When Sunny reached Room 371 she thought at first there had been some mistake. Down in the lobby, either Frank or Ernest had told the Baudelaires that educational guests were staying in that particular room, but the youngest Baudelaire could not imagine what educational purpose could explain the unearthly sounds coming from behind the door, unless perhaps a teacher was giving a class on how to torture a small animal. Someone—or something—in Room 371 was making dreadful squeaks, strange moans, piercing whistles, irritating shrieks, mysterious mutterings, and, suddenly, a melodic hum or two, and the sounds were so loud that it was a moment before anyone heard Sunny’s gloved fists knocking on the door.
“Who dares interrupt a genius when he’s rehearsing?” said a voice that was loud, booming, and strangely familiar.
“Concierge,” Sunny called.
“Concierge,” the voice mimicked back to Sunny, in a high, squealing tone that the Baudelaire recognized instantly, and to her dismay the door opened and there stood a person she had hoped she would never encounter again.
If you have ever worked someplace and then, later, not worked there, then you know there are three ways you can leave a job: you can quit, you can be fired, or you can exit by mutual agreement. “Quit,” as I’m sure you know, is a word which means that you were disappointed with your employer. “Fired,” of course, is a word which means that your employer was disappointed with you. And “exit by mutual agreement” is a phrase which means that you wanted to quit, and your employer wanted to fire you, and that you ran out of the office, factory, or monastery before anyone could decide who got to go first. In any case, no matter which method you use to leave a job, it is never pleasant to run into a former employer, because it reminds both of you of all the miserable time you spent working together. I once threw myself down a flight of stairs rather than face even one moment with a milliner, at whose shop I quit working after discovering the sinister truth about her berets, only to find that the paramedic who repaired my fractured arm was a man who had fired me from a job playing accordion in his orchestra after only two and half performances of a certain opera. It would be difficult to say whether Sunny ended her brief stint—a word which here means “dreadful period of time”—working as an administrative assistant at Prufrock Preparatory School by quitting, getting fired, or exiting by mutual agreement, as she and her siblings were removed from the boarding school after a scheme of Count Olaf’s almost succeeded, but it was still unpleasant to be face-to-face with Vice Principal Nero after all this time.
“What do you want?” Nero demanded, brandishing the violin that had been making all that dreadful noise. Sunny was not pleased to see that Nero’s four pigtails, which were quite short when she had first made the vice principal’s acquaintance, had grown into long, stringy braids, and that he still liked to wear a necktie decorated with pictures of snails.
“You rang,” Sunny said, as taciturnly as she could.
“You rang,” Nero mimicked immediately. “Well, so what if I did? Ringing for you is no excuse for interrupting me while I’m practicing the violin. I have a very important violin recital on Thursday, and I plan on rehearsing every moment until then.”
“Please, boss,” said another familiar voice, and Nero turned around, his greasy braids swinging behind him. Sunny saw, to her dismay, that Nero was sharing Room 371 with two other figures from the Baudelaires’ past. “You said we could stop for a lunch break,” continued Mr. Remora, who had been Violet’s teacher at Prufrock Preparatory School, although it would be difficult to say exactly what kind of teacher he was, as all he liked to do was tell short, pointless stories, and eat banana after banana, occasionally smearing the yellow pulp all over his mustache, which was as dark and thick as a gorilla’s thumb.
“I’m so hungry I could eat a dekagram of rice,” said Mrs. Bass, who had been Klaus’s teacher. It was clear that her enthusiasm for measuring things according to the metric system had remained the same, but the youngest Baudelaire noticed that her appearance had changed somewhat. On top of her shaggy, black hair was a small blond wig, like a snowcap on the top of a mountain peak, and she was wearing a small, narrow mask with two tiny holes for her eyes. “I’ve heard there’s a wonderful Indian restaurant in Room 954.”
Normally, Sunny would have replied with “Andiamo,” which was her way of saying, “I’d be happy to take you there,” but she was afraid that her manner of speaking would give away her true identity, so instead she continued her taciturn demeanor by giving the three guests a little bow, and gesturing down the hallway with one of her gloves. Vice Principal Nero looked disappointed, but then gave Sunny a simpering glance and mimicked her gestures in an insulting way, proving he could mock someone even if they didn’t speak.
