Page 22 of The Dream Hotel
I n the only dream she can remember from the night before, she’s wearing a midnight blue caftan with silver embroidery trim, and walking into the lobby of the Pershing Square Building downtown. The crown moldings and mirrors have been touched up here and there, but the building looks much as it did more than a century ago. It’s a shame the entrance is too small to host receptions, because it would be a great place for her photography exhibit.
The sound of the elevator doors reminds her of the task at hand: a donor event on the tenth floor. Just as she’s about to enter the elevator, out come two men. One is a young politician whose face is familiar, but whose name she can’t recall, and the other is Albert Finney. Albert Finney! No one else seems to recognize him—not the receptionist sitting behind the desk with her phone, nor the couple browsing the list of tenants on the building directory. Sara is awestruck; she’s tempted to point the actor out to them. Look, everyone. It’s the great Albert Finney! But that’s not even the strangest thing about this encounter. The strangest thing is that Finney is in a yellow tuxedo, and the other guy is in a cowboy hat and fringed waistcoat.
There you are, Finney says to Sara. Come, we’re about to take flight.
Uh, she says. Sure. (What else does one say to an invitation from Albert Finney?)
They step outside in the dark. The street is empty, save for a handful of giant carrots hovering two feet above the ground. What in the world? But Finney and the young politician each mount one, as naturally as if it were a horse or a mule, so Sara does the same, skeptical at first and then elated when her carrot slowly takes flight behind theirs. They begin a flyover of Los Angeles, its lights glittering like jewels laid out on black velvet. She can make out City Hall, and the U.S. Bank Tower, and the Wilshire Grand. On the freeways, the red and white lines of cars moving in opposite directions look like garlands. As they get closer to the San Gabriel Mountains, Finney raises one hand in warning.
Careful with the turn, he says, his voice barely audible above the sound of the motors.
He maneuvers his craft beautifully, angling it away from the mountains and toward the Pacific. The politician follows, letting out a howl of triumph as he succeeds. Then it’s her turn. She’s still not sure how to steer the damn vegetable; she was too busy admiring the sights. The Santa Anas that have suddenly picked up are making navigation even more difficult. She presses different bumps and pulls at different strings on the carrot even as the granite rock comes closer and closer into view. She’s terrified of crashing, but at the last second she manages to make the turn somehow and, with relief washing over her, she follows Finney toward the ocean.
Nicely done, he says in his gravelly voice.
By the time she finishes writing this dream, she’s smiling at the absurdity of it. A yellow tuxedo. Albert Finney. Giant carrots. Wait, is there something sexual about it? She’s always thought Finney was sexy. Still, she finds the goofiness of the flying sequence strangely comforting. It’s been a long time since she felt as free as she did in this dream, untethered from the judgment of others, unafraid to try something new.
Later, stepping in front of the mirror, she hardly recognizes herself. Who is this stranger with scared eyes and a blank face? Her uniform is immaculate, her hair pulled in a tight bun. The cameras have even trained her to stand with her limbs loose and her back straight.
Sara pulls the hair tie out, and musses up her hair. There, that’s better.
—
Dinner is pork hot dogs, which Sara gives to Toya in exchange for the canned beans on her tray. Sara tries to eat as slowly as possible, but she knows she will be hungry later. She can hardly believe there was a time when she could order a three-course meal, every dish in it made according to her preferences, and eat it sitting on a sunny terrace while making conversation with people whose company she sought. What luxury it now seems to have complained about how tangy the salad dressing was or how salty the soup. Sara is not entirely unfamiliar with deprivation, but unlike the hunger of Ramadan, when she knew with certainty that she would be able to satisfy her cravings at sunset, the hunger at Madison taunts her all the time. One of the lights overhead flickers and Sara looks up. “Is this because of construction?”
“They haven’t touched the electrical at all,” Emily replies.
“Oh. Have you seen them work?”
