Hotel Story (“I haunt” Series)
I once tasted mystery in a spooky hotel room of old Bucharest.
A handsome bulk of years ago, I enrolled in an advanced English course held in the capital city. A program preparing teachers to sit the exam for an upgrading certificate that summer.
Free 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. Smells unpleasant.
What the heck is the matter? Why irritation, when my impetus to reach the prodigious university is as zesty and compelling as it floats carefree?
“We have a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Some guests complained about 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, 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, lonely, missing my family and my boyfriend.
I blabber, explaining my loneliness, standing for my absolute innocence. Then indignation embitters my senses, fury builds in my pounding 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.”
“Dear lady, I understand you’re 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.”
Stubborn in their conviction, the receptionist, aged from years of front-desk sitting and perorating, concludes the admonishing with friendly advice. No more shindigs.
The shady, surreal tête-à-tête 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
The hotel, tucked among pre-both-WW buildings, surpassed the surrounding architecture in shabbiness. Did it rank king, or queen, of the quarter’s venerability? An obsolete few-storied shack, 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, why not, their history.
Let me resort to my then synesthesia…
I entered a powdered, handsome, venerable lady of a building, a withered coquette, with adornments worn out on her.
Thought of the horror Bucharest passed through during the 1977 earthquake wobbled my first steps into the lobby. The excited fellowship, though, the cheerfulness, and our exuberant academic expectations numbed negative speculations. Calamity won’t hit in the next two weeks.
The room
A room of my own, oh—I exulted within, privileged. Eager to unlock the paneled door to complete intimacy in the big city, my hand sported mixed tremors, weak and proud.
Dingy vibes, but weighty, plush, dark-brown curtains impressed my eyesight with a theatrical cortina. Mystery stuck in its folds floated toward me, then laid, dusty and weary, on the bulky grand bed. A queen’s four-poster, wow! Immense, 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.
I slit with caution 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 little. The deep mattress swallowed my physique, but only because I was slim, compared to its vast softness, so the unease didn’t last.
Enthralled with the university course, my brain found no room for invisible, silent 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 slightest 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, sheafs swish, 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 swaying folds absorbed my eyes’ marrow.
I was swinging, riding a swing, vaporous skirts twirling. Pendulum…
My bemused senses floated, physical marrow tranquilized to a weird fluidity.
Music, gruff, on a grandfather gramophone, a languid waltz marching on menacing undertones… Saccharine leers…
A girl giggles, loafing in silken bedsheets, perfumes billowing to bewitch the pendant crystals above. Light loves her gossamer loose tresses, loses itself in her dilated cerulean irises.
Why does a standing shadow play sentinel in the room, struggling to resist the loving shafts, the demoiselle’s charms?
Celestial 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 glowing screen.
A shadowy gangrene expands on the girl’s forehead, her eyes. As their luster subsides to sighs, the music grows stentorian.
A young gasp!
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… Pendulum.
The clock
Upon waking up, I rushed to the somber armoire to inspect its mysterious vacancy. A clock hid in its farthest chamber, which I never used, given my small luggage. Never heard its entrails ticking or ding-donging, either. Now it banged its clamor against the walls of my head.
Was the clock French? Did a French magnate own the hotel? An ill-fated demoiselle ever slept here?
Without a reason, these questions hailed my intuition. “Well now, dear lady boudoir, or gentleman den, I opened my sensors. Are you happy?” I said or thought these words.
Today, I wonder why I cannot specify the receptionist’s gender.
. . .
Featured image by Viviana Ioan.
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