by M. Suddain
‘I don’t need more of your money. What I need, Jonathan, is for you to stop talking, to follow me back down to Terminal Annexe, and say nothing, and if you do there’s a chance we’ll live.’
‘I agree,’ said Beast. ‘Something not right here, Boss.’
‘I’m afraid there are no ferries back to the port tonight.’ Espantapájaros’s voice came from behind. ‘The last has left. Sailed off into the starry seas.’
Gladys whispered: ‘There’s a cargo-pod in the Annexe. I tagged it when we got here. This could be our last chance. I can’t pull down maps for this place. I couldn’t even tell you where the ladies is.’
‘It’s over there, madam.’ Espantapájaros pointed to a small door on the far side of the Grand Staircase. A ragged red smear led up to it. It was a mess all right. It could almost make a man reconsider his ambitions. But at that point I could hardly focus on anything. Things were spinning. No sunlight to power my thoughts down here. Strange noises came from far away.
‘You’re telling me you’re afraid of runts like that?’ I said, gesturing to the skinny boy still pointlessly running his mop through the lake of blood, occasionally squeezing pink water into his gleaming brass bucket. He had a large pimple between his thick brow. It glowed like an idol gem. The hands which worked the mop were thin and delicate. His face, too, was drained of colour, but his pimple had reds, yellows and deep purples, as if every ounce of colour in his body had been diverted to fund that singular eruption. Franz, he would be called.
‘I’m not afraid,’ said Gladys, ‘I’m doing my job. None of this is real, Jonathan.’
‘What do you mean, “None of this is real”?’
She sighed. ‘I’ll explain it later.’
‘I agree with Gladys,’ said Woodbine again, gently. ‘I strongly suggest we abort the job, sue for your fee plus emotional damages. You can still make a killing, even if you only got as far as the lobby.’ They were right. They could not have been more right. I knew it. It was more than just the Countess. The Hotel Grand Skies was possessed with a silence beyond silence. You could feel the stillness oozing down the Grand Staircase, like a breeze so soft you can’t even feel it on your skin, but you know it’s there. And the smell. There is a certain smell. To stay in this lobby another minute was a great insanity, eclipsed only by the greater insanity of going upstairs. Only a mad person would stay here. I’d never been more certain of anything. And yet …
‘I’ll pay you triple.’
Gladys groaned like a spirit. ‘You’re already paying me triple.’
‘Then triple it again. I can’t do this without you, Gladys. Don’t make me say it. I’m sorry I tried to buy you a dress.’
‘You know I haven’t packed for this amount of trouble.’ She kicked the small, steel-plated case beside her. Gladys owns three cases: a compact one for short trips to secure areas; a medium one for longer trips to moderately risky areas; and a large one for trips to seriously dangerous places. This hotel, she assumed, would be a ‘small case’ event.
‘Please, Gladys.’
She sighed. ‘Not Beast. He has to leave. I can’t protect both of you.’
‘I’m not leaving. Wait. Am I leaving?’ Beast softly stroked the thin scar on his neck from where his father attacked him with a bottle at his cousin’s wedding. He does it when he’s worried. He glanced at the grim puddle in front of him, at the mop boy with the kitchen knife in his belt. Then at Espantapájaros, who said, ‘No, sir, I rather think you aren’t.’
‘No. I’m staying.’ The Beast clapped his massive hands together. ‘Definitely … Am I staying?’ The echo from his hands took eleven seconds to die.
‘Mr Tamberlain, you surprise us!’ The voice from above made us jump. ‘But we’re glad you’re here! The staff are in electrics!’ We turned to see a man descending the Grand Staircase. He wore a fine dark suit with bright yellow socks and the silver emblem of the concierge on his lapel. He stepped quickly around the body at the bottom, strode across the arena with its still beasts and dead widows. His glossy shoes tick-tacked on the marble, giving the impression of a man dogged by a pair of toy beetles. He approached with two boys in tow. ‘But my friend’ – he tucked his diary under his arm, extended his hands towards me – ‘what happened to your shoes, they’re filthy!’ He offered his hand, and I took it. It felt real, real as anything.
