Page 28 of The White Octopus Hotel
Eventually, the guests donned their fur coats and the gathering spilled out onto the lawn, beneath the stars. The event was finishing with a dramatic fireworks display over the lake, but Eve had learned all she could from the other guests for now and had no interest in fireworks. She was told that the steam baths were closing for the night, so it was time to return to the hotel and begin her search for its clocks and octopuses.
Chapter 18
It was approaching midnight, and the corridors were quiet. Most of the guests were still finishing their champagne out on the lawn. Eve returned to reception and was glad to find the desk manned by a night porter.
“How can I help you, madam?”
“I need to write a letter,” she said. “Is there any paper available?”
“You could try the Writing Room,” the porter replied, indicating the corridor on the other side of the desk. “Three doors down. I fear there might not be any paper left, though. The hotel’s writing paper is rather special and…in great demand.”
Eve paused. “Will it be restocked? Where does the paper actually come from?”
The night porter smiled and raised both hands in a little shrug. “You’d have to ask Anna Roth about that, madam.”
“All right. Is there anywhere I can leave my coat?”
It was far too hot inside for fur.
“I’ll gladly check it into the cloakroom for you.”
Eve handed it over and crossed the room towards the door he’d indicated. It was impossible not to pause beside the fountain,though, taking a moment to appreciate it now that it was back in working order. The second she paused, there was a click and flash behind her, and she turned to see the photographer she’d noticed earlier at the party.
“I hope you don’t mind, madam,” he said, meeting her gaze. “Anna Roth asked me to take as many photos of the guests and hotel as possible to mark the occasion.”
Eve shrugged. She’d already seen the developed photo, had it even now tucked into the pocket of her jeans upstairs. It was a striking image. She left the photographer in the lobby and went down the corridor to the Writing Room. It was a small, snug space, with a couple of polished wooden desks. Placed upon each was a silver pen, an inkwell full of shining, dark ink, and a glowing lamp. There was a stack of crisp white envelopes but not a scrap of writing paper to be found, either on the desk or in any of the drawers.
The quiet hush was pleasant after the noisy hubbub of the Sunset Room, and Eve lingered there for a moment. She reflected on the fact that, so far, the 1930s hotel she had seen very closely matched the sketches she’d made of the White Octopus back home—only with a lot more magic.
When she headed back out to the corridor, she saw that the plaque on the room opposite readPainter’s Roomand this one at least was well stocked. When Eve stepped inside, she found prepared easels, tins of paints, boxes of pencils and charcoal. Everything an artist could wish for, including windows that looked straight out upon the moonlit lake. A sign invited guests to help themselves to art materials and Eve saw that some of the artwork from previous guests had been hung on the walls here too. Many of the drawings were of the lake and the mountains, although there were some of the hotel as well. There were no clocks or octopuses, though, so she left to search for the ballroom and its glass chandeliers. There were, she recalled, small glass octopuses hanging from them. She couldn’t remember the exact number she had seen whileexploring the ruined hotel—though even if she could, it might not be accurate after all the years of rot and ruin. Best to re-count them for herself, now.
As she walked through the deserted hotel, she wondered whether she had perhaps had too much champagne, because the corridors seemed to stretch endlessly in front of her in a dreamlike fashion. It was clear that they’d once been hung with paintings, but these had all been removed, leaving only faded squares on the wallpaper to show where they had been. Only a few black-and-white photographs remained, depicting the hotel and its guests in days gone by. Eve glimpsed different fashions from the Victorian past—men in beards and women in bustles. The hotel itself seemed more sombre back then too, with none of its current art deco flourishes.
Despite her attempts to head for the ballroom, she soon found herself in a totally different part of the hotel, going around in hopelessly lost circles until, finally, she heard the scratch of a jazz record. When she followed this up a flight of stairs, she arrived at the Palm Bar and Martini Room, which was completely transformed from the ruin of a room she had seen before.
The lacquered silver walls gleamed in the glow of the table lamps, broken up with panels of palm-print wallpaper. The bevelled mirrors had lost their tarnish, and the banquettes and armchairs were upholstered in glossy black velvet. A pair of large art deco golden palm trees adorned either side of the bar and the shelves behind it were now fully stocked with a vast array of bottles. The room smelled of the cigar smoke that twisted through it in ribbons. Jazz crackled from the record player, the fireplace was lit, and here, again, Eve noticed the ghosts of paintings in the empty faded squares on the walls. The hotel was the one place where Roth had exhibited his work, and Eve wondered once again why he had refused to let his paintings leave the hotel and what had happened to them all after his death.
A few other guests had retired here for nightcaps, although Evesaw that she was the only woman. It suddenly occurred to her that it might be considered improper for her to be here alone at this time of night. She remembered seeing a collection of old bar signs at the auction house once.No unescorted ladies will be served.Or:Men only from noon until three.
Now she distinctly heard a few tuts from the other male guests and noticed a couple of scowling faces through the haze of cigar smoke. She ignored them and tipped her head back to look at the murals on the ceiling, searching for octopuses amidst the cocktails. Within moments there was a loud throat-clearing sound from an armchair behind her and she saw that one of the guests—a portly older man with an impressive moustache—was beckoning over a barman who was circling the room with a martini trolley. For a moment, Eve thought it was Alfie because they looked so alike, but then she realised that the barman had a slightly thinner face and longer nose. They shared the same ice-blond hair and blue eyes, but she guessed this boy—Luca, according to his name badge—was a year or two older. The drinks trolley he pushed was a beautiful item, with golden art deco lines and burgundy mirrored shelves.
“What’ll you have, sir?” Luca asked, stopping his trolley beside the gentleman guest and the other two men at his table. “Might I recommend the Thin Man martini?”
“I already have a drink,” the guest replied brusquely. “But someone over there is lost. She’s looking for the exit, I believe.”
Eve realised the man was talking about her and turned around to face him. All three of the men at the table were gazing at her in a hostile fashion, and it wasn’t only them. Almost all the other guests were glancing her way in irritation too.
“Areyou lost, madam?” Luca asked pleasantly.
A hush descended upon the room. For the first time, Eve noticed that the tables at the back were occupied by hotel staff rather than guests, which seemed a little strange. She recognised the green braid of their uniforms and the flash of white octopus pins. Alfie sat atone table with the lift operator and another man in his thirties she hadn’t seen before. And there were a couple of waiters from the Sunset Room. They were all staring straight down at their drinks rather than her, and there was no easy chatter over their cocktails, only silence, as if they were waiting to hear what she might say, waiting to see what would happen next. A shivery prickle ran up Eve’s arms and suddenly she had the sense that somethingwasabout to happen. Something momentous.
Perhaps the sensible thing would have been to leave gracefully. She was a guest in their time period, after all. And yet, the way the men were looking at her with such open dislike made her want to dig her heels in, to be obstinate, to make herself an inconvenience.
“I’m not lost,” she said calmly. “This is exactly where I want to be.”
There was another blustery throat-clearing noise from the older guest. “Be that as it may, young lady, a cocktail bar at midnight is no place for you.”
He wagged his finger, and Eve let out a bark of a laugh. This seemed to incense the man and his companions even further.
