TALES FROM
THE HOTEL CENTRAL
GIL C. SCHMIDT
Copyright 2010 -- Gil C. Schmidt
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Dedication
To Kaleb, for teaching me...
To María, for caring about me...
And to Roberto, for being there for me.
INTRODUCTION
The Hotel Central exists. It sits--sat--just off a pigeon-filled plaza in the old city, the one that sits on a peninsula and gets the sea breezes at all moments.
I first saw it about 25 years ago, surprised to see its narrow doorway between what was then a jewelry store and a clothing store. I passed by the door, on foot or a little slower in my car during daytime traffic, and wondered about the place. The jeweler closed and a store selling butterfly mobiles and such opened for a time. The clothing store closed and was replaced by something else that didn't last long either.
The years passed, three or four, and the hotel had faded into the background of my mind. Until one afternoon, on a gray afternoon edging into sunset, I drove by the Hotel Central and the idea for "Brian's Here" emerged. I made a mental "Uh-huh," drove home slowly and wrote the story in one sitting.
A month later, I wrote "Brian's Hurt." It's still the only story I've written that's made me cry. Twice.
Some time later, I wrote "Brian's Hope," and the Hotel Central disappeared from my mind. Work, travel, life took me away from it. My only memories were two stories in a binder and the notion that a third existed somewhere in my files.
Fast-forward to 2008. September, to be exact. A tree and a truck block a drainage canal behind my house during a 7-inches-in-5-hours rainfall. Flooded me out. I lost thousands of books, all my furniture, practically everything I owned. In the recovery, I find a box full of sodden papers, stuff I'd written years ago. Although I was angrily throwing things away, I saved it.
Jump to 2009. My fiancé (my wife by the time you read this) was struggling with stress, so I suggested she stay in the old city, which she had never explored. I booked her a room in a chain hotel, across the street from a pigeon-filled plaza. To her delight, Johnny Depp was in town. To her surprise, she recognized the hotel, from my stories. (She still thinks I did it on purpose.) She asked about "ghost stories" in the hotel and--wouldn't you know?--they had a couple.
Jump to 2010. I pull out the musty box and find many stories I thought were gone and a few I'd forgotten. There, in a very faint printout, was "Brian's Hope." And because I always thought there would be four stories, I wrote "Brian's Home."
Now step into the Hotel Central. Someday I will, too. It has stories, you know.
TALES FROM THE HOTEL CENTRAL
Brian walked across the plaza, stirring a handful of pigeons into fluttering. The setting sun was almost gone, its reddish glow giving away to a warm darkness. The air was still, poised to move. The streetlights, the ones that worked, were straining to blanket the growing shadows. Buildings loomed in contemplation, quiet sentinels of the day's end. Brian's cigarette flicked out into the gutter, a dying ember for a dying day. His destination was on the northern east-west street of the plaza. Nestled between a jewelry store and a vacant storefront, it flashed a somber blue light on the small rectangular red-on-white sign: Hotel Central.
He'd seen it dozens of times in passing, and had entered once, years before, when newly arrived in the old city. He didn't remember anything about it, except that it was there, and that others had told him it had always been there. The air clung to his neck and face as he approached the doorway. The jewelry store had closed for the day, a display of laminated butterflies curlicueing up and across the window looking pallid and cheap.
The doors to the Hotel Central were of old wood, a deep brown that reminded Brian of roll top desks and inherited coffee tables. The doors were narrow, inset with glass from slightly above Brian's head to about knee-high, reinforced with metal mesh. Brian pulled the right door open, expecting a tinkling bell to announce his arrival. Nothing did. Air from inside flew at Brian, drying his face immediately and causing him to blink. Finally, he felt refreshed and clean from the hours that weighed him.
In the darkened lobby, narrow from front to back, Brian could make out very little of color. To his left was the front desk, a domed-shaped bell sitting prominently on the counter fronting a rack of keys. To the right, was a small table with a vase of artificial flowers, and a stairway rising up and curling left to the upper floor. The wall facing the door featured a settee of unknown color, its back curling in stylized fashion like furniture used to do before machines took over. A tiny table stood to its left, covered with a pile of several magazines and a tall floor lamp stood behind that. To the right of the settee was the doorway to the bar, barely visible from where Brian stood. Seeing no one, he crossed the lobby in seven steps and entered the bar.
A mahogany counter ran all along the right side, with glass shelves parading a meticulous line of bottles, glasses and knickknacks. The entire wall behind the shelves was a mirror. The bar was lined with six stools, slim three-legged jobs that Brian felt were sturdier than they appeared. To Brian's left, four small tables, with three chairs each were lined against the wall, the tables dotted with plump candles in cut glass.
At the far end was another doorway, apparently leading to the miniature courtyard typical of the buildings here. Brian waited several seconds, expecting someone to notice his arrival. From the far end of the bar, through a door Brian hadn't noticed, a woman appeared. She was carrying a tray of pitchers, her dark skin catching winks of light from the dim illumination. She was moving quietly, her attention focused on the tasks of preparing for the bar's patrons.
