by Stan Mason
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that. You don’t understand. I put my key in there but I need it to go back to my room.’
The little Spaniard stared at him suspiciously for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders aimlessly. ‘I no understand what you mean. Eef you didn’t wanna put thee key in the llaves, why did you put eet in there, senor? I don’t like thees explanation.’
Rawlins puffed out his cheeks with exasperation. Why did the little Spaniard need to ask so many silly questions? Couldn’t the receptionist see his dilemma. It was simply that of a person with his arm stuck in the key box. ‘Let me tell you what happened,’ he began, although it was clear he had already lost the attention of the little man. ‘I wanted to put the key in there because I didn’t want it. But as soon as I dropped it in there I wanted it again.’ Even Rawlins considered that his explanation sounded rather bizarre. ‘Perhaps I can put it in a different way,’ he blundered on. ‘I didn’t need the key any more but because we’re going out today I put it in here. Then I wanted to go back to the room again to get my wife’s camera. Does that sound any better?’
‘Your wife’s camera?’ retorted the Spaniard inquisitively. ‘You come ‘ere on vacation but you don’t have a camera of your own?’
‘Well it’s both our camera. The wife and I. But that’s not important.’
‘If it’s not important,’ returned the other man, ‘why do you want the key to go back to your room to get the camera.’
The Briton was stopped in his tracks by that question and he thought about it for a moment. ‘Because it is important,’ he claimed, having said just the opposite a moment earlier.
The receptionist stared at him in disbelief. ‘Eet ees important... eet ees not important!’ he muttered before releasing a rapid flow of evil-sounding Spanish words to identify his feelings about the Briton. At the end of the tirade, he walked away angrily throwing his hands in the air in frustration.
Rawlins began to panic. ‘No... don’t go away!’ he shouted, turning his head nearly ninety degrees to follow the man even though his plea fell on deaf ears. He waited hoping the receptionist would return. When he failed to do so, the tourist started to lose his temper, which was very rare where he was concerned. The rage began to emerge when he thought of what his wife would say. Ultimately, it stimulated him into demanding some form of action. ‘Oi!’ he yelled. ‘You come back here... or I’ll want to see the manager.’
The words seemed to have some effect because the little man returned reluctantly almost as though moving in slow motion with a forbidding expression on his face. ‘Senor!’ he began, managing successfully to hold back his Latin temper. ‘We ‘ave a busy Recepcion ‘ere. People from all over thee world stay ‘ere. They also want servicio, yes? I ‘ave not got thee time to serve one person all day! You will ‘ave to do something for yourself. Yes?’
Rawlins snorted angrily. ‘Look, matey! You can see the situation. I dropped my key in here... ’
Before he could continue, the receptionist raised himself to his full height of five feet two inches, his face quivering with rage. ‘You dropped your key in zer. You didn’t want it. Now you say you want it. Madre de Dios! What goes on in your mind? Or is thees a game? I tell you it ees impossible!’
‘Impossible? What do you mean by that? How can it be impossible? I’m staying at this hotel! I’m a guest here! You’ve got to do something to help me!’
‘I tell you why eet ees impossible. Thees box eez locked. She eez opened every half hour. Media deci ora. Ten fifteen ees thee next time. Ten fifteen! You ‘ave to wait teel then before she is opened!’
The Briton stared at him in an aggrieved manner. As he looked up, the minute hand of the clock inched forward yet again. ‘Hold on, hold on! Let’s put this in perspective,’ he reasoned logically. ‘It’s not the key I’m after at the moment. I don’t care about the key. I want my arm back! My arm!’
‘But you said you want thee key to get your camera!’
‘Well I do,’ admitted Rawlins staring at the face of defeat.
‘Now you say you don’t care about thee key, but you want it just the same? Are you some kind of madman?’ The man swore angrily in his native tongue and walked to the far end of the reception area muttering to himself, pretending he was far beyond reach of the Englishman.
Rawlins huffed and puffed for a few moments until he felt the situation was intolerable. ‘Oi!’ he repeated, trying to regain the man’s attention. ‘You come back here!’ At first, the receptionist ignored him and dallied for a while. Then he realised the problem would not go away and returned looking extremely annoyed. ‘What’s your name?’ demanded the Briton. ‘What’s your name?’
