The Blackbird

Six

Grofield plucked a dollar bill from his wallet, but it had a man’s face on it so he put it back. He selected another, and it had a woman’s face on it, and he nodded in satisfaction. Also the greens were brighter, the serial number was in red and the design was different. Finally, it said on it in large letters CANADA. That was good enough for Grofield, which meant it was good enough for the bellboy. Grofield gave it to him, the bellboy knuckled his brow and said, “Zheh,” which is French for monsieur, and then he went away, shut the door, left Grofield alone.

Grofield yawned. After a while his jaw began to ache, but the yawn wouldn’t stop. Would the hinge break, would he spend the rest of his life with his jaw dangling down on his chest? How could he deliver lines that way? Grofield reeled around, trying to stop yawning, and at last the pressure eased and his aching mouth slowly closed, like a theater door.

It was five minutes to eight in the morning. The plane from New York hadn’t loaded until nearly 1 A.M., and then hadn’t taken off until after three. Grofield had napped for about half an hour before the plane got into the air, but once aloft sleep had been impossible. God, having died, had apparently been reincarnated as a basketball player and had dribbled the plane all the way to Quebec. Somewhere along the way the snow and clouds and general storminess had faded away, leaving only the frisky wind to play with the plane like a kitten with a crumpled cigarette package, and the stewardesses had spent most of the flight rushing up and down the aisle with air sickness bags, empty in one direction, full in the other.

They had descended at last on Quebec at first light, like a plague ship, and Grofield had been mildly surprised when the airport officials had allowed them to debark. The stewardess at the exit had been glassy-eyed as she’d given each passenger the ritual, “Good to have you aboard,” and Grofield had decided not to respond.

The cab driver had been surly, though he hadn’t been on that plane. It was a twelve-mile trip from airport to hotel, all of it southeast, directly into the just-risen sun, and Grofield had spent most of it with his hands over his eyes. They’d come at the Chateau Frontenac from the west, the undramatic side, but drama would have been wasted on him this morning anyway. The process of transferring himself and suitcase from cab to hotel room was a complicated one, but ritualized, so it was possible to do it without thinking about it, and he did, and now at last he was here.

There were things to do, of course. He had to buy new clothing, without electronics. He had to reconnoiter the hotel, and then the city. He had to figure out the best way to get out of this part of the world without being intercepted. Lots of things to do, all important, all necessary, and he was going to definitely do them. Definitely. But not yet.

Sleep. First there had to be some sleep. In his present condition Grofield doubted he could successfully evade a paraplegic with a flat tire. Rest and recuperation were first on the agenda, and once he was reasonably alert once more he could get on with his escape plans. In the meantime, sleep.

And before sleep, a shower. The events of the last fifteen hours, the traveling and the running around New York City in a snowstorm and all, had left him not only exhausted but also very grimy and a nervous wreck. He was probably too tense to lose consciousness at the moment, no matter how badly he needed sleep, and a shower would do a lot to correct that, as well as making it possible for him to stand being around himself.

So he took a shower, leaving a trail of clothing from the middle of the bedroom into the bathroom, and standing in the hot spray with head and shoulders and jaw all drooping until he felt the tension draining away, felt his eyelids getting heavy instead of grainy, knew that now he could sleep. Oh, yeah, now he could sleep.

He got out of the shower, toweled himself dry, and walked nude into the room, stopping short in the doorway. Seated on the chair across the room was a coal black Negro girl in a green pants suit, looking like Robin Hood got up for a Commando raid. She looked Grofield up and down and said, as though to herself, “They are smaller.”

“I don’t believe it,” Grofield said.

“Take my word for it,” she said.

“I don’t believe God could be so cruel,” Grofield said. “All I want to do is sleep. I don’t want anything complicated now.”

“Nothing complicated,” the girl said briskly. Behind her camouflage she was a stunning girl, with large flashing eyes and close-cropped hair in the natural style, very wooly. She spoke with a vaguely British accent. She said, “All you have to do is tell me who sent you here and why. Then I’ll go away and you can sleep.”

“My doctor,” Grofield said. “For the waters.”

“What?”

“My doctor sent me here. For the waters.”

“What waters?” She sounded more annoyed than confused.

“I was misinformed,” Grofield said. “Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains, Casablanca, 1942. I hope you have an exit line, because you’re exiting.” He walked toward the bed.

Now she was more confused than annoyed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“How do I know? I’m asleep.” He pulled the spread off the bed and dumped it on the floor.

“Look, you,” she said, and pointed a finger at him. “I’m asking nice. You don’t answer me, the next one who shows up won’t be so easy to get along with.”

Grofield slid between the delicious crisp sheets. “Be sure the door is locked when you go out,” he said, and collapsed backward onto the pillow.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey!”

Grofield’s eyes closed, and whatever else she might have said was drowned out by the whirring of the wings of Morpheus.