Haze by Glen Pourciau

The mood had come over him again, descending with the weight of a permanent state of affairs. He seemed hazy to himself and surrounded by questions he couldn’t answer. Other people went in and out of focus, his images of them fluctuated, and when he looked in their faces he often saw vagueness and uncertainty reflected back at him.

He’d checked into a small hotel miles from the main highway. The hotel was a kind of waiting room, not completely in the world but with amenities that would allow him to exist. He could eat at the hotel, the food good though somewhat repetitive, and the owners were not too familiar. He had a plain room, simple furniture, a small but adequate bathroom. When he was out of the room he couldn’t quite remember what it looked like. Guests usually stayed a couple of days, wanting the quiet but tiring of it and moving on. It suited him that their brief stays didn’t allow familiarity to set in. He hoped conversation could be kept to a minimum, that he could remain more or less invisible to those passing through. He dreaded the thought of being asked questions about himself and was relieved that most guests took little notice of him. 

To the owners he was something of an oddity, and the longer he stayed the more curious they became about him. They were a married couple from out of state, they told him when he checked in, who had inherited the property from a relative. He hadn’t reciprocated with information about himself, leaving an empty spot in their view of him. He was aware of the uncertainty he’d created, and he imagined a vague outline of a story he wouldn’t tell them developing in their imaginations. From the beginning they’d noticed his alertness to movement around him, his furtive glances at guests, and his reluctance to go outside for some air. Was he hiding here? Was he expecting someone to come looking for him? Was he guilty of something or in some kind of danger that could spread to them? 

After five nights at the hotel he asked at the front desk if he could extend his stay for a few days. They both gave him a look, their mouths moving slightly, on the verge of asking him questions, he suspected, but restraining themselves. Were they overdoing it, they must have wondered, being afraid and suspicious of a paying customer who’d never spoken an ill-tempered word to them? The wife looked at the computer and replied that his room was available. He’d planned to ask about a weekly rate but decided he’d rather not feed their anxiety.

He went to the breakfast room, where he was the first to arrive. He liked being early so he could sit at the same table, toward the back of the room, facing the window and doorways, a clear view of all incoming traffic. The husband entered and went to the counter for the coffee decanter. He carried it to his table and filled his cup, then stood upright holding the decanter, waiting for an answer, his sense of expectation unmistakable. The same? he asked after a moment.

All he needed to do was nod, and the husband on his way.  As he drank his coffee a couple he recognized from the day before came in, absorbed in their own world, not interested in him, a faint smile and they were done with him, wouldn’t recognize him if they saw him walking down the street. He wanted no connection with the couple, but his vagueness to them struck a deeper note. Why was he here? Why had he turned his back? Was anyone looking for him? Had his credit card been traced? Had someone called to ask about him and was that why the owners looked at him strangely?

The wife brought his plate, scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, and she refilled his coffee, her eyes fixed on him as his hand went to his cup. How long would she stand there? What did she expect him to tell her? Everything look okay? she asked, still watching him. He thanked her and nodded, his eyes moving to his plate, the wife walking off.

He disliked feeling troubled by the thoughts of the owners, but he couldn’t blame them for their thoughts, and in fact he blamed himself. He deserved to be hunted and held to account. No doubt he’d left angry people behind who wanted to find him and get answers. 

A few other guests had entered the breakfast room, one of them seated at the window, a tall man with long gray and black hair and a trimmed gray and black beard, heavy eyebrows, a sinister-looking man, a man who if he appeared in a movie would likely have a falcon roosting on his forearm. As he ate he watched the sinister man, trying not to be conspicuous, just as the sinister man tried not to be conspicuous with his quick looks at him. The husband made an attempt at small talk while pouring the sinister man’s coffee, and the sinister man vaguely muttered the phrase visiting a friend, no facial expression, not encouraging further questions. After the husband left the room he stood and pushed his chair back, and on his way out the sinister man’s eyes followed him.

He stayed in his room for hours, sitting up in bed, several times going to the window for a peek out at the street. Would there be a knock at his door? If the phone rang, would he answer it? A haircut, a shave, an added pair of glasses, and the sinister man could completely change his image, no one would place him as the same man in the breakfast room. But there was no reason to assume the sinister man had anything to do with him. He could be visiting a friend who lived in town or nearby, a reasonable explanation for his being here, nothing portentous about a lone man eating breakfast, falcon-free arms on display. And why refer to him as the sinister man when that description would lead him to make threatening assumptions?