‘What difference does eet make to you what my name is?’ asked the Spaniard, staring at him coldly. ‘We are never going to be friends.’
‘Never mind all that. I want your name. Your name. Do you hear me?’
‘Okay, eef that’s what you want. I am Manuel Ramon,’ he replied. ‘Do you want my mother’s name now. My father’s name. My brother’s name. What you want to do... collect everyone’s name. You can do that with thee telephone directory. It’s not necessary to ask me!’
‘Look, Manuel Ramon,’ complained Rawlins moderating his tone. ‘I’m trying to take a very calm view of the situation. As you can see, I’m stuck. My arm’s stuck.’
The little man eyed him suspiciously. ‘Stuck?’ He turned to a colleague at the far end of reception who was sorting out a miscellany of papers at an old wooden desk . ‘Eh, Pedro,’ he called out. ‘Questo en Inglese “stuck”?’
Pedro stared back at him in the same unhelpful manner, shrugging his shoulders to indicate his lack of understanding. ‘No comprendo!’ he called out casually.
‘All right, forget stuck... not stuck... try jammed!’ shouted Rawlins, realising the hopelessness of his position.
‘Yammed?’ repeated Manuel, looking to his colleague again.
Pedro closed one eye as if in pain and looked up at the ceiling with the other. ‘Ah!’ he uttered eventually, mentally congratulating himself on finding the solution. ‘Jammed, si! Confitura! Mermelade de naranjas! En Inglese... marmalade!’
This time it was Manuel Ramon’s turn to shrug his shoulders and he returned to the hotel guest with a bland expression on his face. ‘You want jammed?’ he demanded sharply.
‘Well I’m not sure I want it. I’ve got it. I mean I am it.’ muttered Rawlins, finding himself in a language tangle.
‘Eef you want yammed, you ‘ave to go to el restaurante,’ exclaimed Manuel Ramon carelessly. ‘The restaurant ‘as the yammed. Thee marmalade!’
Rawlins blew out his cheeks in frustration wondering what to say next. He tried to loosen his arm by wiggling his elbow but it remained firmly fixed in the box. At that moment, two women arrived at the reception desk seeking to deposit their room keys. They stared at trapped man indignantly when they realised his arm blocked the slot. One of them simply laid her key on the counter and stalked off. The other, an Italian woman of enormous proportions, who wore black clothing and sported a straggly moustache, muttered angrily at her inability to place her key in the box. She moved her nose close to Rawlins’s face before raising her chin sharply as a sign of contempt. The tourist realised it was an evil gesture. He he had seen people in the Mafia do the same thing in the movies. Then she tossed the key on the counter before pinching his bottom painfully at a very indecent spot. After that, she sat on one of the armchairs in the reception area to watch his antics closely.
‘Manuel!’ cried Rawlins, when he had recovered from the shock. ‘Can we get back to my problem, please? Mis manos... in the llaves!’ He used his free hand to point to the trapped arm. ‘Is there nothing you can do?’ His face took on a painful expression while the tone of his voice bordered on the edge of begging.
‘No permiso!’ returned the receptionist, hi
s face wearing a similar kind of expression. ‘But you cannot stay where you are. You must take out thee arm and make room for thee keys. Thee guests ‘ave to put thee keys in thee box.’
Rawlins felt a surge of frustration welling-up inside him. ‘If you feel that strongly, then help me get my arm out, you twit!’
‘Tweet? What is tweet? I never ‘eard thees word before.’
‘Never mind that now! Just help me to get my arm out!’
Manuel turned to Pedro once again. For twenty seconds they kept repeating the word time and time again. ‘Tweet... tweet... tweet... tweet!’ Then the little Spaniard raised the flap of the counter and moved outside his little realm to stand beside the Englishman. He made a brave attempt to dislodge the limb gently but the arm was very firmly wedged in the key-box. He tried again... a little harder this time... to no avail. ‘You ‘ave to let go!’ he scolded, as if accusing Rawlins of deliberately resisting.
The Briton heaved a great sigh, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling again in a token of silent prayer for patience and fortitude. ‘Look!’ he suggested. ‘If you open the box from the back and push my hand upwards, I might be able to retrieve my arm before it goes numb! Do you understand? Comprendeis?’
