them with the trash from the guest rooms and burn them in the incinerator in the backyard. I would have liked to keep them, but there was no safe hiding place in the Iris, no place Mother or the maid wouldn’t find them.
As we got busier, it became harder to find time alone at the front desk. Mother would constantly call for my help, and the vacationing guests were demanding—ice for a sunburn, a drain plugged with sand, rooms that were too cold or too hot, mosquitoes, a taxi to be called. … There seemed no end to their orders and requests, but I tended to them all without a word. I felt it was important to be quiet, and to keep my secret safe.
A little after noon one day, I went up to change the towels in 202. The young couple staying in the room had just taken their baby down to the beach. Their suitcases lay open, overflowing with disposable diapers, jars of baby food, dirty socks, makeup bags. Powdered milk had spilled from a baby bottle tipped over on the night table. We had squeezed a crib into the small room, and there was barely space to walk. The curtains were faded from the afternoon sun, the wallpaperpeeling here and there. I was about to put fresh towels in the bathroom when I remembered that the translator had been here in Room 202. Though not for the whole night.
I wondered whether he had done the same things to that woman he had done to me. Though they had no bags, had he brought that strange cord with him? Did he tie up the woman on the bed by the window or the bed by the wall? Did he order her to lay on the narrow strip of floor?
She was plumper than me, so the cord would have sunk deeper into her flesh. Here in this room, which smelled of sweat and perfume and baby formula. She had put on a good show, gasping with fake desire, flicking her tongue and grasping with her fingers.
I was not the only one who had been loved in this way, not the translator’s only victim. I was jealous of that woman.
Having hung the clean towels on the rack, I closed the bathroom door. I picked up a scrap of paper and threw it in the wastebasket, then I sat down on the edge of the bed. A letter had just arrived, and I was desperate to read it.
… my heart beats faster at the thought of you climbing my shell-covered stairs, drinking tea from my teacup, peering in my mirror. I find myself stopping to caress that mirror, my hand still covered in shaving cream.
Anyone who saw me would think me odd indeed, but those with impoverished hearts cannot recognize simple miracles, even the sort revealed in the act of shaving.
When they turned us away from the restaurant, I wasn’t worried about my lunch—I was worried I had lost you. That’s why I was so furious. That woman was there when we first met, and she reappeared when we were about to share our first meal. But you saved me, you protected me with a warmth I had never felt before.
On the surface, my life hasn’t changed. I rise at 7:00, and I translate for three hours before lunch and two after. When I finish work, I go for a walk around the island and then take a nap. After that, I make my dinner. I am at home alone in the evening, and go to bed at 11:00. No one comes to visit, not the mailman, or the bill collector, or even a salesman. But now this sad existence is filled with joy at the knowledge that I have met you—and with the fear and regret that joy brings with it.
I ask myself what would become of me if something happened to you, if you were struck by a car and disappeared without a word. Or perhaps it was all just a dream, perhaps there was no girl named Mari, not there in the plaza, not at the Hotel Iris. That’s what I fear most. …
The stronger my feelings for you become, the greater my fear, and the more freely I abandon myself to baseless speculations and anxieties. Yet the more I immerse myself in the profound joy of loving you.
I beg of you to go on living in this world I inhabit. I suppose you find this a rather ridiculous request, but to me it is of
As we got busier, it became harder to find time alone at the front desk. Mother would constantly call for my help, and the vacationing guests were demanding—ice for a sunburn, a drain plugged with sand, rooms that were too cold or too hot, mosquitoes, a taxi to be called. … There seemed no end to their orders and requests, but I tended to them all without a word. I felt it was important to be quiet, and to keep my secret safe.
A little after noon one day, I went up to change the towels in 202. The young couple staying in the room had just taken their baby down to the beach. Their suitcases lay open, overflowing with disposable diapers, jars of baby food, dirty socks, makeup bags. Powdered milk had spilled from a baby bottle tipped over on the night table. We had squeezed a crib into the small room, and there was barely space to walk. The curtains were faded from the afternoon sun, the wallpaperpeeling here and there. I was about to put fresh towels in the bathroom when I remembered that the translator had been here in Room 202. Though not for the whole night.
I wondered whether he had done the same things to that woman he had done to me. Though they had no bags, had he brought that strange cord with him? Did he tie up the woman on the bed by the window or the bed by the wall? Did he order her to lay on the narrow strip of floor?
She was plumper than me, so the cord would have sunk deeper into her flesh. Here in this room, which smelled of sweat and perfume and baby formula. She had put on a good show, gasping with fake desire, flicking her tongue and grasping with her fingers.
I was not the only one who had been loved in this way, not the translator’s only victim. I was jealous of that woman.
Having hung the clean towels on the rack, I closed the bathroom door. I picked up a scrap of paper and threw it in the wastebasket, then I sat down on the edge of the bed. A letter had just arrived, and I was desperate to read it.
… my heart beats faster at the thought of you climbing my shell-covered stairs, drinking tea from my teacup, peering in my mirror. I find myself stopping to caress that mirror, my hand still covered in shaving cream.
Anyone who saw me would think me odd indeed, but those with impoverished hearts cannot recognize simple miracles, even the sort revealed in the act of shaving.
When they turned us away from the restaurant, I wasn’t worried about my lunch—I was worried I had lost you. That’s why I was so furious. That woman was there when we first met, and she reappeared when we were about to share our first meal. But you saved me, you protected me with a warmth I had never felt before.
On the surface, my life hasn’t changed. I rise at 7:00, and I translate for three hours before lunch and two after. When I finish work, I go for a walk around the island and then take a nap. After that, I make my dinner. I am at home alone in the evening, and go to bed at 11:00. No one comes to visit, not the mailman, or the bill collector, or even a salesman. But now this sad existence is filled with joy at the knowledge that I have met you—and with the fear and regret that joy brings with it.
I ask myself what would become of me if something happened to you, if you were struck by a car and disappeared without a word. Or perhaps it was all just a dream, perhaps there was no girl named Mari, not there in the plaza, not at the Hotel Iris. That’s what I fear most. …
The stronger my feelings for you become, the greater my fear, and the more freely I abandon myself to baseless speculations and anxieties. Yet the more I immerse myself in the profound joy of loving you.
I beg of you to go on living in this world I inhabit. I suppose you find this a rather ridiculous request, but to me it is of
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