by Kerstin Gier
We were expecting most of the guests this evening or at some point tomorrow, although some had arrived already. A nondescript-looking older man, traveling alone, had checked in shortly before Mara Matthäus—and I’d immediately have written him off as boring if it wasn’t for Monsieur Rocher.
“That gentleman is anything but boring,” he’d murmured. “Just look a little closer. Perhaps you can’t see it very well under that coat, but he’s extremely fit and well-built, as if he’s been in training. Watch the way he walks, his tailored clothes, his practiced eye as he subtly checks out his surroundings—and do you see that bulge under his arm? That’s a shoulder holster with a pistol in it.”
“Oh,” I’d whispered excitedly, as I briefly caught sight of the bulge, too. “A hit man? Or a … er … romance scam artist who’s … er … carrying a gun for some reason? Shouldn’t we let someone know there’s a man wandering around with a pistol? What if he’s planning to raid the hotel?”
But Monsieur Rocher had just smiled. “Given that he’s checking into Room 117, right next door to the Panorama Suite, I think we can safely assume he’s a bodyguard employed by the Smirnov family.”
“Oh, right.” That was rather less exciting, but a lot more reassuring than a hit man. The Smirnovs—the Russian family who’d booked the Panorama Suite—seemed to be very unusual indeed: unusually rich, at least. They were definitely a certain type of guest. On top of the six-hundred-franc deluxe welcome package they’d ordered, consisting of a bouquet of roses plus champagne, truffles, caviar, and Japanese strawberries, they’d also paid for an extra flower arrangement made up of thirty-five white amaryllis and a quarter pound of steak tartare made from Charolais beef. This last item must have been for the dog. Dog Ban Exception Number Four, along with the Von Dietrichsteins’ pug and the two poodles. (At least the Smirnovs’ dog must only be a little one—very little, judging by the amount of steak tartare they’d ordered. Or perhaps he was on a diet.)
I set my empty cup down on the counter. Dusk was falling now and, as if she’d simply been waiting for a quiet moment, the Forbidden Cat came sauntering down the stairs to keep us company. She settled herself between the bell on the counter and my propped-up elbows, graceful as a Ming vase. Well, as a purring Ming vase that licked its paws occasionally.
Mr. and Mrs. Ludwig nudged each other conspiratorially at the sight of the cat and smiled. I’d secretly decided that the white-haired old couple from Room 107 were my favorite guests. They were always holding hands and reading poetry to each other and generally being adorable. He called her “my beautiful” and she called him “my love,” and they both looked a little dowdy with their old-fashioned haircuts and clothes, which were probably supposed to be elegant and chic but which actually just looked a bit dated. It was clear they weren’t used to being waited on and found it embarrassing to have other people doing things for them. Every day they left five francs on the chest of drawers in their room and a note saying: “This is for you, dear Chambermaid!” I always left two complimentary chocolates on their pillows instead of one and placed the money virtuously in the tip jar in the staff office, even though it was definitely meant for me. After all, the other chambermaids were not actually very nice, and the Ludwigs were always showering me with praise for doing perfectly ordinary jobs, like bringing them a firmer pillow or waterproofing their shoes.
Ever since she was a young girl, Mrs. Ludwig had dreamed of dancing the waltz at Castle in the Clouds’ New Year’s Ball, wearing a beautiful gown and a tiara. For years, she’d been studying the photos in the glossy magazines showing crowds of rich, famous, and beautiful people dancing, laughing, and drinking champagne in the huge ballroom.
“I could just hear the violins,” she’d confided to me one day.
“She could, you know,” Mr. Ludwig had added and gazed lovingly at her.
When she’d met Mr. Ludwig, at the age of twenty-one, there’d been no doubt in her mind whom she wanted to dance with at the ball one day, and the pair had married just four months later. Because the Ludwigs were neither rich nor famous, there was no way they could afford to stay at Castle in the Clouds, but that didn’t stop them from being happy. The years passed and they brought up three children, built themselves a small house, and worked hard to pay off their debts.