‘We no open thee box teel ten-fifteen!’
‘In normal circumstances perhaps. But this happens to be an emergency!’
The receptionist became adamant, unable to recognise why the Englishman couldn’t understand the situation. ‘The hotel no open thee box unteel ten-fifteen!’
This was the final straw for the Briton. His face clouded and the veins in his forehead became extremely prominent. ‘All right! Where’s the Manager? El Directeur. I want to see the Manager!’
The Spaniard shook his head from side to side. ‘El Directeur no ‘ere in thee ‘otel.’
‘Oh, come on! This is a big hotel. He must be here somewhere! I mean to say, who’s running the damned place?’
A female guest, with a mannish-face and a poor-quality wig, tried to place her key in the slot despite the offending arm which blocked the entrance. When she failed, she began to strike Rawlins across his shoulders repeatedly with her beach-bag giving vent to her annoyance. After throwing her keys on the desk, she took a close look at the trapped man’s face and moved to the end of the reception area pretending to read the tourist operators’ information boards but, in reality, she kept watching him.
‘Look!’ repeated the luckless holiday-maker. ‘The only way to release me is to get a carpenter or an engineer. You must have one or the other on hand. Any handyman will do!’
‘Impossible!’
‘That’s what I like about you lot. Everything’s impossible. Why is it impossible to get someone to free me!’
‘Domingo. Today eet eez Sunday. No one works in Spain on Sunday. We go to church. We ‘ave respect. Eet eez a ‘oly day!’
‘But, as I said before, this is an emergency! Are you trying to tell me there’s never an emergency on a Sunday? Someone must be available to help!’
‘Per’aps eef you pay for thee work.’ He rubbed the palm of one hand with the tips of the fingers of the other hand. ‘I know someone who ‘oo can ‘elp you if you pay.’
Rawlins’ face brightened considerably. ‘At last I’m getting through!’ he exclaimed. ‘Fine! Get him! Who is he?’
‘Ow you say... ’ee is my brother-in-law. ‘E can ‘elp. What eez your room number?’
‘Is he a carpenter or a handyman?’ asked the Briton, suspiciously, not wishing to be the victim of a scam.
‘E is a very good accountant. But ‘e will come eef you pay.’
Rawlins began to lose his temper. ‘An accountant? What do you think I am? Hold on, matey, before you get carried away! I’m not paying an accountant... your brother-in-law... to get my arm out of your key-box! It’s the responsibility of the hotel!’
‘No, no, senor!’ returned Manuel Ramon boldly. ‘Llaves eez for keys... no for arms! You put thee arm in the llaves. Eet eez your fault. Never ‘as any tourist done theez before!’
‘I want to see the Manager,’ repeated Rawlins. ‘El Directeur! I’m not going anywhere until I see him.’
Manuel Ramon laughed loudly. ‘Eet looks like you are going nowhere anyway because you are... stuck... jammed!’ Then he shrugged his shoulders disconsolately. ‘El Directeur owns ten ‘otels in Spain. Eet eez not possible for ‘im to be everywhere at once. To you ‘e does not exist. I see to all thee problems.’
‘Well solve this one then!’ roared the tourist angrily. He glanced at the reception clock, closed his eyes, and shuddered. Mrs. Rawlins would not be amused at being kept waiting outside the hotel. The time for their rendezvous had long passed. The repercussions for making her wait would be severe.
By the time they had finished arguing it was exactly ten-fifteen. Manuel Ramon, lifted his hand to silence the Briton. With a solemn expression on his face, he produced a key from a drawer and opened the box. After he had taken apart the constituent metal parts leading up to the slot, the Spaniard gripped the tourist’s hand and roughly pushed the offending arm upwards. Rawlins sighed with relief as he extricated the limb and glared at the receptionist as he rubbed it. His first inclination was to take the man by the scruff of his neck and shake him down. However, with his wife in mind, he took a deep breath and swallowed his pride.
‘Key to room four-two-four!’ he growled, rubbing his arm tenderly.
Manuel Ramon stared at him, scanning his face for a few moments. ‘May I see your pasaporte, please!’ he demanded, showing no sign of emotion.
