by Kerstin Gier
I stuffed the tissue in my pants pocket and gnawed hesitantly at my lower lip.
“Sophie?” Ben leaned over the counter. “Can’t we just be friends again?”
I took a deep breath. “Friends no, dinner yes,” I said, standing up. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to give you that slap you so richly deserve.”
“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” said Monsieur Rocher happily.
15
We could tell before we got to the laundry room that Pavel wasn’t alone: not even he could sing two parts of “Angels We Have Heard on High” in the original French. It sounded so beautiful and poignant—much more Christmassy than the plinky plonky international Christmas music upstairs in the bar—that I almost reached for Ben’s hand as we walked along the dimly lit basement corridor.
But I couldn’t do that, of course. I was still pissed off at him.
The acoustics in the basement were impressive, thanks to its vaulted ceilings. (They always made my voice sound at least twice as loud.) But even without that, this was a truly magnificent performance. Pavel was confidently singing the tune, as usual, in his powerful baritone, and over the top was a tenor voice, clear as a bell.
I stood still in the doorway, amazed. The tenor voice belonged to none other than Old Stucky, who was sitting with Pavel at the table that was usually reserved for little mending jobs like sewing on buttons or turning up hems.
A bottle of clear liquid stood between them, the bent, wizened old man and the tall, strapping younger one who was dressed, as always, in jeans and a vest. A couple of machines hummed in the background, and a candle stub cast a flickering light on the walls.
The sight of them, and the crystal-clear tones that filled the room as they sang “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” brought tears to my eyes. How could such an old man have such a youthful, angelic singing voice?
Ben shot me a sideways smile. He was obviously familiar with the caretaker’s hidden talents.
“Comes as a bit of a surprise, doesn’t it?” he said as the last notes of the chorus faded away. “Old Stucky used to be a soloist with a boys’ choir.”
“Boowys’ chwayre,” Old Stucky corrected him, then added something else in his strong Swiss German dialect. The only word I could make out was “but.”
“But he decided to leave the city and come and live in the mountains. With the animals. Surrounded by nature,” Ben translated. “You can sing no matter where you live.”
“No matter where, no matter when!” Pavel had kissed us energetically on both cheeks and taken his package from Ben. Instead of opening it, he poured some of the liquid from the bottle into two large glasses and handed one to each of us. “Old Stucky is worrying about bad omens.”
“What bad omens?” I sniffed the liquid in my glass suspiciously. It smelled like my antibacterial face wash.
Old Stucky said something I couldn’t quite decipher.
“The moon is wearing a shroud.” Ben provided the translation again, but he couldn’t help rolling his eyes in amusement as he spoke. “And the mountain ghost visited Old Stucky in a dream and warned him that something bad was about to happen.”
Old Stucky narrowed his eyes in agreement. “Tha moontin’ seynses et.”
“Oh.” I felt goose bumps creep up my arms.
“Please no superstitions on Christmas Eve. We drink pear brandy instead,” said Pavel. He smiled indulgently, but as he raised his glass there was a solemn sternness in his eyes. When it came to matters of religion, Pavel wasn’t one to joke around. Although his thick, brawny upper arms were covered with tattoos of pagan symbols, he was actually a devout Catholic; the tattoos were clearly just there to fool people (and make him look tough). “We raise glass to birth of Jesus Christ, who brought light to world and people’s hearts.”
Nobody dared refuse this toast.
“To Jesus Christ,” we all said. I only took a small sip. I’d have trusted Pavel with my life, but when it came to mysterious liquids in unlabeled bottles, I was a little more wary—and with good reason. The brandy burned my throat as it went down, making me cough. But then I tasted a hint of pear, and a pleasant warmth radiated through my stomach.
“Is good, no?” Pavel looked from me to Ben and back again. “Homemade, by husband of Stucky’s sister.” He refilled the glasses.
“I think if I drink any more the moon won’t be the only one wearing a shroud,” I said, holding my hand over the top of my glass just to be on the safe side. Thank goodness Ben and I had made a little detour via the kitchen on our way here and helped ourselves to a pastry each. We hadn’t stayed long because neither of us had felt very hungry after our argument, but now I regretted not having had more to eat. It might have soaked up the alcohol.
