CHAPTER ONEThe Assignment
1
The first person I spoke to in a long time, aside from the few obligatory words exchanged with my surly taxi driver at the beginning and end of the ride, was a thin dark-skinned young man wearing the nostalgic red uniform of a bellboy. I’d already spotted him from a distance, sitting on the marble steps in front of the entrance that was flanked by Corinthian pillars, beneath the golden letters in which the name ‘Grand Hotel Europa’ was written, as the taxi, crunching along the gravel path between the plane trees, approached the end of the long drive. He’d been sitting there smoking. He got to his feet, intending to help with my luggage. Given that I was sorry my arrival had interrupted his cigarette break, and given that this was true, I told him – as the taxi disappeared over the gravel – that my luggage could wait, that I’d had a long journey and that I could do with a cigarette too. I offered him one from my pale-blue pack of Gauloises Brunes sans filtres and lit it with my solid brass Zippo. ‘Grand Hotel Europa’ was embroidered in gold letters on his cap.
We sat down. We’d been sitting silently together for a couple of minutes, smoking on the steps of the sumptuous entrance of the once magnificent hotel in which I was planning on taking up temporary residence, when he addressed me.
‘My apologies for not being able to rein in my curiosity,’ he said, ‘but may I ask where you are from?’
I blew my smoke towards the cloud of dust the taxi had left as a memento in the distance, at the end of the drive where the woods began.
‘There are many possible answers to that question,’ I said.
‘I’d like to hear them all,’ he said. ‘But if that will take up too much of your time, perhaps you can give me the best answer.’
‘The main reason I came here,’ I said, ‘is that I’m hoping to find the time for answers.’
‘I would like to apologize for having disturbed you in that weighty assignment. I must learn that my curiosity can be a burden to our guests, as Mr Montebello always says.’
‘Who’s Mr Montebello?’ I asked.
‘My boss.’
‘The concierge?’
‘He hates that word, even though its etymology appeals to him. He taught me that it comes from “comte des cierges” – count of candles. Mr Montebello has taught me practically everything I know. He’s like a father to me.’
‘What would he rather be called?’
‘He’s the maître d’hôtel but he prefers “major-domo” because it contains the Latin word for home and because he says it’s our primary task to ensure that our guests forget whatever place they called home before they came here.’
‘Venice,’ I said.
Ash fell from my cigarette onto my trousers as I said the name of the city. He noticed and before I could protest, he’d taken off one of his white gloves and was fully focused on dusting off my trouser leg. He had dark, skinny hands.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘What’s Venice?’ he asked.
‘The place I used to call home before I came here and the finest answer to your question.’
‘What’s Venice like?’
‘Have you never been to Venice?’ I asked.
‘I’ve never been anywhere,’ he said. ‘Just here. That’s why, to Mr Montebello’s annoyance, I’ve developed the habit of bothering our guests with my curiosity. I try to see something of the world through their stories.’
‘Where did you call home before you came here?’
‘The desert,’ he said. ‘But Mr Montebello has made sure I’ve forgotten the desert. I’m grateful to him for it.’
I let my gaze run across the grounds encircling the hotel. The colonnade was overgrown with ivy. One of the large earthenware vases from which bougainvillea flowed was cracked. Weeds grew in the gravel – peacefully, but that wasn’t the word. Acquiescently. Indeed, one could also simply accept the passing of time and the loss of all things.
‘Venice is in the past,’ I said. ‘And I hope that Mr Montebello will help me to forget it too.’
I extinguished my cigarette in the flowerpot that had been serving as our ashtray. He did the same and sprang to his feet to busy himself with my luggage.
‘Thank you for your company,’ I said. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Abdul.’
‘Very nice meeting you, Abdul.’ I told him my name. ‘Let’s go inside. Then it can begin.’
Copyright © 2018 by Ilja Leonard Pfeijffer
Translation copyright © 2022 by Michele Hutchison