The Grand Hotel

by Gregory Day

  I felt him shudder beside me. ‘Oh the boys,’ he groaned.

  We were out on that riverflat until three o’clock in the morning, walking, arguing, confessing, not even noticing the lightest of northerlies as it sprang up in the trees of the western hill on the other side of the river. By the time we’d said all that could be said, the warmer air was gusting in waves all about us and Joan in his fervour had stripped off and dived into the river near the old Bootleg Creek pontoon. He splashed and swam about in that unmistakable fashion of a man in love, sober now in terms of alcohol but drunk on the new quickstep in his heart.

  He prowled around and shouldered himself through the water, eventually floating on his back and calling out to me on the bank to join him. I said, ‘No way.’ So he said he was gonna lie on his back in the river for as long as it took to see a falling star.

  ‘You look up too, Noel,’ he called, ‘and if we see it together we can both wish for the same thing.’

  ‘Oh yeah. And what would that be?’

  ‘For a cure, mate. I’m lovesick.’

  As crazed as it was, it was the first sane thing he’d said all night. I lay down on my back on the bank, partly from exhaustion I must admit, and used Joan’s clothes for a pillow. Above our heads the galaxies seemed even brighter than before; the Milky Way could easily be defined in its cloudy clusters. There was Venus and Jupiter out in the west, the Pleiades low in the northwest, and the Southern Cross, of course, draped like a celestial beach-kite over the ocean sky to the south. Even without a moon the radiance of the night had managed to unite the land and sky. I marvelled again at the unpredictable nature of things, how something that at first could appear so dim was, just a short time later, as obvious as the nose on your face. And so together we lay, he in the river and me on a patch of kikuyu grass wildly sown, staring up to the heavens in the hope of a sign.

  Confronting The Blonde Maria

  I woke up in the loft of my barn the next morning to The Lazy Tenor singing both parts of the duet from Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers. I exhaled with relief and lay listening in bliss, swooning again in the embrace of the voice and marvelling at his improvisations. The Pearl Fishers duet was a favourite of my papa’s when I was a child, and as such was the only operatic music that featured strongly in my childhood. Despite The Lazy Tenor’s lack of a singing partner it was a revelation to hear each vocal part separated from its pair.

  As I lay there, I nudged my loft shutter open with my foot and looked out. There was an ever-so-faint drizzle falling from an off-white sky. Inevitably I began to recall the events of the night before. As soon as The Lazy Tenor finished, I was gonna have to go and flush out The Blonde Maria.

  Then I heard the sound of Dr Feast’s Peugeot pulling into the yard. Craning my neck out the loft window, I watched him get out of the car and gaze up through the drizzle at The Lazy Tenor’s room. He made a dramatic gesture with his right arm, the racing-green elbow patch of his tweed jacket suddenly cocked, and his hand clutched passionately at the air, as if conducting the music.

  Jen Sutherland emerged from the sunroom of the hotel with a broom in one hand and Frankie the Canary’s cage in the other. The doctor’s arm returned to his side. They greeted each other, before Jen hung Frankie’s cage on the hook under the sunroom awning and began hosing down the beery concrete where the barrels had been standing for days before Rennie had come to pick them up. I lay back on my pillow and listened to The Lazy Tenor, and the doctor and Jen discussing Kooka’s health. Then the talking stopped and all I could hear was the sound of the water washing the concrete and the singing over the top.

  Later that morning I climbed the hotel stairs with a belly full of Eno, not knowing what my strategy was to be. In the hallway I found the atmosphere all ructious on a wind-ruffled creek. The ducks had taken shelter up in the willows and were dotting the walls in crisp symmetrical arrangements. At The Blonde Maria’s door I knocked and received a polite ‘Come in’.

  Once again I found Maria seated at the window table. This time she was fully dressed rather than in her dressing gown. She had an open book in her hand, but it wasn’t the book of the saint.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve been making my way through the shelf here.’

  She held up the book to show me. It was a novel called The World of Carrick’s Cove, by Gerald Warner Brace. Then she said, ‘I never knew, Noel, what a remarkable hotel this really is,’ as if somehow it had something to do with the book. ‘And I had no idea of just how special old Kooka is.’

