Installation 36: At the Hotel California previous
Phoebe sat in the bottom of the skiff as The Phantom rowed. It was calm in the tunnel; just the sound of the waves gently lapping at the walls and The Phantom humming Air Supply. She knew it would be useless to ask questions, to complain, to try to escape. Any thoughts of swimming were erased when she looked over the side of the boat and saw a rat paddling through the waters with a hunk of something - garbage, cheese, flesh - clenched in its teeth.
Within a few minutes, they came to another landing. There were lit torches in stone sconces on either side of a wooden door held shut with an iron lock. The Phantom guided their tiny boat over this way and, when they were close enough, jumped up onto the landing with the boat’s rope in his hand. Expertly, he tied it and extended his hand to Phoebe to help her up.
Without a word of explanation, he turned from her and unlocked the door. Phoebe held her breath. This was it then, the underground torture chamber where she would meet her end. As if in a dream, she stepped forward.
The Phantom disappeared into the darkness and struck a match. The smell of sulfur was sharp but fleeting. The Phantom lit a candle. Then another and another, working his way around the room until the space was glowing a yellow-orange.
It was a house. Or an apartment. The first room was a sitting room. Beyond that Phoebe could see a small kitchen and a bedroom. The walls were painted yellow or blue and on one wall, a mural of a window looking out on the sea.
The Phantom pulled out several crates of records and began sorting through them. Finding what he was looking for, he put one on a turntable. Ella Fitzgerald’s voice filled the room.
“For you,” he said. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”
Phoebe sat down on the sofa. It was surprisingly comfortable.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“Of course,” The Phantom said. “Tomato bisque? Greek salad?”
“Both,” Phoebe said.
The Phantom disappeared into the kitchen and could be heard banging pots and plates around. Phoebe rested her head on a throw pillow and fell asleep.
When she woke up, The Phantom sat on the floor in front of her, waiting patiently in ski mask and top hat with the food arrayed on a low coffee table. Phoebe sat up and rubbed her eyes and mouth. She had drooled a bit on the pillow.
“Lunch is served,” The Phantom said.
“You must be so hot in that mask,” Phoebe said.
“No,” The Phantom said.
“But you must be,” Phoebe insisted. “After cooking.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Well, at least take off that hat.”
Reluctantly, the Phantom set his hat on the seat of a chair. He then passed Phoebe her soup and some fresh crackers he had hand-rolled and baked in the oven.
“You cooked for me,” Phoebe said.
“This isn’t much,” he said. “I can cook a larger dinner.”
Phoebe looked around. “What is this place?”
“The sewer,” The Phantom said. “Also known as home.”
“I thought Storage Room B was your home.”
“That’s my hang-out,” The Phantom said. “And my music studio. This is home.”
“It’s nice,” Phoebe said. “Very comfy.”
“What would you like to do after lunch?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “What are my choices?”
“Well, we could watch TV,” The Phantom said.
Phoebe wrinkled her nose.
“Or we could play Scrabble,” he said.
“Scrabble! Yes, that would be fun!”
They cleared away the lunch dishes and The Phantom got out the Scrabble board. Phoebe won the first game and The Phantom the second.
“Best of three?” Phoebe said.
“I thought we’d go for a ride,” The Phantom said.
They gathered some bottles of drinking water and a small bag of snacks and went out to the skiff. The Phantom took her on a tour of some of the sewer, stopping off at a place that was shallow and led up to what looked like a rocky shore.
“The water is very low here,” The Phantom explained. “And things get caught. I find many objects for my art here.”
Phoebe jumped down onto a pile of doll heads and diamond rings. Spreading out before her was not an expanse of rocks but a bonanza of lost things - everything that had disappeared down the pipes and sewers of the city.
“It’s not very stinky down here,” she said, stooping to pick up a ring and sliding it onto her finger.
“That stuff goes through pipes to treatment,” The Phantom said, poking at a dead goldfish with a long stick. “We’re mostly dealing with run-off and storm water. Its nice now, but when it floods its very dangerous.”
They spent over an hour filling the boat with flotsam and jetsam and then Phoebe jumped in and The Phantom pushed off from the debris with the stick. When they got back to the apartment, The Phantom showed Phoebe his collages. Some of the early ones were primitive, doll heads nailed to drift wood and used condoms glued to cardboard. But they became more and more intricate - whole worlds spelled out in his random finds, full of color and the sparkle of lost gems.
“We can make one together,” The Phantom said.
And so they passed the day and night together. And then some more days. Time seemed to stand still in the tunnels beneath the city. The Phantom cooked and Phoebe ate. They went out in search of treasure. They made art and listened to records and smoked The Phantom’s small stash of pot. The Phantom was on good behavior, giving up his bed in the room that was painted to look like a summer sky while he slept on the couch.
When The Phantom mentioned one afternoon that he was surprised her would-be rescuers hadn’t yet found the door to the sewer, she was startled to remember them at all. Phoebe had no worries. The phone bill with the mysterious long distance charges that weren’t hers? So what. The rent, which was overdue and becoming more so with every minute spent fishing action figures out of the sewer glop? Oh well.
And then there was Karl. Karl who?