“But she never stopped dreaming of Castle in the Clouds,” Mr. Ludwig chimed in at this point in the story (I’ve shortened it a bit), and Mrs. Ludwig added, “Dreaming is good—it keeps you young.”
And so for thirty years, Mr. Ludwig had put money aside and secretly taken dancing lessons until, at last, he’d saved up enough to afford a room at Castle in the Clouds.
“He even wanted to buy me a tiara for the ball,” Mrs. Ludwig said, laughing as she patted Mr. Ludwig’s hand. “But I said that would just be too much. I’m going to be the oldest but also the happiest girl ever to dance at this ball, isn’t that so, my love?”
“You’ll be the most beautiful girl of them all,” Mr. Ludwig replied, and I secretly wiped away a tear. If that wasn’t romantic, I didn’t know what was.
The fact that the two of them were now sitting reading the paper in the lobby, keeping a close eye on the revolving doors, was no coincidence. They were at least as curious as I was and keen to catch a glimpse of any celebrity guests. They’d been delighted to see Mara Matthäus arrive, as well as the millionaire businesswoman and patron of the arts known as the Ball Bearings Baroness, who’d checked into Room 100 along with her much younger boyfriend. With any luck, the British actor, the American textile mogul with his extended family, and the extravagant Russians from the Panorama Suite would also show up before dinner.
I looked over at Ben. Now that his father was gone, I plucked up the courage to speak to him.
“Would you like a chocolate?” I called softly.
“Oh God, yes, toss them over here,” said Ben. “I’m half starved.”
For a second, I was tempted to take him at his word and hurl the truffles across the lobby. But, first, the reception desk was quite far away; second, I’d have had to somehow throw them around a pillar decorated with garlands of fir tree branches; and, third, the truffles were far too precious to risk dropping on the floor.
“Go on,” said Monsieur Rocher, as if he’d read my mind. “I’ve eaten enough marzipan truffles today to last me a hundred years.”
And because it was still so quiet and peaceful, I took the bowl and left the concierge’s lodge. If I didn’t want to climb over the counter (which would have been much quicker, naturally, but not really appropriate) I had to go through the back door into a little staff room with no windows but plenty of doors, and from there into the lobby.
It had started snowing outside. The snowflakes danced gently in the light of the lamps. From the bar on the east side of the hotel, the soft sound of piano music drifted over to us as I offered the chocolates to Ben, the Ludwigs (“Oh, how lovely! What wonderful service you get here!”), and the two bellhops.
One of them, Nico, hesitated for a moment. “We’re not allowed to eat while we’re on duty,” he said.
“Hmm,” I said, and my hmm didn’t sound nearly as forgiving as Monsieur Rocher’s.
Nico was about to scratch his head indecisively but couldn’t because of his silly bellhop’s hat. “If Mr. Montfort catches us, he’ll fire us on the spot. You heard him yelling about those fingerprints just now. And I think his brother’s back there in the office.” He pointed to the door behind the reception desk. “They say he’s not as strict, but still, I don’t want to get on the wrong side of both my bosses on my first proper day at work.”
Ben and I exchanged a glance. Clearly Ben hadn’t made his relationship with the two hoteliers public yet.
“They might have put hidden cameras up there.” Nico pointed at the ceiling. “Though most of this place is hopelessly out of date when it comes to technology. I’ve never seen elevators like that anywhere except movies. And the boilers in the staff bathrooms—”
; “In the time it’s taken you to make your mind up, you could have eaten the whole bowlful,” I broke in, and made to take the bowl away from him. “And FYI, Food and Travel magazine has rated Madame Cléo’s truffles the best in the world.” (Well, they would have done so, if they’d ever been here).
Nico hastily shoved a chocolate into his mouth. “You’re Work Experience, right?” he asked with his mouth full. “The intern. Camilla and Hortensia told me about you.”
Work Experience! I was so fed up with being called that, no matter by whom.
“We don’t say work experience here. Or intern. The technical term is … epaulet.” Sometimes these crazy notions just came over me, and I couldn’t help myself. Delia called these my “mental moments.”