  I didn’t answer. I suspected that Maria’s native cunning had smelt a rat, that she knew something was up and my visit wasn’t to be benign. There was no hint of the little-girl voice anymore; instead she spoke in a calm and intelligent tone, as if a full engagement with me on the merits of my hotel and its patron and historian could somehow see me off at the pass.

  She lit a cigarette now and blew a blue cone of tapering smoke towards the open window. ‘It’s so easy isn’t it, Noel, to presume that someone as old as Kooka has no sense of beauty or romance?’

  Once again I chose not to answer. I could see by her brow now that she was thinking fast.

  ‘But I’ve been reading to him in the evenings and he’s quite something.’

  ‘Oh yeah? He stays awake?’

  The Blonde Maria’s eyes lit up. By my asking this question, she figured she had me diverted. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, before rising from her chair and making her way to the sink. I saw a quick cast of desperation come over her face as she plugged in the kettle, but it disappeared just as quickly.

  ‘So there weren’t any other books on holy people on the shelf here?’ I ventured wryly.

  She answered me with a sheepish look.

  I let her clatter around among the tea cosy and cups and spoons for a while. Then I said, ‘You know it’s one thing for you to leave all the cleaning of the hotel to Jen Sutherland but it’s another altogether to go shagging her husband.’

  There, I’d said it. There was no avoiding the issue anymore. So I pressed even harder. ‘Particularly when he doesn’t know you’re also having it off with the guy up the hallway. I presume Kooka’s safe from your affections?’

  Maria’s face looked aghast. ‘Noel!’ she exclaimed indignantly, as if dragging Kooka into it was a lower moral blow than she could countenance.

  I raised my hands in the air. ‘Well, I don’t know what to think anymore, Maria! Last time I looked, you were about to take religious vows and then, in the space of twenty-four hours, I find out you’re screwing half the hotel.’

  ‘Oh, Noel!’ There it was again, that look of moral shock, as if Purity and Honour were her only true companions.

  ‘Well you tell me!’ I cried. ‘I’m actually the novice here. You seem to be the one pulling all the strings. Joan’s head over heels and he’s a married man with kids. Did you ever consider that?’

  ‘Of course I did.’

  ‘What, and you just figured that nothing else mattered but your satisfaction?’

  Oh dear, now I was really getting heavy, hectoring her like that.

  The Blonde Maria sat back down at the window table with the pot of tea – and let me have it.

  First things first, she burst into tears. I slumped in the armchair, sighing and scratching my head. The tears were really flowing, but after a minute or so she started to dry her eyes with a tea towel. But she was still sniffing and gulping a lot. ‘I didn’t know any of this was going to happen,’ she eventually got out. ‘How was I to know that he’d fall in love with me? He just seemed like a sweetie who needed a bit of fun.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘And then that bloody brute turns up out of the blue. With a voice like that! Did you hear him this morning, Noel, singing bothparts of the duet from The Pearl Fishers?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well you’ve got to understand my predicament. One day I was living freely in your hotel, with everyone very appreciative of my music and you very grat
eful for my cleaning, and then the man I’ve always been destined to meet comes into the bar.’

  ‘Who, The Lazy Tenor?’

  She scoffed. ‘Well, who else? It’s all I’ve ever dreamt of, Noel, you know that, to live the musical life. Even if I’m not singing, just to be around a voice like that means everything to me. But now I’m stuck. The thing with Joan is just frivolous, a simple mistake gone wrong. And I know it’s gotta stop, but he’s so insistent. He’s up here half the night, either desperate with guilt for his wife or boiling with passion for me. I’m worried about him. I don’t know what’ll happen if I let him down. He could do anything. He’s quite mad at the moment.’

  ‘So I found out last night.’

  ‘Yes, but can you see my position? He’s madly in love with me but, Noel, I’m madly in love with Louis.’

  ‘Louis?’

  ‘Yes, Louis. The Lazy Tenor.’

  ‘Oh. And how does he feel about you?’

  A sad look came over her face at this question. Her tearmoist eyes scanned the leaf-dappled floor. ‘He doesn’t really say, but he’s tender to me and now, in the mornings, I’m sure he’s singing as if ... for a muse.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I tried, Noel. Why do you think I started reading St Thérèse? I have tried. But it’s hopeless. Louis Daley is my destiny. Everything leading up to this was just like a soundcheck.’

