Motherland Hotel

by Yusuf Atilgan

“So long.”

  He browsed through the paper for a while. Serap was nervous today, wary of her john. A prostitute with drooping shoulders, Serap (she had other names) sometimes brought men to the hotel. Folding and laying aside the paper, Zeberjet opened the cash drawer, then took the key from his inside pocket to unlock the safe. There were two compartments. In the upper one, along with receipts and two birth-certificate booklets, was an envelope marked HOTEL into which he now slid the cash. From the small copper change bowl he took one lira and put it into a similar bowl in the lower compartment. One of the two envelopes in this lower compartment was marked ZEYNEP. From the other, a thick one marked me, he withdrew a pair of five-hundred-lira bills. Then he swung the door shut, locked it, replaced the key in his pocket, and took out the wallet. The two five-hundreds went in alongside several hundreds, then he folded the wallet and put it back in his pocket, which he patted with his left hand. He sat down, and dipped into his breast pocket for the fiver that the woman off the Ankara train had given him. This he smoothed out on the register. Not exactly given him. She had paid with two tens and said never mind the change. That morning, after spending some time in her room, he had withheld the five from the bills going into the safe. He creased the note double now and tucked it back into his pocket.

  Toward noon the Retired Officer came downstairs. Under his usual sports jacket he wore a pale green sweater. No suitcase, which meant he was staying. Passing the desk he half turned to offer a greeting, face clean-shaven as usual. He shut the front door softly on his way out.

  At noon the maid brought his lunch on a tray together with the keys.

  “Did you swab the floor in Room 2?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sheets clean?”

  “All clean.”

  He hung the keys up. The numbers were etched into the metal. He ate without appetite, went to the pantry to wash his hands and lips, came back. Lit a cigarette, coughed. The maid was coming for the tray. Her own meals were taken upstairs in the kitchen. Stubbing out his cigarette he heard the 1:10 train pull in. Outdoors the woman took yesterday’s wash off the line and carried it to the pantry. When she started ironing it was past 1:30. No one was coming, he got up. At the door of the room he stopped.

  “I’m going out for a while. If anyone asks for a bed say yes.”

  “All right.”

  He looked around. Everything in place. Then he opened the front door and went out. The weather was fine, just a cloud or two. He headed downtown. Naturally he couldn’t go to the neighborhood barber on the street leading to the station. This wasn’t his day there. Once every four weeks on Thursday afternoon the barber would send his apprentice to the hotel when no one was waiting to call Zeberjet over for a haircut. Anyway, if he told his long-time barber to shave the mustache off there’d be no end of remarks. He’d go to one of the places on the avenue that led downtown. He seldom left the hotel. Unless something came up, as now, it was once a year or once every two years for the tailor, once in six months to have his dead skin cells scrubbed off at the Turkish bath, every four weeks a haircut, and once a month the post office where he would send the hotel proceeds to Faruk Kecheji who now lived in Istanbul. He paid the taxes once a year, but since this too was done at the post office it didn’t require an extra trip. Whenever he went out, and especially at the Turkish bath, he felt apprehensive about the hotel. Now too he was hurrying, another reason for which was….

  “Hello. Where are you off to?”

  The Retired Officer was coming back with today’s newspapers.

  “Going downtown is all.”

  He kept walking, past the pine trees and the high school, and came out onto the avenue. Each year the big vacant lots were filling up with more office and apartment buildings. The banks and department stores looked busy. On the corner of Printers Street there was a three-chair barber shop with two chairs vacant. As he stepped in, the elderly, gray-mustached barber got up from the corner. “Come right in,” he said, holding a chair. Zeberjet sat down and looked in the mirror. There was the trim, square mustache. Wrapping the top of a cloth around his customer’s neck the barber began snipping.

  “Live around here?”

  “No, I’m in town on business.”

  “Shall I cut it short?”

  “No.”

  Next to him a young apprentice was following the haircut. The barber said something Zeberjet didn’t catch. He laid his head back, eyes closed, for the soap to be lathered on. The razor slid over his cheeks, his throat, his chin, and came to his upper lip.

  “Zip off the mustache, too.”

  The barber laughed. “You’re quite the kidder,” he said.

