I smiled. “It would be hard to make a commando out of me.”
“You’re mistaken. We are able to turn a guest in the worst physical and mental shape into a top-notch commando in only twenty-three days. Naturally there are no shortcuts, you have to expect blood, sweat and tears, but in spite of the tremendous exertion no one has yet complained. On the contrary, many return on a regular basis to refresh their skills and keep in shape. And the diploma we offer when you finish commando training opens many doors, even to special units. Quite a few guests started brilliant military careers right here. Would this interest you at all?”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“Of course. Perhaps you would like to take one of our higher education courses? The one for hit men is quite popular.”
“Hit men?”
“Yes. It does last forty-seven days and the fee is quite high, but the investment certainly pays off. There is always work for a properly trained hit man and his services are richly rewarded. For a modest commission we are happy to help you find customers. In addition, we will provide you with all the necessary weapons and tools. That’s included in the price.”
“No, thank you.”
“Of course. Perhaps you would like to earn the diploma of a certified terrorist?”
There was no need for me to repeat her words in question form. The expression on my face spoke volumes.
She nodded her head. “This is the latest addition to our program. Unfortunately, we are not able to advertise it publicly, even though it would result in great demand. The course instructors are renowned terrorists who are on the wanted lists of all international police. In sixty-three days they will transfer all their hard-won knowledge to you, making you entirely qualified to carry out terrorist acts of the greatest proportions. The cost of this course is necessarily very high, but the income of a hit man is usually small compared to the fees you would receive from terrorist organizations with our diploma. One act would be enough to set you up for life.”
“No, thank you,” I repeated.
“Of course. If none of this interests you, then you might like to visit our weapons factory ski center. It’s located on the roof of the hotel, on a mountain that is not very high, indeed, but is celebrated for its gentle slopes and wonderful conifer forests. We have three first-class ski slopes, for downhill, slalom and cross-country skiing, and they’re open at night too. There are two high-speed ski lifts and we recently opened an Olympic ski jump. You can also try the snowmobiles or simply enjoy long walks in the fresh mountain air. The correct low temperature and snow cover are provided all year round.”
“I don’t like spending time in the mountains.”
“Of course. In that case we have one more thing to offer you: the artists’ firing range.”
“Firing range?”
“That’s right. It is frequented by artists, most often writers who, for a variety of reasons, have become afflicted with writer’s block. Nothing removes writer’s block as successfully as shooting at live targets.”
“What live targets?”
“People.”
“Writers shoot at people?”
“Yes, but with air guns.”
“But air guns can be lethal too.”
“They can, that’s true. That’s why the targets’ heads are protected. The writers can only shoot at bare torsos.”
“But hitting a bare torso must surely be very painful.”
“Yes, it is. The targets, however, do not gripe about it. They stoically bear the pain for the sake of their fat fee. Everyone is happy with this arrangement. The targets get away with some bruises and swellings. It only rarely happens that an air gun pellet breaks a rib. And after only a few direct hits into flesh the writers resume writing as though they’d never had any block. It’s even happened that they get down to work right there in the shooting gallery, overcome by a sudden wave of inspiration. If you try it yourself you’ll see how beneficial this therapy can be.”
“I don’t suffer from writer’s block.”
The weapons factory guide looked at me briefly in silence.
“I wouldn’t like to give you the impression that our department is extremely brutal and savage. There are worse places in this hotel. We don’t have to go any farther than your room.”
“My room?”
“Yes. You certainly aren’t aware that it was the scene of no fewer than four suicides.”
“I am aware.”
“You are?” She looked at me in amazement.
“Yes.”
She seemed about to ask me something but changed her mind.
“Of course. One of them was particularly unpleasant, even for me, in spite of the fact that as a soldier I am hardened to various forms of death and dying. I must tell it to you.”
“If you really must . . . ” I said, nodding my head towards the remote control in my hand.
“In a nutshell. The girl, whose real name was never discovered, brought into the hotel a marble bust, a cement drill, a hook and some rope. She used the drill to make a hole in the bathroom ceiling, above the bathtub. She fixed the heavy-duty hook into it and then attached one end of the rope around the bust and threw the other end over the hook. She lay down in the tub and began to pull on the rope, lifting the bust straight above her head. When it reached the hook, the girl let go of the rope. The bust plummeted like a guillotine and smashed her head. Eyewitnesses say the sight was gruesome. The bathtub was spotted with blood and brains. The police did not report which piece of sculpture was involved or whether it was damaged.”
She paused to see what kind of impression this had made on me.
“Gruesome,” I said.
“Gruesome, yes. After that no one can expect you to bathe in the same bathtub. You are perfectly within your rights to ask for another room.”
“I think I’ll stay here.”
There was another pause.
“Of course. In any case, should you decide that our services might be needed, just ring four times on this buzzer.”