“Just once. They have the east wing pretty much sealed up.” Twice a week, Emily is assigned to a second shift with the custodial crew, and sometimes she overhears talk about goings-on at Madison.
“Do you know when they’ll be done?”
“Williams said they have to be out by November 15.”
Eisley looks up. “Williams, the library attendant?”
“That’s the one.”
The light flickers again, its reflection against the darkened windows giving the appearance of lightning in a thunderstorm. Every table in the cafeteria is full, the din of conversation at its loudest, and the heat is rising fast. At the table by the door, Victoria stands up suddenly, throwing her head back to stop a nosebleed, but there are no napkins with which to stem the flow of blood. She leaves to wash up—and one of her tablemates steals a hot dog from her tray. “This fucking place,” Sara mutters, shaking her head.
Marcela turns to Eisley. “You had your first hearing today, right? How’d it go?”
“I got cleared,” Eisley says. “I get out first thing tomorrow.”
A stunned silence falls on the table.
“For real?” Marcela asks.
“I wouldn’t joke about something like that.”
“Wow.”
“Who was the last Tourist?” Toya asks, looking around the table. “Anyone remember?”
Marcela dunks her hot dog in ketchup. “The medic from Temecula, right?”
“No, the medic was extended once before her release,” Sara says. “The last one was Michelle Adams, the waitress. Back in May.”
“You’ve been keeping track?” Eisley asks, fixing Sara with her weary eyes.
“It’s hard not to.”
“How about you, then? How’d your last hearing go?”
“I haven’t had any.”
“You’ve never had a hearing? How is that possible?”
“I couldn’t get one when I had Class A disciplinary actions on my file. Then the hearing was cancelled when my first lawyer recused himself. Then there was a backlog of hearings because of the government shutdown. And then just as they started catching up, they lost my file to a glitch in the system and had to start over. I’ve been here longer than my last extension requires, but I’m still waiting.”
“Behind me?”
“New arrivals have priority.”
“That’s bad luck.”
“That’s bureaucracy.”
The overhead light has stopped flickering, but now the lamps over the service station are starting to twinkle. The malfunction bothers Hinton; he walks over to investigate.
“What’s with the interrogation?” Toya asks suddenly, narrowing her eyes at Eisley. “You haven’t told us anything about your case, but you’re asking Sara here about hers.”
“It’s not an interrogation,” Eisley says, washing down the last of her hot dog with a huge sip of water. “I was just curious is all.”
“Toya’s right,” Sara says. “You never really told us much about your case. Like, you haven’t even told us how you got retained.”
“There’s not much to tell. I was coming back from a weekend in Cabo with a friend of mine. We went there for the weekend, sat by the beach, went to a few clubs. Then on the way back, we got flagged at the border because my idiot friend had been drinking. Anyway, they ran our passports through and said my score was too high. That’s all.”
“That’s all ,” Sara repeats, unable to keep sarcasm out of her voice. She looks around the table. “It must have been a mistake .”
Eisley looks offended. “It was.”
Sara scrapes the last of her beans from her tray. Her envy is getting the better of her, but she can’t help it. Then again Eisley spent her time at Madison chattering about fitness and working in Trailer D. She never got written up, never had a delay in her case. Maybe if Sara had stayed busy and out of trouble like that, she would’ve been out a long time ago. She would’ve spent the last ten months with her family, she would’ve put this place behind her already.
Toya tilts her head. “So what’d they ask you?”
“Basic questions about my life. They asked about my work, my boyfriend, the trip I took to Mexico, where I went, who I saw. They were trying to reconcile my answers with the data they have. And then they cleared me for release.”
She makes it sound so simple, Sara thinks. The system worked for her; therefore, it works for everyone. All you have to do is tell the truth.
“But what if they don’t believe you?” Toya insists. “What if you answer their questions and find they just don’t believe you?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” Eisley says, shaking her head. After a minute, she adds, her tone more conciliatory, “I guess in some cases it takes them longer to gather the evidence they need, but they’re not out to get you. They’re just doing their jobs.”