Read Online Tuvalu by Andrew O'Connor - Free Book Online Page B

atop a rickety card table. Harry examined it carefully. He turned all the buttons, one at a time, then picked at blackened noodles scorched to the metal and made unintelligible observations. Inside the griller he found only flakes of aluminium, melted cheese and rubbery chunks of meat.
    â€˜What about that?’ he asked, pointing to the basement’s only other feature—a ping-pong table. It stood unevenly in a far corner of the room. Missing a leg, this table looked set to collapse at any moment, though in truth it was still quite stable. Moisture had curled the corners of the playing surface, giving it the look of a bizarre Asian antique. The net had been stolen, and both poles had been snapped off and tossed to one side like discarded butter knives.
    â€˜That’s for ping-pong, but there aren’t any bats.’
    We made our way back up the creaky staircase to the American Floor. The rapper 50 Cent roared inside one room but there were no gangstas when we passed, only a weedy, pale boy shooting monsters on a PC. Further up the corridor a fat, black woman and middle-aged man with a basketball were attempting to compile a list of actors with the initials D.Z.
    â€˜Notes of interest on the American Floor,’ I said softly. ‘They have the TV room, obviously. They also have sinks in their rooms. And one or two of them have balconies. We have nothing like that.’
    We climbed another set of stairs to the International Floor. These stairs were in worse repair than those coming from the basement. I pointed out that one or two of the steps were broken, leaving gaping holes which were difficult to remember when drunk. Harry climbed the last step and came to a halt beside me, panting. We stared along the stark grey corridor.
    â€˜Welcome to the International Floor,’ I said, just as Moaning Man stepped from his room.
    â€˜Who’s this?’ Harry asked.
    â€˜We call him Moaning Man. We suspect he’s related to Nakamura-san. Otherwise it’s hard to see why she’d put up with him. Normally he just sits and smokes or walks round the block.’
    Moaning Man set off in his usual strolling gait. He only ever broke this stroll to slap a wall, normally with the sole of his shoe.
    â€˜Is he dangerous?’
    â€˜Moaning Man? No,’ I said without conviction. ‘He’s harmless. He lives in his own little world, although walls irritate him.’
    Moaning Man passed us, mumbling to himself and lighting a cigarette. His name—which was used by the entire hostel—was a misnomer. His moans contained words. He was perpetually engaged in conversation with himself and now seemed displeased with everything he had to say. His face was set in the deep frown of a man waiting anxiously to counter sustained reproof.
    â€˜Don’t ever stand between Moaning Man and a nasty wall,’ I said, with a small smile.
    â€˜How am I meant to know which walls are nasty?’
    â€˜There’s no way to tell. Assume all walls are nasty.’
    Behind us Moaning Man booted a wall and shouted at it.
    We hurried on, stopping when we reached the bathroom.
    â€˜This is the only bathroom in the place,’ I said. ‘There’s a urinal on the American Floor, tucked inside a sort of broom closet. But for everything else, you have to come up here.’
    The taps interested Harry. He examined each in turn, then tried to straighten a crooked wall mirror.
    â€˜It’s filthy,’ he said.
    Having been in the hostel a year, I had grown used to what Harry now recoiled at: permanent stains inside the pit toilet, black hair-like grit around the plugholes and mould between every tile. None of it overly perturbed me, except perhaps for toe-prints gouged from the layer of grey slime in the shower recess.
    â€˜Get shower shoes,’ I said. ‘And now, if you’ll follow me down this corridor to the grand finale …’
    My grand finale was nothing more impressive