by Chris Binchy
‘Do you have a book maybe, with pictures of all the important people? That way I could learn who it’s okay to serve. Do you have something like that?’
‘Are you being smart?’
‘No. Just when you tell me not to make mistakes, I don’t see how I can avoid it. If I don’t know who’s in and who’s out, how do you expect me to get it right? Should I serve everyone?’
‘No.’
‘Is it better that I serve someone who’s not entitled?’
‘No.’
‘So what you’re telling me to do is to know something I don’t know. And that you can’t help me with.’
The manager smiled. ‘What I’m telling you is to do the job of night porter properly without fucking up. If you don’t think you can do it, believe me, that’s fine. Some people aren’t cut out for this work. We can replace you by this time tomorrow. It might make both our lives easier.’
His face was close to Marcin’s now, close enough for Marcin to smell his breath.
‘I’m trying to resolve the problem,’ Marcin said.
‘Just do your job.’ The manager walked away.
One more comment would have done it. He spent the rest of that evening thinking what his next sentence would have been, and no matter what he came up with, it always ended the same way.
But he got on with his work and began to get some understanding of how things worked. He saw the division between night and day. How during the day the place felt glitzy and busy and buzzing and the people were brighter and there were girls and the managers smiled and the guests smiled back and nobody was drunk. In the business centre biddable girls in nice suits looked after the needs of executives. Hairdressers and boutique workers were part of the scenery. Lounge girls in striped waistcoats and tight skirts brought coffee and cakes and treats to people indulging themselves. Smiling families together for lunch at weekends. Daytime charity functions with blonde women and shiny men, BMWs and sports cars set up on podiums for raffles.
At night it was all men. Sitting in the residents’ lounge drinking until their shoes came off. Get me another fucking pint, you, and he’d do it because they tipped and were sloppy, forgetting cigarettes, losing handfuls of change down the back of the couch. People tried to sneak people in, tried to pay with stolen credit cards. People complained about the noise of the functions or the traffic on the road outside or the next guests’ television or their sex noises or their rows or the air-conditioning or just some non-specific problem that was keeping them awake, which Marcin thought was probably their own fucking insomnia and which, although this was a five-star hotel, was not his responsibility.
There were the early risers, trying to get into the gym at four, ordering egg-white omelettes and toast, no butter. There was thievery and cheating among the staff. Up there, in the corridors and the rooms, there was a whole world of activity that Marcin didn’t know about but began to sense. Conversations stopped when he arrived. That evening in the lift Ray had told him that what happened during the nights was their own business. He had been working in this place since it opened and he knew what it was about. Sort things out. Make the calls. Take your money. Keep your mouth shut. Marcin was a part of their crew now. He was a pretty good porter and if he kept it up he’d get in on everything that was happening.
‘The most important thing to remember is that at night this is our place,’ Ray told him. ‘We do our own thing, but you have to understand, we don’t push it. We take home maybe half as much again as the day shift and they don’t know that. They have their own set-ups. The fucking business is walking in the door at them. Fish in a barrel. We’ve got to work for ours. Do the job right. I know what it’s about and you’ll be looked after. Understand? You just can’t talk to anyone about this, right? I’m trusting you here.’
He did what he was told and did not ask questions. He ignored doors that opened and closed again as he walked along corridors and the lift that went up and down when no one was there. The porters’ phone that would ring three times and stop, prompting Ray or Tommy or one of the others to head off. The cars that came and went in the middle of the night. The girls who arrived and left or disappeared. The room-service orders to rooms that were supposed to be vacant. The men who handed money to him, always way too much, that he would bring back down to Ray. His cut came at the end of the week, a change bag from the bank with a small roll of notes.
Marcin didn’t know if the night manager was aware of what was going on, if he, too, got a packet at the end of the week. He thought not. Because for all the odd things that happened up on the floors above, down at the desk if someone wasn’t paying attention there was no reason why they would ever notice anything out of the ordinary.
He got used to the work and to the gap between himself and the others. The gap between day and night, worker and client, regular cherished guest and faceless worthless nobody on a package tour. He saw the people checking in and out, their luggage and their clothes, their days spent going places, doing things, deadlines and arrangements or free time and leisure filled with long afternoons drinking tea or cocktails or beer. Yawning and stretching until the next thing that had to happen happened. He saw all this but wanted nothing of it. He didn’t envy these people, didn’t waste his time imagining himself in their shoes or dream that his life would be happier or better if he was doing what they were doing.
But he envied their beds. The heat of this summer made day sleeping difficult, and in the airless, half-dreamed concert of comings and goings in his bedsit it was even harder. To be in a dark room, temperature control on the wall and a phone you could turn on or off, a sign you could hang on the door to communicate to the world that your rest was important, something to be borne in mind by others. That was a luxury for which he lusted.
The route to work became familiar. He began to see the same faces of the office workers, girls who looked through him or didn’t see him or did. He passed along a terrace of old houses, now all businesses. Then along the canal and its endless non-moving traffic where he was a distraction in other people’s worlds, something grey-faced and feeble, going against the crowd. Why does he walk like that? State of his shoes. That suit.
