There Are Doors

The Sea in Winter

The coffee shop was empty. A black-and-white sign on a wooden stand read: PLEASE SEAT YOURSELF.

He did so, choosing a small table beside a high glass wall, like the wall of a greenhouse or conservatory. Beyond it stood a low cliff or bluff, or perhaps only one wall of the cavernous, flag-hung arcade he had left; beyond that lay a broad expanse of beach upon which the ocean had erected a duplicate of the quarry he had seen a few years before on a National Geographic special. Expressionless images leaned or lounged here and there among the shattered wrecks of others, some finished, some incomplete, some scarcely begun—all this executed in slabs of greenish sea-ice.

One watched him, a statue some distance down the beach and midway between land and ocean, staring insolently but silently as he took a napkin from a water glass and turned up an inverted coffee cup.

It was impossible that the police should have chosen such a strange means of spying on him, yet he felt they had. In some way they would be watching him, so why not this? Or if it was not really true, it felt true. Klamm and his men would try to account for everybody they had seen on the stage—for him, for North, for the two in business suits, for Dr. Applewood, and for the man in the army uniform. (But he was easy enough to account for—even Dr. Applewood had said so.)

And he, too, was readily accounted for. The cop had looked in his wallet, had seen his hotel key, had told the driver where to take him. They knew where he was, and they would surely send somebody to watch him.

“Would you like coffee, sir?”

The waitress was about twenty, very petite, with black hair cut short, hair that curved around her face like the wings of a soft, black bird, a bird determined to hatch that oval face—or if it was hatched already, to shield it from the harsh winds of this world.

“Yes,” he said. “And some orange juice, if you have any.”

She said, “I’ll have to squeeze you some, sir,” and winked.

He was too astonished to wink back; but he watched her as she trotted away. She wore polished black shoes with very high heels (because she’s so short, he decided), a little white cap, and a black silk dress with a tiny white apron, like the maid in some old movie starring Cary Grant.

The steamy fragrance of freshly brewed coffee told him she had filled his cup, though he had not noticed. The coffee was as black as her dress, as black as her shoes, and he knew that he would never be able to see anything black anyplace again—coffee or the night—without thinking about her shoes and her dress. He added cream (which he seldom did), looked through the glass wall, and remembered nights with Lara.

A big white boat was passing the hotel, half a mile or less from where he sat; passing slowly, as though fighting a headwind with its engines almost idling. A teacher had read it to him in school: “As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.”

He felt sure Lara was on that boat, that white-painted boat that would have looked so much more at home down in Florida or a place like that, on the Gulf or the Pacific or the Mediterranean. He felt sure that it was Lara watching him through binoculars as he sipped his coffee, sipped the icewater that the girl in the black shoes must have brought him too, brought him icewater even though he had not noticed, brought him water even though he sat in front of water and ice that went on forever.

She brought the orange juice, placing it before him with a delicate hand tipped with long, crimson nails, a hand naked of rings. “What else would you like, sir?”

“Right now,” he said, “I’d like you to sit down and talk to me.”

“I can’t do that, sir. Suppose the manager came in.”

“It’s lonesome here,” he told her.

“I know, sir. You’re the only guest—the only one in the whole place, I think.”

“I’m surprised they keep it open.”

“This is the worst time of year. Usually it’s pretty good through Yule, and then it picks up again in March.”

He thought frantically, groping for a question or comment that would hold her in conversation. “Do you drive out from the city every day?”

“Sure. There’s nothing to do way out here.” She glanced around to see whether someone was listening. “For us, I mean. There’s things for the guests.”

“What are they?”

“Oh, the spa, and indoor tennis courts and so on. We can’t use them. What would you like for breakfast?”

He noticed sadly that she had dropped the sir; he was no longer a customer, just another unwanted boyfriend. He asked, “What’s good?”

Under her breath: “I am.” Aloud she said, “Why don’t you have a waffle? The chef’s a real master with them. We’ve got about a dozen different kinds.”

“Whatever kind you think’s the best.”