Old Stucky cleared his throat. “Twalve naights.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Durin’ tha twalve naights, anythin’ ken happn,” murmured Old Stucky, fixing me with his piercing gaze. Instead of his usual roguish grin, his weather-beaten face had crumpled into a web of anxious lines and his clear eyes were wide in their sockets. “Earvul creeches, deemins an’ ghoarsts walk abrooard, an’ peepul foll prey ter their davlish skeeyems.”
Now I knew how Pavel must feel when he listened to opera lyrics in German. What on earth were “earvul creeches”?
“During the Twelve Nights, anything can happen,” Ben whispered from beside me. “He’s talking about the twelve nights between Christmas Day and the sixth of January—local legend has it that on those nights, evil creatures, demons, and ghosts walk abroad.” He paused for a moment, and I felt more goose bumps rise on my skin. Why was Old Stucky staring so intently at me in particular?
“And people fall prey to their devilish schemes,” Ben went on. He couldn’t suppress a little chuckle. “I think he’s talking about Tristan Brown from Room 211.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” I whispered. “Don’t you find it creepy, the stuff he’s saying? And the way he’s saying it?”
Ben shot me an amused glance. “You may not understand Old Stucky, Sophie, but he understands you perfectly.”
“Aye do,” said Old Stucky.
“Sorry,” I said, “but you really are scaring me a bit.”
“Yes—we stop now with ghost stories.” Pavel raised his glass. “We drink!”
“Old Stucky just want you to be on your guard,” Old Stucky replied, in almost perfect English. “Earvul forces are at work.”
“Then we’ll drink to being on our guard against evil forces,” said Ben, as he too raised his glass.
“And to little Christ child in manger,” Pavel added. He downed his drink in one gulp again, as if it was water. “Where is dear Petrus?” He pronounced it Petroose, with the emphasis on the second syllable.
“Monsieur Rocher said he was going to wait and see if any of the guests had any special requests for Christmas.” Ben was finding the brandy a little harder to stomach than Pavel. Like me, he was only taking tiny sips of it. “He’ll be along later.”
“Monsieur Rocher’s name is Petrus?” I asked in surprise. Somehow it had never really occurred to me that Monsieur Rocher had a first name.
“We always sing as trio at Christmas,” Pavel explained. “And when Jaromir back from church, we sing as quartet.”
Old Stucky said something that Ben translated as “the right music keeps the devil away.” “That’s what his father always used to … Oh no!”
“What’s wrong?”
“I completely lost track of time! Is it ten o’clock already?” Ben rummaged frantically in his jacket pocket, trying to find his phone.
“I think so. Why?”
“My dad always gives his Christmas speech at ten o’clock, and if I’m not there nodding along when he does his spiel about the next generation being ready to carry on the hotel’s proud traditions, he’ll be seriously pissed off … Oh my God!” He’d located his phone. “It’s five past. Come on, Sophie!” He grabbed my hand. “We might pop back later and listen to your quartet, Pavel!
Merry Christmas to you both!” And without further ado, he hustled me out of the laundry room. I wondered whether to remind him that our unresolved friendship status meant he probably shouldn’t be holding my hand, but he didn’t even seem to have noticed he was doing it.
As he rushed me along the winding corridors to the staircase that led to the library, he quoted from his dad’s speech and commentated on it at the same time. “Every year, it’s the same sentimental shit, Dear guests, no, dear friends, old and new—it fills me with happiness and pride to see you all here … And his smile is so fake you want to throw an ornament at his head. Sometimes he even wipes an imaginary tear out of the corner of his eye. So ridiculous! What could be more fitting, at Christmas, than to talk about love? My dad, talking about love! Ha! He doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. I don’t know if you know the story … Yes, they all know the story, Dad, you tell it every fricking year…” With his free hand, Ben pushed open the door to the staircase. “Our esteemed great-grandparents … ideals, duty, tradition, blah blah blah, and then the bit about my beloved son, Ben, to whom I will one day hand over the keys to this hotel. Ben—and then he puts his hand on his heart, seriously, every single time—you are my great pride and my great hope.”
