The Truth Behind Those Doors

The Truth Behind Those Doors

           As I contemplated the plural of rhombus, I couldn’t remove my eyes from the burnt orange rhombi that spelled out the indecipherable message that my brain needed. Someone or some geometrical shape would aid in my dilemma—which door to open. Not receiving a sign from above or below, I lifted my vision to stare at the adjacent doors on the fourth floor of that Barcelona hotel. Fortunately, the gold numbers were even, since I had always derived a certain optimism from twos, fours, and sixes. Eights had burned me once before, but they outshined any odd ones. On my left, 412 and the superior 414 to the right.

           How did I get here, staring at two nondescript chocolate brown doors and trembling at the thought of opening either one? Room 414 had been assigned to me upon check-in two days earlier. It was a spacious room with one king-sized bed that occupied most of the square footage. The pillows were plentiful, but my wife complained that none of them were suitable and that her neck had suffered the consequences. My wife liked to complain and I had stopped listening to her daily rants eight years ago, just after our first anniversary. Nine years had painfully dragged on as we had grown farther and farther apart. Some couples find that having children pull them closer together, providing a bond that strengthens the marriage. In our case, we had no children, although I have two daughters from my first marriage. I rarely see them since they live in Connecticut with their mother. My wife doesn’t hit it off with either of them and I’m okay with that.

           I’ve been in Barcelona for the past six months while on sabbatical. Yes, I have found my place in the ivory tower of academia and I’m proud of it. I’m an associate professor of political science and the messy political situation here in Catalonia is an integral part of the book that I am struggling to finish. As an outside observer, someone who has no skin in the game, I find Catalan history and politics to be supremely fascinating. My wife has joined me this week as I wrap up my stint. She had never visited Barcelona and I promised to show her around. We will depart for Minnesota tomorrow to our humdrum Midwestern existence.  

           Now you know what is waiting for me behind that door with the palindromic 414 plastered on it. My wife is eagerly awaiting my arrival so we can take a hearty siesta to be fully refreshed for our last night out in the Catalan capital. I promised her that we’d have a special, intimate dinner at a traditional place I had discovered on the Passeig de Gràcia. By now, she will have removed her makeup and slipped into a comfortable pajama bottom in anticipation of our shared naptime. I gifted her those PJs for Christmas three years ago. Or was it Valentine’s Day? I’m not sure.

           Last night, our less adventurous side saw us dine in the Mediterranean restaurant on the ground floor of the hotel where I find myself at the moment. I thought we could wander around Barcelona, stroll along the Diagonal, and spontaneously come across a quaint restaurant. Nothing had to be planned, we’d just let serendipity play its part. My wife would have none of that. She is the least spontaneous person I’ve ever met and without a plan, she demanded we eat at the hotel. An unforgettable meal could only be improved with a nightcap at the lobby bar.

           It was alcoholism that destroyed my first marriage but I have managed to keep my consumption to a socially acceptable level despite the harassing messages my liver sporadically delivers to me during my annual physical checkup. I suggested we indulge in a chilled Catalan cava and we clinked our glasses merrily in a formal toast to nothing. The conversation sputtered and we clung onto our champagne flutes as if they were some sort of life raft that could save us from drowning in the swirling pool of a second failed marriage.

           So, I know what you’re thinking. The middle-aged professor is bored with his wife and he’s looking for a way out. Not at all. Of course, we’ve had our ups and downs but there is love in there somewhere. There’s always been a bond despite our personality clashes and the recent time apart. I’ve been thrilled to see her these days and I have been nothing but faithful during these six months abroad. Get those ideas out of your head.

           “Our room is 414,” I tried desperately to revive the conversation, “In the Catalan language they call that cap i cua, which means head and tail.”

           Her lack of astonishment could only be challenged by her sheer boredom. My idiotic ramblings about the handful of words I had learned in an underutilized language did not merit the slightest bit of amusement.

           “Four, fourteen?” an unknown voice asked, “That’s right next to my room.”

           My original thought was to admonish this mysterious stranger for eavesdropping, but I had become instantly enthralled by her accent. The expression on my wife’s face signified complete disapproval of the butting in of this third person, but my outlook differed as I looked at the person who had uttered those words.

           “You must be in 412,” I answered as my eyes focused on her lips. Those scrumptious ruby morsels widened and she beamed a white smile despite the crooked left incisor that drew my attention immediately.

           We introduced ourselves politely, believing that the story would soon end. However, Cristina straightforwardly asked if she could pull up a chair to our small, round table. Outwardly attempting to not seem over-eager, although inwardly I was screaming for her to hurry up and sit, I looked at my wife for approval.

           “Sure,” my wife took the lead, “have some cava with us.”