  Two fingers held Zeberjet’s nose while the razor did a thorough job on his lip. When he opened his eyes the mustache was gone. Now there was a hint of lift to his eyebrow tips, the corners of his mouth, and his nose. The barber guided Zeberjet’s head forward over the sink and washed his face, then, after drying it, reached for a small can.

  “No talcum.”

  He stood up for the apprentice to brush off his shoulders and collar. From the upper pocket of his coat came the five-lira bill, which he handed to the barber.

  “Never mind the change.”

  Half an hour later behind a screen in a men’s clothing store he stood before a tall narrow mirror propped against the wall, emptying the pockets of his old coat and observing his reflection in black slacks, a light blue sweater, and a black three-button sports jacket, all chosen with the attentive aid of the young salesman. In the righthand pocket he put his handkerchief and the key to the room where the woman off the Ankara train had stayed; in the lefthand pocket the front door key, the matches, and his pack of cigarettes; and in the inside pocket the key to the safe along with his pen-knife, which was chiefly used to pare his nails. The broad leather wallet didn’t fit this pocket, although he could have forced it in. But he transferred the bills to his back pocket while the wallet went back into its old pocket in the other coat. Loose change into the left pants pocket. Then he removed the watch from his vest fob. The slacks had none, and at any rate the watch would have been too big. What was he going to do with it? For the time being he slid it into the righthand inside pocket. There was a small package on the chair containing a pale green duplicate of the blue sweater he was wearing. A last look in the mirror to straighten the hem of his jacket, and he came out from behind the screen. The salesman was beside him immediately, adjusting the collar of the sweater and undoing the upper and lower jacket buttons.

  “That’s it. Very becoming. Black shoes would be just the thing.”

  “What does it all come to?”

  “You can pay the cashier. I’ll wrap the old things for you.”

  Shortly after, he left with a package under one arm and walked past a bank, a baklava shop, a tailor’s and a drugstore, then turned into a store where rows of footwear were stacked in a window display. He settled on a pair of black loafers. As they seemed to fit well enough, he had his old brown pair wrapped. He paid and went out. Stepping off the curb with his package and crossing the street, he heard a squeal—froze, and saw the car stopped with a few feet to spare. The driver smiled, shaking his head, and Zeberjet smiled back. “Sorry,” he said. Passersby had stopped to smile with them. He hurried on. A sweet whiff of danger—but how easy it was, after all, to die.

  Back to the hotel the way he had come. As he walked in his eyes met those of the Retired Officer, who was reading a newspaper in the corner. The maid was in the pantry ironing.

  “Anyone been in?”

  “Three boys. They left their luggage.”

  Crossing through he avoided looking at the Retired Officer. Three suitcases stood under the stairs. Up in the room he unwrapped his package on the bed. In the wardrobe at the foot of the bed he hung jacket and slacks, while the shoes, stuffed with paper, went underneath beside his others. The new pale green sweater he hung on the wall rack. Then he looked in the mirror. “Quite the kidder,” the barber had said. Th
at didn’t completely resolve it, but what mattered was the result. His mustache was gone. He took the watch from his inside pocket—almost three-thirty—and laid it on the edge of the chest. The downstairs alarm clock would do for the time being. Folded up, the wrappings were left in the bathroom. He took a long, drawnout piss. Downstairs again, he sat in his chair. The Retired Officer was regarding him.

  “You look younger.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  He took up the newspaper on the desk to avoid conversation. The corn on the little toe of his right foot hurt from the new shoe. Quietly he took the shoes off and wiggled his feet. He’d forgotten to ask for wart remover. It did look smaller, though. There was a family of wart-witchers in that village. He re-shod his feet. The maid, her ironing done, closed the door of the pantry and walked toward the stairs without looking at him. When the Retired Officer lit a cigarette Zeberjet followed suit. Gulped back a cough. Tonight he’d look in the ashtray. It was quiet in the hotel. Outside, the sound of cars and footfalls; inside, the ticking alarm clock.