She nodded. “I’ll be along again in a minute to give you more coffee.”

“All right. Hurry back.”

She walked slowly away, writing on her order pad. When she had rounded the partition and was out of sight, he spoke to the expressionless face of ice on the beach. “Did you get all that? Are you going to tell them everything?”

It did not reply.

Dr. Applewood had not been worried about spying, or about hidden mikes or cameras. When he had asked about the theater, Dr. Applewood had actually risen and seized the back of one of the old wooden chairs: “Do you recollect our stage properties, sir? That was what I used, like an old woman with a walker, clumping and thumping across the floor!”

But why had the doctor come to the hotel today, come with a bad leg to a hotel with a single guest? For that matter why had she said he was the only one? North was still registered. In fact, North might come back to the room while he ate his waffle, might already have come back while Dr. Applewood was bandaging his hand. They had all gotten away except Daniel—that was what the doctor had said. Daniel had been Nick, but where was North? Would North phone? Probably not—the police might tap the wire, listen to any calls to or from the room.

He sipped his coffee, which was excellent.

If he had a coat, he could walk all around the hotel; there had to be a parking lot somewhere. If North had used the little car that he had driven, he would recognize it, and the keys were in his pocket.

But North had probably not used that car. It had probably been burned when the theater burned down—he, not North, had the keys. Yet it was still possible. North had given him the keys, never saying they were the only set; and nothing would be less like North than to give somebody else the only set, to let go of that kind of power.

Anyway, thieves could start cars without the keys by hot-wiring the ignitions. North, who had made a lock pick from the hospital wiring, would know all about that.

A man in a three-piece suit came into the coffee shop and sat down not far from him. When the waitress brought his waffle, he asked her who the man was.

“Probably some guest. I don’t know—I’ve never seen him before.”

“You said I was the only guest.”

“That was yesterday, you and your friend. He probably checked in last night—I only got to work an hour ago.”

“There’s a fine for not knowing his name: you have to tell me yours.”

She grinned. “Fanny.”

“Really?”

“Would I fib about a name like that? I know yours. You’re A. C. Pine, and you’re in the Imperial Suite.”

She had gone before he could reply. As he ate his waffle (he had missed dinner the night before, and felt as though he could eat five), he vaguely considered the initials. What did A. C. stand for? Soon, he felt, he might have to tell Fanny; and it would be better if he were not stuck with something like Abner Cecil. Abraham Clyde? Arthur Cooper? By the time he had finished his orange juice, he had decided he was Adam something.

The lower level was no longer quite so deserted as it had been. Several shops showed lights, and once he heard footsteps. The first shop he looked into was a beauty parlor in which an enameled blonde was painting her own nails while she waited for customers. “Good morning,” he said.

She looked up without interest. “Hi, ya.”

“Nice day.”

“Is it warmin’ up a little?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I haven’t been outside.”

The blonde sighed, looked away, then back at him. “I have. Believe me, it ain’t a nice day. That wind could kill ya.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d get much business, then.”

She shrugged. “I might as well be here. It’s the only shop I got.”

“Suppose I wanted to change the color of my hair?”

She looked up, interested. “Do ya?”

“Not today. Maybe in a few days.”

“Sure, I could do it for ya, any color ya want. Twenty’d cover it.”

“That seems pretty high.”

“Okay, fifteen. But that’s as low as I’ll go. Ya oughta see what the hotel charges me for this place.”

“Then let’s say twenty, and you promise to keep it strictly confidential. Is that a deal?”

“Ya got it. Hey, listen, I never talk about my customers anyhow.”

“And now, do you—” He paused. Slightly to the left of the blonde’s head was a poster advertising shampoo. The woman pictured there was Lara. “Could you tell me if there’s a place down here that sells men’s clothing?”

“There’s three, but I don’t know—”

The door opened behind him; the waitress—Fanny—came in, and she seemed at least as surprised to see him as he was to see her. “Hello,” he said.