Brian watched her for a few minutes, taking in her looks. "Excuse me," said Brian. The woman turned in the opposite direction from Brian, reached across the bar and flicked a switch. An overhead lamp arrangement, shadowed until now, flashed to light. Under the lights, Brian could see the woman was older than her movements indicated. Maybe late forties, at the most, with smooth skin, brown almost black eyes, a severe mouth and hair pulled back softly. "Yes?" she replied, her voice smooth and accented in tropical ways.
"Am I too early? I can come back later."
She nodded. "No, you may stay. We usually open at six, but today is different."
Brian waited, but got nothing else. Moving to a stool in the middle, thinking to reduce the distance she'd need to serve him, Brian asked for a beer.
"Local, American or foreign?" she asked.
"German, if you got it."
"We do," said the woman, shaking her head slowly. With deft movements, she pulled the bottle from the cooler, popped the top and poured, filling the elegant stein with amber and froth. Brian accepted the beer and had barely started to drink when the front door opened and a well-dressed gentleman, slim and gray-haired, came in.
With nary a glance to either side, he made his way to the bar, pausing only upon noticing Brian. He continued his entrance, passed behind Brian and sat in the stool next to him. "Good evening, Luella," said the man.
"Same to you," she replied, placing a scotch and soda in front of him. With delicate touch, the man raised the drink, saluted Brian and drained it in one pass. Placing it back exactly where he had picked it up, he smiled at Brian. "You're not a 'Chip', are you?" he asked in a faint British accent, his trim mustache bobbing.
Brian grunted, confused.
"A 'Chip', one of those eager, middle-class, good intentioned, amiable bubbleheads who thinks life's problems can be solved with a deep enough bank account, a big smile and an avoidance of all those 'not like us'?"
Brian smiled his first big smile of the day. "No. I live here in the city."
"Excellent, excellent," beamed the gentleman. "May I know your name?"
"Brian. Brian Storm." "Is that with a 'y' or a 'i'?"
Brian smiled. "With an 'i'."
"Excellent," smiled the man. Extending his hand to Brian, he said "My name is Nathaniel Carmicheal. That is Nathaniel with an 'i'." They shook hands. Carmicheal continued. "If I may be so bold, what is your profession?"
"I'm a reporter for the Star."
"Ah, a journalist," said Carmicheal, leaning back precariously on the stool. Another scotch and soda had appeared in front of him. He ignored it, his eyes openly sizing up Brian. "Is it permissible to ask what brings you here?"
Brian chuckled. "A rough day."
Carmicheal nodded, sampling his drink. "They seem to be endemic, these days of rough times." His pause was deliberately nonchalant. "But why bring yourself here?"
Brian's eyes snapped at Carmicheal, checking to see what the words were intended to mean. But all Brian saw was an elderly gentleman sipping his drink. And Luella watching them both. "Is there a problem with my being here?" he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
"There could be," said Carmicheal, staring into Luella's eyes. They exchanged something in that look.
"Like what?" said Brian, his tone getting away from him. Carmicheal exchanged another look with Luella, one that Brian couldn't help but think was meant to pass judgment on him. Luella shook her head.
Carmicheal drained his drink and turned to face Brian. "Were you told to come here?"
"No."
"Are you certain of that? Did anyone mention this place to you, in any way?"
Brian shook his head. "No. What's the matter?"
Carmicheal raised his hand slightly, then continued. "Did your editor ask you to come here?"
"No," said Brian, draining his beer to keep from exploding. This was not the day for an interrogation.
Carmicheal received his next drink with a gentle thank you. "What do you know about the Hotel Central?"
"Nothing." Carmichael's eyes bored into him. "Well, nothing much. Only that it's been here like for a hundred and thirty years and had a fire once."
Carmicheal waited and Brian tried to stare him down, failing and decreasing his store of patience. Carmicheal leaned away, glancing at Luella as she went back through the door she came in. "How's your wife, Mr. Storm?"
He took a few seconds to digest that. "I'm not married."
Carmicheal smiled softly. "A fortunate state exceeded in blessings only by having a wife." He chuckled--like a hiccup. "Divorced?"
Brian took a deep breath. Luella returned, carrying a box with clinking bottles. He motioned for another beer, only to notice it had already been served. Brian was visibly startled.
"Magical, is it not?" chuckled Carmichael. "Divorced?"
"No." Dry.
"Are you unfettered in any way by Cupid's attentions?"
Brian drank most of his beer. "Yes." He noticed he sounded bitter, but blamed Carmicheal for that.
The elderly man checked himself in the mirror, as if seeking approval. "Is that cause for great pain in your heart?"
Brian turned to the man. "Don't you think that's personal?" His hands were flexing stiffly.
Carmichael gave Brian an open look. "Undoubtedly. But for the moment I serve a higher purpose than that of protecting your privacy."
"Oh you do, do you? And what could that be?"
Carmicheal curled his mouth. "Your reaction is somewhat churlish considering your profession, Mr. Storm. You should be accustomed to this type of encounter."
"Well I'm not," said Brian. "I came here to unwind, not to be interrogated."
He turned away from Carmichael, asking Luella for the tab. Carmichael placed a manicured hand on Brian's arm. "Please allow me two more questions. They may assist in breaking this impasse." Brian felt himself manipulated, but natural curiosity and Carmichael's gentle, pleading manner cooled him off enough to sit down again. "Okay. Two questions."