questions have been answered, they stand together in the entranceway to the suite with the door open, looking back into the room, and ask the last question on the list:
    Do we have everything?
     
     
    Putting the Makoa behind them, walking across the grounds toward the Recreation Annex, they notice an unusual number of people out milling around.  Not doing anything in particular.  Just sitting or walking slowly.  Most of the people who are bothering to move don’t look like they’re going anywhere specific.  No destinations in mind.  Milling is the right word for what they’re doing.  Words—the ones you choose—are important.  That’s something Lee likes to tell him all the time.
      She seems to be taking everything pretty well at the moment, his wife.  As they walk side by side, Park glances at her, and she looks a little bit anxious, but not as much as he would expect, given recent events.  She holds his hand tightly, and her head is swiveling back and forth as she scans the grounds. 
     
     
    The kitchen classroom is situated in its own building next to the Annex, near a large grove of tamarind.  When they enter the room, they find it empty.  Brightly lit.  Sweltering.  The heat is absolutely oppressive.  There must be a dozen ovens in the room, and each one of them is turned on. 
    The space looks like a TV studio where cooking competitions are held.  Clusters of high-powered light bulbs mounted on overhead gantries.  Hardwood flooring.  Mixers on the granite counters.  Everything is divided into individual workstations, and there is a black apron with the Lavelha logo folded next to each sink.
    As they look around, a man enters from a back room.  A white man—he looks like another hotel guest.  The man is wearing one of the black aprons.  Wiping his hands with a red dish rag.
    “ Smell that,” says the man.  “Really let it get in there.”  He’s sweating heavily.  Breathing hard, as though he ran here.  “Nice, right?” 
    Now that the man has mentioned it, yes, Park can smell that.  And yes, it does smell nice.  It ’s the smell of meat braising.  Low and slow, isn’t that something people say?
    “ Smells good,” Park says.
    “ Thanks,” says the man. 
    There is a long silence