She took the stick from under her arm and touched the button over her shoulder.
I nodded my head.
She bowed curtly once again, and then marched out of the room.
I put my thumb on the “play” button on the remote control, but didn’t push it. I raised my eyes to the door expectantly.
But there was no knock. The maid just entered without even turning towards me and headed straight for the cabinet. A fifth basket full of apples joined the others there. The pint-sized woman returned to the door but did not go out. She stopped in front of it.
“I would like to tell you something in confidence.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’m not just a maid in the hotel.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s actually just a front. My main job is as the hotel cemetery guide.”
“Does the hotel have its own cemetery?”
“Any hotel that cares a fig about itself has one. Even the lowest categories are not without a few graves.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course not. We keep this a secret because it’s against the law. You won’t find a word about it in our official brochure. The hotel would lose its license instantly if word got out that it has a cemetery. We have to take every precaution so no one finds us out. Only hand-picked guests are given this honor—those who pass the fruit test.”
“Fruit?”
“That’s right.” She gestured to the left, towards the five baskets on the long cabinet. “Guests have different reactions to the fruit I bring them. The first kind pounce on it right away, without even washing it before they eat it. The second kind change the order of the baskets. The third kind mix the fruit in them and the fourth kind ask me to take out some or all of the baskets. The fifth kind place them around the room. Some immediately empty the baskets into the garbage can, toilet bowl or even throw them out the window. Believe me, there are highly different reactions to the fruit. We evalua
te whether or not we can confide in a guest based on their reaction. It is a highly reliable test and has not failed us once. I am happy to be able to tell you that you passed the test.”
“Seriously?”
“With flying colors. Would I have mentioned the hotel cemetery to you otherwise? Even so, if you decide to visit it we’ll have to follow a special procedure. We would take you there in a wheelchair, blindfolded and with plugs in your ears, so you don’t find out where in the hotel the cemetery is located. This is for your protection as well as ours. The less you know, the better. No one will be able to get you to reveal something you don’t know, regardless of the force that is used.”
“But why would I want to visit the hotel cemetery?”
“There are lots of valid reasons. First of all, it’s not an ordinary cemetery, it’s quite special.”
“How so?”
“As in all better hotels, our cemetery has a theme. While you might find the graves of prominent scientists, politicians, military leaders, athletes or entertainers in other places, our specialty is artists. We are very proud of our collection of graves of famous musicians, writers, sculptors and painters. Some of them date back not only centuries but even thousands of years.”
“But how did you get their graves?”
The former maid did not reply at once. She looked at me inquisitively and then sighed.
“We handle it in various ways. Mostly we get them on the black market.”
“Is there a black market for that too?”
“Sure there is. And it is quite extensive. There’s no grave that can’t be bought if you’re willing to pay enough.”
“But how can you hide the disappearance of a grave? That would be hard even for the ordinary deceased let alone famous people.”
“The whole grave isn’t stolen, only the coffin. Outwardly everything stays just as it was. Those who visit the grave don’t suspect that there is nothing under the gravestone.”
“But that isn’t . . . right.”
“It isn’t, I agree, but when you’re pressed by the competition, you’re not very picky when it comes to means. In any case, if we’d been concerned about moral rectitude, someone with fewer scruples would have taken over in a flash. Unlike many other hotels that make do with false graves of the great, everything here is guaranteed authentic. When buying corpses we go to great pains not to be deceived. A DNA analysis is mandatory.”
“Even so . . . ”
“Recently we started acquiring graves in a very legal way.”
“How?”
“We draw up contracts with artists while they’re still alive. Not a single one will refuse to bequeath you their earthly remains if you offer the right price. It’s a real pleasure doing business with them. They are practical people who don’t beat around the bush and hesitate. This way, with a bit of patience, we’ll enhance our collection considerably. But it is already exceptional right now. I recommend you visit it without fail. As you know, this opportunity is not open to everyone.”
“I’d rather not.”
“As a visitor you have the right to take something small from one of the graves—a handful of earth, a sprig of flowers, a piece of the tombstone. If you don’t want to keep it for yourself you’ll have no trouble selling it to a collector. With our certificate of origin, it will be well worth the trouble.”
“No, thank you.”
“As you wish. What would you say to the possibility of personally burying an artist?”
“Me bury someone? I’m not a gravedigger.”
“It makes no difference. Our professional gravediggers will instruct you in how to do the job. You’ll see, even though it is physically demanding, it gives great satisfaction.”
“Burying someone gives satisfaction?”
“That’s what everyone who’s tried it claims. Some come back for that reason alone, even though the supplementary fee for this enjoyment is rather stiff. They say it’s an experience beyond compare, and is all the more exceptional the greater the artist you bury. If you are interested, I might be able to get you one of the greats, even with a bit of a discount.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Perhaps you would like to be buried yourself? Temporarily, of course.”
