We finally halted outside a skinny building with a blood red door. The sign swinging from the awning readTHE MISTRESSin flaking gold paint. It was otherwise nondescript, made from the same clay as the buildings at either side, eaves kissing.
The inside was another world entirely.
A narrow entrance hall stretched before us, thickly papered in deepest red and impeded with frame after frame of themeless art: a banana tree, the citadel in Belavere City, a fisherman, two naked men intertwined, a parrot. The floor was thickly carpeted and stifling.
Nailed to the ceiling, oddly, was a selection of different-sized mirrors.
Two doors waited ahead, one labeledMANAGEMENT, and before I could ask what kind of hotel this was, an elaborately dressed man came sweeping out of it, arms out in welcome.
He wore a black satin cloak with a crudely cut hem. The tails were frayed. His suit underneath was a contrast of patterns—a purple waistcoat embellished in roses, pinstriped pants, a satin shirt that was perhaps once white, but was now yellow. Three long exotic feathers hung from the hoop at his earlobe, and these, too, appeared tired and crumpled.
But his shoes were polished, his black goatee was shaped precisely, and he stood with the air of a man who could sell snake oil to the most stubborn of skeptics, his smile wide and glinting.
It fell abruptly, however, at the sight of John and Patrick in his hallway.
“Meester Colson?” he said with strange inflection. It was impossible to know which Colson he meant. His eyes slipped back and forth between thetwo. He pulled his glossy cloak around his torso, as though for privacy. “A-hem, excuse me, gentlemen. I was not expecting you.”
“We need rooms, Tamir,” Patrick said without preamble. “Four of ’em.”
The man named Tamir hesitated, his many-ringed fingers steepling together clumsily. “I—erm, I may not have the vacancy—”
“Best you start evictin’ folks, then,” John quipped, peering closely at the painting of the naked men.
“I…” Tamir stumbled. “Might I suggest you inquire at The Ferryman Inn? They have an exceptional view—”
“Last I checked, Tamir, we don’townThe Ferryman Inn,” Patrick said. His exhaustion seemed to give way to menace. “Own every bed in this place, though. Includin’ the one you’re sleepin’ in.”
Tamir flushed.
Minutes later, we were led up a claustrophobic stairwell of velvet carpet. The walls either side boasted further art that grew more provocative with each flight. First, it was merely the suggestion of nakedness and sex—couplings shielded by swaths of curtains, heads thrown back in ecstasy—but soon, every frame depicted limbs flung at impossible angles, and my cheeks grew hot.
Theo remained silent behind me. John whistled or snorted with increasing regularity, and Patrick, by the third flight, cursed incredulously. “You’ve taken some creative liberties, Tamir.”
Tamir held his cloak away from his feet and continued to ascend. “Yes, well, the lease says I can decorate how I see fit.”
“We imagined it with less tits, is all,” John said. “Not that I’m complainin’.”
I rolled my eyes.
Tamir led us to the third floor and indicated two opposing doors. One door was labeledTHE MENAGERIEand the other,BELLA’S TRENCH.
“This floor is yours, as well as the one above,” Tamir said, nervously looking anywhere but at Patrick. From a higher floor, there came a rhythmic thumping, a shout, a woman’s laughter.
Patrick tracked the sound as though he could see its source through the ceiling. “For fuck’s sake,” he said, closing his eyes, and then to Tamir, “I pulled you out of a gamblin’ den and handed you this place on a silver platter.”
“And I’ve made a good business of it!” Tamir exclaimed, every word a performance. He grasped his chest in affront. “Never once have I been late in my rent.”
“Our company name is in the deed, Tamir. You were instructed to keep a low profile, run a quiet hotel.”
“Itisa hotel!”
“Yeah? And what do you call that?” Patrick asked, nodding to the ceiling, where the thumping had resumed.
Tamir bit his lip. “It’s… a creative liberty.”
“It’s a fuckin’ brothel.”
“Oh. Well, yes.”
