When the idiot had spilled his wine, the server had reacted immediately, without thought. A startled, “Oh, your tie!” had prefaced the immediate reaction to wipe it off for him, and the quick pats with a washcloth had briefly turned into long, protracted downward strokes. The server was showing such interest and care in Lord Piggy’s tie, that he had obviously forgotten his place.
The server had made a mistake, of course. It was likely not allowed for a server to invade a guest’s space by touching him. He realized this and pulled away almost immediately, yet the damage was done. The idiot’s entourage had grown silent, awkwardly watching the interaction unfold. Even the great idiot seemed at a loss for words. Silence reigned for awkward moments in the room before the flustered server decided to excuse himself. He promptly sought to exit the room, walking quickly towards a doorway near Lena with an embarrassed haste.
“Boy!” Lord Piggy yelled after him as the room began speaking in a hushed, yet fevered pitch, “Boy! Boy, now see here!”
Yet as the embarrassed server walked past Lena—no doubt to receive a prompt firing from his boss—she was overtaken with a surprise that she dared not show. Although he hazarded a look her way, a sorrowful face choked with repression and dishonor, she caught a sly wink, “Oh my gosh,” Lena realized, as she looked at his primped and perfect face, with just the hint of eye-popping mascara and eyeliner, “Patrick?!?”
Lena moved quickly. Makeup-lady had nodded at her just moments after the ‘tie’ incident, and she had precious few moments to get in position.
After the belligerent young ‘server’ had taken it upon himself to invade the personal space of Lord Piggy, the scandal began to echo throughout the lobby and adjoined lounges. All eyes had turned to him. Yet after a round of drunken swearing and awkward attempts to gracefully arise from his chair, the eyes in the room averted back to their former conversations. She could overhear what they said under their breath, however. They made comments that tended to move between awkward laughter at his expense and derogatory comments about the impropriety of the server.
“You would think the Metropol would know better than to hire his ilk!” the idiot shouted to his entourage, “Disgraceful! Immoral! This is what I get for taking my business to East Germany! Attempts at buggery, and assaults on my person! This land has gone to the dogs, it has! To the dogs!”
Several serving staff stood in front of him, arms crossed in front in a display of immense contrition, as a manager stood beside him apologizing profusely.
“I apologize for his behavior, Sir.” the manager said, “He will be swiftly fired. His behavior will not be tolerated.”
“But it was tolerated! It was!”
“Yes, Sir, it was. The Metropol made a grievous error that we hope we can somehow make up for. Your stay and all future stays will be…”
“Future stays?! What future stays? Buggery! To think that I would take such a slight against my esteemed character…”
“Yes, Sir. We understand. We would be most happy to book you a room at one of the other hotels in town, at our expense.”
“One of the other hotels? Ramshackle shanties with cots and haircloth blankets, no doubt! This poor little country doesn’t…”
He droned on and on and on, and as it was time for the next move, Lena was actually glad to be rid of him and this large room, despite its gilded opulence. Besides, what was coming next would be far more interesting than watching the mind games everyone was playing with each other. No doubt, it was the same for the ruling classes no matter what country they were in—mind games, double-talk, scantily-clad women strapped with hidden recorders, intrigue and… oh, whatever other horrors that bureaucratic tastes could be exploited. This she only suspected of course; but she promised herself that, should she ever have the chance to experience it again, she would find a way to be somewhere else.
Up a few staircases, down a few hallways, down a staircase, over through another hallway, and up another staircase, she made sure to take a winding, convoluted path so as to confuse any tails. Not that she suspected any here—this was Stasi turf, and she was on their side tonight—she just knew that Makeup-lady might be following her, and any lack of effort might translate into other assumptions. For good measure, she doubled back a few times, and then became promptly lost. “Dammit!” she yelled at herself.
After setting herself back on the right path (no small task in such a gigantic installation), she finally completed her evasive route just outside room #05: a Diplomatic Suite, and one of the very best in the GDR, “Good god”, she mumbled as she stared at the door, “Even the front door of this place is incredible.” And it truly was. It was black—just black—and yet, the quality of the black was visible even to a boorish philistine like her.
Reaching into her purse, she fumbled around for a key. Finding it, she slipped it into the door and turned the lock—even doing this was a pleasant experience, she realized—good German locks with every edge tight, smooth and silky to the twist. Heck, even the sound it made was lovely.
Yet stepping inside, she was assailed with a sight she was hardly expecting. The entire place was only half-finished. On one side of the room, stacked carelessly, was some of the finest furniture she had ever seen in her life. The chairs were made of expensive wood with expensive lacquer, and contained finely-buttoned cushions that both begged to be sat in, and threatened at the cost of doing so. Immediately, Lena felt incredibly unimportant. These seats were meant to pamper the bottoms of important people… not riff-raff like her.
Yet despite the lavish furnishings casually tossed about, the rest of the room was mostly bare. The kitchen-area looked to have had its countertops removed (or not yet placed), and little plastic cups kept company with sticks of deodorant, bottles of cheap vodka and half-eaten sandwiches. Half the carpet was ripped-up to expose the soiled concrete underneath. Various cheap folding desks were strewn about, or gathered haphazardly against a far wall. She noticed a rough metal folding chair with arms leaning against a wall painted black with glopped-on strokes. A few blocky pink computers and light-blue typewriters sat on a desk in the corner, along with a large, complicated machine with paper and wires coming out of it, “That’s a poly-something!” Lena exclaimed in her head, recognizing it from a movie she saw once.
Despite the deconstructed appearance, the room was so huge that the four occupants only served to make the room seem even lonelier. Two of these occupants were unnervingly beautiful yet trashily-primped women. Their clothing seemed to be falling off of them to reveal underclothing that was far lacier and see-through than anything Lena had seen before. Yet these women sat smoking cigarettes and talking in apathetic tones about “Filing more damn reports” and the “KGB asshole that lost the pen.” At this, Lena checked her purse to make sure that she hadn’t made the same mistake.
The third occupant, however, was none other than the disgraced server, Patrick, who was busying himself with his makeup while looking in a grubby mirror. His eyes were even more gilded now, and his skin had a touchable sheen to it that made him seem younger than she knew him to be. As a matter of fact, Patrick appeared to be… well, scandalously young for how primped up he was.