I had fallen asleep while I was waiting for my roommate to come out of the bathroom. Now I see him bunched up in his blanket, and I sit up absentmindedly in my bed. Should I take a bath now? It is 3.23am. I get up.
Gathering my clothes beside my bed, I stumble into the bathroom. Click. The light is not working. Click. Click. Click. I pause. Click. Why isn't it working. Click.
I gaze furtively at my roommate. He is asleep. Guiltily, I try all the other switches. Softly. Click. Nothing works. Blackout? I don't know. Whatever. I'm going to take a bath anyway. I bring my phone into the bathroom. Only two bars of battery left, so I am frugal with the flash light. I use the screen light, but it doesn't last long, so I have to refresh it with a random key. Sink. Darkness. Tap. Darkness. Toilet. Darkness. Only the sound of water gushing into the tub now.
Then the handle turns. But the door is locked, so I watch the handle slowly return to its old position. I am naked now. Slightly annoyed, I wrap a towel around my waist, and open the door. There's no one there. I turn the corner to see my roommate sleeping. I don't think he moved. I don't know what to think. But I can't possibly just stare at my sleeping roommate, with a towel wrapped around my waist. If he wakes up, it would be difficult to explain. I return to the bathroom, and lock the door again.
I turn off the tap, and slide slowly into the tub of hot water. Ah. My phone is in the soap dish. Every minute, I press a random button with a wet hand to summon the light again, half expecting to see a ghost on the ceiling, long hair tickling my nose. Or a tub full of blood. Or a face next to mine, inhaling my breath. After a while, I stop pressing for light.
I stare into the nothingness. I don't know about ghosts. All I know is this body soaking in the warm water, muffled sloshes in my ears, the smell of water, this soft skin, this tired frame, this sorry heart. Into this utter darkness I release the recent memories: the foreign twist of names here; the dramatic angles of every Gothic architecture; the sudden beauty of roadside daisies; a dandelion wisp in shallow focus; the taste of my lip balm in hot chocolate. And others - older, sadder, lonelier. I think at this point I stopped being afraid. In some ways I am indignant, even confrontational - how possibly can you scare me? What tragedy can you offer that is greater than mine? What pitiful death of yours can match up to that which is my life? In other ways, I am glad you are here with me, you imaginary spirit sitting on the toilet or beside my tub or in the mirror only, listening as I tell my story silently, blindly, breathing air so close to water. Us common comrades in a world so unseeing, so wordless. Thank you. Dank u. Merci. In a foreign land this is the first word you learn.
I don't know how long I laid in the tub. But at some point I get up, get dressed, brush my teeth and go to bed. The next day, when I wake again, my roommate is already up. The lights work. I ask my roommate, Did you wake up last night. He said No. Breakfast, I tell the story to my travel mates, the adventurous version. Handle moved by itself. No lights. My teachers are slightly amused, slightly horrified. One of them gives me some salt wrapped in a tissue, tells me to put it in a cup in the bathroom. I left the tissue in the room. Room service throws it away the next day. Nothing weird happens for the rest of my stay, but on the last night before I check out, I write, pardon, on the misted mirror. In a foreign land this is also the first word you learn. A constant apology for your presence. Maybe someday when I die, I too will haunt a hotel bathroom, pranking people with a lesser life.
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