  ‘So is that why you won’t come down and sing anymore?’

  ‘Oh, Noel, how could I sing with that man in the hotel? I’d stand no chance at all. The only possibility I have with him is if I never sing again. We’ve all got to find our true path in life, Noel, and I’m sure mine is just to support him, to make him a household name.’

  ‘A household name!’ I exclaimed. ‘Are you sure he wants to be a household name?’

  ‘There’s nothing he can do about it. You’ve heard him. With my devotion and musical knowledge I can make sure his gift is protected in the process.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him about this?’

  ‘Not exactly. But I’ve spoken to Kooka about it.’

  ‘To Kooka?’ I said, incredulous.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And pray tell, what does Kooka think about small town adultery in his old age?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t told him that bit. But I’ve told him how I feel about Louis and he understands. He’s a beautiful old man, Kooka, and he understands the heart of love.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He also understands how much love can hurt.’

  ‘So does Jen.’

  ‘Oh, Noel. I’m trying to be serious here.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case then you’ve got to protect Jen and Joan. I refuse to let them become casualties in all this, Maria. Let alone their two boys.’

  She grimaced.

  ‘So you’ve got to tell Joan what’s going on. And quickly. It’ll cut him alright, but at least he’ll see there’s a reason it can’t go on. Because you’re devoted to The Lazy Tenor.’

  ‘What? You want me to tell Joan I’m in love with Louis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Noel.’

  ‘Stop that “Oh, Noel” business would you?’ I said in frustration. ‘It’s what you’ve gotta do.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think, I know. For Christ’s sake, Maria!’

  ‘Well, can I talk to Kooka first? I’d like a second opinion.’

  I raised my hands in the air and slapped them down on my thighs. ‘What the fuck has Kooka got to do with it?’ I shouted. ‘He’s just an old man who can’t get out of bed anymore!’

  ‘Noel! Keep your voice down. Kooka understands life. And love. Have you ever stopped to think why he can’t get out of bed?’

  ‘I know why he can’t. He’s old, he’s had enough, he’s exhausted.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. He’s going through stuff.’

  ‘Oh, is he now?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  I blew out an exasperated breath. This was impossible. ‘Pour us a cup of tea, would you, Maria?’

  ‘Certainly, Noel,’ she replied with a smile.

  The Beautiful Story-Voice

  It’s easy for a generally quiet man a little starved of sex such as myself to take the high moral ground about other people’s infidelities. On the other hand I had no idea what Maria had been experiencing at night with Kooka in The Sewing Room, how genuinely profound it was, nor that it would turn out to be the guiding force and overwhelming key to the fate of our increasingly unstable establishment.

  What I found out later, and what I now understand The Blonde Maria couldn’t tell me until she was absolutely compelled to do so, was that most evenings at around 9pm, with the sounds of The Barrels pretty much muffled through the floorboards, she would gently knock on the Sewing Room door and enter to find Kooka sitting up in bed, gladly waiting for her. The air in the big room would smell not only of the increasingly musty boxed-up archive and the ocean spray ballooning down the riverflat but also of that timeless combination from the days of yore: old man and mushrooms. Kooka’s empty dinner plate would be sitting on the bedside table with oily smears of whatever version of a mushroom sauce he’d been treated to that evening. Beside the dinner plate would be a small claret glass, a crinkled foil sheet of mild painkillers, and his transistor radio, waiting patiently, butler-like, to be put into service.

  Maria would cheerfully sit down on the chair next to the bed and together they’d chitchat about the day just passed. Invariably this would involve a few light recriminations about the sameyness of the weather or the calibre of the clientele downstairs, and then Maria would take up whichever of my mother’s old novels she was enjoying and begin to read aloud to Kooka. The old fella would lower himself down into the bedclothes a bit, and with a contented grunt turn his big bird head in profile towards the seaward window. And there the two of them would remain, in the little pool of light cast by the tassled standard lamps beside the bed, Kooka lying and listening among the blankets, and Maria sitting upright on the chair reading to him, just like in an old Rembrandt.