           Unexpectedly, the third wheel injected life into the previously banal conversation. Cristina revived the moribund banter as we toasted anything and everything we could talk about. It is easy for me to lead the conversation down an academic path, so I consciously refrained from divulging anything except the most basic ideas around my research. My wife, on the other hand, boasted about my work, expressing the pride that my scholarship provided her. As she spoke, she took my hand in a surprising gesture that left me aghast and a tiny bit aroused.

           “I would love to read your book.”

           “Well, it hasn’t come out yet,” I informed our new friend, “but if you give me your contact information, I’ll get you a copy as soon as it’s published.”

           Bingo! I had used my scholarly research as a tool to dig into Cristina’s life. It was the higher education version of scoring her telephone number. Right there before my wife’s eyes and with her complicit aid, I had started to flirt with a Catalan woman who appeared to be anywhere from two to four years younger than my wife.

           As the conversation pivoted toward Cristina’s backstory, we learned that she was from Tarragona and only had come to Barcelona for a three-day conference on telecommuting being held at this exact hotel. Now that the global pandemic had all but vanished, the conference focused on how to deal with reluctant workers who appeared unwilling to return to the day-to-day grind of commuting to the office. Cristina’s position advocated for bringing back as many workers as possible. The corporation for which she worked frowned upon working remotely and she had been sent to the conference to learn how to convince hesitant workers that they truly wanted to work from the office.

           “The new normal is the old normal,” she repeated the mantra she had learned earlier that morning.

           She had convinced me. Of course, I think Cristina could have talked me into anything. As her sermon continued, my wife became engaged fully in the conversation, allowing me to sit back, sip my drink, and ponder the physical features of the woman from Tarragona. I focused on her mouth and nose that had finally been freed from the anonymity created from two years of masking up. They were free and I could cherish them, wonder what it would be like to kiss those lips, fantasize about what her words would sound like if she were to whisper in my ear “cap i cua” in her native language.

           As we drained the final drops of our fourth bottle, the hotel bar was about to shutter for the evening. We toasted one last time and stumbled towards the elevator and to our mirror image rooms on the fourth floor. The three of us rolled slowly down the hallway over that orange carpet that delivered us to our temporary housing. The alcohol eased the awkwardness of the goodnight cheek kisses. The closeness and contact with Cristina’s face allowed my olfactory sense to perceive the light scent of her perfume. I alluded to a chance of meeting again before our departure but the words hung in the air without a response as my wife inserted the keycard and motioned for me to enter room 414.

           Inside, a silence lingered as I poured twin glasses of recovery water in anticipation of the massive hangover we would both experience in the morning. I downed my glass in one gulp and before my wife could interrogate me over any perceived flirtatiousness with our neighbor, I closed my eyes and rolled away from my wife, mentally measuring the distance between myself and my newest object of desire.

           The morning sun entering through the hotel window was a friend to no one. In particular, my wife suffered from an acute inability to handle her liquor. On our honeymoon in Acapulco, she found herself incapacitated the entire first day, traveling the five yards between the bed and the toilet on multiple occasions while I insisted we go to the beach.

           This morning, despite her queasiness, she was able to function at a much higher level. My years of migraines and constant hangovers had allowed me to endure the pain and I was eager to caffeinate myself in the lobby.

           “You go ahead,” my wife moaned the words, “I’m not hungry.”

           No fight would be put up on my part as I quickly showered to clear the stench from last night, removed my one-day stubble, and slathered on an extra ten percent of aftershave lotion in the off chance that I would run into Cristina at breakfast.

           “Want me to bring you something?”

           “No.”

           I allowed the door to thunderously slam shut on my way out and I paused before the door that leads to 412 and cupped my right hand up to my ear as I searched for any sign of life. I heard nothing, concluding that the room’s occupant had descended to the breakfast area. My suspicions were confirmed when I exited the elevator to find the professionally dressed version of all business Cristina. Her breakfast had ended and she had gathered her leather satchel en route to the first session at the conference.

           “There you are,” she addressed me and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ve got an important presentation in ten minutes.”

           “Sorry I missed you.”

           “We should do lunch,” she spoke and buzzed past me simultaneously, “Text me.”

           “Okay.”

           “And bring your wife.”

           Despite my plotting, I could not come up with a good excuse for not inviting my wife for lunch. After all, she had skipped breakfast altogether, and surely she would be starving by lunchtime. There had to be another avenue, some devious manner in which I could get some alone time with Cristina without producing any suspicions. As I finished off the sweet café con leche and pushed in my chair, I had devised a plan.

           “We can’t meet you for lunch,” I texted begrudgingly. “We have plans.”

           “OK.”

           “A drink this afternoon?”

