* For an insider’s up-to-date account of this superbly paranoid state of affairs and state, see Ismail Kadare’s The Successor.
VI. Hotels
39. Arrival in the Hotel
The hotel that I love like a fatherland is situated in one of the great port cities of Europe, and the heavy gold Antiqua letters in which its banal name is spelled out (shining across the roofs of the gently banked houses) are in my eye metal flags, metal bannerets that instead of fluttering blink out their greeting.* Other men may return to hearth and home, and wife and child; I celebrate my return to lobby and chandelier, porter and chambermaid — and between us we put on such a consummate performance that the notion of merely checking into a hotel doesn’t even raise its head. The look with which the doorman welcomes me is more than a father’s embrace. As though he actually were my father, he discreetly pays my taxi out of his own waistcoat pocket, saving me from having to think about it. The receptionist emerges from his glass booth with a smile as wide as his bow is deep. My arrival seems to delight him so much that his back imparts friendliness to his mouth, and the professional and the human are mingled in his greeting. He would be ashamed to greet me with a registration form; so deeply does he understand the way I see the legal requirement as a personal insult. He will fill in my details himself, later on, when I am installed in my room, even though he has no idea where I have come from. He will write out some name or other, some place he thinks deserving of having been visited by me. He is a greater authority on my personal data than I am. Probably over the years namesakes of mine have stayed in the hotel. But he doesn’t know their details, and they seem a little suspicious to him, as if they were unlawful borrowers of my name. The liftboy takes my suitcases one under each arm. Probably it’s the way an angel spreads his wings. No one asks me how long I plan on staying, an hour or a year, my fatherland is happy either way. The receptionist whispers into my ear: “627! Is that all right?”—as if I could picture the room to myself as he can.
Well, and in fact I can! I love the “impersonal” quality of that room, as a monk may love his cell. And as other men may be happy to be reunited with their pictures, their china, their silver, their children and their books, so I rejoice in the cheap wallpaper, the spotless ewer and basin, the gleaming hot and cold taps, and that wisest of books: the telephone directory. My room of course never faces the back. It is the room of a “regular”, so it has no facing room and yet looks out over the street. Opposite are a chimney, the sky, and a cloud… But it’s not so secluded that the condensed melody of the large nearby square doesn’t reach up to me like an echo of the dear world; so that I am by myself but not isolated, alone but not forgotten, private but not abandoned. I have only to open the window, and the world steps in. From afar I hear the hoarse sirens of ships. Very near are the jaunty ting-a-lings of trams. Car horns seem to call me by name — they greet me, as they might a senator. The policeman at the heart of it orders the traffic. The newspaper boys toss the names of their newspapers into the air like so many balls. And little street scenes enact themselves for me like a series of playlets. A slight pressure on the Bakelite bell-push and a green light goes on in a back corridor, signal for the room-service waiter. And here he is already! His professional eagerness is confined to his tail-coat — in his breast under the starched shirt front is human warmth; preserved for me, kept safe for the whole duration of my absence. When he telephones my order through to the kitchen so many floors below, he doesn’t forget to add who it is for, so that the sound of my name in the cook’s memory may spark some recollection of my particular preferences. The waiter smiles. He has no need of speech. He has no need to check or confirm anything. There is no possibility of any error. I am already so familiar to him that he would be prepared to accept tips from me on credit — at a suitable rate of interest, of course. His faith in the inexhaustible sources of my income is itself inexhaustible. And if I should one day turn up in rags and as a beggar, he would take that for an ingenious form of disguise. He knows I am merely a writer. But still he gives me credit.
I pick up the telephone. Not to make a call — only to say hello to the hotel telephonist. He puts me through promptly and often. He says I am out, if required. He warns me. In the morning he relays important news items to me from the paper. And when there is money on the way, he lets me know with discreet jubilation. He is an Italian. The waiter is from Upper Austria. The porter is a Frenchman from Provence. The receptionist is from Normandy. The head waiter is Bavarian. The chambermaid is Swiss. The valet is Dutch. The manager is Levantine; and for years I’ve suspected the cook of being Czech. The guests come from all over the world. Continents and seas, islands, peninsulas and ships, Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Muslims and even atheists are all represented in this hotel. The cashier adds, subtracts, counts and cheats in many languages, and changes every currency. Freed from the constriction of patriotism, from the blinkers of national feeling, slightly on holiday from the rigidity of love of land, people seem to come together here and at least appear to be what they should always be: children of the world.
Before long I will go downstairs — to complete my arrival. The receptionist will come up to tell me his news and to hear mine. His interest is devoted to me as entirely as that of the astronomer in the first hour of a comet’s appearance over the horizon. Have I changed? Can I be said to be the same? His eye, delicate and precise as a telescope, takes in the material of my suit, the cut of my boots — and the assurance: “I’m delighted to see you looking so well, sir!”—refers not so much to my state of health as to the apparent state of my finances. Yes, you’re the same as ever — he might equally have said. — Thank God you haven’t sunk so far that you might have to seek out another hotel. You are our guest and our child! And long may you remain so!
My interest meanwhile is in everything concerning the hotel, as though I stood one day to inherit shares in it. How’s business? What ships are expected this month? Is the old waiter still alive? Has the manager been unwell? No international hotel thieves, I trust? — In that one fine hour those are my concerns. I should like to be shown the books, and check the reservations for the months ahead. Am I in any way different from a man whom love of country prompts to check the budget of his nation, the political orientation of the cabinet, the health of the head of state, the organization of the police force, the equipment of the armed forces, the number of the navy’s cruisers? I am a hotel citizen, a hotel patriot.
Before long the moment comes when the receptionist reaches into a distant pigeonhole and pulls out a bundle of letters, telegrams and periodicals for me. A glance shoots out in my direction, in advance of my post. The letters are out of date and nevertheless new. They have been waiting for me for a long time. I know already some of their contents, having been apprised of them by other means. But who knows?! Among the expected letters may be one that surprises me, perhaps unhinges me, or causes my life to change its course? How can the receptionist stand there calmly smiling as he hands me my mail? His equanimity is the product of long experience, of a bittersweet paternal wisdom. He is sure that nothing surprising will come, he understands the monotony of a hectic life; no one knows as well as he does the absurdity of my vague romantic notions. He knows passengers by their luggage, and letters by their envelopes. “Your mail, sir!” he says coolly. And yet his hand, as it delivers the bundle into my keeping, bows, as it were, at the wrist, in accordance with an ancient tradition, a ritual of receptionists’ hands…