“Epaulet?” echoed Nico. “I’ve never heard it called that before.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What’s it called again, the degree you’re working on?”
“Bachelor of Science in International Hospitality Management,” said Nico like a shot, and you could see him swelling with pride for a moment. Until he remembered his bellhop’s uniform.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll be learning all the terminology soon,” said Ben, grinning as he leaned forward with his elbows on the desk. “Are there any chocolates left, Epaulet?”
“Two,” I was about to reply. But at that moment, the peace of the afternoon was shattered, and all hell broke loose.
5
It all started with Don Burkhardt Jr. sauntering out of the restaurant holding a slice of chocolate cake. I had no time to wonder why he was grinning so deviously in my direction because suddenly, lots of things happened at once: Outside it started snowing heavily; several cars pulled up in front of the hotel; the phones at Reception, in the concierge’s lodge, and in the office all started to ring; the elevator grilles rattled; and the Forbidden Cat jumped down off the counter. It was as if someone had flicked a switch from slow motion to time lapse, and suddenly everything was moving at double speed. Jaromir pushed the empty luggage cart out of the service elevator, and the Forbidden Cat’s tail whisked through the door into the staff room just as Gordon Montfort appeared on the stairs and stood there with his arms folded.
The crystals on the chandeliers tinkled softly and the flames in the fireplace leapt higher as someone pushed the revolving door from outside, and an icy breeze swept through the lobby.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” bawled Gordon Montfort at the two bellhops. “I don’t employ you to stand there looking pretty! You should be helping the guests with their luggage without having to be asked!” His gaze rested on me for a second—I felt myself freeze—then settled on Ben, who was just finishing his phone call. “I hope that wasn’t a personal conversation,” Gordon barked as he came down the stairs. “Where’s your uncle? We need all hands on deck. The Barnbrookes are here, and I want … for heaven’s sake! Am I surrounded by idiots?”
In their hurry to get outside, Nico and Jonas had caused the revolving door to jam. It always stopped moving if you pushed it too hard; it had its own slow, leisurely rhythm. A girl in a checkered coat was now stuck inside it, tapping on the glass with annoyance.
“Unbelievable!” Gordon Montfort strode furiously across the carpet, headed straight for me. I stepped back and, in a moment of quick thinking, opened the door beside the revolving door so that he could rush past me and out into the snow. At the same moment, Nico and Jonas managed to get the revolving door moving again and stumbled out into the forecourt, while the girl in the checkered coat was catapulted into the lobby. She was pretty, about my age, with enviably smooth skin and shiny long blond hair falling loose over her shoulders.
“That’s a few points off right away,” she said in English, with an American accent—clearly not to anyone in particular but in a stage whisper. With a theatrical sigh, she turned slowly on the spot, looking around her. “Nothing’s changed at all here.” She sniffed the air. “And it still smells exactly the same. Of wood fires, furniture polish, and dust.”
With that she lost my sympathy. Dust! What nerve. As if the tiniest speck of dust would survive in this place under Fräulein Müller’s watchful eye! It was true about the wood fires and the furniture polish, but I happened to think the furniture polish smelled amazing—of oranges, turpentine, linseed oil, and honey. (I always got a slightly heady feeling when I was dusting.) And anyway, all those smells were being drowned out right now by the aroma of freshly baked brown bread drifting up from the kitchen.
“You almost expect the butler from Downton Abbey to come shuffling around the corner,” the girl went on, yawning pointedly. But then she caught sight of Ben, and her eyes grew wide. “Oh! My! Gosh!” She strode across to the reception desk and threw her achingly chic caramel-colored handbag down on top of it. “Ben? Ben Montfort?”
Ben smiled, a little awkwardly it seemed to me. “Welcome to Castle in the Clouds.” I’d meant to seize this opportunity to hurry back to the concierge’s lodge and safety, but now, afraid of missing something, I moved as if in slow motion. My English was quite good thanks to all the British and American TV I’d watched with Delia, and this girl could easily have been a character in one of those series. The bitchy blond one.