           “Perfecto,” she answered several minutes later, “No sessions this afternoon. I’m exhausted. Lunch and nap.”

           My better half managed to recover while I was breakfasting and by the time I returned to room 414, she had prepared to see the sights. I looked at her, astonished by her quick turnaround, and suggested we get some fresh air while shopping on the Diagonal. Shopping erased the hangover and we strolled through the chicest part of Barcelona with our wardrobe-changing booty, spraying the appearance of a happily married couple to all of those within a twelve-foot radius. Imperceptible to the native Catalans and the international tourists, my mind filled with increasingly erotic images of Cristina. My head expanded with such imaginary porn that I feared my cranium would explode and all my lurid secrets would spill out onto the Ramblas.

           “I’m famished,” my wife mentioned at lunchtime.

           “Remember, we’re going out tonight. We just need a light lunch.”

           Here is my strategy all spelled out for you. We would grab a bite to eat, some tapas, a quick sandwich, just enough to hold us off until evening. We’d return to the hotel and I’d make these suggestions. I’d mention that I needed to pick up a couple of books at a bookstore not far from the hotel. These texts were instrumental in finishing my book. I’d forgotten to pick them up while we were out. The lure would be a siesta, a beautiful Spanish mid-afternoon nap that would allow us to recharge our batteries before heading out for our night on the town. In fact, I would need to return with a pair of books to complete the ruse. With an alibi set up, I’d text Cristina informing her that I would stop by for that drink. My wife continued to nurse a hangover and would not be accompanying us.

           Fear gripped me as I stood at the precipice of infidelity. The paper sack containing two meaningless books shook as my left hand trembled. In my right, the keycard to the room where my wife would be waiting sat perched between my index finger and thumb. I could discreetly knock on the other door. She would be waiting for me, too. I had convinced myself that if Cristina were to open that door, there would be no turning back and we’d pounce on each other, effectively voiding the warranty on marriage number two. My poli sci background assigned two separate political states to these two women. Cristina represented Catalonia, the part of Spain that wanted to break free, declare itself independent, but knowing that if it ever happened, it could become a potential nightmare. My wife, on the other hand, was the entire Spanish State, the traditional Spain of bullfights, sangria, flamenco, and paella. Just as the struggle for an independent Catalonia against the larger, more powerful Spain had recently come to a head, my decision tore me apart inside. Was it the thrill of independence that I saw in Cristina? Was I jumping into something I would regret almost immediately? On the other hand, had I grown tired of my marital situation? Was I looking for a way out?

           Eeny, meeny, miny, moe would not be an efficient way for an academic like myself to tackle such an important decision, but it was all I had to go by. The hand bearing the keycard swung back and forth as I whispered the childhood rhyme. “My mother told me,” I stopped all audible evidence and continued towards the culmination of the singing game only in my head. “And it is YOU!” My heart stopped as I observed my wobbling hand that signaled that I had chosen room 414.

           I contemplated a do-over. “This time, start with the other door,” I chuckled to myself since I realized the absurdity of the decision. I was going to stay with my wife all along. Since I held the keycard in my hand, knocking would not be required. I inhaled deeply, the lock clicked, and the indicator changed from red to green. I pushed the door slowly to conceal my angst. The blackout curtains had dimmed the room a bit but not enough for the scene to be fully obscured. The image reflected through my progressive lenses may well stay in my brain forever, seared into my memory for eternity. Skin. Lots of soft skin. Nestled in my wife’s bosom I recognized immediately the short, light brown bob belonging to Cristina. The sound of the paper sack slipping through my fingers and tumbling to the ground startled her and she turned her eyes towards me and flashed that crimson smile without a shred of embarrassment. Her lipstick had deposited a noticeable stain surrounding my wife’s left nipple.

           Public speaking has been a specialty of mine since before I became a professor. Nonetheless, I had never encountered such a moment of speechlessness before. I gazed at the two naked bodies beautifully united in kismet. Who was I to impose?

           “Are you here for that drink?” Cristina asked in a frivolous tone while continuing to cover my wife’s skin with hers.

           “No, no, keep doing what you’re doing.”

           My wife said nothing as I slowly exited without looking back. When it came down to it, the choice of doors had not mattered. My fate had been sealed. Regardless of my choice, I would have ended up opening the same door eventually to find how ridiculously unaware of myself I had become. Cristina had never been interested in me and I had completely overlooked her desire for my wife. And what about her? Apparently, she’s more spontaneous with Cristina than she’s ever been with me.

           As I sit here alone in the hotel bar, I have replaced the cava from last night with a strong gin tonic, or two. I thought opening the door to room 414 would save my marriage. I hadn’t realized that it was already over.