It put him off. He looked at the map and saw that away from the main roads there were any number of quieter routes he could take. North and east would do it. A combination of right turns and straight ahead would deliver him to Pembroke Road and from there he knew how to find the hotel.
The streets were quiet at night. He walked a jagged route along tree-lined roads of big houses set back from the traffic, gravel drives and gardens maintained by crews of Chinese guys with strimmers and blowers and equipment. Porsches and Jaguars and old Mercedes and BMWs in the driveways -7-series for the man and 3-series for the woman. To look at these houses from the front, with their red brick and granite steps, the subtle shades of door paint, the open windows with their curtains swept back and the view into their living rooms full of books and art and fabrics and furniture, was to feel that this world would be beyond him for ever. But from the lanes that ran along the backs of these houses it was different. Marcin could smell the gardens as he passed, climbing plants, roses and honeysuckle and privet. The neatly cut grass and clipped hedges of the front gave way to weeds, petals and leaves blown into piles in the corners, cigarette butts and packets. Floating bathrooms clung to the back of buildings with plumbing and pipework, places where these people washed and pissed and shat. Dodgy extensions, patched-up paint jobs in colours that belonged to a more garish age. Cracked windows, flaking paint, leaking roofs, crappy skylights and clothes-lines running across small yard spaces.
It was a territory for the feral cats who walked all over these carefully negotiated divisions of space and light, through the rusting iron gatework, sharpening their claws on the louvred wood panelling, scaling the crumbling stone walls that had been there from the beginning and shitting in the scrappy flowerbeds, as if this other world had been created for their amusement. It happened every so
often that someone coming out would turn and see him and stop, as if they’d found him in their bedroom. Then a moment of shifting reality as they realized that, technically, this was a public street and that he, whoever he might be, wasn’t necessarily doing anything wrong by being there. By walking quietly with a bag on his back. By looking like that. By smiling shyly as if something was funny. They watched him pass, just to be sure that he was going, blaming him for their own surprise, justifying it by hanging on for a moment to make sure he wasn’t waiting for them to go before hopping the wall and… He wasn’t going to do it. Anybody could see that. Just some night worker. Who puts on a uniform to rob houses?
31
Victor’s job was to watch and pay attention to what was going on, inside and out. But the reality was that on the quiet evenings mid-week, with no one inside to worry about and no one on the street coming in, there was nothing to be done. The hours passed slowly and as they did, with a dreamy half-smile on his face, Victor planned his empire.
He wanted to go home after his time in Ireland, maybe a couple of years from now, and to open a gym. He knew where he wanted the first one to be. The right area of Bucharest, close to the centre where the foreigners working for international companies lived. There were more of them every year. These people would get posted to Bucharest and do a stint before going back to Chicago or Lyon or Singapore or wherever they had come from. They weren’t interested in living there; they would go out to eat and drink and meet each other, try to meet girls. Victor had no interest in running restaurants or bars, too much work, too much uncertainty. But every one of these people would work out. It was what they did.
He would do it right. He would get enough equipment together, get the place fitted out so that it looked good, better than anywhere in Dublin, and he would charge a lot of money. Because if his was the best place in town, the foreigners would join, and as soon as some of them came, the others all would. They didn’t want to hang around with local wrestlers and weight-lifters in the industrial-style facilities of Dinamo. They wanted to run five kilometres on a machine. Do a few curls, sweat in an attractive way that made them feel good, and flirt with each other. Didn’t bother Victor. He had no doubt that if it was built it would work. And after the foreigners there were the rich Romanians.
He could see the place. He knew the corner he would put it on. He had pictured it so often that it had become real to him. The place would come free for him when the time was right. He knew it made no sense. But he believed, and that belief was what would make it happen. He had got away from home, had made it through Italy and had spent some time in Germany. He had struggled. He’d thought at various stages that life might turn out to be a disappointment, all effort, no reward. And yet here he was. Working, living in a Western country, making good money. Liked and respected by his colleagues. Plenty of friends. A nice car. A beautiful girlfriend. When he thought about how he had got here, it seemed to him that he had never stopped hoping. Always doing the right thing. Working hard. Being as honest as he could be. Things just came right.
And so the fact that he knew nothing about running a business or the legal issues involved in importing a load of gym equipment, or the health and safety implications, the cost of insurance, local rates or a hundred other things didn’t matter. It was simple. Someone would open a high-end gym in Bucharest. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. But he had a vision and he believed in it.
He’d need money. He lived a quiet life and saved most of his pay. He could do the odd nixer here and there, bring in a bit more. Some of the boys here might be interested in getting involved. With a few people throwing in twenty-five, thirty, forty thousand, suddenly you had a bit of money. When everything was in place he would go to the banks and see what he could get. Because a local man coming back with a lot of money and an idea for something new was the kind of project banks were there for. He would show them an artist’s impression, brochures, presentations of walk-throughs. The number of machines. The music system. The marble and chandeliers of the lobby. The juice bar. How could they say no? They wouldn’t. It would happen.