6 ‘… bladder pain, bloody or cloudy urine, difficult, burning or painful urination, fast, pounding or irregular heartbeat or pulse, frequent urge to urinate, lower back or side pain, fever or chills, blistering, peeling or loosening of the skin, mild euphoria, phantom limbs.’
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NOTES ON A CONCIERGE
‘The notorious Tomahawk. In our establishment. Who could have imagined?’ The concierge, whose name is Shabazzniov, arrived finally; his boys followed, peering shyly up at me. ‘Might I greet you in the traditional way?’ he said as he came in like a vampire, grabbed my shoulders firmly, and kissed me on both cheeks. I felt the heat of a real face, smelled Black Brigade for Men.7 ‘I kiss the cheek of every guest who comes here. And so a bond is formed.’ He’d left his scent on my cheek.
‘I’m honoured.’ I stepped back to restore the space between us.
‘But great stars, your shoes! What happened?’
‘I had to take a taxi through the low districts of Zoraster.’
‘But why would you do that, Mr Tamberlain? There’s a light-rail service to the docks.’
His skin was olive brown and very smooth. He had a drowsy alertness, like the prehistoric predator who seems to dream his way through life, yet sees all. I was a small bird pecking along the edge of his lagoon, and he hardly cared. He was both arrogant and supplicant; only a great concierge can pull this off. His suit was elegant; his shoes were buffed to distraction, seemingly to match his hair, which was oiled into dual side-parts, a kind of shark’s fin formed in the middle of his head.
‘Oh, but it’s a rough uncivilised place, Zoraster, I hear. I’ve never been. The stories drift down to us. But you look like a man who takes care of himself.’ He made a quick gesture towards my left fist. Could he have seen the faint scarring on my knuckles in this light? ‘And this beefy man-guard; stars!’ He opened both his palms towards Beast, who he must have assumed was my protector. ‘I would not like to come upon the pair of you in some dark Zorastern alley. We’ll have your shoes cleaned for you, Mr Tamberlain. And we’ll fix that errant stitching on the first button of your right cuff, too. We have a superb tailor. You won’t have a need in the world.’ The boys behind him smiled. Young, pale, androgynous boys. Terrifyingly beautiful. Dressed like tiny versions of their boss. Shabazzniov spoke quietly, as if sharing a confidence. ‘I want to extend our welcome, as well as …’ he lowered his voice further still, ‘… our sincere apologies.’
‘Not at all. I’ve seen many corpses on my travels.’
He looked confused. ‘I mean the muddle over the timing of your booking. Your early coming. It was very possibly our fault in some way. Perhaps we assumed too much of your staff. We are mortified. Mr Espantapájaros will speak to Ms Zhivast, our registrar. Of course your reservation will be honoured.’
‘Ah. Well, we still have some reservations. Generally.’ I threw a quick glance at Gladys. The young man with his mop was still slopping his way languidly across the slick of blood. The way he used his mop made him look like a gondola pilot pushing an invisible craft across a darkly red river. I noticed for the first time that his mop handle had been sharpened into a spike. How could I have missed such a detail? What else was I missing? Maybe it would be a good idea to make a tactical retreat. ‘My colleague, Ms Green, wondered if this might not be the ideal moment for our visit. What, with the spill. She wondered if it might in fact be best for us to take a ferry back. Just until you get things … mopped up.’
‘But the last ferry has left, Mr Tamberlain. There is no boat back tonight.’
‘Ah, but Ms Green mentioned a cargo-pod.’
The concierge shared a quick glance with his boys before he swivelled his head towards Gladys, ran up and down the length of her with his dead black eyes. ‘Is that how you want to end your stay at the grandest old establishment in the Cloud? Ejected into the darkness in a cramped pod with no provisions? I doubt your giant bodyguard would even fit. Imagine you three out there in the dismal silence, wasting away and wishing your frail beacon would be picked up by some dreary freighter or smugglers’ yacht.’ Extraordinary. His boys exchanged smiles. I heard Beast whisper something to G, a tiny figure at his left shoulder. The concierge shot eyes at them again. Then he took a quick step towards me, and in a voice so quiet I could barely hear him, said, ‘Before we settle your boarding arrangements there is one thing I need to talk to you about. A delicate matter. Perhaps I might have a few minutes alone with you.’
