Free Forty Rooms by Olga Grushin Page B

it, crowned by a gigantic papier-mâché dragon’s head.
    My mousy reflection nudged me with her shoulder.
    “I seriously doubt it,” I said, and resumed tugging at the lock.
    He glanced back into the room.
    “Oh, you mean them?” he said. “No, no, they try too hard to be original. All they really do is create a background against which true originality stands out . . . But I see you’re anxious to go. I won’t detain you, of course, but won’t you take just a sip of this very fine whiskey for the road, so I’m not left feeling that my hospitality was wholly lacking?”
    He held up his drink in a squat crystal tumbler. I heard the ice clink invitingly against the glass, and thought: No plastic cups for this one. He was looking at me over the rim, one eyebrow lifted. The cat was looking at me too. Their eyes were alike, light and cold and amused. I renewed my assault on the door.
    “Thank you, but I don’t drink whiskey.”
    Oh, what the hell was wrong with this thing, did it turn right or left—
    The man spoke unhurriedly.
    “Is this a principle of yours, or do you simply not care for the taste?”
    “I’ve never tried it.”
    “Then forgive me the obvious question: How do you know you don’t like it? Personally, I’m an ardent follower of the immortal lessons of Dr. Seuss.”
    “Who?”
    “Dr. Seuss. Green Eggs and Ham . You know. Try them, try them, and you may ?”
    “I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” I said, abandoning the lock to look at the man once again. I was intrigued by my sudden realization that he was only a year or two older than I, and yet I did not see him as a boy, the way I summarily perceived—and dismissed—all the boys in my dormitory or my classes.
    “Oh, no. I thought I’d detected an accent. You must be one of those unfortunates who didn’t imbibe Dr. Seuss’s classics with their mother’s milk. This simply can’t go on, it must be remedied this instant. Please follow me.”
    He had spoken without smiling, then, before I could object, turned and walked off, not pausing to check whether I followed. I did, after a moment’s hesitation. We threaded our way through the confusion of the noisy living room, to a door shut at the end of a corridor. “My humble abode,” he said with a half-bow, opening the door, sweeping me inside, closing the door behind me.The music and the stomping grew remote. I tried not to wonder about the soft click of the lock, and then forgot to wonder about it, distracted by the room in which I found myself.
    It did not appear to belong to the apartment we had just crossed. It was spare and refined, furnished in uniformly muted gray tones—a soft sea-gray rug, velvety mossy-gray curtains, a thick gray throw on the bed, a slim floor lamp with a mushroom-gray shade. In spite of my profound obliviousness of, not to say distaste for, all things interior decorating, I discerned that everything here bore a mark of distinctive taste. There were architectural engravings in black and white frames on the walls, bookshelves of leather-bound volumes, and on the ceiling, for some unfathomable reason, an enormous mirror. It made me uncomfortable, this room. I felt as if I myself had strayed into someone else’s story, and I was not sure that I liked the style.
    “I can only stay for a few minutes,” I announced sternly, just in case he had misinterpreted my presence.
    “Yes, your paper on Monday, I remember.” He topped off his glass from a cluster of bottles on a silver tray, reached for a book, sat cross-legged on the floor, his movements leisurely yet precise. “Not to worry, it’s very short. I’ll read it to you, it’s best when read aloud.”
    As I settled across from him on the carpet, the gray cat flowed off his shoulders and pooled into my lap.
    “Dorian likes you,” he said. “It’s a great compliment, he doesn’t like just anyone, I assure you. Did you know that a group of domestic cats is called a pounce,