and hotfooted it around back of the hotel, making my way over the stinging grass until I spotted my red bath towel hanging on a balcony. And there, below it, was the offending air conditioner. It seemed a rather beat-up thing, missing teeth in the protective grate while inside the blade whirred and clanked. I looked for an outside wire to cut. Nothing. I daydreamed about throwing a ski pole into the works, but where might I find a ski pole in this climate? I approached the wall. Even if I climbed onto the balcony railing of the first-floor room (which might well get me shot as a thief), I still couldn’t reach the machine.
It was a puzzler, and I came back to my room to think about it. It seemed unsolvable. Finally, near dinnertime, soaked in sweat, my face red as a beet, I knocked on the door of the room below. A blond man, very tanned, answered. He was wearing one of those disgusting thong bathing suits. I could see his mahogany brown wife in the background.
“Excuse me,” I said. I introduced myself, shook hands and explained about the air conditioner, about the racket it was causing.
He squinted at me. “But vee must have zee cold air.”
Yes, well, that’s true, I said with a laugh, an indulgent laugh, but you see it’s ruining my holiday because I can’t sleep. He called his mate over, meaty brown legs, also in a thong, her sandals making a sucking noise on the tiles. He said something to her in German. She replied with a wide-eyed shrug.
“Vee must have zee cold air,” he repeated sorrowfully.
I thanked them. Germans never understand diplomacy, the Baader-Meinhof kids got that right, and I went back to my room. For a while I lay there, staring at the ceiling. Then, hearing a swish, I got up and looked for the source of the noise. Someone had slipped a handbill under my door. There, in five languages, was an announcement, a cabaret in the dining room tonight, all guests invited. Of course I wouldn’t be able to go, I’d be too exhausted. I sat on the side of my bed and thought some rather lugubrious thoughts, clank, clank in the background. Then suddenly it stopped. The Krauts had left their room.
I nipped out on the front balcony and looked over. Yes, there they were, clip-clopping to the bar for an early drink. I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock. You’ve given them fair warning, I thought, that’s all one can expect in this life. Fair warning. I put on a shirt and my moneybelt and went down to the lobby and flagged a taxi. He drove me into town, ten miles. I knew he was going to overcharge me, but I saw it all now as a necessary expense. Arriving in the main street, I had him drop me off at the hardware store, open till eight, thank you, and asked him to please wait while I shopped. I bought a large plastic tube of wood glue—it was right by the front door, a good omen—and a small portable ladder I’d seen that afternoon. Fifty dollars U.S. for both. Still cheaper than moving hotels. I threw the ladder into the trunk of the car (held down by a hunk of wire) and returned to the hotel.
After dark you could hear the excitement on the other side of the hotel, the guests milling about for the cabaret, perfumed and expensively dressed. Just before the first song went up, “Cabaret” (how perfect), the Krauts left their room downstairs. The light clicked off; the air conditioner stopped. I waited ten minutes, just to be sure they hadn’t forgotten something, cock ring or nipple pincers, whatever, and then, taking my ladder, I hurried down to the ground floor and around to the back of the hotel, located my red towel and leaned the ladder against the wall. I measured the distance with my eye. It was perfect. The last step allowed me to reach the bottom of the air conditioner. Then, very quickly (time was short), I ran full speed back to my room. I pulled a pair of black dress socks from my suitcase, unfolded them over a day-old copy of The New York Times and soaked them in yellow glue.
I hurried
It was a puzzler, and I came back to my room to think about it. It seemed unsolvable. Finally, near dinnertime, soaked in sweat, my face red as a beet, I knocked on the door of the room below. A blond man, very tanned, answered. He was wearing one of those disgusting thong bathing suits. I could see his mahogany brown wife in the background.
“Excuse me,” I said. I introduced myself, shook hands and explained about the air conditioner, about the racket it was causing.
He squinted at me. “But vee must have zee cold air.”
Yes, well, that’s true, I said with a laugh, an indulgent laugh, but you see it’s ruining my holiday because I can’t sleep. He called his mate over, meaty brown legs, also in a thong, her sandals making a sucking noise on the tiles. He said something to her in German. She replied with a wide-eyed shrug.
“Vee must have zee cold air,” he repeated sorrowfully.
I thanked them. Germans never understand diplomacy, the Baader-Meinhof kids got that right, and I went back to my room. For a while I lay there, staring at the ceiling. Then, hearing a swish, I got up and looked for the source of the noise. Someone had slipped a handbill under my door. There, in five languages, was an announcement, a cabaret in the dining room tonight, all guests invited. Of course I wouldn’t be able to go, I’d be too exhausted. I sat on the side of my bed and thought some rather lugubrious thoughts, clank, clank in the background. Then suddenly it stopped. The Krauts had left their room.
I nipped out on the front balcony and looked over. Yes, there they were, clip-clopping to the bar for an early drink. I looked at my watch. Seven o’clock. You’ve given them fair warning, I thought, that’s all one can expect in this life. Fair warning. I put on a shirt and my moneybelt and went down to the lobby and flagged a taxi. He drove me into town, ten miles. I knew he was going to overcharge me, but I saw it all now as a necessary expense. Arriving in the main street, I had him drop me off at the hardware store, open till eight, thank you, and asked him to please wait while I shopped. I bought a large plastic tube of wood glue—it was right by the front door, a good omen—and a small portable ladder I’d seen that afternoon. Fifty dollars U.S. for both. Still cheaper than moving hotels. I threw the ladder into the trunk of the car (held down by a hunk of wire) and returned to the hotel.
After dark you could hear the excitement on the other side of the hotel, the guests milling about for the cabaret, perfumed and expensively dressed. Just before the first song went up, “Cabaret” (how perfect), the Krauts left their room downstairs. The light clicked off; the air conditioner stopped. I waited ten minutes, just to be sure they hadn’t forgotten something, cock ring or nipple pincers, whatever, and then, taking my ladder, I hurried down to the ground floor and around to the back of the hotel, located my red towel and leaned the ladder against the wall. I measured the distance with my eye. It was perfect. The last step allowed me to reach the bottom of the air conditioner. Then, very quickly (time was short), I ran full speed back to my room. I pulled a pair of black dress socks from my suitcase, unfolded them over a day-old copy of The New York Times and soaked them in yellow glue.
I hurried
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