“Don’t you think you should bring your loot, Mrs. Bass?” asked Mr. Remora, pointing to the far wall of Room 371.
“No, no,” Mrs. Bass said quickly, her eyes blinking nervously through the holes in the mask. “It’ll be safer in the room.”
Sunny tilted her head so she could stare past the teacher’s knees, and made her first important observation as a flaneur. Piled on a table in the hotel room, right near a window overlooking the sea, was a large, bulky pile of large, bulky bags, each with the words PROPERTY OF MULCTUARY MONEY MANAGEMENT stamped on them in stern black ink. The youngest Baudelaire could not imagine why Mrs. Bass was in possession of something from the bank where Mr. Poe worked, but with two teachers and one vice principal waiting impatiently in the hallway, she had no time to stop and think. With another taciturn gesture, she quickly led the guests toward the elevator, grateful that Mrs. Bass knew the location of the restaurant. The youngest Baudelaire would have had no idea how to find an Indian restaurant in the Hotel Denouement without a catalog.
“I’m very excited about my recital,” Vice Principal Nero said, as the small elevator began its journey to the ninth story. “I’m sure all of the music critics at the cocktail party will love my performance. As soon as I’m recognized as a genius, I can finally quit my job at Prufrock Prep!”
“How do you know there will be music critics at the party?” Mr. Remora asked. “My invitation just said there’d be an all-you-can-eat banana buffet.”
“Mine didn’t say anything about music critics, either,” Mrs. Bass said. “It just says that there’s a party in celebration of the metric system, and that I should bring as many valuables as possible so they could be measured. As a teacher, I don’t earn enough money to purchase any valuables, so I had to resort to a life of crime.”
“I had to resort to a life of crime,” Nero mimicked. “I can’t believe a genius like myself was invited to the same party as you two. Esmé Squalor and her boyfriend must have accidentally mailed you those invitations.”
Sunny’s eyes narrowed in thought behind her enormous sunglasses. Esmé Squalor’s boyfriend, of course, was none other than Count Olaf. After so much time struggling against his villainous schemes, the youngest Baudelaire was not surprised to hear that Olaf was planning further treachery, but she could not imagine why he was luring her former employer to the hotel. She would have loved to continue her observations as a flaneur, but as the elevator came to a stop, she had to return to her duties as a concierge, and utter at least one taciturn word.
“Nine,” she said.
“Nine,” Nero mimicked, and pushed his way to the front so he could exit the elevator first. Sunny followed, and quickly guided the three guests to the door numbered 954, which she opened with a silent flourish.
“Can I help you?” asked a wavering voice, and Sunny was astonished to recognize yet another person from the Baudelaires’ past. He was a very old man, wearing very tiny glasses, each lens scarcely larger than a green pea. When the children had first met this man, he had not been wearing a hat of any kind, but today he had wrapped a length of cloth around his head and secured it in place with a shiny red jewel. Sunny remembered such a turban on the head of Count Olaf when he had disguised himself as a gym teacher, but she could
not guess why such a thing would be worn by the man the Baudelaires had met at Heimlich Hospital.
“Can I help you?” Nero mimicked. “Of course you can help us! We’re starving!”
“I didn’t realize this was a sad occasion,” said Hal, squinting through his glasses.
“It won’t be a sad occasion if you feed us,” Mr. Remora said.
Hal frowned, as if Mr. Remora had given the wrong response, but he quickly ushered the three guests to a wooden table in the otherwise deserted restaurant. “We are proud to serve a wide variety of Indian dishes,” he said, handing out menus and pouring everyone a glass of water. “The culinary history of the region is quite interesting, actually. When the British—”
“I’ll have ten grams of rice,” Mrs. Bass interrupted, “one tenth of a hectogram of shrimp vindaloo, a dekagram of chana aloo masala, one thousand centigrams of tandoori salmon, four samosas with a surface area of ninteen cubic centimeters, five deciliters of mango lassi, and a sada rava dosai that’s exactly nineteen centimeters long.”
