I write one metre eighty-five.
That should be useful when they’re making a box for me.
“I would have guessed one eighty-three,” says the young man.
He apologises for the paperwork, regulations that have to be followed. We’re alone, but he lowers his voice nonetheless and swiftly looks around.
“We want to know what people are doing in the country.”
He explains that this isn’t a big hotel, sixteen bedrooms in all, and only five being used at the moment.
He then confirms what the cabdriver had said about the hotel having had no guests for many months and then suddenly three in the same week.
“You, the lady, and the man,” he says, before adding that they heated my room earlier in the day.
Next he unfolds a map and leans over it with a blue pen. He crosses out different areas, saying: ruins, gone. He then gets a red pen and draws circles on the map, saying land mines. Here and here. And here. Don’t go into the woods, don’t wander into fields. Avoid deserted areas. “Don’t step on anything here, here, here, and here,” he says. “Don’t go there or there. Or here. Don’t pick mushrooms. Plastic mines are dangerous because detectors can’t find them.”
He hands me the key.
“You’re in number seven.” And adds:
“There is a curfew from eleven at night till six in the morning. Electricity is rationed and power is cut for six hours every day. Water is also rationed. If you want to take a shower, it has to be before nine in the morning, after that hot water is finished. And don’t be longer in the shower than three minutes, otherwise my sister has no shower.”
I don’t ask him why his sister needs to shower in the hotel, but he volunteers an explanation regardless:
“She works at the hotel, like me.”
He hesitates.
“In fact, you could say we pretty much run it.”
He peers at the forms.
“It says here you are staying for a week. The dining room is still closed, but we serve breakfast. There is also a restaurant down the road that is open if we let them know you are coming.”
And another thing, if I need him I should ring the bell. But he is not always at the desk, because he is also busy with other tasks.
When I booked the hotel online, there was some mention of ancient baths and a famous mosaic mural that were discovered when they were digging the foundations of the building, if I remember correctly.
I ask the young man about the mural, whether it’s accessible.
“I would love to see it,” I add. Suddenly the young man no longer understands English.
“It’s connected to the hotel, is it not?” And I add—in an effort to jog his memory—that the subject of the mosaic is nude women.
What had really attracted my attention, though, was the strange turquoise colour of the background, which was said to be attributable to an old stone quarry in the country. Unfortunately the young man is not aware of the existence of this mosaic or any other ancient ruins in the area. There must be some misunderstanding, he says, suddenly busying himself with the paperwork on the desk. It seems to be just two sheets.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
And is he not familiar with the ancient thermal baths in the hotel either? The mud baths?
No, he has no recollection of them, but says he’ll make enquiries.
As I’m walking up the stairs I hear the young man say without looking up:
“Yes, and the elevator is broken.”
On my way to the room it occurs to me that from now on I don’t have to say any more words than I want to, that I could shut up until the end of the world.
Reached this precise point in life in room number seven
The first thing I notice when I turn the key in the lock and switch on the light is the painting over the bed. It’s not unlike the forest picture in the lobby, except that instead of a leopard it’s a lion and, instead of the wild animal gazing out of the painting, the hunter and the animal are looking each other in the eye.
The leafy wallpaper in the room is starting to peel in the corners.
The room contains a desk and an armchair with carved legs and woven upholstery. A fresh bar of soap on the sink, wrapped in thin silk paper adorned with flowers, gives off an old Lux-like scent. The bedspread is covered with dust but the sheets underneath are clean.
I lie on the bedspread in my clothes and turn on the bedside lamp. The bulb flickers a few times and then dies. I glance at my watch and see that there’s another hour before the power is cut off, so I fetch my screwdriver and flashlight and place them beside the lamp.
I feel cold after the journey.
I open the suitcase and arrange my belongings on the table, side by side. That doesn’t take long. I hang my red shirt in the wardrobe and place my sweater on the shelf beside it, and I keep my diaries on the table beside my toolbox. I haven’t come across a garbage can in this country yet. I have practically nothing. Nine things.
Should I go to bed, should I brush my teeth?
I unscrew the tap. At first it spurts sand, then a brown muddy liquid, and finally red water. The water is cold and without enough pressure to be able to take a shower. The noise from the pipes suggests they need to be examined.
Creaking can be heard from the bed on the other side of the wall, someone is tossing and turning sleeplessly in the room next door, unless it’s the two of them, the woman and the other man, and they’re rubbing their sweaty bodies against each other. Is that a child’s voice I just heard? Is someone singing a lullaby?
There is a slit between the blinds and outside the world is engulfed in total darkness. I