‘Alone?’
‘It’ll only take a minute.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ He seemed to miss my innuendo. He said something in High Kaukassian to his boys, then turned and strode off. I gave a nod to my bodyguard, received a judgemental head-shake which I dampened with a two-handed conciliatory gesture intended to convey that I was taking care of things.
I followed the concierge across the lobby; he strode quickly. ‘I must apologise again, Mr Tamberlain, for the confusion. This is a busy time of year. I’m pulled many ways. It’s Harvest, of course, so the staff are hopeless. And we’re at Stealth Two, which complicates things. I’m so sorry, you won’t follow. The establishment is very private, the guests demand it. They want respite. People are always trying to find us here. The press, certain obsessives.’ Did he pause for a micro-second to glance back at me? ‘We employ a five-tier Stealth Mode system. Stealth Mode One causes little disruption. Stealth Two means limited “comms” with mirrored encryption and no waste disbursement, if you follow.’
‘Of course.’ Nope. I followed him towards the small booth beneath an enamel sign, ‘CONCIERGE’, and through a velvet curtain the shade of the cloth they drape on babies’ coffins.
‘But I want to assure you it won’t affect your stay.’ We stood in an improbably tiny office. It had a lacquered cabinet, and two red leather chairs around a low, veneer-topped coffee table. On the table was a press-bell and a small brass pot. The rear wall of the cell was dominated by a portrait of Kosmikov, the Black Count, the man who had built the old Eastern states into the all-conquering empire we’d come to call the Kaukassus. And there was a smaller portrait beside it: a bald man with sparkling eyes, a scar down one cheek. I thought I’d met him before, but I couldn’t place him.
‘Who is that man?’
The concierge arched an exquisite brow. ‘Count Kosmikov?’
‘No, the other gentlemen.’
He looked at me with immaculately restrained scorn. ‘That’s our Master, Mr Tünghammer.’
‘I feel like we’ve met.’
He frowned. ‘It’s inconceivable that the two of you would have met. He hasn’t left this hotel in years. But no matter, you’re probably just mistaken.’
The memory was faint. But his face is unforgettable. ‘You’re probably right, I’m probably confused.’ We stood awkwardly in the cramped space, the four of us.
‘Mr Tamberlain, I have to confess, I am in love with you. Oh no! Your face! I’m sorry, Kaukassian is my first language, and sometimes I use words inappropriately. I just meant that I’m a fan of your work. Not as big a fan as our registrar, Ms Zhivast. She has every one of your novels, in every edition. She is what they in fandom call a “completist”. But I have a number of your novels near my bed where I can reach them. They are very comforting. Sometimes I like nothing more than to hold them.’
‘Thank you. My work is non-fiction, of course.’
‘Oh, of course! By “novel” I simply meant that your culinary adventures evoke the style of a classic detective story.’
‘Of course, I didn’t mean to suggest I was correcting you.’
‘I understand. And I didn’t mean to seem as if I was defending myself.’
‘I understand.’
‘We’re so happy to see you. None more than Ms Zhivast.’
‘I must sign something for her.’
‘She would die. The staff are in fits. “How tall will he be?” “What will he smell like?”’
‘Right.’
‘You smell very satisfactory, if I can say.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘How rude of me – please sit.’ I lowered myself into one of the chairs. I hungered for drink by then, I can tell you. I could still see the Countess’s face. But hers would fade as we made our way through the corridors to our room. So many faces. The room seemed to be shrinking. Kosmikov’s face began to bloom with dark rage the longer I stayed in its shadow.
‘Mr Tamberlain?’
‘Hmmmmm?’
