sneezed again. I looked at myself in the mirror. My face was bright red. I opened the doors and turned off the light and got into bed and tried to sleep. I imagined a particularly intimate act with the flat-chested girl on the plane. That often does the trick, but I was too itchy, especially the soles of my feet. I scratched one foot with the other, to no avail. It was as if there were sand fleas under the sheet. Or ticks maybe. I got up and shut the window. Perhaps they were coming in off the beach. I got back into bed. For a second my feet stopped itching and I lay in peace, but then there was a bang right below me and the sound of grinding metal. I opened the French doors and looked down. On the floor below me, the second floor, I saw a light spread out on the sand. The clanking and banging continued. It was an air conditioner, a faulty air conditioner. It clanked and rattled all night. I could get hardly any sleep.
In the morning I complained to the concierge. He offered to move me but couldn’t; there were no spare rooms, only villas at the far end of the property. But they were two hundred U.S. a night. I went down to the pool and read and stared about and saw, to my horror, the girl from the plane walk across the hot patio and sit in a lounge chair right in front of me. Her husband followed soon after. I moved my chair to face the ocean, but I couldn’t stop looking at her. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt, and I knew that in a second she was going to do something that would make me feel quite ill. And it did.
Settling in her chair, pointing it this way and then that, she put her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. But then, with a sudden gesture, as if startled, she sat up and ripped off her T-shirt. It was one of those awful places where women don’t wear tops. Christ, the stress of it! My pale, skinny friend sat forward in her deck chair and began to cover herself, her small breasts, under her arms, her neck, her thighs with suntan lotion while her husband flipped through what appeared to be a copy of The Economist . Really, I thought, if he were half a man he would take her upstairs … well, never mind. After a while I got up and staggered a few steps (the sun had zonked me), pretending to go to the bar but really so I could see her up close. A trickle of sweat ran down her rib cage onto her stomach. I went straight back to my room, bringing with me a tube of coconut oil, a product that I can’t smell to this day without experiencing a kind of erotic dread.
I took the hotel bus into town after lunch, bought the usual junk, even explored a local hardware store, hammers, ladders. I felt as if I were looking for something, but I didn’t have a clue what. And then suddenly I was sleepy, so sleepy I couldn’t wait for the bus but took a taxi back to the hotel and stumbled to my room.
I collapsed on my bed. I turned the air conditioner on full blast. I read Georges Simenon for a few minutes, then rolled over and scrunched down in the cool air. I closed my eyes. I thought about this and that, but gradually I began to notice a strange smell issuing from my pillow. Still, I was happy and comfy and sailing downwards when the clanking began. I could feel myself waking up. I yanked open the French doors and looked down. Sure enough the air conditioner on the floor below had started up again. I looked to my right and left: there were rows upon rows of air conditioners, all humming and dripping in a quiet, civilized manner. How perfect that the only person in the hotel who truly needed his rest (that business with the dogs had put quite the strain on my system) was the only person who was going to be deprived of rest. I lay on my bed listening for a while longer, but then, in a spasm of anger, I leapt up with a curse, thrust myself into a pair of shorts—Lord, I was putting on weight!—and went outside into the blinding sunlight.
The tiles were scorching hot, so I walked very briskly to the ground floor
In the morning I complained to the concierge. He offered to move me but couldn’t; there were no spare rooms, only villas at the far end of the property. But they were two hundred U.S. a night. I went down to the pool and read and stared about and saw, to my horror, the girl from the plane walk across the hot patio and sit in a lounge chair right in front of me. Her husband followed soon after. I moved my chair to face the ocean, but I couldn’t stop looking at her. She wore a sleeveless white T-shirt, and I knew that in a second she was going to do something that would make me feel quite ill. And it did.
Settling in her chair, pointing it this way and then that, she put her hands behind her head and closed her eyes. But then, with a sudden gesture, as if startled, she sat up and ripped off her T-shirt. It was one of those awful places where women don’t wear tops. Christ, the stress of it! My pale, skinny friend sat forward in her deck chair and began to cover herself, her small breasts, under her arms, her neck, her thighs with suntan lotion while her husband flipped through what appeared to be a copy of The Economist . Really, I thought, if he were half a man he would take her upstairs … well, never mind. After a while I got up and staggered a few steps (the sun had zonked me), pretending to go to the bar but really so I could see her up close. A trickle of sweat ran down her rib cage onto her stomach. I went straight back to my room, bringing with me a tube of coconut oil, a product that I can’t smell to this day without experiencing a kind of erotic dread.
I took the hotel bus into town after lunch, bought the usual junk, even explored a local hardware store, hammers, ladders. I felt as if I were looking for something, but I didn’t have a clue what. And then suddenly I was sleepy, so sleepy I couldn’t wait for the bus but took a taxi back to the hotel and stumbled to my room.
I collapsed on my bed. I turned the air conditioner on full blast. I read Georges Simenon for a few minutes, then rolled over and scrunched down in the cool air. I closed my eyes. I thought about this and that, but gradually I began to notice a strange smell issuing from my pillow. Still, I was happy and comfy and sailing downwards when the clanking began. I could feel myself waking up. I yanked open the French doors and looked down. Sure enough the air conditioner on the floor below had started up again. I looked to my right and left: there were rows upon rows of air conditioners, all humming and dripping in a quiet, civilized manner. How perfect that the only person in the hotel who truly needed his rest (that business with the dogs had put quite the strain on my system) was the only person who was going to be deprived of rest. I lay on my bed listening for a while longer, but then, in a spasm of anger, I leapt up with a curse, thrust myself into a pair of shorts—Lord, I was putting on weight!—and went outside into the blinding sunlight.
The tiles were scorching hot, so I walked very briskly to the ground floor
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