  Around five o’clock he leaned over to the wall and switched on the lights. The Retired Officer stirred, abandoning his paper for a book. It was getting to Zeberjet the way he sat there every afternoon and evening. Being alone had its advantages, such as getting up now and then as he used to and strolling around the lobby, or picking his nose—not often—when need be, or shifting to one side for a good loud fart, or, when his butt got sweaty, standing to fan it with the seat of his pants; none of which he could do now. He had been inconspicuous about taking his shoes off, had fought back a cough. Few people ever sat in the lobby. Sometimes five or six actors in a touring company would lodge at the hotel and spend time there after the performance, sitting around for shop talk, gripes over pay, and plain argument amid the cigarette fumes. Zeberjet would make tea for them. Usually these groups included two women. One actress had complained on a certain night of having to play three parts. Then there were the political conventions, when five or six county delegates would sit in the lobby and caucus. If the talk heated up, some important name would be invoked, followed by a “shussshh” and general glancing in Zeberjet’s direction. Since the open conversation always had to do with matters of common knowledge, it seemed the genuine running of the country was in these whispers. On one occasion, when the dentist….

  The door opened and they both looked over. It was one of yesterday’s livestock dealers.

  “We’ll be staying on tonight. Anyone take our room?”

  “No, it’s free.”

  The man paused in turning and peered at Zeberjet’s face.

  “You’ve shaved off your mustache.”

  “It was getting to be a weight,” he said with a laugh and then, in an undertone, asked, “Did I have it this morning?”

  “Can’t say as I noticed,” replied the man, who then left.

  Which meant that the problem of the mustache had no ready solution. In fact there had been no point asking. A firm “yes” or “no” would still have failed to clear up the matter. Taking a form from the drawer he put the livestock dealers down for Room 5. Then he lit a cigarette and watched the Retired Officer, who sat with a book held close up in his right hand. Zeberjet smoked his cigarette through, watching. Not once was a page turned. Saturday evening on the way out he had drifted over for a peek. The book wasn’t in Turkish.

  As the maid was bringing supper in, the Retired Officer rose and went out, leaving the book on top of the newspapers. Supper was the same as lunch, but Zeberjet ate with relish. He carried his tray up himself, since after serving the maid always went straight to bed. He let the cat out of the kitchen, which he locked. Coming down he heard the 6:40. Emptied the ashtrays into the wastebasket. Paced for a time between the front door and the stairs. At the door to her room he stopped, put his hand to the round knob, then snatched it back as the main door opened. He turned to see the teachers.

  “You’re all dressed up tonight. Expecting a visitor?” asked the woman, laughing.

  “Our things have arrived,” said her husband. “We’re leaving tomorrow, so I’d like to pay.”

  “Why not wait till morning?”

  “No, let’s settle now. We might have to hurry.”

  He took a five-hundred from his back pocket and laid it on the register. Going behind the desk Zeberjet opened the safe. Rooms with double bed were 15 liras for a single guest, 20 for a couple. He counted out change from the hotel envelope and re-locked the safe, then handed across their room key. The woman took it. No nail polish.

  “Could you wake us at eight, please? Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  As the woman went up the stairs she slipped an arm through his. They both carried small leather satchels. She had a round bottom and good legs. He looked away and took up a pen to begin filling in their forms. Saïdé was her name. The same name as his mother. That had startled him Tuesday when they checked in. Thursday night…. The door opened framing two middle-aged men in caps. Peasants, by the look of them.

  “Got two beds?”

  “Yeah.”

  He put them in one of the two triples on the second. Room 4.

  “Where you from?”

  “Kepekli,” said one.

  Not the same village. He gave them a key.

  “At the far end, on the right at the top of the stairs. First door on the right is the john. Don’t lock your door. I might have to put someone in with you.”

  They went up. Sometimes three total strangers would find themselves rooming together. Three years before he had come down one morning to an open front door. Whoever it was had made off with all the money his roommates were carrying, and their watches. This had occasioned one of his rare exits from the hotel, for ten days after the theft he’d been summoned to court as a witness. At the judge’s question he at first had barely recognized the accused. But beneath the cowed and broken look it was the same man, youthful, medium tall, with a narrow swarthy face. Sometimes going up to the attic at midnight Zeberjet would hear the voices of two or three men conversing quietly in the rooms. He yawned. He picked his left nostril with his left pinky, considered the resulting bit of dry snot, and wiped it off under the chair. He wrinkled up his face. At the sound of the diesel train from Ankara he glanced at his watch. Almost on time tonight. He rose and went to put water on the kerosene burner in the pantry. When he had the tea steeping he came out to see a pair of men enter the lobby. One of them he recognized, a county lawyer. His companion was elderly and well-dressed. They carried satchels, and were possibly back from litigation in Ankara.

