The Hotel

The old hotel had been there for a long time, though nobody could tell just exactly how old it was. What remained of its signboard were a couple of broken neon-lights pieces, long forgotten. The blue coat of paint had also turned into a dirty grey and most of it had already peeled off, leaving only the bare reddish-brown wall to withstand the temperamental weather of Saigon.

Calling it a hotel might have been too fanciful a name, for all it seemed to be was an ordinary street house, only built several storeys too tall to be proportionate for its three metre width. As with many other hotels in this fast-paced city, it had been built as high as the authorities would allow.

Each floor had a single balcony with a couple of languishing green plants, placed only recently in a pathetic attempt to liven up the atmosphere, or perhaps to distract one’s eyes from the balcony’s handrail, whose whiteness had been tainted with time. Hidden behind the many glass windows were curtains in a pale shade of green with parsley prints. They were very old and unkempt, masked by a sheer layer of dust, which was what made people not want to touch them, though the occasional guest with a sensitive soul could tell that those hideously old-fashioned rags were once valuable assets to somebody who cared.

Walking past the old men of the neighbourhood gathering around for their weekly chess-and-tea session, one might overhear them saying that there had been a time when the hotel was a thriving business and the people who stayed, he clicked his tongue and shook his head slowly, the people who stayed came with shiny leather cases, and were very classy.

There might have been life in there once, but nobody would be able to tell. From a distance away and behind the thick, raven black electricity cables, the hotel stuck out like a sore thumb, or a dirty secret which everybody tried but nobody had successfully concealed.

During its many years of lifespan, the hotel had sheltered many people and seen many things, way beyond its dirty glass doors which hadn’t been wiped since the old janitor died and the new one always had other messes to attend to. There had been people, often young girls from the countryside who for a meagre pay would work at the hotel for a while, helping out with cleaning the sheets and making up the rooms. At night, they slept together in a bunk area at the back.

These people came and went. Who would want to spend the rest of their lives cleaning up after other people in a small hotel? The young girls always dreamed of marrying rich men who would change their lives forever, hopeful, as all young people were.

“Good afternoon, would you like a room for two?” she asked nonchalantly. Then as if suddenly struck by the dryness of her own voice, the receptionist briefly moved the corners of her lips upwards to form a mechanical smile.

“Yes, a room, please,” the guy replied in a choked and smothered voice, eyes shiftily scanning the room.

She looked up at him, raising an eyebrow to indicate that she had not heard him well. He cleared his throat and repeated himself, this time louder and more confidently.

“By hours or by day?” she asked again, dropping the pretentious manners. He was no older than 16.

“Hours,” he said absent-mindedly and looked away at an oil painting on the wall to avoid eye contact with the receptionist.

“Go to level 3, turn left, room number 9 at the very end of the corridor.”

Gingerly, he picked the key up from her palm with sharp precision, almost as if she had an infectious disease and he was frightened. He walked away from the lobby and into the corridors very quickly and the girl had to run to catch up. Like him, she too was very young. The receptionist glanced down at the IC they registered, Mary, 15.

The first thing she had notice about Mary was her long and raven black hair, with a fringe that hid almost half of her face beneath. It was not an uncommon choice for teenagers these days, though she could just tell in a blink of an eye that it meant insecurity, however little. There was something Mary was not quite pleased with about her appearance – flaws invisible to others but overwhelmingly conspicuous to herself.

The girl walked with her back slightly hunched and hardly ever looked up, clinging onto her boyfriend’s hands, seeking protection. She was afraid he would leave if she let go. She was also afraid to be seen here by somebody who knew her, a schoolmate, a neighbour, or maybe a distant relative? After all, Saigon is a pretty small place, and they had always said that “the Earth is round”.

As the couple disappeared up the steps, the receptionist reached out to grab the magazine her manager had brought back this morning, the latest issue of Her World. It had glossy covers and featured skinny women in beautiful clothes. In the ‘Trends’ section were handbags that looked ordinary enough, only branded with labels that would possibly cost her a couple of years’ pay. She had seen women clutching them, the classic checker brown bags. They usually walk with their heads held higher, coupled with a spring in every step.

It was interesting to see how materialistic fulfilments affect people’s view on themselves. Everyday was a battlefield, striving for a sleeker car, a higher job position, a bigger house in a better area, being the one who has the latest mobile phone model  … having all of this gave a person the right to know they are superior. Sometimes one got too caught up in this rat race, everything else became secondary priorities.

And she had watched enough people to know.

In her early 40s, the receptionist was as plain as a piece of paper. Unattractive she was not; though there was always something unsettling about the way she went about unnoticed, almost as if she had slipped right through you.

Her large eyes were a deep, dark pool of blackness and if you looked at them from a certain angle and focal point, you would see a distorted fish-eye image of yourself looking back. Not many got to experience that, as the receptionist had always blended into the background, camouflaging herself as a form of defence against the wickedness of the world so it would not find her.

She had stuck with the hotel for a long time, slowly losing count of the years as time patiently crept by, adding thin, white streaks to her dirty brown hair. Unlike the country girls, she did not fantasize about scoring a wealthy old man who would provide her with a life of luxury. The receptionist had once dreamed, but it was of something else.

She liked being here at the ageing hotel, feeling empathy with its tainted wallpapers and cheap wooden doors that were beginning to give in to time. Time, it is a powerful thing.

“Time deteriorates dreams…” she whispered and let out a dark, bitter laugh.

Like her, the hotel had seen many things and recognized many familiar faces walking right into its open doors. Among which, couples who had their heads hung low and who talked hurriedly in suffocated murmurs made up just a small part.

Her train of thoughts were disrupted as the sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway. The young couple were going to check out.

“They sure are quick,” she thought to her self. It had only been a mere two hours.

The guy took out his wallet, an imitation of a famous brand, and grabbed a couple of notes with two of his fingers. He had given the exact amount, leaving no need for change.

The receptionist nodded her head and he turned his heel, wasting no time to linger around.

Mary looked thin, frail and slightly taken aback as she pulled the glass door to leave the hotel, her boyfriend had not bothered to keep it open. Leaning back against the chair, she wondered how long it would took for Mary to be hit with the realization that the bastard was going to leave her for another.

The last one lasted 1 month and 21 days. Jane, her name was, before Mary.

She suddenly let out a chuckle at the irony of it all, and allowed herself a few moments to indulge in her own sense of humour. There was an invisible superiority that she felt over them. .

Just then, another couple walked in, hand in hand. Beer-Belly Jon and his young mistress.

“Good afternoon, would you like a room for two?” the receptionist sat up, straightened her outfits and put on a mechanical smile.

Like the hotel, she saw nothing, but everything.

Footnote: this was written for my end-of-term English assignment. I had been editing it and after a while I just gave up, there’s always something missing, something not quite right, a piece of puzzle misplaced. Enjoy, anyhow.

edit 6/7: I realized that this isn’t the final copy as submitted, but one of the drafts. Fixed up a mistake, but there should be quite a few more..