‘I think I might have observed some discomfort in you. You don’t seem at ease, or as delighted to be here as I expected. Is something bothering you? Is my manner too informal? Are you uncomfortable because I used the L word when we’ve only just met? We pride ourselves on perfection. But if there’s some small thing disturbing you …’
‘Well. There’s a dead countess by the elevators. Let’s start with her and see where the night takes us.’ He nodded as he pressed his knuckles to his fullish lips, like I’d simply pointed out the day-old flowers in the vases. Then he took the seat opposite. He seemed to enjoy some brief private joke before he spoke. ‘I’m sorry, I was just scanning my memory for a story suitable to describe the difficult yet vastly rewarding job I have. But there are so many. I am a concierge. My job is to satisfy desire. Any request from any guest, no matter how small and strange, is in my remit. I’ve replaced the pillows in a lady’s suite with endangered swans. I’ve arranged a lavish “shotgun” wedding for eight hundred guests in the Grand Ballroom with less than an hour’s notice. I’ve produced a tiny dinner jacket for the investor Herman Ott’s dog, Ruth, when he wished to take her to the Rainbow Danger Club.’
‘A strange request.’
‘He is a devout animal lover.’
‘Indeed. I once saw him order elephant’s foot at the Carnaby.’
‘I wasn’t aware they served elephant.’
‘They don’t. Ott had been to the Midnight Circus. He’d fallen for the beautiful elephant tamer called Edith, and when she refused to come to his room at the Carnaby he took a spiteful revenge. He knew that the circus owner was a mean and greedy man, always looking to make quick money. So he offered a mammoth sum for a mammoth meal. The elephant, Daisy, was taken from its loving owner and butchered. Ott ate a single mouthful. “It tasted like sponge cake wrapped in a towel,” he said, apparently.’
‘Well. We all reap what we sow, in the end.’ He held my eye, I thought, a blink too long.
‘And the Countess? What did she request to get such exacting service from you? I’d like to know so I don’t accidentally say it.’
He smiled stilly at me. ‘Mr Tamberlain, what do you want?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘What have you come here for? What would make you happy? Our only job is to make you happy. Once we establish how, we can move forward.’
‘Well. I suppose I came here to eat.’
‘To eat? But you could eat anywhere.’
‘I came to have one perfect meal in your Undersea.’
He nodded. ‘That’s it? So simple.’
‘Simple?’
‘Yes. Perfection is easy; to disappoint someone well is a true challenge.’ He smiled. ‘But you mentioned earlier that you’d like to leave without having your meal.’
‘Well, yes, but only because my appetites have been temporarily suppressed by my desire to not be harmed.’
He raised his brows in alarm. Then he spoke softly, as one does to a patient. ‘So … if I am understanding you correctly, your wishes are to have your meal. But also to leave without having it. But either way to come to no harm.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’
‘But if the stories in your “novels” are true then you’ve put yourself in harm’s way on countless occasions, and for far lesser experiences than what we offer.’
‘I suppose that’s true, too.’
‘And if you climbed into that cargo-pod tonight and sailed out into the darkness, you’d undoubtedly be in significantly more peril than you perceive yourself to be in here. The dangers out there are real. But if you stayed here you’d enjoy an experience which would instantly eclipse all others you’ve had. You might only die of pleasure.’ He waited for me to enjoy his little joke. ‘Everything you could possibly want is here.’
‘If we have everything we desire we go mad.’
‘People don’t go mad because they’ve had too much pleasure, Mr Tamberlain; they go mad because they’re afraid they can’t enjoy pleasure any more. May I offer you some wine?’
‘What? Oh, yes.’ Gods yes.
‘I share a drop with each new guest. Another small ritual.’ He stood and went to his cabinet. I watched as the shadow lifted a stopper from a decanter, and poured measures of pinky-red wine into two small glasses. As he poured the wine the odour reached me, the shape of it appeared to me, and I was suddenly filled with feelings I struggled to contain. This was no ordinary wine. He left the glasses standing on the cabinet so the sediment would ease and turned his eyes back on me.
‘I must say, this is very exciting. We haven’t ever had a critic on our List, of course. And I can’t recall we’ve ever had a traveller.’ He must have caught the brief change on my face, because he quickly corrected himself. ‘Oh! I didn’t mean … by “traveller” I meant someone who travels professionally.’
‘It’s perfectly all right. I didn’t think you were calling me a –’
‘I never would! Mr Tamberlain, I’m mortified, I simply –’
‘Don’t think anything of it, I understood your intent.’
‘Because I never would.’
‘Of course.’
He nodded, went back to the glasses on the cabinet, leaned down to peer into the liquid. Kept peering as he said, ‘But your mother was Andovan, wasn’t she?’
