At the Bottom of Everything(53)
Elevators are such a terrible form of transport when you really want to get somewhere. I rushed past the baffled hostess (who was, I was fairly sure, the same woman who’d checked us in the night before) and did a quick lap around the dining room. Purple paisley carpet, mirrors, white tablecloths. White families, Indian families, a group of women all reading from different guidebooks.
“Excuse me, did someone named Thomas Pell come down here and eat, do you know? Room 8021?”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“Did a man from room 8021 come down here already? Would you mind checking?”
“I’m sorry. Would you like to sit for breakfast, sir?”
I hurried back through the lobby and out into the driveway, where it was already as hot as the middle of the afternoon. I ran past the line of cars and out to the sidewalk; I looked one way toward the traffic circle, the other way toward a high-rise, and realized that my running off in any direction would only make it much less likely that I’d find him.
You know what? I thought. He must be in the room. Maybe I somehow overlooked him, or maybe he was just out meditating in the hall. By the time I’d run up the stairs and reopened our door, I was feeling nearly hopeful. “You scared the shit out of me!” I’d tell him, and he’d nod at me like a benevolent tree being.
But the room was precisely as I’d left it. The bathroom door was open at just the same angle, the pillows on his bed were still where I’d thrown them. Now I was permitting myself, however slightly, to panic. I looked under both of our beds, even though these were the kinds of beds in which the “under” consists of a wooden box that goes all the way to the floor. I opened the shower curtain and looked in the tub not once but twice. I even, knowing it was insane as I did it, looked inside the minibar.
I spent the rest of the morning, and really the rest of the day, engaged in one of my least favorite (and lately most frequent) activities: anxious waiting. I sat on the bed, with the room phone beside me and the ringer turned up to maximum volume, watching more hours of cricket than I would ever have expected to consume. I ate all the dried apricots from the minibar, and then all the ginger snaps, and then all the Peanut M&M’s, for a running total of $21.50. Every time the maids, or anyone else, went by in the hallway, I momentarily convinced myself that Thomas was about to open the door. How (really: how) was I going to tell his parents that I’d lost him again? I should have handcuffed myself to him. I should have slept with one hand clasping his beard.
I was aware, in a theoretical way, that some of my panic and grief at not knowing where he was (and by then I was sweating freely, shredding the packages in my hands into plastic strips) may have been borrowed emotion; which is to say, the fact that I hadn’t really allowed myself to think or feel very much regarding the visit to the Batras the night before may have been causing me to feel more than I otherwise would have about what was happening today. Plus I was almost certainly still suffering from certain psychological effects of sleep deprivation. But still. Every thirty minutes or so I called the front desk to ask if anyone had been by to see me. Every hour I went down and checked my email (YOU’VE FOUND HIM! Oh, Adam, we are dizzy with gratitude). I kept standing up to look out the window, as if he might pop up swimming laps or sunbathing.
The sun had already started to set again (there’s almost nothing more discouraging than the sunset on a day when you’ve hardly gone outside) when I decided, or admitted, that I needed finally to do the thing I’d spent the past few hours hoping and pretending I could avoid. I went back down to the business center, where I took my usual seat beside the preteen sibling British girls who’d spent the entire afternoon playing a game starring Dora the Explorer.
My teeth were chattering as I typed.
From: <Adam Sanecki>
To: <RBrough132@aol.com>
Date: Fri, Aug 7, 2009 at 7:06 PM
Raymond: I need you to tell me the location of the cave where Thomas was planning to go for his final retreat. I know you don’t always respond to emails right away, and I know this is the sort of thing you’ll say you have to confirm with Guruji, and I know he’s sick … so I just want to be very clear. You need to respond to me as soon as you get this message, and you need to tell me, with absolutely no ambiguity, where to find him. I’ve just spent the day with a lawyer specializing in financial audits of religious institutions, and I hope you’ll give me an excuse not to retain his services.
Thanks for your cooperation,
Adam Sanecki
· Three ·
I should have (and under ordinary mental circumstances would have) known: