Hotel Story (“I haunt” Series)
I once tasted mystery in a spooky hotel room of old Bucharest.
A bulk of years ago, I enrolled in an advanced course held in the capital city. The program prepared teachers of English to sit an exam that summer. For an upgrading certificate.
Lost in a mammoth urban environment, yet belonging to a select group, I relished the experience. Plus, being single in a tiny hotel room beat my highest standards of liberty.
The receptionist
One morning, as I approach the reception desk, the clerk, whatever gender, targets pungent glances at me. From under somber brows. Hm. Smells unpleasant.
What the heck is the matter? Why irritation, when my impetus to reach the prodigious university is as zesty as it floats carefree?
“We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Some guests complained about a clamor coming from your room. Last night.”
“My room? Impossible, since I stay alone. Never as much as I play music. Just read. There must be a mistake.”
“I’m afraid not. These people couldn’t sleep because of the infernal noise issuing from below. That is, spot-on, from your room.”
Stunned, I recreate last night’s soundtrack. But only peace and quietness linger on my auditory memory. I even had a seclusion sensation around midnight. Poor me, so lonely, missing my family. And my boyfriend.
I blabber, standing for my absolute innocence. Then indignation embitters my senses. Fury builds in my chest.
“I only use that retched room to rest, so this claim is … nonsensical. What noises? Of what specific nature?”
“Blaring music, cackling, shouting. In one word, clamor, if you understand. You threw a party, admit.”
“Oh, dear God, a party? I’m only here to study. Those noises must have come from a … supernatural source. Silent nights, I need myself, this specific July.”
“Look, dear lady. I understand you are pretty and young, but choose different venues for fun. Our policy forbids unregistered company in hotel rooms.”
“More so in singles. Right?”
“I see you’re upset. And trust me, we hate upsetting guests. But only sticking to our firm rules ensures their happiness on the premises.”
Ha. A hell of a host. Aged from years of front-desk sitting and perorating. Stubborn in their conviction, the receptionist concludes the admonishing with friendly advice. No more shindigs.
A surreal tête-à-tête, aw. Its shade dizzied my steps to the university. I solicited my memory in its sensuous entirety. So a synesthesia of remembrances got hold of me, playing to settle for some sense.
The hotel
So, the hotel. Tucked among pre-both-WW buildings, it surpassed the surrounding architecture in shabbiness. It sure ranked king, or queen, of the quarter’s venerability.
A few-storied shack, but a proud high-rise in bygone times. It once lodged travelers alighted in the North Station on business, or pleasure. Or local bigshots fishing for a bit of enjoyment.
Yeah, too hidden. Far from financial, trade, diplomatic establishments. Away from rich residential districts. I don’t remember its name and refuse to search online for hotels in the area. And aw, scour their history.
Let me resort to my then synesthesia…
I had entered a venerable lady of a building. Handsome, powdered. A withered coquette, with adornments worn out on her.
Strong bones, though, if still standing. As my thought jumped at the 1977 earthquake. When horror had struck Bucharest. So my first steps wobbled into the lobby. The cheerful fellowship, though, and our academic expectations numbed negative speculations. Calamity won’t hit in the next two weeks.
The room
A snail staircase. Wooden, creaky. Then a narrow corridor leading to … a room of my own. As I faced the tall, paneled door, I exulted within, privileged. Eager to unlock the portal to complete intimacy in the big city, my hand sported mixed tremors. Weak and proud.
Inside, dingy vibes. Weighty. Dark-brown plush curtains impressed my retina. A theatrical … cortina. Mystery stuck in its folds floated toward me. Then lay, dusty and weary, on the grand bed. A queen’s four-poster, wow! A platform for two to roll at large. Or more.
Threadbare cover, though. Discolored burgundy, yet such an imperial attraction of the frail-gold pattern. I dumped my luggage and hopped on the plump bed. Stirred, a cloud of fine dust stung my senses. I wondered who slept there before me. And when? This is a museum, not a hotel.
With caution, I slit the thick curtain. Then pushed it far sideways, to let in the brightness outside. Turning my eyes from the spectacle of crammed roofs, I took in a fresh show the room offered. Light lost ardor. Yet vibrated in playful rhythms, as though whispering secrets.
On nightstands, the wood carvings of the French armoire, on the expanse of bedcover, tame sheens whispered. The icicles of the chandelier above reverberated glints of a foregone luster.
I embraced this occult glow. Tuned into its harmless glam, learning to live with it. Whenever I climbed on that bed, though, my heart cringed a bit. The deep mattress swallowed my physique. But only because I was slim, compared to its vast softness, so the unease did not last.
Enthralled with the university course, my brain found no room for invisible stories. That, till the ogre/hag receptionist imparted the clamorous one to me.
What if the hotel chamber embraced me? Clamored for my attention.
Who knew for how long it hadn’t embraced a lady?
Hotel night
The following night, each swish sent chills down my stiff spine. Brave spine the stiffer, the deeper I plunged into the plumed mattress. Fear overwhelmed me. Of seeing, of hearing, and, oh my God, touching!
The curtain gained horrific dimensions. Way past the bed’s contact. Let decrepit springs squeak, sheets swish, and me, the wretched guest, gasp. But no breath from the opaque folds, please!
A short purr pierced my eardrum. I found the culprit. The monumental armoire, holding my stuff. Thank God, since nowhere would have been more terrifying. But oh, my poor garments kept hostages in that black hole. I felt like jumping to retrieve them.
In a stealthy dance, the drapes undulated. Lascivious, unsparing. I blessed being stuck in the queenly bed. Shrouded, I sneaked peeks. The folds, swaying, absorbed my eyes’ marrow.
I swayed. Rode a swing, vaporous skirts twirling. Pendulum…
My senses floated, bemused. Physical marrow tranquilized. To a weird fluidity.
Music, gruff, wafted hither. From a grandfather gramophone. A languid waltz marched. On menacing undertones. Then, leers. Saccharine leers…
A girl giggles. She is loafing in silken bedsheets. Perfumes billowing to bewitch the pendant crystals above. Light loves her gossamer loose tresses. Sunlight loses itself in her irises. Dilated, cerulean.
Why does a shadow play sentinel in the room? It struggles to resist the loving shafts, the demoiselle’s charms.
Cherubs stare, caught in panels of dark oak, forbidden to cry. The French armoire mourns from backstage, while the curtain glides its folds shut. Into a compassionate screen.
A shadow, a gangrene expands on the girl’s forehead. Over her eyes. As their luster subsides to sighs, the music grows stentorian.
Then a gasp. Young.
End of show? No. The beginning of a harrowing scene. Does the ingenue play a nymph? Iphigenia, Desdemona, what part? And why the shadow refuses spectators? Is the girl … I?
Ding… Dong… A pendulum song. I dreamed … or what?
The clock
Upon waking up, I rushed to the somber armoire. To inspect the mysterious vacancy in its farthest chamber. As, given my small luggage, I never used it. Nor heard its entrails ticking. Well, not with metronome precision.
My pupils fumbled in a black hole. Until they found … the mole. A clock. It hid there, muted. It banged its clamor, though, against the walls of my head.
Was the clock French? Did a French magnate own the hotel? An ill-fated demoiselle ever slept there? These questions hailed my intuition. With no reason.
“Well now, dear lady boudoir, or gentleman den, see? I opened my sensors. Are you … happy?” I said or thought these words.
Today, I wonder about a slim thing. Why I grapple with the receptionist’s gender.
. . .
Featured image by Viviana Ioan.
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