“I can’t believe it!” She rested her elbows on her handbag and went on staring at Ben. “Oh my God! I literally can’t even! Forget what I said about how nothing’s changed around here. I take it all back! Last time we saw each other, you were five inches shorter than me and you had acne all over your face and this weird hunchback way of standing.”
Ben’s smile was noncommittal. “I hope that you had a pleasant journey and an easy flight,” he said in perfect English.
I’d crept past the reception desk now and was heading toward Monsieur Rocher, who was on the phone. But I was still moving in slow motion, as if I had no control over my own limbs.
The girl didn’t answer. “I still can’t get my head around how broad-shouldered you’ve got all of a sudden.” She went on, in a dreamy tone, “When we were little, we used to play hide-and-seek together and you taught us how to skateboard and you always smelled of chlorine. If I’d known … But who could have guessed you were going to grow up to be so hot!” She fluttered her long eyelashes. (I saw her do it, because by this point I’d actually started walking backward, much to my own astonishment.) “Do you remember who I am?”
Ben shot a sideways glance at me. I might have been mistaken, but it looked as though he was on the verge of rolling his eyes.
But then. “Of course! You’re one of the Barnbrooke girls,” he replied, in a studiously friendly tone. “We’re very glad to be able to welcome you to the hotel again this year.”
“Oh, no, no, no! I’m not one of the Barnbrooke girls. I’m the Barnbrooke girl.” She looked at Ben expectantly, then sighed. “Gretchen! I’m Gretchen! You always used to say my name was so cute.”
Really? I wasn’t so sure. The way she pronounced it—“Grr-retch-in”—it sounded more like a sneeze gone wrong.
“Welcome, Gretchen.” Ben was still smiling his noncommittal smile, and I accidentally walked into a pillar, which finally shook me out of my reverie and brought me back to my senses. I really didn’t have any time to lose if I wanted to stay out of sight. I ran the last few feet to the staff room, facing forward this time. I only just managed to close the door behind me before Gordon Montfort entered the lobby again from outside, along with the rest of the Barnbrookes.
Monsieur Rocher was putting the phone receiver back on the hook as I slipped into the concierge’s lodge. (This phone really did have a receiver and a hook. The rest of the hotel had modern phones, but this one was from the forties or fifties, and I’d taken countless photos of it. I couldn’t get enough of its old-fashioned finger wheel and elegant shape.) “The airport in Sion is closed because of the snowstorm. The Smirnovs’ private jet will have to land in Geneva now, so I’ve postponed Mrs. Smirnov’s herbal stamp massage until tomorrow, just to be on the safe side.”
“O
h—they have their own jet, too?”
“A whole fleet, if I’m not mistaken,” Monsieur Rocher replied, but I was only half listening. I still had one ear on what was going on at Reception.
Chaos had erupted in the lobby. It turned out to be more difficult than expected to allocate the various Barnbrookes and their luggage to the six rooms they’d booked, especially since they were all talking at once and Ben could hardly keep up. There was still no sign of his uncle.
The two Ludwigs were watching all the commotion from their sofa with evident enjoyment. Don, on the other hand, seemed to have made himself scarce—I couldn’t see him anywhere.
Above the general tumult of voices, Gretchen’s voice rang out very clearly. “Ella! This is Ben Montfort! Was he this hot last year and you just forgot to tell me?” She clearly couldn’t get over the fact that Ben didn’t have acne anymore. “I didn’t come last year because I had mono, remember?” Her voice rose even more. “Or the kissing disease, as Grandma calls it.”
“Humph,” I said quietly. Could she be any more crass?
“Big family, isn’t it? And very lively.” Monsieur Rocher smiled indulgently at me. In my eagerness to see what was going on, I was leaning possibly a little too far over the counter. “It’s been a while since you met anyone of your own age, hasn’t it?”
He’d got me there. Both the guests and the staff at Castle in the Clouds tended to be somewhere between middle age and old. Little kids were few and far between, and until now there hadn’t been anyone else my age at all. Since the holidays had started, though, the place was suddenly full of young people—and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.
