Chapter Thirty
A firm resolve pierces even a rock.
(Japanese proverb)
Noreen Millburn is firmly back at the Bellagio, this time in the magnificent lobby, gazing in awe at the ceiling where artificial light plays on the massive Chihuly glass sculpture, the famous Flori Di Como, revealing such rich, vibrant colours that they put her own adored Lakeland blooms to shame.
She wonders how on earth they manage to clean it and hopes that it isn’t dangerous for the poor people employed to do so.
The tiniest piece of glass in your eye and…
Yet she finds her attention swinging inexorably back to another work of art, one that is currently standing at the reception desk.
The awestruck Englishwoman can’t quite believe that an almost godlike man such as Lyle would be the least bit interested in someone so very much lesser such as she.
She hadn’t until this evening – or morning, or whatever blessed time of the day or night it is – believed that any man would give her a second look (she’s seen the first look they give and it’s usually one of disdain or repulsion).
Well, maybe Arnie would look twice, especially now that there is more of her on show, but he hardly counts, considering what he clearly likes to gaze upon in extreme close-up for a living.
She still can’t help, however, feeling the tiniest of pangs when she recalls the poor man’s genuine and quite abject loneliness – and the fact of his bringing her all this way in the first place, indeed rescuing her, however bizarre his choice of destination.
But she knows all too well that this is simply her obsession for helping dumb animals, and it is high time she began to help herself.
Wrenching her eyes away from Lyle for just one tricky moment, Noreen notices that people are glancing at her, but not with that usual look of ‘what’s the bloody cat dragged in now?
’ that she has been accustomed to receiving for as long as she can remember.
Even at school she was regarded as the podgy weirdo with the nits, despite the fact she offered to do everybody’s homework for free and would let anyone stroke her ferret.
Now she genuinely believes that the glances are more benign, possibly even admiring.
Or at least envious. Especially when they follow her, as she moves a bit wonkily on her new high heels towards the striking man by the desk.
The female receptionist is staring up at Lyle with perfectly understandable lust, compounded by a profound professional regret.
“I am so sorry, Mr… Lyle. I’m afraid we don’t have the kind of suite you’re looking currently available.”
Lyle fixes his darkly unblinking gaze on the receptionist, staring right into her eyes. “Would you mind checking again, please?”
Noreen doesn’t notice that his own wonderfully expressive eyes are suddenly suffused with a reddish glow. Nor that, for a brief second, those of the receptionist are catching the powerful beam full blast.
The young woman’s expression goes instantly blank. “Of course,” she says robotically and turns to her computer. “Ah yes! I am so sorry. I spoke in error. The Presidential Suite is absolutely free.” She hands her new guest a key card. “It’s on the top floor. Enjoy!”
Noreen looks at Lyle with a radiance she normally reserves for sunset over one of her favourite lakes or the birth of a new lamb.
The Presidential Suite! She is not quite certain why she is allowing herself to be transported upwards to the very heights of luxury by someone who is an almost total stranger, but this whole situation for some reason feels completely and rather happily out of her control.
She is no more certain as to who the president actually is these days, or what he is president of, but she hopes that he has left his suite tidy.
***
As if tracking the scent of a particularly elusive quarry, it is Arnie’s turn to be at the Venetian now.
Not that he wants to be here. Where he really wants to be is back in his sleazy hotel room, staring at that wall, as his day has already lasted way too long, and it is only by some miracle that he is still awake and functioning.
But since the prospect looms large of a far longer, not to say eternal, rest in a place even hotter than Vegas, he has kindly agreed to indulge me.
I haven’t been on a gondola since those days of Casanova. Don’t get me started.
“You ever see Death in Venice?” I ask, as a conversational opener. “Oh. Excuse me. My bad. How about Don’t Look Now?”
“How about shutting the fuck up?” says Arnie, which elicits a funny look from the gondolier, who of course speaks English and, so far as he knows, has only one passenger in his boat. “What the hell does Satan want with Noreen Millburn?”
I have to sigh at this. As does the gondolier, to be honest.
“Noreen has two souls, dummy!” I explain, politely.
“She’s a twofer! Claim one, get one free!
Think of the PR bonanza in delivering that good, sweet lady over to the dark side!
Plus, she’s the finest, kindest, most charitable person on the planet.
And a virgin to boot. You know how tempting that is to a player like His Satanic Majesty? Catnip! You saw The Exorcist.”
“Noreen… gives Lucifer a hard-on?”
Now the gondolier knows he has a crazy on board.
“The boss is gonna do the lambada on my head for this,” I tell Arnie, who just stares at me. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways. You have got to win her back, Arnie.”
“Me? From Lyle? Oh, yeah. Sure! Arnie Garth versus Lord of the Flies. What’s the support fight? Godzilla versus Kermit the Frog?”
The gondolier isn’t even listening now. In the old days you could spot the nut jobs straight off. These days they might just be talking on the phone. But he didn’t see any earbuds on this guy.
“So that’s it?” I exclaim. “You’re just going to abandon the poor lady? Hey, you got her into this.”
“Me? I got her—”
“Tomayto, tomato! Okay. I helped. With the best of intentions! But, Arnie, if not you to the rescue, who else?”
“That – it’s not my problem. I’m done for, anyway.”
“He’s going to seduce her, Arnie!” I tell him, in some frustration. “He’s got moves you’d kill for. And hey, once she’s given her body to the Devil, you think her soul – correction, her souls – will be far behind?”
Now Arnie turns to me. And I have to admit that for once even I am moved. Mind you, considering that most of the clientele I deal with are seconds short of rigor mortis, this has to be a bit more involving.
“Listen, Ambrose,” he sighs, shaking his little balding head (I think he lost that stupid hat of his at the seventeenth bar), “it’s over.
Capisce? Noreen’s never gonna fall in love with me.
Never ever! Maybe there was a teensy bit of a chance once.
Perhaps over that Italian supper, who knows?
But now, with what she’s found out about me and with the new demon on the block, say hello to hopeless. ”
“Maybe so,” I am sadly obliged to agree. “But, Arnie Garth, do you really wanna consign that poor, sweet lady to the fires of eternal damnation? Perpetual pain and torment. Macarena playing on an eternal loop. You think she deserves that? Do you?”
Arnie starts to writhe around on the plush nautical upholstery. The man seems totally torn.
“ I – look, it’s none of my business. I can’t help Noreen! I can’t even help myself, for Chrissakes! I’m nothing! I’m nobody. Comparatively speaking. Anyway, I… I don’t know where he’s taken her.”
“The Bellagio.”
“You had to tell me!”
“And it won’t be the maid’s room. Have a nice night.”
There. I’ve said all I can say. So, with a farewell nod of my head, I step nimbly out of the elegant boat onto the water. And walk away unsplashily in my Florsheims right down the centre of the mini Grand Canal. An oldie, but a goodie.
“Siegfried and Roy, eat your heart out,” I say to deaf ears.
Arnie remains alone in the gondola, conflicting emotions and impulses playing over his tormented face like he’s doing a screen test for Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Until finally, he makes a decision.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” he cries into the tastefully painted and masterfully lit fake Venetian skies.
Thrusting both hands into the water, he starts paddling towards the jetty.
It isn’t a tactic you see many passengers going for, but it does speed up the whole process, and on disembarkation the gondolier has to admit he is quite glad to see the back of him.