Read Online The Last Resort by Carmen Posadas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carmen Posadas
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obnoxious creditor demanding to speak with him.
After five rings, the telephone stopped to recite a friendly message that Molinet had recorded in his most sophisticated voice. Following the beep, a female voice rang through the air:
“Rafamolinet, it’s me. Are you home?”
Fernanda most definitely
was
the kind of person who thought that “it’s me” was a universally effective mode of identification, but Molinet decided not to pick up the call. He let her go on speaking.
“I just called to say that I hope you have a wonderful vacation, Uncle, and to thank you for lunch today. And don’t go thinking that I am calling you out of obligation, because I am not that kind of person, you know. I just wanted to tell you how lovely it is to know that I have an uncle in London who . . .” That was where her message got cut off. His machine allowed fifteen seconds of aggravating, undesirable messages before cutting off the caller. Now, however, Molinet was wondering if perhaps he ought to call his niece at her hotel to see if she had anything else to say. But then he decided against it. Fernanda was delicious only in small doses. Even so, her voice on the answering machine was like a tonic, for it was a cheerful call, bless her little heart. And this tiny reminder of the world to which he had once belonged was enough to make him think far more pleasant thoughts, such as:
Tomorrow, finally, everything will be different.
He repeated this over and over again, like a mantra. Then he let go of Gomez so that he could focus on more practical matters, such as packing for his trip to Morocco.
All his things were in a jumble on the bed that had once belonged to his mother: his medicine, his clothing, his shoes. Now he had to ask himself which of his Bermuda shorts he should take with him: the blue ones? The leaf-green ones? He was undecided. Far more important, however, were the three bottles of pills that Dr. Pertini had prescribed, which he would ingest all at once on the day of his choosing, at L’Hirondelle d’Or, a fabulous hotel for only the wealthiest of vacationers, a most tranquil little hideaway.
Little by little, with the aid of this positive thinking, he began to formulate a plan of action. He had always believed in the importance of the mise-en-scène, and it seemed exceedingly obvious to him that death would be far more pleasant if experienced in luxurious, expensive surroundings and not in the squalid little room that had been witness to all his failures.
He paused for a moment in front of the armoire mirror, and before forming any opinion about his appearance or the state of the bedroom (which, for him, was utter chaos), he lifted his white caftan off the bed and put it on over his street clothes. He had selected this article of clothing precisely because it contrasted so divinely with his dark, distinguished looks. And right then he felt certain that not even Truman Capote in his golden years, the fabulous queer and darling of Lady Luck, had ever cut such a grand figure as he did right then dressed in that impeccable white linen sheath.
“God bless frivolity, for it puts everything in its proper place,” he said to himself. Prompted by this sudden thought, he began to speak to Gomez. In reality, he had never been very fond of lap dogs, but the presence of Gomez, a previously unwanted dog, somehow helped him mold the persona that slowly had begun to take shape in the mirror, a persona that was not at all unattractive.
“What do you think?” he said. “As I look at the two of us, it occurs to me that perhaps before ending it all with a theatrical finale, I might just try my hand at a few long-forgotten techniques—like mooching off rich people, for example.” After all, he reasoned (not out loud this time, since he was not given to chatting with dogs), it should be easy as pie to find some rich old matron desperate for company at a hotel like L’Hirondelle d’Or. Elegant places are always filled with
After five rings, the telephone stopped to recite a friendly message that Molinet had recorded in his most sophisticated voice. Following the beep, a female voice rang through the air:
“Rafamolinet, it’s me. Are you home?”
Fernanda most definitely
was
the kind of person who thought that “it’s me” was a universally effective mode of identification, but Molinet decided not to pick up the call. He let her go on speaking.
“I just called to say that I hope you have a wonderful vacation, Uncle, and to thank you for lunch today. And don’t go thinking that I am calling you out of obligation, because I am not that kind of person, you know. I just wanted to tell you how lovely it is to know that I have an uncle in London who . . .” That was where her message got cut off. His machine allowed fifteen seconds of aggravating, undesirable messages before cutting off the caller. Now, however, Molinet was wondering if perhaps he ought to call his niece at her hotel to see if she had anything else to say. But then he decided against it. Fernanda was delicious only in small doses. Even so, her voice on the answering machine was like a tonic, for it was a cheerful call, bless her little heart. And this tiny reminder of the world to which he had once belonged was enough to make him think far more pleasant thoughts, such as:
Tomorrow, finally, everything will be different.
He repeated this over and over again, like a mantra. Then he let go of Gomez so that he could focus on more practical matters, such as packing for his trip to Morocco.
All his things were in a jumble on the bed that had once belonged to his mother: his medicine, his clothing, his shoes. Now he had to ask himself which of his Bermuda shorts he should take with him: the blue ones? The leaf-green ones? He was undecided. Far more important, however, were the three bottles of pills that Dr. Pertini had prescribed, which he would ingest all at once on the day of his choosing, at L’Hirondelle d’Or, a fabulous hotel for only the wealthiest of vacationers, a most tranquil little hideaway.
Little by little, with the aid of this positive thinking, he began to formulate a plan of action. He had always believed in the importance of the mise-en-scène, and it seemed exceedingly obvious to him that death would be far more pleasant if experienced in luxurious, expensive surroundings and not in the squalid little room that had been witness to all his failures.
He paused for a moment in front of the armoire mirror, and before forming any opinion about his appearance or the state of the bedroom (which, for him, was utter chaos), he lifted his white caftan off the bed and put it on over his street clothes. He had selected this article of clothing precisely because it contrasted so divinely with his dark, distinguished looks. And right then he felt certain that not even Truman Capote in his golden years, the fabulous queer and darling of Lady Luck, had ever cut such a grand figure as he did right then dressed in that impeccable white linen sheath.
“God bless frivolity, for it puts everything in its proper place,” he said to himself. Prompted by this sudden thought, he began to speak to Gomez. In reality, he had never been very fond of lap dogs, but the presence of Gomez, a previously unwanted dog, somehow helped him mold the persona that slowly had begun to take shape in the mirror, a persona that was not at all unattractive.
“What do you think?” he said. “As I look at the two of us, it occurs to me that perhaps before ending it all with a theatrical finale, I might just try my hand at a few long-forgotten techniques—like mooching off rich people, for example.” After all, he reasoned (not out loud this time, since he was not given to chatting with dogs), it should be easy as pie to find some rich old matron desperate for company at a hotel like L’Hirondelle d’Or. Elegant places are always filled with
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