FOG

In the fog I go into the wrong room. Luckily there’re no embarrassments before I realize my mistake and leave. “Whoever designed this hotel,” I think, “should have his head examined.”

At last I get to the proper door: I can make out that the key-tag number fits the door number. After a while of poking I get the key to go into the lock. I turn it and go inside.

The door clicks behind me. There is a girl in my bed. She puts down her newspaper and stares at me. I stare at her. “What’s going on?” she says. “This is my room,” I tell her. “You’ve made a mistake.” “I have not,” she says. “I’m afraid you have,” I insist. I hold up the key and waggle it. “This matches the door number and it opens the door.” There’s silence. The girl looks displeased and thoughtful. “Alright, you can stay, for tonight,” she says finally. “But don’t try anything.” “Thanks so much,” I tell her sarcastically. “Let’s not forget whose room this is, shall we?” I add.

I go over to the bureau. I see she’s taken it over with her things. Sourly I glance at her over my shoulder but she’s got the newspaper up and cigarette smoke rises from behind it. I open the French windows and step out onto the miniature terrace. More “smoke”: it’s impossible to see a thing. Anything visible is glistening with damp. I turn back inside. I feel grim and bushed. I go to the closet and push aside her things and take off my coat and start unbuttoning my shirt. “What are you doing?” she says. I turn around. The newspaper is down. “I’m getting ready for bed,” I tell her. “Is that so?” she says, her eyes narrowing. “And just where do you intend to sleep?” “In my bed,” I tell her. “Listen: I’m very tired, this is my room, my bed, I’ll be damned if I’ll sleep on the floor.” She chews on this one for a while. Finally she says, “You try anything and you’ll be sorry.” Then she shifts all the way over to the very edge of the mattress. Up goes the paper.

I get my pyjamas and go into the bathroom, shaking my head. When I come out, there’s no change in the situation. I pause, then I stride up to the bed and lift the bedclothes on my side and get in, courteously but firmly. I settle myself with my hands under my head. The wall of newspaper rises beside me. I lie there in the shadows beyond the sphere of her lamp, and I welcome sleep as a relief from the oddball weirdness of the situation. But something holds me back from sleep, something that nags at me about the whole business. Then I realize what it is.

“So how did you get in?” I ask, talking into the darkness. For a long while there isn’t any answer. Then behind the newspaper her voice says, “I don’t know. I made a mistake.” Then after a bit: “What do you expect, with this horrible fog.” “Yeah, terrible, isn’t it?” I agree drowsily, but either she doesn’t want anything to get started or I fall asleep because I don’t remember her reply.