Read Online The White Hotel by D. M. Thomas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D. M. Thomas
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“If you can afford it, why not enjoy it while you can?” His wife, her envy dowsed by the aroma of the roast duck placed before her at that moment, cut off the tart comment she was about to make, and said simply, “Well, it’s nice to see everyone looking cheerful.”
Indeed, there was not a doleful face in the whole big dining room. As if everyone had decided simultaneously to compensate, this evening, for the gloom of previous dinners. The waiters were in a holiday mood all of their own, doing little skips to the music as they scurried around, and pretending to juggle with their loaded trays. Even the portly cook quit his ovens to come through and see what all the fun was about. He was given a tremendous cheer, and he grinned his delight, wiping the streaming sweat from his round face. Madame Cottin stood up, walked across to him, and presented him with her empty wine glass. She indicated her engrossed friends, and tugged the chef’s arm. Shy, reluctant, he allowed his portly frame to be tugged across the room, his wide grin showing a gap where he had lost a tooth. There were cheers and the stamping of feet as Madame Cottin pulled him to their table. The young bare-breasted woman smiled and nodded at the shy, grinning giant, and gently detached her lover from her nipple—the priest went on sucking contentedly, not even noticing the good-humoured events taking place around him. The young man, his lips circled in white, smiled his willing agreement, and the chef, stooping, tenderly took the plump nipple between thumb and finger and milked it into the wine glass. When it was filled, he lifted the glass triumphantly and drank the sweet milk in onesatisfying draught. To grateful comments from all sides, on the quality of his cuisine, he rolled grinning back to his kitchen, the swing doors springing shut behind him.
At one of the other tables, a large one for a family of eight, the celebratory hubbub rivalled even the young lovers’ table for the other guests’ amused attention. Whole magnums of champagne were being got through in record time; glasses were being smashed; roaring toasts drunk; tuneless but joyful voices raised in the gypsy songs. Word spread that the head of the family, an ancient Dutchman, almost blind, had climbed the mountain behind the hotel and returned with mountain spiderwort, so named because it grows only in high places and in rock crannies accessible only to the spider. The old man had turned to botany late in life, and today’s find was the realization of his most cherished dream.
When they heard of this, Madame Cottin and the young woman had a whispered exchange and summoned their waiter. He sprang to their side, all attention, then as nimbly skipped to the Dutch table with their invitation. Almost before he could get his words out they were leaping from their chairs and pouring across to take up the kind offer. And after they had drained their glasses, or drunk directly from her breast, other smiling, slightly merry guests got up to join the queue. The band, too, demanded their refreshment. And even Vogel, without ever losing his supercilious expression and air of boredom—as if to say, I’m here, so I’d better join the herd—came over and sucked briefly at the breast. Returning to his sister, he wiped the milk from his lips with a sarcastic grin.
The sun, dropping suddenly, spread butter on the trees beyond the french windows, and the guests sobered. The priest took his mouth from the nipple, contentedly, and thanked her; thenfeeling a stab of pain in his heart as he remembered his mother, his guilt at her loneliness and poverty, so far away in his native Poland. Also, sadly, he had broken his vow. He had to get himself ready for the funeral service for those who had died in the flood and the fire. He felt more in the mood for a nap; but his duty had to be done. He stood up and looked for the pastor. They were to share the duties. The young woman fastened her dress.
She could feel
Indeed, there was not a doleful face in the whole big dining room. As if everyone had decided simultaneously to compensate, this evening, for the gloom of previous dinners. The waiters were in a holiday mood all of their own, doing little skips to the music as they scurried around, and pretending to juggle with their loaded trays. Even the portly cook quit his ovens to come through and see what all the fun was about. He was given a tremendous cheer, and he grinned his delight, wiping the streaming sweat from his round face. Madame Cottin stood up, walked across to him, and presented him with her empty wine glass. She indicated her engrossed friends, and tugged the chef’s arm. Shy, reluctant, he allowed his portly frame to be tugged across the room, his wide grin showing a gap where he had lost a tooth. There were cheers and the stamping of feet as Madame Cottin pulled him to their table. The young bare-breasted woman smiled and nodded at the shy, grinning giant, and gently detached her lover from her nipple—the priest went on sucking contentedly, not even noticing the good-humoured events taking place around him. The young man, his lips circled in white, smiled his willing agreement, and the chef, stooping, tenderly took the plump nipple between thumb and finger and milked it into the wine glass. When it was filled, he lifted the glass triumphantly and drank the sweet milk in onesatisfying draught. To grateful comments from all sides, on the quality of his cuisine, he rolled grinning back to his kitchen, the swing doors springing shut behind him.
At one of the other tables, a large one for a family of eight, the celebratory hubbub rivalled even the young lovers’ table for the other guests’ amused attention. Whole magnums of champagne were being got through in record time; glasses were being smashed; roaring toasts drunk; tuneless but joyful voices raised in the gypsy songs. Word spread that the head of the family, an ancient Dutchman, almost blind, had climbed the mountain behind the hotel and returned with mountain spiderwort, so named because it grows only in high places and in rock crannies accessible only to the spider. The old man had turned to botany late in life, and today’s find was the realization of his most cherished dream.
When they heard of this, Madame Cottin and the young woman had a whispered exchange and summoned their waiter. He sprang to their side, all attention, then as nimbly skipped to the Dutch table with their invitation. Almost before he could get his words out they were leaping from their chairs and pouring across to take up the kind offer. And after they had drained their glasses, or drunk directly from her breast, other smiling, slightly merry guests got up to join the queue. The band, too, demanded their refreshment. And even Vogel, without ever losing his supercilious expression and air of boredom—as if to say, I’m here, so I’d better join the herd—came over and sucked briefly at the breast. Returning to his sister, he wiped the milk from his lips with a sarcastic grin.
The sun, dropping suddenly, spread butter on the trees beyond the french windows, and the guests sobered. The priest took his mouth from the nipple, contentedly, and thanked her; thenfeeling a stab of pain in his heart as he remembered his mother, his guilt at her loneliness and poverty, so far away in his native Poland. Also, sadly, he had broken his vow. He had to get himself ready for the funeral service for those who had died in the flood and the fire. He felt more in the mood for a nap; but his duty had to be done. He stood up and looked for the pastor. They were to share the duties. The young woman fastened her dress.
She could feel
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