th her usual size. She was perfect in every detail—the black hair, the smile in her eyes, the way she swam the breaststroke, which had always been her favourite.Twenty-six hours after his wife’s funeral ended, Lewis Taylor looked through the peephole of the second-finest hotel room in Winnipeg, Manitoba. Squinting, he refocused his right eye and saw a man wearing a crisp, white, collarless shirt standing in the hallway. A black comb and a pair of scissors with long, slim blades protruded from his breast pocket. Lewis continued watching. He did not open the door.
“Are you the barber?” Lewis asked.
“I am,” the man said. His accent was Eastern European, although Lewis could not place it more precisely.
“How can I be sure?”
“Listen, I can come back later. Maybe even send someone else? Makes no difference to me.”
“No, no. You’re right. I’m sorry,” Lewis said. He slid off the chain and unlocked the door.
The barber stepped inside. Both men stood in the small foyer. Behind them was a living room of considerable size and a hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom. Some moments passed.
“Where should I cut?”
“Where’s best?”
“Is the bathroom okay for you?”
“Sure. That’s fine,” Lewis said.
Lewis watched the barber’s dress shoes leave prints in the carpet as he walked towards the bathroom. Lewis had never seen a carpet vacuumed so perfectly. He imagined a fleet of miniature snow-grooming machines hiding in the closet, coming out at night to work the carpet as if it were a ski hill. When he opened his eyes, the barber was carrying a chair into the bathroom, and Lewis followed him inside.
Setting the chair on the tiled floor in front of the full-length mirror to the left of the vanity, the barber gestured for Lewis to sit. Lewis sat. Closing his eyes, he felt the barber’s massive hands on the sides of his head, turning it this way and that. The barber saw that the roots of Lewis’s hair were brown and that it had been cut quite recently, no more than two or three days earlier.
“This hair is very well styled. Very modern.”
“Thank you.”
“You sure you want me to cut?”
“Very much.”
“More conservative?”
“Yes. That’s right. More conservative.”
“Unlike the suit you’re wearing?”
Lewis looked into the full-length mirror, although he did not look at his face. The suit was the height of fashion. As were his shoes and tie. As he stared at his reflection from the neck down, he had the disturbing premonition that his clothes would someday be someone’s Halloween costume.
“Yes,” Lewis said. “That’s it. That’s it exactly. The opposite of what I’m wearing.”
Lewis felt a towel cover his shoulders. He heard the scissors open above his head. As the barber began to cut, Lewis kept perfectly still.
Many things had happened to Lewis since he’d stood in the middle of an intersection in the east end of Toronto, watching a green-skinned woman pilot a white Honda Civic. The first had been backing away from the limousine he’d been travelling in. The second was climbing inside the nearest taxi.
“Hello,” the driver said.
“Yes?”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
The taxi did not move. Lewis took two twenty-dollar bills from his wallet and, leaning forward, placed them on the passenger seat.
“Straight,” he said. “Just go.”
The cabbie drove west on Queen Street, and Lewis slumped in his seat, asking himself if he was doing the right thing. The answer came quickly—he wasn’t. The right thing would be to go to his wife’s funeral and sob uncontrollably. He knew that he should be immobilized with grief. That he should, very shortly, begin raging against a distant and uncaring god. But Lewis was incapable of doing any of these things. Instead, he turned his body slightly to the right and looked out the window.
The taxi drove past buildings that were familiar to Lewis, but he felt as if he had entered an entirely different city. Rolling down the window, Lewis stuck out his head, dog-like. He looked down at the asphalt blurring below him. He turned and looked up at the sky, where an airplane was leaving a long white trail like a line of cocaine prepared and waiting for the crisp, rolled-up twenty-dollar bill.
“Wait,” he said. He pulled his head back inside the cab. “The airport. Take me to Pearson.”
Already heading west, the cabbie continued on his present course. Two hours later, Lewis was waiting in the designated waiting area at Gate 23, Terminal One, having purchased a one-way ticket to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The rectangular digital clock suspended from the ceiling told him it was 5:43 p.m. Lewis realized his wife’s funeral was over by now. He set his watch so it would beep forty-three minutes into each and every hour. Then he presented his ticket to the overly polite airline representative and boarded Flight AC719.
Three hours and forty-six minutes later, Lewis deplaned on the east coast of Canada. Outside the terminal, he took a deep breath. The air that filled his lungs was fresh. He liked this very much, but he knew he couldn’t stay. Back inside the terminal, Lewis stared at the departures board. He wanted to travel but lacked any desire to arrive. He purchased a one-way ticket to Vancouver, British Columbia, because it was the longest domestic flight available.
