What Happens at Night - Peter Cameron Page 0,26

little.

All right, he said. I’ll see what I can do. If they won’t send something up, I’ll bring it back myself.

Thank you, she said. Thank you for your love. And for your patience.

He walked over to the bed and kissed her cheek, which felt unusually warm. He resisted the urge to palm her forehead. He was sorry he had just felt hatred. But it was gone.

The bald walrus-mustached concierge was gone, and the young woman who had welcomed him, so to speak, on the previous night had resumed her stoic vigil behind the reception counter. The man approached her. Good evening, he said.

Good evening, she said.

I wonder if . . . My wife is not feeling well, and is staying up in our room, but wonders if some food could be brought up to her. Is that possible?

Certainly it is possible, the young woman said. I believe that any dish on the restaurant’s menu can be delivered to a guest’s room.

Excellent, said the man. Thank you.

I hope you are enjoying your stay at the Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel.

Yes, said the man. Everything has been fine.

Good, said the young woman. We strive hard to meet the needs of every traveler.

Do you? asked the man.

Yes, the young woman said. We do. Have we failed you in any way?

No, said the man. You have not failed me.

That is good to hear, said the young woman.

The man crossed the lobby and entered the restaurant. The huge, gleaming room was virtually empty. Only a few couples sat, ridiculously alone, at the large tables set for ten. A string quartet was playing what sounded to the man like a polka, and perhaps because they were seated just inside the large glass windows that overlooked the garden which must leak cold air, they all wore parkas over their formal attire.

There did not appear to be a hostess or a maître d’ or any other person who might welcome and seat diners, so the man stood there, waiting. He looked at the menu, which was printed on a large piece of vellum and propped up on a gilt easel just inside the door.

Borgarfjaroasysla Grand Imperial Hotel

MENU

Table d’hôte

First Course

Hors d’Oeuvres Varies

Oysters

Second Course

Consommé Olga, Cream of Barley

Third Course

Salmon, Mousseline Sauce, Cucumbers

Fourth Course

Filet Mignons Lili

Sauté of Chicken, Lyonnaise

Vegetable Marrow Farci

Fifth Course

Lamb, Mint Sauce

Roast Duckling, Apple Sauce

Sirloin of Beef, Château Potatoes

Green Peas, Creamed Carrots

Boiled Rice

Parmentier & Boiled New Potatoes

Sixth Course

Punch Romaine

Seventh Course

Roast Squab & Cress

Eighth Course

Cold Asparagus Vinaigrette

Ninth Course

Pâté de Foie Gras

Celery

Tenth Course

Waldorf Pudding

Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly

Chocolate & Vanilla Éclairs

French Ice Cream

The man quickly realized he could not face the ordeal that this dinner promised to be and decided he would return to the bar and its menu of snacks. At that moment the hidden door in the mural on the far wall opened and a woman appeared, carrying a large tray laden with dishes hidden beneath silver plate covers. She was carrying this burden by resting the tray on her shoulder and supporting it with one hand, and consequently was slumped a little to one side beneath what appeared to be a great weight. She visited all of the occupied tables, placing a dish in front of each diner and removing the plate cover with a gesture that was obviously intended to be a flourish but which under the challenging circumstances better resembled a gesture of defeat. When she had completed her arduous journey around the room—for the three occupied tables were all as distant from one another as possible—the man raised his hand and called out to her. She looked at him wearily, as if she could cope only with the diners scattered among the tables but any other obligation or responsibility would cause her to collapse. And so the man felt guilty about summoning her, as if he had done something wrong, and stood sheepishly inside the door as she made her way toward him.

A table for one? she dispiritedly asked the man. He thought this was an odd question, since all the tables in the restaurant were set for ten people. And then he realized she was the same waitress who had served them that morning. She was wearing a more elegant costume and had put her hair up in a rather soigné fashion and applied a deathly red lipstick to her lips, but she was undoubtedly the same woman, and he suddenly understood her fatigue and impatience.

No, he said. I’m sorry to bother you, but my wife is upstairs in her room—she is not feeling well; she’s