Rawlins could hardly believe his ears. ‘Passport?’ he bellowed. ‘What do you want to see my passport for?’
‘Security. ‘Ow do I know eet eez your room? ‘Ow do I know you are not a ladron?’
‘A ladron?’ The tourist’s face puckered into a frown. ‘What’s that?’
‘A thief. Eef you show me your pasaporte we ‘ave no problem.’
‘It’s in my room! And I can’t get into my room without the key!’
‘You have money, pasaporte and airline ticket. Yes?’
The Briton stared at him in confusion. ‘Yes. But what’s that got to do with it?’
‘You ‘ave no Safe Deposit ‘ere in Recepcion weeth your pasaporte and money?’
‘No, I don’t.
‘Why you no use a safe deposit box in Recepcion? We geev you a box and key. It would be possible to find your pasaporte eef you ‘ad one.’
Rawlins bridled at the suggestion. ‘At a cost of two hundred pesetas a day! You must be joking!’
They stared hard at each other, eye to eye, without speaking, neither willing to concede. Then Rawlins turned and walked off in disgust. As he walked out of the hotel, he was confronted by his irate wife.
‘How lucky we are to be honoured with your presence!’ she scolded sarcastically. ‘Where on earth have you been all this time? And where’s the camera? Don’t say you forgot to bring it! My goodness! I’ve never known anyone so forgetful in all my life! Sometimes I wonder about you, Randolph. I really do!
He began to blaspheme under his breath as she pushed past him to approach the reception desk.
‘The key to room four-two-four, please,’ she asked pleasantly, offering the receptionist a charming smile.
Manuel Ramon glanced at her in a cool and casual manner. He had a particular weakness for tall slender English women. He handed her the key nonchalantly as their eyes met and he wondered how she came to marry such a wimp as Randolph. With a final sweet smile, Mrs. Rawlins moved away from the counter to join her husband at the doors of the lift.
‘I cannot understand how you manage to waste so much time, Randolph... even on holiday!’ she chided. ‘You know it’s important we get to Calpe this morning. If someone else learns the price of that villa we’ll lose it! Are you deliberate
ly trying to sabotage my plans?’ He shook his head vigorously, not daring to oppose her wishes for any reason whatsoever. ‘Oh!’ she muttered angrily, huffing and puffing. ‘I’ve never known such a man!’
Rawlins felt it prudent not to respond. Revealing the incident with the llaves box would be extremely embarrassing, attracting a volley of insulting comments from his wife. Consequently, he merely stared down at his feet with insolent dumbness. As they waited for the lift, he suddenly realised he had become the target for everyone in the room. His wife glared at him contemptuously, the receptionist made a sign with two fingers expressing victory in reverse, the fat Italian woman who had pinched his bottom rose from her seat and ran her fingers over her straggly moustache before walking towards him with an evil grin on her face, while the masculine-looking female with the awful wig stared at him with an amorous smile moving her tongue forwards and backwards across her lips in a kind of sexual ritual known only to herself. Rawlins began to tremble. Today, it seemed, he was fair game for all!
Custom-Made
The study of human reaction is an endless pursuit. It often musters a strange uncontrolled response which differs in every person. In battle, such impulses may produce heroes; in peacetime, anything can happen. It is especially fierce with regard to disloyalty and infidelity, where pride is all-important. The harsh reality of infidelity causes many people to react violently, intent on hurting the person they once cherished most dearly. Retaliation often occurs quickly... in the heat of the moment. The main aim, whether realised or not, is to achieve revenge whatever the cost. Admittedly, it is a shock to discover that the person adored and loved so much has been unfaithful. Human nature is not conditioned to accept the situation readily, and reactions are more likely to be violent, acrimonious, cruel, and downright spiteful and malicious. Yet some spouses wronged in this manner are capable of controlling their emotions on an even keel. They manage to stifle the desire for revenge after learning they have been deceived. It does not mean they have given up on the situation. Far from it! They wear the mantle of patience which is probably the most dangerous of all to the wrongdoer, for they wish to work out their own solution to the problem in time... which often means they seek a calculated kind of revenge. Sometimes the result is clean and incisive. At other times it may turn out to be quite horrifying!
