Page 161 - What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours

Hotel Glissando there’s no checking out again in your lifetime: I imagine this is

a taste of what it is to be dead. In many tales people who’ve died don’t realize it
until they try to travel to a place that’s new to them and find themselves
prevented from arriving. These ghosts can only return to places where they’ve
already been; that’s all that’s left for them. Depending on the person that can still
be quite a broad existence. But whether its possessor is widely traveled or not,
the key card for each room at Hotel Glissando is circular; if you took the key
into your hand and really thought about it before signing the residency contract,

this shape would inform you that wherever else you go, you must and will
always return to your room.
“It’s nice and quiet here and every morning there are eggs done just the way I
like them,” Jean-Claude said. “Jana divorced me in absentia and remarried
anyway; she’s fine. And just look how well my boy’s doing!” My godfather

opened a celebrity magazine and showed me a four-page spread of his son’s
splendid home. Chedorlaomer Nachor’s House of Locks! Sumptuous!
Mysterious!
“Chedorlaomer Nachor’s your son?” I waved my phone at Jean-Claude. “Did
you know he’s in this film I’m watching?” The film had ended while we’d been
talking; I played it again. Jean-Claude’s gaze flicked suspiciously between me
and the screen of my phone. “All I see are puppets.”

“Yes, he’s the voice of the brother—” I waited until the silvery face was the
only one on-screen and then turned up the volume. Jean-Claude listened for a
moment and then nodded.
“What’s this film then?”
“Oh, it’s my . . . girlfriend’s. Well, she wrote and directed it . . .”
Jean-Claude gripped my arm. “You know my Chedorlaomer?”

“Well, not personally, but . . . why, do you want to be . . . you know,
reunited?” I hadn’t missed my chance after all. Here was a service I could
provide to Jean-Claude and his famous son. This would effect my own reunion
with my mother, who would acknowledge my existence once more. But Jean-
Claude had no wish for a reunion; his accountant advised very strongly against
such sentiments. Instead he wanted me to rescue his son from the clutches of a
dangerous character.

“Dangerous character?”
“Her name,” Jean-Claude said darkly, “is Tyche Shaw.”
“Really?”
“You’ve heard of her?”