Sunny hoped Hal would talk about some of the dishes Mrs. Bass had ordered, so her observations as a flaneur might also improve her cooking skills, but he merely wrote down her order without comment and turned to Mr. Remora, who was frowning at the menu.
“I’ll have forty-eight orders of fried bananas,” he said, after much thought.
“Interesting choice,” Hal commented. “And you, sir?”
“A bag of candy!” Vice Principal Nero demanded. Sunny had almost forgotten that her former employer enjoyed demanding candy from anyone he could.
“Candy is not a traditional Indian dish,” Hal said. “If you’re not sure what to order, allow me to recommend the combination plate.”
“Allow me to recommend the combination plate!” Nero mimicked, glaring at Hal. “Never mind. I won’t eat anything! It’s probably dangerous to eat candy from foreigners!”
Hal did not reply to this bout of xenophobia—a word for a fear or disgust of foreign cultures that Jerome Squalor had taught the Baudelaires a while ago—but merely nodded. “Your lunches will be ready shortly,” he said. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.”
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything,” Nero mimicked immediately, as Hal walked through a pair of swinging doors. With a sigh, he moved his water glass off his placemat and onto the wooden table, where it was sure to leave a ring, and turned to the two teachers. “That foreigner’s head reminds me of that nice man Coach Genghis.”
“Nice man?” Mr. Remora asked. “If I remember correctly, he was a notorious villain in disguise.”
Mrs. Bass reached up and nervously adjusted her wig. “Just because someone is a criminal,” she said, “does not mean they’re not a nice person. Besides, if you’re on the run from the law, you’re bound to get cranky from time to time.”
“Speaking of running from the law—” Mr. Remora said, but the vice principal cut off his sentence with a glare.
“We’ll talk about that later,” he said quickly, and then turned to Sunny. “Concierge, go get us some napkins,” he said, clearly inventing an excuse to get the youngest Baudelaire out of earshot. “Just because I’m not eating doesn’t mean I can’t get food on my chin!”
Sunny nodded taciturnly, and walked toward the swinging doors. As a flaneur, she was sorry to halt her observations, particularly when the guests of Room 371 seemed about to discuss something important. But as a budding gourmand—a phrase which here means “young girl with a strong interest in cooking”—she was eager to get a look at a restaurant kitchen. Ever since Justice Strauss had taken the Baudelaires to the market in order to buy ingredients to make puttanesca sauce, Sunny had been interested in the culinary arts, although it was only recently that she had matured enough to develop this interest. If you have never taken a peek inside a restaurant kitchen, it is something you may want to try, because it is full of interesting items and it is usually quite easy to sneak in, providing that you don’t mind being glared at if you are discovered. But when Sunny stepped through the swinging doors, she did not notice a single interesting item in the kitchen. For one thing, the kitchen was swirling with steam, from a dozen pots that were boiling in every corner of the room. The cloudy air made it difficult to see much of anything, but that was not the main reason Sunny was ignoring the culinary equipment. There was a conversation going on between two unfathomable figures in the room, and what was being said was far more interesting than any ingredient or gadget used in preparing traditional Indian dishes.
“I have news from J. S.,” either Frank or Ernest was whispering to Hal. Both men were standing with their backs to Sunny and leaning in toward one another so they could talk as quietly as possible. Sunny maneuvered into the middle of a particularly thick cloud of steam so that she wouldn’t be seen.
“J. S.?” Hal said. “She’s here?”
“She’s here to help,” the manager corrected. “She’s been using her Vision Furthering Device to watch the skies, and I’m afraid she reports that we will all be eating crow.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Hal said. “Crow is a tough bird to cook, because the meat is very muscular from all the carrying that crows do.”
