Read Online Sparrow Nights by David Gilmour - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Gilmour
Ads: Link
back down to my ladder, sock in one hand, and climbed upwards. First things first. When I got to the top of the ladder, I placed my driver’s licence on the top of the air conditioner. That way, if spotted, I could claim to have borrowed a house ladder to retrieve my driver’s licence, which had fluttered out of my hand on the upstairs balcony and landed, lo and behold, on the top of their air conditioner. Then, parting the broken teeth, I stuffed the glue-soaked sock into the heart of the machine and wrapped it around the propeller. By now I was so excited I could feel the ladder shaking under me. I hurried back down, clank, clank, clank , scooped up the ladder, forgot my licence, put the ladder back, raced up the rungs, got my licence, and then brought the whole works back upstairs to my room. The whole business had taken less than three minutes.
I had a shower, ambled over to the cabaret. I didn’t sit near the Germans but over at the side by myself. I may have had a bit too much to drink that night, because I can’t quite remember leaving the patio. But I seemed to sober up as I climbed the stairs to my room. I came down the hall; I opened the door with an unsteady hand; I listened. Silence. I passed through the dark room and pushed open the doors. I heard the ocean, the wind, but nothing else. They weren’t home yet. I lay on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
Sometime later, near two in the morning, I heard a commotion downstairs and the outside light went on. I got up quietly and tiptoed over in the dark. There was a click, then another click. Then the sound of confused German. They were trying the air conditioner. Click, click, then silence. Then more clicks, then more German. Finally I crawled back into bed. I think I even laughed into the pillow so they couldn’t hear.
Near three I woke up. I was itching like mad. I took a table fork and scratched the bottoms of my feet; they were on fire. I scratched and scratched. Then my scalp went off, then a patch on my back that I could only reach with my hairbrush. My pillow smelt funny. There must have been some kind of fungus in my room, a tropical fungus I was allergic to.
I went down to the main desk. It turned out they had an empty room; it had come free that night. Was this about the air conditioner, sir? No, this was another problem. They moved me. It was an identical room and I stood in the doorway, sniffing. I could smell that same musty air; my scalp started to itch. No good, I said. I went back to the desk. The night manager was called, an immaculate Spaniard with a toothbrush moustache. He listened to me carefully. He translated to his assistant. I heard the word rojo , three times. They must have been referring to my red face.
“I think you are allergic to the hotel,” he said.
But I was exhausted, my scalp alive with red ants, the soles of my feet on fire, and in no mood to be trifled with. “Are you making fun of me?” I said.
He leaned forward with a patronizing smile. “I beg your pardon.”
“Est-ce que vous vous moquez de moi?” I repeated with considerable force, going on to add that I was a respected professor of literature, that I didn’t give a monkey’s shit about the cost of things, that I wasn’t going to remain on the premises an instant longer, and would he immediately arrange for another hotel. That seemed to turn the tide and very shortly he made me a proposition in exquisite French.
“Would you like to try one of our villas?” he asked. “They were built forty years before the main hotel, using different materials. You may find it more comfortable.”
“At the same price?” I asked, my eyes involuntarily avoiding his.
He bowed gracefully. Moments later I was in a little golf cart, whisked to the pool end of the property, the moonlight dancing on the green water. The driver led me up the stairs to a sumptuous chateau and opened the door. I stepped inside. It was a two-floor affair, a television set, a living room,
I had a shower, ambled over to the cabaret. I didn’t sit near the Germans but over at the side by myself. I may have had a bit too much to drink that night, because I can’t quite remember leaving the patio. But I seemed to sober up as I climbed the stairs to my room. I came down the hall; I opened the door with an unsteady hand; I listened. Silence. I passed through the dark room and pushed open the doors. I heard the ocean, the wind, but nothing else. They weren’t home yet. I lay on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
Sometime later, near two in the morning, I heard a commotion downstairs and the outside light went on. I got up quietly and tiptoed over in the dark. There was a click, then another click. Then the sound of confused German. They were trying the air conditioner. Click, click, then silence. Then more clicks, then more German. Finally I crawled back into bed. I think I even laughed into the pillow so they couldn’t hear.
Near three I woke up. I was itching like mad. I took a table fork and scratched the bottoms of my feet; they were on fire. I scratched and scratched. Then my scalp went off, then a patch on my back that I could only reach with my hairbrush. My pillow smelt funny. There must have been some kind of fungus in my room, a tropical fungus I was allergic to.
I went down to the main desk. It turned out they had an empty room; it had come free that night. Was this about the air conditioner, sir? No, this was another problem. They moved me. It was an identical room and I stood in the doorway, sniffing. I could smell that same musty air; my scalp started to itch. No good, I said. I went back to the desk. The night manager was called, an immaculate Spaniard with a toothbrush moustache. He listened to me carefully. He translated to his assistant. I heard the word rojo , three times. They must have been referring to my red face.
“I think you are allergic to the hotel,” he said.
But I was exhausted, my scalp alive with red ants, the soles of my feet on fire, and in no mood to be trifled with. “Are you making fun of me?” I said.
He leaned forward with a patronizing smile. “I beg your pardon.”
“Est-ce que vous vous moquez de moi?” I repeated with considerable force, going on to add that I was a respected professor of literature, that I didn’t give a monkey’s shit about the cost of things, that I wasn’t going to remain on the premises an instant longer, and would he immediately arrange for another hotel. That seemed to turn the tide and very shortly he made me a proposition in exquisite French.
“Would you like to try one of our villas?” he asked. “They were built forty years before the main hotel, using different materials. You may find it more comfortable.”
“At the same price?” I asked, my eyes involuntarily avoiding his.
He bowed gracefully. Moments later I was in a little golf cart, whisked to the pool end of the property, the moonlight dancing on the green water. The driver led me up the stairs to a sumptuous chateau and opened the door. I stepped inside. It was a two-floor affair, a television set, a living room,
Similar Books
