‘No, I won’t.’
‘Honey, to my knowledge, he doesn’t even have a sister.’
Eva’s heart sank. ‘He doesn’t?’
Sis shook her head. ‘Say they don’t fit you and give ’em back. Say your aunt is going to get you a new pair. You can’t be too careful.’ Sis turned out the light and closed the linen closet door. ‘Mr Waxman’s not the only crazy person around here.’
Eva looked wistfully down at her feet. They’d been without a doubt the most exciting thing she’d ever worn in her life. Then she thought of Pots and Pans; his balding head and the way the spit gathered in the side of his mouth, forming a little pocket of foam when he spoke. ‘I guess you’re right.’
‘Of course I am.’ Sis headed down the hallway. ‘And whatever you do, don’t talk to Mr Lambert in 313.’
‘Why not?’ Eva ran to catch up with her, which was more difficult than she thought in the new red shoes.
‘He’s a Dangerous Man. You know Otto, from reception?’
‘The one with the red moustache?’
‘That’s the one. He has it on good authority that Mr Lambert is a communist. Do you know what that is?’
‘Not really.’
Sis turned on her. ‘Oh, they’re just the worst! For example, they believe in common property. Do you know what that means? What I have would belong to you too and vice versa. Isn’t that barbaric?’
Eva thought about Sis’s bolt of Irish lace. ‘I guess so.’
‘Otto says he believes in blacks marrying whites, white people not marrying at all, everyone living in communes and the entire overthrow of democracy.’
Eva tried to imagine a black man marrying a white woman. What colour would their children be?
‘And real communists, the ones in Russia, have no religion at all. It’s outlawed. There’s not a church for thousands of miles!’
‘What do they do on Sunday mornings?’
‘Nothing. No God, no heaven, no hell. I mean, that’s just asking for trouble.’ She sighed deeply. ‘He’s a Fallen Man, my friend. Forsaken. He only stays here because they won’t let him back into the Continental on account of the oyster incident.’
Eva’s eyes widened. ‘What’s the oyster incident?’
‘Believe me,’ Sis waggled a finger in Eva’s face, ‘you don’t want to know! But I’ll tell you this, the young lady involved was very offended.’
They’d reached the end of the corridor, where the service trolleys were kept.
‘You may have to clean his room,’ Sis continued, ‘but don’t talk to him. And don’t let him tell you about any of his ideas.’
‘OK.’ Eva pulled out her cart and adjusted her cap again, which kept falling down about her ears.
A jumper in room 1129 and an Enemy of the State in 313.
She was definitely going to need extra towels.
For the first week, Eva hardly saw Mr Lambert. Then one day she noticed him locking his room, heading down the hallway.
He was distracted; head down, in a hurry. He looked like any other middle-aged man; of average height, not fat or too slim, brown hair. His gait was awkward, as if one leg faltered, but it appeared not to bother him.
She stared hard.
He didn’t look fallen. Or did he?
‘Good morning, Mr Lambert.’
She didn’t know quite why she did it. And she said it softly, under her breath.
He hadn’t heard her.
So she said it again, a little louder.
‘Good morning, Mr Lambert.’
(Sis was going to kill her.)
Stopping, he turned and looked straight at her. He didn’t have the eager enthusiasm of an American but seemed to weigh up whether he would speak or not.
‘Good morning.’ His voice was low and cultured and he tipped his hat, ever so slightly, before heading down the hallway again.
Eva watched, terrified and thrilled, as he turned the corner.
He had eyes so blue they were almost navy and a thin dark moustache just like John Gilbert. Sis had neglected to mention he was handsome.
Eva let herself into his room.
There was that particular stillness which pervades after a flurry of activity; a palpable sense of energy settling. She walked into the bathroom; the air was still damp and humid, smelling of soap, warm flesh and aftershave.
Picking up the wet towels from the floor, she washed the dark hairs from the drain, wiped everything down, arranged his shaving kit and toothbrush at right angles on either side of the sink. Eva collected his laundry, retrieved stray socks from under the armchairs, and smoothed the rumpled sheets of his bed where he’d lain only twenty minutes before, propped up on one arm, reading the morning newspaper and drinking coffee. Was it her imagination or were they still almost warm?