And so he read the newspapers from home online, trying to keep an eye on commercial property. He sent his mother to pick up brochures of sites that were about the right size. He looked on the Internet at the gyms in the five-star hotels of Bucharest. The Marriott. The Sofitel. The Hyatt.
32
Agnieszka walked into one of the booths in a call shop and closed the door behind her. The room outside was full of people using the Internet. The door was flimsy. When the phone answered she spoke as quietly as she could. ‘It’s me.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I was working last night. It was late when I finished.’
‘You could have called.’
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘Yeah. Better than leaving me waiting. I didn’t know what to do.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s here. He’s with me. But how was I supposed to know what you wanted?’
‘Because I told you already. It’s not complicated. Nothing’s changed.’
‘Maybe not for you. Over there. You’re not the one looking after him every day.’
She said nothing for a moment. ‘What can I do?’ Agnieszka said then.
‘Ring him. Talk to him. See what he wants.’
‘I know what he wants and so do you.’
‘It might not be that bad an idea.’
‘No,’ Agnieszka said. ‘Just no.’
‘Even for a few months. Until you get yourself together. Because I can’t go on like this.’ Her voice was thick and Agnieszka couldn’t tell if she was drunk or just emotional.
‘Why? Is he being difficult?’
‘No. Not that. But it’s all the time. I have no life any more and everything costs money, you know. And I don’t have it. The washing-machine. Again.’
‘There’s more coming,’ Agnieszka said.
‘How much?’
‘Two thousand.’
‘When?’
‘Next Friday.’
‘It’s tight.’
‘How is it tight? What does the money go on? It can’t cost much to feed him, and what clothes does he need? How can you be spending so much?’
‘I have to live. I have to look after everything for him. Not just food and clothes. Bills. Medicines.’
‘Why? Is he sick?’
‘Not sick. He had a cold but I got him everything he needed. I looked after it.’
‘I know,’ Agnieszka said, because it was easier, and if she hung up, she’d be left wondering.
‘And it’s not just the money. You know well what the problem is. How much time it takes to mind him. Do you know how my days are spent now? I only get out to see people at weekends.’
‘I never get out. I understand all that you do, and I appreciate it, but all I’m doing here is working.’
‘So let Lukasz take him. Come back at Christmas and look after him then.’
‘No. Do you remember nothing? He’s not going there. I’ll send you the money as soon as I have it and I’ll get home in a few weeks.’
‘What am I to say to Lukasz?’
‘Ignore him.’
‘How am I supposed to ignore him when he’s standing on my doorstep? What do I do if he kicks in the door?’
‘He won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he won’t. He’s only doing this to get at us. At me. That’s all. He’d get bored in a week and lose him in the mountains in Slovakia.’
‘He says he’d be staying with his parents. They’re okay, aren’t they?’
‘No,’ Agnieszka said. ‘And you can’t think of it like that. Just don’t believe anything he says to you. He’ll go away in a couple of days and that will be it.’
‘So Friday, is it?’
‘Yes. Two thousand.’
‘Okay then. I’ll talk to you again.’
‘Hang on. Don’t go.’
‘What?’
‘Is he awake?’
‘Yeah. Wait a minute.’ Agnieszka heard her mother call the boy’s name and then his feet in the echo of the hallway.
‘Hello, Jakub,’ she said. ‘Do you know who this is?’
33
Sylvester had been waiting for the phone call, expecting the announcement some time around five o’clock, and he was getting tense. When at last it came they were heading back into town from Wicklow. He saw Dessie watching him in the mirror as he began to speak. ‘So?’ Sylvester said.
O’Donnell laughed at the other end of the line. ‘Guess.’
‘Can you just tell me?’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I’d say because you’re playing games that it’s a yes.’
‘It’s a yes.’
Sylvester smiled at Dessie in the mirror. ‘All right. That is good news.’
‘It certainly is,’ O’Donnell said.
‘Congratulations.’
‘I couldn’t have done it without you. I mean that. I’ll remember you for this. You’ll be looked after.’
‘That’s even better news,’ Sylvester said. ‘Was it close?’
‘Not in the end, no. Where are you now?’
‘Near Bray. Driving back into town.’
‘Well, I’m heading over there now.’
‘Where?’
‘To the hotel. Do you want to meet me? Have a look at it while it’s still standing? Think about your lost youth? We’ll go for a pint after. I’ll buy you a Shirley Temple or whatever it is you lot drink to celebrate.’
‘All right. We’ll be there in about half an hour.’
Sylvester put his phone back into his jacket pocket. He rolled the window down and for a second Dessie thought he was going to start singing. Instead, having looked behind, he hawked and spat out on to the grass verge. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘I had to get that out.’
‘So what happens now?’ Dessie asked.
‘Nothing. There might be an appeal but it’s not likely.’