  And so it was one evening, with The Blonde Maria reading The World of Carrick’s Coveto Kooka, that their empathetic conversations about nature, and about romantic love, were set in train. The World of Carrick’s Covewas well thumbed – it had been read countless times – and both Maria and Kooka had already commented to each other how much they were enjoying the tale of a fastidious eldest son’s frustrations with the sloppy boatbuilding of his father on the Maine coast of New England. But, as Maria was reading a lovely passage to Kooka about some wowsery folks further up the coast near Rockford – who the author joked liked money so much they used to salt it – a remarkable transition seemed to take place in the old Sewing Room.

  As Maria said, the joke about the Rockford wowsers was an innocuous enough little passage from the book; there was nothing in it to account for what happened next. As she was approaching the end of the chapter, Kooka slowly raised his hand for her to stop reading. Telling Maria her ‘beautiful story-voice’ was making him a bit sleepy, he asked her if she’d mind just sitting beside the bed while he had a little kip. She said she didn’t mind at all, but as she explained it to me it seemed odd because Kooka’s voice didn’t betray any sleepiness at all. If anything, it was strong, awake, as clear as ever.

  The old man reached over and clicked on his transistor radio. A country tune began to twang out from the station. Kooka pulled the sheets and blankets up to his chin and closed his eyes. Maria just sat there looking at him. Then, in the pool of light cast by the two standard lamps, with all activity abated, and stillness ruling the room, the transistor started to speak.

  The country song had abruptly stopped, the tranny had glitched and static filled the room. Then a man and woman were in conversation, but it wasn’t just normal radio chat, and not intended for public consumption. The woman’s voice was light and happy, and she spoke the most; when the man replied, his voice was quiet, a litt
le muffled, and with a broken-down sort of grief attached to it. Then, as quickly as they had begun, the voices changed again, and this time the sound of splashing and sucking water among rocks was in the background. Now a woman was swimming in the ocean, and sighing with pleasure as she did so. She was also reciting lists to herself, as if she was trying to remember what she had to buy at the store. But the contents of the list were from another time: rushlights, chicory, strawberries by the quart, pickled onions, bottles of digestives from W.G. Hearne, a gross of buttons, calico, rum and mattress ticking. The list went on and on, the recital of it broken only when the swimmer dived under the waves, at which point all Maria could hear from the transistor was bubbling and then hiss, and a low subaquatic hum. And then, just as she was trying to figure all this out, the sounds changed once more, this time back to the conversation of before, except with the man speaking rather than the woman.

  Sitting by Kooka’s bed, The Blonde Maria was confounded. Quite understandably, given the various other antics of The Grand Hotel, she wondered if she was listening to some prearranged piece of avant-garde radio drama. But no – it had a different quality; there was something entirely unique and unpremeditated about it. As the scenes kept switching between the man and woman’s conversation – which took place over cups of tea at a kitchen table – and the woman swimming with her sighs and old-timey lists in the ocean, Maria found herself trying to make connections between the two scenarios. But try as she might, the man and woman, and the swimmer in the ocean, seemed to bear no relation to each other whatsoever.

  Yet each of their scenarios held Maria’s attention regardless. She gathered that the couple at the kitchen table were man and wife, and that their names were John and Mary. This was normal enough, of course, but their talk was strange – fluid and natural one minute and then disjointed and abstract the next. And then, every so often, the woman at the table, Mary, would reel off long speeches of consolation to the man, her husband, John, but it was unclear as to what she was consoling him about. And always, just as Maria felt she was about to find out what was upsetting him, the sound would crackle and switch on the tranny, there would be silence for a brief moment, and then the sucking sound of water and the swimmer’s breath and sighs would re-emerge. The swimmer would dive under again and her pleasure in the swimming could be felt, intimately, almost as if Maria herself was duck diving amidst the pool of light in The Sewing Room. And then the swimmer’s list would continue again: castor oil, candles, a hundred pounds of flour, Turkish Delight, feather-down for the pillows, a new cask for sundries, kerosene, brown rum, malt, whiskey, crème de cacao, ink for the portmanteau and heavy thread for the bellows. The swimmer would dive and then stroke through the slack of the water between waves, composing her list. And then a wave would crash, the sound of breaking water would fill the room, and John and Mary’s voices would continue, and Maria would sink deeper into their thrall.