  “Do you have a double room?”

  He took a key from the rack and presented it.

  “Room 9 on the third floor.”

  While these two were still on the stairs the livestock men arrived looking sullen. He gave them their key. Then the Retired Officer came in, closing the door softly behind him before walking over.

  “Has anyone asked for me?”

  “No, sir.”

  He hadn’t been drinking. After collecting his newspapers, book and key, he went up with a parting “Good night.” Was Zeberjet imagining it, or was he waiting for her? He drank two straight glasses of tea. It was past ten-thirty now. Some time after eleven three young men came in, the ones who’d taken a room while he was out. He wrote their names down and asked while handing them the key. They were from Afyon, going into the army. Had just been to a movie. Retrieving their luggage from under the stairs they went up. Before long the bumping overhead had ceased. He lit a cigarette, stubbed it out half-smoked. It wasn’t midnight yet, but no one would be coming. He locked and barred the front door, turned off the lights, and took the key to Room 1 out of his righthand pocket. Once inside he closed the door. The light was on, everything was just as she had left it. On the hook to the right of the bed…. What had she gone to that village for? Of all the possible answers going through his mind these past four days, the likeliest was that she had a brother who had been assigned to teach s
chool there. At the most she’d be gone a week. Then, one evening on the 6:40 train, she’d come back to spend another night. Here. In her room. He moved toward the copper ashtray to inspect the two half-smoked cigarettes. Their brand was unclear. Stopping his hand in mid-reach Zeberjet turned and left the room. The key, after being used to lock the door, went back into his righthand pocket. He climbed up the stairs carefully, to avoid creaking. The lights in the corridors were all on. Pausing at the dark keyhole of Room 6 on the third floor he heard muffled voices from within. He cocked his head to listen, as he had on Saturday. Last night it had been silent. “Ah…hold tight…aah.” The woman. The man’s voice came too, but thick and indistinct. Face taut, mouth half open, eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, yes, till morning…ah, hold me always, don’t let…ahh…how I’m yours.” A sudden creak inside and he straightened to walk away, climbing slowly up the stairs. Across from him shone a pair of eyes. The cat. As Zeberjet entered the bathroom it rubbed up against him. He aimed a kick but missed. Turning on the tap he gave his face a long wash.

  TUESDAY

  He woke to a dim room, took his watch from the edge of the dresser and held it to the window. Five of six. He wound the watch, set it down, then drew his arms back in under the quilt. He poked stiffly through the slit of his underwear. He pressed it with his left hand, then gave the crown a flip with his finger. (It had been his first visit to the house in town, near the base. Corporal Halil had taken him. They had a pair of lower bunks in the barracks, side by side. During the first months they were always being rousted for middle-of-the-night guard duty, the most miserable. He never complained, but Corporal Halil would bawl at the sergeants. To avoid any MPs they had approached the house via the empty lot in back and climbed in through a window, fairly high up. It had been opened by a gap-toothed woman well along in years. Corporal Halil had gone in first, hauling Zeberjet up by the arm. Five or six half-nude women in makeup were sitting and standing around in the parlor. A tall one spoke up in a casual, toneless voice. “Say, here’s my little soldier.” Another one sat on Corporal Halil’s lap. “Go on up with her if you want,” he said. On the narrow stairs Zeberjet could feel her thigh and hip. His heart was pounding. “I’ll be right back,” she said when they got to a small room, “you undress and lie down.” He stripped hastily and sat on the far side of the bed. Stiff as a rod, the thing was pointing toward his navel. It occurred to him to put his briefs on but just then the woman came back. She had on a pink slip that fell to her knees, its lower half embroidered. A generous helping of her large breasts was on view. “Well look at that,” she said, approaching. “It’s about as big as the rest of you.”)