But his suspicions and fears told their own story, and to him the sinister interpretation made sense. He’d fled, he didn’t want to go back, and in some way it seemed he’d never been there. He’d left his phone and its grip around his neck behind. He couldn’t justify wanting to separate himself from people. How could that be natural? Was the sinister man here to take him back? What if he refused? 

He’d been asleep when the phone rang, the sinister man coming at him in the dark of his mind, no way for him to get away without escaping himself. Who could be calling? The ringing stopped and immediately he wondered if it would start again in ten minutes or thirty minutes. Would the caller be content to be left without answers? If the call came from inside the hotel would the caller bound up the stairs and knock on his door? Where could he get some peace? He was connected to others whether he liked it or not. He should have answered the phone, what did he imagine would have happened if he had? Should he approach the sinister man and start a conversation, ask him if he was enjoying his stay? He’d be leaving himself open to questions. Did he want the sinister man rummaging through his head for information?

The phone rang, and the only way to keep it from happening again was to answer. It was the husband asking if he planned to leave his room anytime soon. If he wanted it cleaned, housekeeping would need to get inside. He agreed to be out in ten minutes and hung up. He’d go for a walk, better breathing outdoors, stay in plain sight, see something besides the interior of the hotel and see if the sinister man took an interest in his whereabouts.

Since he came to the hotel he’d only noticed the weather in passing. Outside the sun’s presence struck him, the air’s mildness soothed him. He set out to the right, a random decision, people moving in different directions at different speeds around him, some on foot, others cruising by in cars. He tried to let his tension go, breathe slowly, take in his surroundings.

He stopped in a small square and noticed a bone-colored facade with glass storefronts on the bottom level, apartments on the second and third levels, black shutters and wash hanging over terrace railings. He looked at the shops and caught sight of the sinister man in the window of a narrow coffee store. Why would he buy coffee when his hotel provided it and why was their no sign of the friend he claimed to be visiting? Were the sinister man’s eyes on anything in the coffee store? He seemed to be looking at the merchandise in front of him with no particular purpose in mind, but his head was tilted as if he were observing something.

It annoyed him that the sinister man could disturb his stay at the hotel and now his walk. He could continue on his path, looking over his shoulder, or he could go to the coffee store and let events take their course. He wanted a sense of where the sinister man stood in relation to him, though he’d be exposing himself, the sinister man could split him open like a gourd, a scavenging bird pecking at his seeds.

He entered the shop, the door propped open, a bell chiming when he passed through the threshold. The sinister man glanced at him, eyebrow slightly cocked. He walked to the opposite end of the store, breathing in the smell of coffee beans, and when he reached a counter holding decorative mugs he again heard the door chime and looked back and saw the sinister man leaving the store but not heading toward the hotel.

Should he attempt to interpret his sudden departure or should he resume his walk as if nothing had happened? Should he follow the sinister man to see if he made contact with a person he’d recognize as someone who’d want to locate him? He abandoned his questions and returned to the hotel. His room had probably been tended to and the sinister man was going elsewhere. But as he walked he corrected his thinking. He couldn’t rule out that he’d been tracked by him to the small square so it was possible his footsteps were dogging him now. He looked behind him repeatedly but saw nothing.

At the hotel he sat on a sofa in the entryway and put his head back and breathed deeply. He closed his eyes, relaxing his vigilance, until he heard someone descending the nearby stairway. It was the sinister man, tiptoeing so as not to wake him and mouthing, Sorry, when he saw his eyes open. The sinister man did not pause and walked out the front door.

Had the sinister man hurried to the hotel, knowing that his room would be empty for at least a short time? He hopped off the sofa and hustled up the stairs and unlocked the door to his room. It had been made up, everything in order on the surface, spotless, tidy. He checked his drawers and a zippered compartment in his bag and the floor for traces of footprints. He found no sign of an intrusion anywhere, but still he was left with a creeping sense of vulnerability.