Ben galloped up the stairs so fast that I had trouble keeping up with him. He flung open the door to the library. “And then everyone applauds, and I go bright red. I’ve always hated that stupid speech, ever since I was five years old. I wish I could tell them all that the old hypocrite is planning to sell off this venerable place he supposedly loves so much to some shady waste-disposal magnate who couldn’t care less about the ideals of his great-grandparents. There is one good thing about the hotel being sold, though: At least I’ll never have to listen to that phony speech again.” We’d come through the library by now and were standing in the corridor outside the bar. Only now did Ben seem to realize I was still attached to him. Puzzled, he looked down at our clasped hands. “It’s really nice of you to come with me,” he said, gradually loosening his grip and tucking his hand rather awkwardly into his pants pocket. “But if you’d rather not…”
“It’s fine. I’m quite curious to hear this speech now, after all that.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back with relief.
“Well then…” He took a deep breath before we entered the room. There was a big crowd of guests assembled in the bar, many of them holding glasses of champagne. I could see the whole of the Barnbrooke family (apart from Amy, Gracie, and Madison) as well as the Ball Bearings Baroness with her young lover, Tristan and his grandpa, the Burkhardts (Don Jr. was wearing a dark-blue velvet bow tie, which suited him perfectly), the British actor, the thriller writer, Mr. and Mrs. Von Dietrichstein, and Mara Matthäus in her glittery dress. Mrs. Ludwig had laid her head on Mr. Ludwig’s shoulder, and the engagement ring sparkled conspicuously on her finger. Tristan must have noticed it by now.
Gutless Gilbert was the only one who saw us arrive; he was standing by the wall next to the door, and we slotted ourselves in as discreetly as possible beside him. Ben’s father had positioned himself next to the grand piano and was obviously a fair way into his speech. “I don’t know if you know the story, but in 1898 when the hotel was being built, our great-grandparents commissioned a stonemason to carve the family motto above the main door. The motto was mens agitat molem, which can be roughly translated as mind over matter. But when they came to check on how the work was going, they found that the engraving read tempus fugit, amor manet, which means time flies, but love endures. Of course they took the stonemason to task, but he claimed he hadn’t even started work on the engraving yet. To this day, we don’t know who was responsible for the mystery motto. All her life, however, our great-grandmother was convinced that it was the spirit of the mountain who had chosen that motto and placed this building under its protection.” He smiled and the guests laughed politely. “Needless to say, tempus fugit, amor manet not only became the motto of the hotel, but our family motto, too.” Again he paused for a moment. “And it fills me with gratitude and pride to know that my brother and I will one day pass on the guardianship of this building with all its traditions and values to my wonderful son Ben, just as our grandparents passed it on to our parents.” He placed his hand on his heart, and both Ben and his uncle gave a quiet sigh. “Ben, where are you?” Gordon scanned the room, spotted Ben standing by the wall, and smiled tenderly. All the guests turned to look at us and smiled, too. “And on that note,” Gordon Montfort concluded, in an extremely self-satisfied tone, “I wish you all, old friends and new, a merry Christmas full of love and laughter.”
Everyone applauded. Then they raised their glasses of champagne and fell into animated conversation. The pianist slipped back onto his piano stool, and somebody somewhere opened a window to let in the cool night air.
“Unbelievable,” I whispered to Ben.
Gutless Gilbert had extricated himself from his spot by the wall and was heading for the bar, along with the British actor, while Grouchy Gordon went over to join the Barnbrookes and called loudly for another bottle of champagne. “It was exactly like you said. Except that you didn’t go red this time.”
“Inwardly I did.” Ben gave a tortured smile. “Oh no! He’s coming over. Let’s get out of here.” But it was too late. Gordon Montfort was already standing before us. He had Gretchen’s arm in his; she lowered her eyes and whispered “Hi,” as if overcome by shyness.
