Отель / Hotel

Хейли Артур

“Why the St. Gregory?”

“I was staying there. I had since I came from Wisconsin. Then one morning I saw in the classifieds that the managing director of the hotel wanted a personal secretary. It was early, so I thought I’d be first. In those days W.T. arrived at work before everyone else. When he came, I was waiting in the executive suite.”

“He hired you on the spot?”

“Not really. Actually, I don’t believe I ever was hired. It was just that, when W.T. found out why I was there, he called me in and began dictating letters. By the time more applicants arrived I’d been working for hours, and I told them the job was filled. About three days later I left a note on his desk. ‘My name is Christine Francis,’ and I suggested a salary. I got the note back without comment – just initialed, and that’s all there’s ever been.”

“It makes a good bedtime story.” Peter rose from the sofa, stretching his big body. “That clock of yours is staring again. I guess I’d better go.”

“It isn’t fair,” Christine objected. “All we’ve talked about is me.” She found herself wondering what it would be like to be carried in his arms.

“Anyway, there’ll be other times.” He stopped, regarding her directly. “Won’t there?”

As she nodded in answer, he leaned forward, kissing her lightly.

Already in a taxi to his own apartment he decided that whatever, if anything, developed between Christine and himself should happen slowly, with caution on his own part.

Tuesday

1

As with all hotels, the St. Gregory came awake early after a short, light sleep.

Near five a.m., night cleaning parties tiredly began dissembling their equipment to store it for another day.

A switchboard operator put down her knitting and made the first morning wake-up call. Between now and seven a.m., the switchboard group would awaken other guests. As usual, the peak would be 7:45, with close to a hundred and eighty calls requested. Even working at high speed, the three operators would have trouble completing that many in less than twenty minutes. Inevitably today there would be complaints from guests to management alleging that some operator had called them either too early or too late.

Two floors below street level, in the engineering control room, Wallace Santopadre, third-class stationary engineer, put down a paperback copy of Toynbee’s Greek Civilization. Now it was time for the final stroll of his watch around the engineers’ domain. He checked the hot-water system, noting that there would be plenty of hot water during the heavy demand period soon to come, when upwards eight hundred people might decide to take morning showers at the same time. Santopadre also noted that the massive air conditioners were running more easily as the result of a drop in outside temperature.

Not far from the engineering station, in an odorous room, Booker T. Graham wheeled today’s last trolley with garbage in and, a little at a time, spread the contents on a large flat tray, raking the mess back and forth like a gardener preparing topsoil. Whenever he saw a trophy – a returnable bottle, intact glassware, silverware, and sometimes a guest’s valuables – Booker T. retrieved it. At the end, what was left was pushed into the fire and a new portion spread out. The present month, almost ended, promised to be average for recoveries. So far, silverware had totalled nearly two thousand pieces, each of which was worth a dollar to the hotel. There were some four thousand bottles worth two cents each, eight hundred intact glasses, a quarter a piece, and a large assortment of other items. Graham yearly saved to the hotel about forty thousand dollars.

In the kitchen area, lights were on. In a few minutes the cooks would begin preparing the hotel’s sixteen hundred breakfasts and later – long before the last egg and bacon would be served at mid-morning – start today’s two thousand lunches. At the kitchen fry station Jeremy Boehm, a sixteen-year old helper, checked the big, multiple deep-fryer he had switched on ten minutes earlier. He had set it to two hundred degrees, as his instructions called for. The fat of the fried chicken in the fryer had heated all right, though he thought it seemed quite a bit smokier than usual. He wondered if he should report the smokiness to someone, then remembered that only yesterday an assistant chef had scolded him for showing an interest in sauce preparation. This was none of his business either. Let someone else worry.

Someone was worrying in the hotel laundry half a block away. Mrs. Isles Schulder was concerned about a pile of soiled tablecloths. In the course of a working day the laundry would handle about twenty-five thousand pieces of linen, ranging from towels and bed sheets to greasy coveralls from Engineering. Mostly these required routine handling, but lately businessmen had stated to do figuring on tablecloths, using ball-point pens. Once ballpoint ink got wet, you could write a cloth off because, after that, nothing would ever get the ink out. So, Nellie – the laundry’s best spotter – would have to work hard today with the carbon tetrachloride, the only thing that could wash off the ink.

And so it went, through the entity of the hotel. Upon stage and behind a new day came awake.

2

In his private six-room suite on the hotel’s fifteenth floor, Warren Trent stepped down from the barber’s chair, in which Aloysius Royce had shaved him. Looking in the mirror, he could find no fault with it as he studied his reflection. It showed a beaked nose and deep-set eyes with a hint of secretiveness. His hair, black in youth, was now white, thick and curly still. He looked as an eminent southern gentleman.

It was Tuesday. Including today, there were only four more days to prevent his lifetime’s work from turning into nothingness.

The hotel proprietor entered the dining room where Aloysius Royce had laid a breakfast table. He gestured for Royce to sit with him. Serving the two portions, Royce remained silent, knowing his employer would speak when ready. There had been no comment so far on Royce’s bruised face or the two adhesive patches he had put on. At length, pushing away his plate, Warren Trent observed, “You’d better make the most of this. Neither of us may be enjoying it much longer.”

Royce said, “The trust people haven’t changed their mind about renewing?”

“They haven’t and they won’t.”

“Some things get better, others worse.”

Warren Trent said sourly, “It’s easy for you. You’re young. You haven’t lived to see everything you’ve worked for fall apart.”

On Friday before the close of business – a twenty-year-old mortgage on the hotel property was due and the investment syndicate holding the mortgage had declined to renew. One banker whom he knew well advised him frankly, “Hotels like yours are out of favor, Warren. Nowadays the chain hotels have replaced the big independents and are the only ones, which can show profit. Look at your balance sheet. You’ve been losing money steadily.”