“Temporarily?”
“Yes. You decide how long you want to stay in the grave. Guests can stay underground as long as they like. Some ask us to take them out after just a few minutes, but the average is around two and a half hours. The record is held by a guest who stayed in the grave forty-three hours and six minutes.”
“How could someone stay in a grave that long?”
“It’s not hard at all. The burial places are very comfortable: they have air conditioning, relaxing music and even a little refrigerator. There is absolutely no light, but the absence of light makes the temporary grave an ideal place for introspective seclusion. All those who come out of them say they truly feel resurrected. Unfortunately, this service is the most expensive we offer, but if you feel you need to come face to face with yourself and make a reckoning of your life, don’t complain about the money. A grave is the best place to do it.”
“I don’t think I need that.”
“As you wish. Perhaps you would enjoy a bit of recreation in the cemetery’s sports center?”
“The cemetery has a sports center?”
“Yes, quite modern. We have courts and fields for almost every sport, even some exotic ones. For example, you can do underwater archery, swim in quicksand, play antigravity table tennis or mentally lift weights in a hyperbaric chamber.”
“Mentally?”
“That’s right. Just with the power of thought. The record is seven hundred sixty-four kilograms and believe it or not, it’s held by a woman about my height. Physical proportions make absolutely no difference and neither does experience. Beginners are known to achieve exceptional results. Would you like to give it a try? You might have a real knack for it without even being aware.”
“I wouldn’t, thank you.”
“If you prefer classical disciplines, our coaches are exclusively Olympic medal winners. And our training fields are state of the art. Our marathon track is a real thorn in the side of our competition. We are also famous for our training ground for group parachute jumping. And wait until you see our main stadium with sixty-seven thousand two hundred fifty seats, completely covered and with Astroturf! Everyone openly envies us that. You will certainly make no mistake if you decide to use one of our sports amenities.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a jock.”
“As you wish. All I have left to offer you is a visit to the artists’ crypt.”
I didn’t say anything. I just kept my eyes on her.
“It’s an original, very old crypt. Artists visit it like they’re on a pilgrimage. Apparently the crypt contains works that for one reason or another were never finished: uncompleted novels, half-painted pictures, sculptures just appearing out of the stone, fragmentary compositions. Unfortunately, none of it can be taken out or copied in any way. Even so, it seems to do the artists a lot of good to see what the creators failed to accomplish, so there is quite a line to enter the crypt. Do you perhaps have some unfinished work of art?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It’s unfortunate that none of what we offer attracts you. However, you would find even the hotel cemetery a more pleasant place than staying in this room.”
“Do you mean because of the bathroom?” I nodded towards the bathroom door.
“Yes,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “Quite an unpleasant thing. Particularly the last suicide.”
“I assume that you want to tell me about it?”
“Unless you have something against it.”
“I hope you won’t be long-winded.” I lowered my eyes to the remote control.
“I won’t. Just the main points. An elderly gentleman who did not register under his real name came to the hotel with a small suitcase. Later it turned out that
he had a small canvas, several tubes of paint and a bottle of paint thinner inside the suitcase. He was found dead in the bathtub. At first glance the cause of his death could not be ascertained; an autopsy revealed that he’d poisoned himself. The investigation that was carried out established the sequence of events. He’d filled the bathtub with hot water, poured paint thinner into it, undressed and entered the tub. Although the paint thinner must have irritated his skin, it wasn’t unbearable. What was not harmful to him, however, was harmful to the painting. When he plunged the canvas into the water, the layers of paint on it started to dissolve. Some ten minutes were enough to remove the paint completely. After he’d destroyed the painting, he took a glass, squeezed some paint from each tube into it, and then added a bit of thinner. He waited briefly for the paint to dissolve, then drank the lethal mixture. The police did not report whether they’d discovered the identity of the painting. The unofficial word was that a celebrated and very expensive work was destroyed, and that the colors the poor man used to poison himself matched those on the painting.”
“A very unusual death.”
“Very. Nothing obliges you to stay here now that you know what happened. Changing rooms is quite an easy matter. I can do it for you.”
“No, thank you. It doesn’t bother me.”
“As you wish,” she said, hesitating once again. “In spite of everything, if you think that I might be of help, just press the button. Do you remember how many times?”
“Once.”
“That’s right. Well, then, goodbye. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“Goodbye.”
The hotel cemetery guide bowed, again forgetting to hold onto her conical cap. She quickly raised it from her eyes and left the room.
I turned the remote control over and over in my hand, but didn’t use it. I got up, went to the player and took out the cassette. I put it back in the box on top of the television set, and then put the box in my jacket pocket. I turned towards the cabinet and stared at the baskets of fruit. I stayed there like that, stock-still, for several minutes. Then I went to the bathroom door and knocked on it.
Impossible Stories II Page 13