“Here’s my wonderful son,” said Gordon Montfort. “I thought for a minute just now that you were not in the room.” He glanced over me, and I detected something like confusion in his eyes. I tried to shuffle backward, but unfortunately the wall was in the way.
“Great speech, sir,” Ben replied. “Something completely different for a change. And more sincere and moving than ever this time, in light of upcoming events.”
His father completely ignored him. I wasn’t sure he’d even heard what Ben had said. “Today is your lucky day, son. The lovely Gretchen Barnbrooke here has told me she’d love to dance the first waltz with you at the New Year’s Ball. But she’s too shy to ask you herself.”
Yeah, right. I almost snorted aloud. As if sensing this, Gretchen raised her eyes and looked at me with undisguised curiosity. I could practically hear what was going through her head. That weird chambermaid again. She always seems to pop up wherever the hot guys are.
“I told her you would be honored,” Gordon went on.
“Of course,” said Ben. He sounded rather weary.
“But I don’t want to impose,” Gretchen piped up in a soft voice. Her blue dress shimmered in the light of the chandelier as if trying to outshine her silky golden hair. “So if you’d prefer to dance with someone else…” She smiled meaningfully in my direction.
Gordon Montfort followed her gaze, and this time he looked at me more closely.
“It would be an honor to dance the first waltz with you, Gretchen,” said Ben quickly, as I tried desperately to make myself invisible. Gordon Montfort was clearly racking his brains to think where he’d seen me before.
Ben stepped forward. “We can even do some lifts if you like; we’ll be the king and queen of the dance floor.” Was this just a diversionary tactic or was he really flirting with Gretchen?
“We definitely will.” I heard Gretchen’s self-assured laugh, and I was sure she must be flicking her shiny hair. But I couldn’t see her because I was staring as if paralyzed at Ben’s father, and he was staring at me. His look changed from one of confusion to one of recognition and finally (once Gretchen had remembered she was supposed to be shy and walked away whispering “I should get back to my family, but I’ll see you later”) to one of outrage and contempt.
“Staff are not allowed to mix with guests outside of working hours,” said Gordon icily. “I’m shocked at your impertinence.”
“She’s here with me. As my guest.” Ben looked darkly at his dad. “Come on, Sophie, let’s go. I’ve played the dutiful son for long enough tonight.” He took my
arm. To his dad he said, “You can make a scene if you want—and believe me, it will be a very ugly scene!—or you can just leave us alone and go back to celebrating with your friends, old and new. Mara Matthäus is looking over here very longingly.”
His dad grabbed my other arm, and I broke out in a cold sweat. The vein on Gordon’s forehead was bulging the way it always did when he was about to start screaming at somebody. How I wished I was back in the safety of the basement with Pavel! But Gordon Montfort didn’t start bawling at me. “You are either extremely naive or extremely smart,” he said quietly. “But either way, you clearly need to be reminded of your place—”
He didn’t get any further, however, because at that moment there was a loud cracking sound, followed by an almighty crash. As we were standing closest to the door, we were the first to see what had happened: Out in the hallway, right outside the door to the billiards room, a chandelier had fallen from the ceiling. The crystals had shattered into a thousand tiny pieces and were scattered all over the floor. The electric cable dangled forlornly from the ceiling rose, and a little dust trickled down from the plaster. Luckily, nobody had been standing underneath when it fell.
While the guests crowded excitedly toward the door to gape at the scene of the disaster, and Gordon Montfort tried to reassure everyone—“Nothing to see here, ladies and gentlemen! Nothing to see here. Please could everybody stay inside the bar until the staff have swept up the broken glass?”—Ben and I seized our chance and disappeared around the corner and into the library. We took the back staircase again, but this time we headed upstairs, in wordless agreement.
“What just happened?” I panted, once we’d reached the second floor. “Do you think Old Stucky was right about his demons, ghosts, and evil creatures?”
“Absolutely,” said Ben drily. “And my dad is the evilest of them all. I’m sorry he’s such a…”