“Oh, hi.” She stood silently while he looked from her to the blonde. At last she said, “Are you done?”

“I guess so.”

“I thought maybe I’d get a perm. I’m off now till lunch.”

The blonde told her, “Ya don’t need one yet. Why don’t ya let me just wash it and set it?”

He said, “Well, good-bye, I guess,” and stepped out into the cavernous arcade. He had gone fifty feet before it occurred to him to return quietly to the beauty parlor and listen; for a few seconds he hesitated, vacillating. He had seen people—actors—do it on television and in pictures hundreds of times, and felt somehow that it could not possibly work in real life. The women would hear him, or they would be talking about nothing. But was this real life?

As silently as he could he retraced his steps, glad that he could see no one watching (though someone might be watching) and feeling extremely foolish.

“ … little halfwitted tease.” That was the blonde. Fanny answered resentfully, but so softly he could scarcely hear her, “I talked … at breakfast. I was supposed to check in. You know my orders.”

He crept away.

The first men’s store he came to was run by a woman, which surprised him. He bought a new hat and a heavy overcoat, and at her suggestion a wool sweater-vest to wear under his jacket. He ordered a new pair of wool slacks, too. She measured his legs, marked the seams with chalk, and promised that the slacks would be ready next day. She wore a tape measure about her shoulders like a sash of office, and her gray hair in a bun.

“Do you run this place?” he asked.

“Who else?”

“It must be lonely, especially during the winter.”

“You want to rob me? Go ahead, there isn’t a dime. I’ll tell the insurance, maybe they’ll give me some money. But if you hit me, I’ll kill you.”

He hesitated, aware that she was joking but unsure of how to respond.

She patted him under the arms. “That jacket don’t have room enough for a gun. You want, I’ll make you a better one. Fifty, a hundred dollars, depends on the material.”

“I don’t carry a gun.”

“A strangler, huh?” She scribbled figures on a scrap of paper. “Seventy-seven for the coat, down from one sixty-five. Twenty-five for the hat. Fifteen for the sweater, but for such a good customer, I’m making it ten, there goes my profit. Also you’ve got to pay for the pants in case you don’t come back for them. Twenty-three for your pants, with tailoring. Comes to—let’s make it a hundred and thirty, here’s handkerchiefs, package of five, real Irish linen. Go out and your nose’ll run like the river. You get a free tie.”

He said, “I don’t want one. I’ve got plenty.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Since you’re my first customer today and I like you, I’m giving you this lovely all-wool muffler for half off.” She glanced at the tag. “Fifteen ninety-five, one hundred percent pure virgin lambs’ wool. For you, right now, today only, eight bucks.”

“I’ll take it, but I’d like a little information with it. Is there anywhere in the hotel where a woman can get her hair done?”

She shook her head. “There’s a place, Millicent’s, but Millicent ain’t here, this is when she goes on vacation. She won’t be open till the twenty-first.”

“I think I saw her the last time I was here. Blond woman, thin, kind of a long nose?”

“Nah.” The proprietress of the haberdashery was surveying his purchases. “That ain’t her. You’re going to wear the coat, right? And the muffler and the hat. Your slacks’ll be ready tomorrow afternoon. What about the sweater? I’d wear that too, if you’re going to be out much.”

“I will,” he said. He slipped off his jacket.

“Wait a minute, I’ll cut the tags for you. Hey, you got a magic doll. My nephew had one.”

He had laid his jacket on the counter. Tina appeared to be peeping from his pocket.

Not knowing what else to say, he said, “Would you like to look at it? Go ahead.”

She stared at him. “You know, you’re taking a chance, saying something like that. Lots of women don’t like those things.”

“Are you going to damage it?”

She shook her head. “No. Not me.”

“Then why shouldn’t you look at it?”

Gently, she slipped the doll out of his pocket. “My pop had one. Mom said it used to talk to him at night, when they thought she was asleep. I guess I know whose hair you wanted done, right? You ought to carry her in a box, that’s what most of them do. I’ll get a comb and straighten it out a little for you.”