opposite the entrance.
He went to it, approaching from the blind side. Lillian followed. The car wasn’t locked. Wiley tossed the baggage in the back, got in and climbed over into the driver’s seat. Lillian got in and, following Wiley’s instructions, quietly closed the door.
The key was in the ignition.
Wiley started the car up, opened the window and pressed the horn. Three brief imperative honks, a shout, then three more honks that even the busiest porters could not disregard.
Wiley got out of the Corniche. Stood there beside it. He didn’t have to resort to words. His air conveyed impatience, and three porters hurried toward the car to look after the baggage as Wiley and Lillian strolled on in.
The reception area was crowded. About a hundred people. Many greats had arrived at once, and evidently not everything had been well enough planned in advance. There was confusion about where to put who. The manager was trying to please and placate just about everyone, because just about everyone was important and used to being treated accordingly. Adding to the disorder, the guests were greeting and gushing all over one another, with a lot of double cheek-kissing and insincere but enthusiastic embracing.
There they were, the powerful and the spoiled, the ones who enjoyed making news. Flaunting, narcissistic, they were already forming new erotic alliances with their eyes, with no more than a flick of a glance, agreeing.
There was a delicate intensity about most of the men, like tightrope walkers who out of habit were unable to take a solid stance. The women wore their assertiveness as though it were an accessory. They were quite blunt, flourishing their mental competence and physical advantages. Thus, an atmosphere of bisexuality prevailed. Their clothes, gestures, the quick-change artistry of their facial expressions and manner of speaking all contributed. Sexual chameleons. But not altogether evil. It was more a social way. Au courant to look in both directions for pleasure, if only for appearance—to keep in, not to be left out. Worst of all was to have a reputation for being dull.
Present also were the usual camp followers. A few leading players from the movies, strangers with familiar faces, some overused, passé. Along with other types of entertainers—sharp wits, sharp tongues, atrocious characters, bizarre personalities, needed for perverse amusement, suffering by comparison, making the powerful and beautiful appreciate themselves all the more.
Wiley felt out of place. If he fit in, as Mrs. Gimble had predicted, he had to do some serious self-reappraising, he thought. He turned to speak to Lillian.
She wasn’t there.
She’d slipped away, nowhere in sight. Probably, Wiley decided, she didn’t want to be seen with him because that would cramp her ambitions. Couldn’t blame her. But at least she could have said good-bye, thanks for the lift, or anything.
What now? Wiley wondered. Ask for Mrs. Gimble? She was his only in, had offered to arrange things with what’s-his-name … Argenti. However, that would mean getting into the battle going on at the reception desk. He was there on such a flimsy invitation.
He spotted a porter.
He remembered la mordida , grabbed the porter’s arm, said “Por favor” and slipped him 600 pesos. Fifty dollars. Extravagant, but worth it if it worked.
The porter understood the money. He took Wiley’s luggage and provided interference through the crowd, across the reception area and outside to a courtyard, where there was an electric cart with a white awning top. Luggage and Wiley aboard, the porter started the cart and steered it down the cobblestone street.
“What number is your bungalow, señor ?”
First to Wiley’s mind came eleven. He skipped from it to thirty, then to seventy-five, and told the porter, “Seventy-eight.”
The porter nodded and said, as though he’d heard, “One-fourteen.”
Wiley confirmed that and sat back to enjoy the ride. Along the way
He went to it, approaching from the blind side. Lillian followed. The car wasn’t locked. Wiley tossed the baggage in the back, got in and climbed over into the driver’s seat. Lillian got in and, following Wiley’s instructions, quietly closed the door.
The key was in the ignition.
Wiley started the car up, opened the window and pressed the horn. Three brief imperative honks, a shout, then three more honks that even the busiest porters could not disregard.
Wiley got out of the Corniche. Stood there beside it. He didn’t have to resort to words. His air conveyed impatience, and three porters hurried toward the car to look after the baggage as Wiley and Lillian strolled on in.
The reception area was crowded. About a hundred people. Many greats had arrived at once, and evidently not everything had been well enough planned in advance. There was confusion about where to put who. The manager was trying to please and placate just about everyone, because just about everyone was important and used to being treated accordingly. Adding to the disorder, the guests were greeting and gushing all over one another, with a lot of double cheek-kissing and insincere but enthusiastic embracing.
There they were, the powerful and the spoiled, the ones who enjoyed making news. Flaunting, narcissistic, they were already forming new erotic alliances with their eyes, with no more than a flick of a glance, agreeing.
There was a delicate intensity about most of the men, like tightrope walkers who out of habit were unable to take a solid stance. The women wore their assertiveness as though it were an accessory. They were quite blunt, flourishing their mental competence and physical advantages. Thus, an atmosphere of bisexuality prevailed. Their clothes, gestures, the quick-change artistry of their facial expressions and manner of speaking all contributed. Sexual chameleons. But not altogether evil. It was more a social way. Au courant to look in both directions for pleasure, if only for appearance—to keep in, not to be left out. Worst of all was to have a reputation for being dull.
Present also were the usual camp followers. A few leading players from the movies, strangers with familiar faces, some overused, passé. Along with other types of entertainers—sharp wits, sharp tongues, atrocious characters, bizarre personalities, needed for perverse amusement, suffering by comparison, making the powerful and beautiful appreciate themselves all the more.
Wiley felt out of place. If he fit in, as Mrs. Gimble had predicted, he had to do some serious self-reappraising, he thought. He turned to speak to Lillian.
She wasn’t there.
She’d slipped away, nowhere in sight. Probably, Wiley decided, she didn’t want to be seen with him because that would cramp her ambitions. Couldn’t blame her. But at least she could have said good-bye, thanks for the lift, or anything.
What now? Wiley wondered. Ask for Mrs. Gimble? She was his only in, had offered to arrange things with what’s-his-name … Argenti. However, that would mean getting into the battle going on at the reception desk. He was there on such a flimsy invitation.
He spotted a porter.
He remembered la mordida , grabbed the porter’s arm, said “Por favor” and slipped him 600 pesos. Fifty dollars. Extravagant, but worth it if it worked.
The porter understood the money. He took Wiley’s luggage and provided interference through the crowd, across the reception area and outside to a courtyard, where there was an electric cart with a white awning top. Luggage and Wiley aboard, the porter started the cart and steered it down the cobblestone street.
“What number is your bungalow, señor ?”
First to Wiley’s mind came eleven. He skipped from it to thirty, then to seventy-five, and told the porter, “Seventy-eight.”
The porter nodded and said, as though he’d heard, “One-fourteen.”
Wiley confirmed that and sat back to enjoy the ride. Along the way
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