Once in the air, Lewis rested his head against the window and listened to the hum of the airplane. The sound was consistent and made him feel safe. Nothing strange happened until midway through the flight, when Lewis got up and rushed to the bathroom. He did not need to pee. He needed to be alone. In the tiny room, Lewis locked the door and filled the stainless steel sink with water. After several minutes of staring into the top right corner of the mirror, deliberately avoiding eye contact with himself, a slight movement drew his attention.
Looking down, Lewis saw a tiny version of his wife swimming through the water. She wore a green one-piece bathing suit and was th her usual size. She was perfect in every detail—the black hair, the smile in her eyes, the way she swam the breaststroke, which had always been her favourite.
Lewis pushed his palms against his eyes until he felt like he was falling. “Listen,” he said, consciously deciding not to figure out who he was addressing. “I know I’m an asshole. I know I’ve always been an asshole. But I want to change. I’m willing to change.” He lowered his palms and opened his eyes, and when he looked down at the sink, she was gone.
Lewis returned to his seat. At 12:55 a.m., now technically Friday, August 20th, Lewis arrived in Vancouver. He did not leave the airport. He stared at the departures board. The next domestic flight scheduled to leave Vancouver International Airport was flying to Winnipeg, Manitoba. Lewis bought a one-way ticket.
Lewis arrived in Winnipeg at 6:37 a.m., although his watch told him it was 8:37 a.m. He walked past reunions, didn’t stop at the luggage carousel, and went directly outside. Standing on the sidewalk, he closed his eyes and listened. Winnipeg felt still, as if it had been unplugged, and this made him feel safe. He had no relatives or friends in Winnipeg. He had never been here before. He had no reason to be in this city. Lewis decided to stay, and he got inside the first taxi in line.
“Take me to the best hotel in town,” Lewis said, then he leaned forward between the seats until he could see the driver’s face. “No. I want the old hotel. The hotel that used to be the best in town but isn’t anymore. I want elegance in decline.” The driver nodded and drove him directly to the Fort Garry.
The roof of the Fort Garry Hotel had steep lines in the château style. There were turrets and ornately decorated windows. There was a doorman in a long red coat. There were well-dressed couples entering and exiting. Lewis was surprised to find such a vision of old-world elegance in the middle of the Canadian Prairies. When the doorman opened his door, Lewis decided he would stay forever.
He played with the idea of registering under a pseudonym—perhaps S. Isyphus, or Dr. F. Austus. But in the end he rented the Vice-Regal Suite under his own name. The woman who had shown him to his suite had stood in the middle of the living room, hesitating. She studied Lewis. She nodded her head once she was sure that she recognized him.
“Are you?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
Lewis did not immediately answer. Raising his eyebrows in an unintentionally comic manner, he reached into the inside pocket of his suit. The hotel employee could not help but notice the thickness of the envelope. Lewis held up a hundred-dollar bill. Pausing, he pulled out a second.
“Not anymore,” Lewis said. He held up both bills. The employee nodded. When she’d taken the money, Lewis read the name tag pinned above her heart. “Beth, I’ll need a haircut, too.”
“I’ll make you an appointment.”
“Can you send him up?”
“Yes.”
“Like, right now?”
“Well, as soon as possible.”
“It’ll still be a couple of hours.”
“Okay, then.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I’ll let you know if there is,” Lewis said, and he closed the door of the Vice-Regal Suite. He went into the bathroom. He filled the bathtub but didn’t get in. He pushed down the plug in the sink and filled it too. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking from the sink to the tub, then the tub to the sink. But ninety minutes later, when he heard a knock on the suite’s door, the miniature version of his wife had still not appeared. Pulling the drain in both the sink and the tub, Lewis went to answer the door.
Lewis did not open his eyes until the barber took the towel from his shoulders. Tiny pieces of hair floated through the air. Lewis focused on these, consciously avoiding his reflection in the mirror directly in front of him. When the barber had finished sweeping up, Lewis removed the envelope from his inside pocket and took out two bills. He held these out to the barber.
“This is too much.”
“It isn’t. You’ve really helped me here,” Lewis said. He made eye contact with the barber. This was the first time Lewis had done this. It was the first time he’d made eye contact with anyone since leaving the limousine. The barber nodded and took the bills. Lewis walked the barber to the door of the Vice-Regal Suite and held it open for him. When he was gone, Lewis locked the door and slid the chain across. Then he returned to the bathroom. He stood in front of the full-length mirror. He took a very deep breath. He looked up, and looking back at him was someone trustworthy. Someone who was well adjusted. Someone who hadn’t just failed to attend his wife’s funeral.