Sunny scratched her head with one glove in puzzlement. The expression “eating crow” simply means “enduring humiliation,” and the youngest Baudelaire had learned it from her parents, who liked to tease each other after playing one another at backgammon. “Bertrand,” Sunny could remember her mother saying, tossing the dice to the ground in triumph, “I have won again. Prepare to eat crow.” Then, with a gleam in her eyes, she would pounce on Sunny’s father and tickle him, while the Baudelaire children piled on top of their parents in a laughing heap. But Hal seemed to be discussing the eating of crow as an actual culinary dish, rather than a figure of speech, and the youngest Baudelaire wondered if there were more to this Indian restaurant than she had thought.
“It is a shame,” agreed either Frank or Ernest. “If only there was something that could make the dish a little sweeter. I’ve heard that certain mushrooms are available.”
“Sugar would be better than mushrooms,” Hal said unfathomably.
“According to our calculations, the sugar will be laundered sometime after nightfall,” replied the manager, equally unfathomably.
“I’m glad,” Hal said. “My job’s been difficult enough. Do you know how many leaves of lettuce I’ve had to send up to the roof?”
Frank or Ernest frowned. “Tell me,” he said, in an even more quiet tone of voice. “Are you who I think you are?”
“Are you who I think you are?” replied Hal, equally quietly.
Sunny crept closer, hoping to hear more of the conversation to learn if either Frank or Ernest was referring to the Medusoid Mycelium, which was a type of mushroom, or if Hal was referring to the sugar bowl. But to the youngest Baudelaire’s dismay the floor creaked slightly, and the cloud of steam swirled away, and Hal and Ernest, or perhaps Frank, spun around to gasp at her.
“Are you who I think you are?” said the two men in unison.
One of the advantages of being taciturn is that it is rare for your words to get you into trouble. A taciturn writer, for instance, might produce only one short poem every ten years, which is unlikely to annoy anyone, whereas someone who writes twelve or thirteen books in a relatively short time is likely to find themselves hiding under the coffee table of a notorious villain, holding his breath, hoping nobody at the cocktail party will notice the trembling backgammon set, and wondering, as the ink-stain spreads across the carpeting, if certain literary exercises have been entirely worthwhile. If Sunny had decided to adopt a chatty demeanor, she would have had to think of a lengthy reply to the question she had just been asked, and she could not imagine what that reply might be. If she knew that the manager in the kitchen was Frank, she would say something along the lines of, “Sunny Baudelaire please help,” which was her way of saying, “Yes, I’m Sunny Baudelaire, and my siblings and
I need your help uncovering the mysterious plot unfolding in the Hotel Denouement, and signaling our findings to the members of V.F.D.” If she knew that it was Ernest who was staring at her, she would say something more like, “No Habla Esperanto,” which was her way of saying, “I’m sorry; I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The presence of Hal, of course, made the situation even more complicated, because the children had exited their employment at Heimlich Hospital’s Library of Records by mutual agreement, as Hal believed that they were responsible for lighting the Library of Records on fire, and the Baudelaires needed to flee the hospital as quickly as possible, but Sunny had no way of knowing if Hal continued to hold a grudge—a phrase which here means “was an enemy of the Baudelaires”—or if he was working at the hotel as a volunteer. But Sunny had adopted a taciturn demeanor, and a taciturn answer was all that was required.
“Concierge,” she said, and that was enough. Hal looked at Frank, or perhaps it was Ernest, and Ernest, or perhaps it was Frank, looked back at Hal. The two men nodded, and then crossed to a shiny cabinet at the far end of the kitchen. Hal opened the cabinet and handed a large, strange object to either Frank or Ernest, who looked it over and handed it to Sunny. The object was like a large, metal spider, with curly wires spreading out in all directions, but where the head of the spider might have been was the keyboard of a typewriter.
“Do you know what this is?” asked the villain or volunteer.
“Yes,” the youngest Baudelaire said. Sunny had never seen such a device, but her siblings had described the strange lock they had encountered in a secret passageway hidden deep within the Mortmain Mountains. Had it not been for Violet’s knowledge of science and Klaus’s remarkable memory for Russian literature, they might never have opened the lock, and Sunny would still be Count Olaf’s captive.
A Series of Unfortunate Events Box: The Complete Wreck Page 138