He looked out the window. The sinister man stood across the street, gazing up at the hotel, raising a camera and snapping a photo. Could he be seen in it? Before he could answer himself, the sinister man had taken another photo. He stepped back from the window, considering the possibilities. Any guest could take a picture of the hotel to remember the place by. Pictures could be shared with friends, or they could be shared with someone who’d hired a person to locate another person. He sat on the bed, trying to focus on unthreatening scenarios. But his uncertainty and confusion persisted, and he went on imagining the intruder in his room, carefully examining his things, hands in his drawers and the pockets of his clothing.

The next morning he went downstairs at his usual time and sat at his usual table for breakfast, picking up a newspaper from a short stack on a side table. The sinister man came in soon after him, as if on cue, barely nodding at him as he passed through the doorway. He sat at the same table as the day before and seemed conscious of being furtively observed. The wife poured their coffee and asked what they wanted for breakfast, and he heard the sinister man tell her he’d be leaving within an hour. He tried to keep his eyes on his newspaper, but at some point sensed the force of the sinister man’s attention, and looking up saw him staring, a piercing question behind his eyes, his lips curled as if from a bitter taste, until he rose from the table and walked toward the front desk. Did he resent being viewed as a potentially sinister person? Maybe he’d come to the hotel to visit a friend and relax, only to be faced with a guest who followed him into a coffee store looking for some reaction or confrontation to confirm a narrative he’d dreamed up out of whole cloth.

The sinister man returned to his table at the same time their food arrived, and they ate without any eye contact between them, no other guests entering to break the silence.

He gulped his food down and left, the sinister man not looking up at him. Back in his room he ran water into the plastic cup on the bathroom sink, but after drinking three cups his eggs and toast had not made it all the way to his stomach. He belched, rinsed his mouth, and then stood to one side of the bedroom window and waited for the sinister man to emerge. 

He didn’t have to wait long. Apparently in a hurry to get on the road, the sinister man rolled a small bag out the front door and pulled it down the street without looking back. Did his step expose a hint of weariness? Was the weariness real? Was he uncertain of his purpose? Why had he claimed to be visiting a friend? Perhaps he was only changing locations so he could maneuver with no eyes on him. He could appear again with his head and beard shaved.  

He didn’t leave his room the rest of the day. The hallway was eerily quiet, and he wondered if he was the only guest left in the hotel. If intruders were able to slip by the owners would anyone else see them? He tried watching cable news but its shouting and arguing agitated him, and he switched off the set. He closed his eyes and listened for sounds outside his door.

When he awoke he’d reached a decision. In his sleep he’d seen himself driving, no idea of a direction, engulfed in darkness, only his headlights guiding him, a dense haze muddling his view of a narrow road. He needed to keep moving, to maintain his evasive course, and he had enough money to sustain him awhile. Every day he felt less like the person he’d been before he left, and he wanted that trend to continue.

He packed his belongings and waited till the middle of the night. He began to worry about his car, which he hadn’t driven since he came to the hotel. Would the battery be dead? Would he find the car had been disabled in some way? Would he be alone when he carried his bag to his car or would he hear footsteps closing in on him? Would he attempt to defend himself? What would be the basis of his defense?

At half past two he opened his door and began to creep down. He tiptoed on the stairs and peeked around the corner at the front desk, no one there. He made it downstairs without being heard, lifting his bag to keep its wheels from touching the floor. He left his room key on a table and turned the tab to unlock the front door and then was out, night air on him, feet picking up pace. Not a footstep other than his own within earshot, but a man with a shaved head and no facial hair stood on a street corner a block away, too distant to be seen clearly, seeming not to take notice of him, but how could he be sure? He slowed his feet, tried not to look like a man running or sneaking, but he was out of breath by the time he reached his car, eager to get inside and lock the doors. He threw his bag on the passenger seat, swung the door shut, and stuck his key in the ignition. The battery strained, the engine turned over, headlights on, car in reverse, no person behind him, shaved head still on the street corner as he drove out of town.

At the highway he turned away from his past, no destination marked on a map, no map, but on course to arrive before sunrise at a deeper isolation.                                     

Glen Pourciau’s third story collection, Getaway, is forthcoming from Four Way Books in September. His stories have been published by AGNI Online, failbetter, Green Mountains Review, New England Review, New World Writing, The Paris Review, Post Road, The Rupture, and others.

10 December 2021