We Promise Not to Tell

by Albert Able

  I groaned inwardly. ‘Yes I bet he will, just like the others’ I thought, as the repulsive memory of Ahmed’s skinny naked body flashed before me.

  “If you’d like to wait in the lobby, I’ll see if I can get him to look at it whilst you wait?” The under manager opened the door for me “Shouldn’t be long.”

  Mildly dazed, I stepped back into the hotel lobby. It had all been a bit like an amazing dream but now I was about to face the final test. I sucked in a big breath of air and resigned to wait.

  Twenty minutes later, a tall dark haired man, good-looking, approached me and enquired politely. “Connie Zatocheck?”

  “Yes” I nodded and stood up.

  “Glad to meet you. Marcus Detori, I am the General Manager.”

  We shook hands.

  “I think I might be able to sort out your little problem.” Mr Marcus Detori raised his eyebrows and smiled. “If you’d like to follow me, I’ll explain.”

  “Okay.” I answered cautiously. I also remember thinking ‘Well at least he is good looking’ and resigned myself to whatever fate was about to throw at me and followed obediently.

  Seated once again in the office where the earlier interview had taken place, I fidgeted nervously as Marcus opened a manila file and took out the forged work permit.

  “I’m sorry to have to say it but I see quite a few of these and I do understand what a high price can be often demanded to get it.” Marcus raised his eyebrows. “Unfortunately they are quite useless. You see it is the hotel that must apply for a foreign work permit, not you. If you were to change jobs, then your new employer has to apply for a transfer and so on” he slipped the forged document back into the file. “Technically you have to be outside of the country before a permit is granted. No doubt you will have entered the country as a student?”

  Humbled by the realisation of my naivety “Yes” I replied, in little more than a whisper.

  “I thought so, any way” Marcus looked at me, “it seems that my colleagues think you are the right person for the receptionist position and so I will sort it all out” he pursed his lips. “I expect you’ll need accommodation as well?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, I’ve already spoken to the housekeeper, she controls the staff accommodation here and we do have a room in the hotel which should be suitable for you.”

  Marcus picked up the telephone. “Maria, that room I asked you about; the new receptionist would like to have it, is it ready now?” He listened. “That’s fine; I’ll send her up shortly.”

  Marcus carefully replaced the receiver. “Right that’s all fixed; so let me formally welcome you to the Riverside Hotel.” He smiled and shook my hand again. “Now just so you know, I’m part Italian and my team and I run this hotel just like the proverbial ‘Mafia Family’ we all work together and we all share the rewards. However, I should warn you,” his face became serious “that we also share the disappointments” Marcus paused for a moment. “So, you will be given three months trial and if after that time, we are satisfied with you and if in-turn, you are happy with us and you still want to be a part of my team, then you will be given a contract and entered into the bonus and service sharing scheme; which incidentally, I personally manage for all the staff. Is that agreeable to you?”

  I could hardly believe it; a job, food and accommodation and the man never once looked as though he was going to make me pay in the ‘old fashioned way’ “It is agreeable and I thank you.” I managed to say calmly.

  Marcus shook my hand again and bowed. “Good to have you with us. Now you must find your room,” he opened the door “I understand you can start this evening?”

  “I don’t have anything else to do!” I smiled.

  For the next three months, I learned and worked my way through all the various tasks expected of the ‘front office team’.

  Some of the other younger girls could barely wait to finish their shifts to get out on the town. They knew every disco and club for miles, with the consequence, that they had usually squandered all their money within the first few days of the week.

  At first, they used to ask me to join them and I did go a couple of times but a receptionist’s pay in those days was very modest and I resented wasting my hard-earned cash in that way. So instead, I worked extra shifts and covered other departments, earning extra money in the process.

  The girls used to call me ‘old stick in the mud’ at first but when I started covering their shifts, and when they ran out of money before pay day, found that I was the only source of loan, it soon became ‘Aunty Connie’. I did not mind; I had already fallen whole-heartedly for the family spirit, which prevailed within the Riverside Hotel.

  One of the things I always remembered from that time however was my guilty conscience for never plucking up enough courage to visit my benefactor Naomi; the terrifying memory of Ahmed was still far too powerful.

  Chapter 3 - Marcus

  I was born in Italy at the end of World War 2; my real father was not the ‘daddy’ I loved and cherished so much but an American soldier. It was not until I was a teenage boy however, that my mother eventually explained it all to me.

  “You have to try and understand” Mother started hesitantly, “life in those wartime days was impossible for you to visualise.”

  I can still see the tears filling her eyes as she opened up her heart.

  “The civilian population was starving. The village was in ruins as the German and American armies vied for its control,” she sighed “there was hardly a building left with a roof. The Germans forced the civilians into the streets, hoping their presence would prevent the Americans from bombarding their positions. Dozens were killed or wounded.” She went on, pursing her lips and sighing at the memory. “Thankfully the Americans finally sent in their tanks and chased the Germans away” her face lit up “and we had miraculously been delivered from certain death and suddenly, we were free”

  Mother paused and hugged me tightly. “It was an amazing feeling and on top of that the American soldiers had an abundance of everything that had been so scarce - things like cigarettes, silk stockings and above all food!”

  I snuggled up to her, sensing the enormity of her story.

  “The commander of one of the tanks spoke quite good Italian and he brought a whole basket full of canned meat and fruit presenting it ceremoniously to my father, your grandfather, asking politely if he could call again.”

  Mother sniffed and wiped away a tear. “Each time he called, he brought more luxuries. It was just as though we had somehow dragged ourselves out of Hell and catapulted into Paradise.” She smiled as the memories flooded back. “In spite of the torn oil-stained uniform, I couldn’t fail to notice how handsome he was. It was Momma who washed and repaired it for him,” she sighed “but it was the taste of the chocolate he constantly plied us with that really turned my head.”

  I remember how she sat up, daintily dabbed a tear from her eye and squared her shoulders with pride. “One evening Hal appeared. Do you know I never knew his family name?” she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows with a watery smile. “He was carrying the usual box of goodies and a huge bunch of flowers for grandma. I often wondered where he found them.”

  “We’re moving out tomorrow,” he told us casually “so I managed to get my hands on a little bit extra!” He grinned conspiratorially to grandpa.

  “I can just see him now, pointing to the box before bending down and pushing the lid aside revealing a big fat joint of fresh meat. We all gasped; we hadn’t seen fresh meat for months. Grandma went on to her knees, took his hands in hers and kissing them with devout reverence. ‘I pray God will protect you and bring you safely back to us,’ she murmured but Hal bent down and eased her to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about me Mama,’ he drawled - ‘The Krauts are on the run and are ready to quit. It’ll all be over in days!’ I can still hear him now.” Mother sniffed and fixed me with an affectionate, yet somehow rueful smile. “Men! You’re all so sure of yourselves aren’t you!” she
breathed, squeezing me reassuringly.

  “As he made to leave, Hal asked grandpa if he might take me out for a walk. ‘Of course, if she wants to,’ he replied politely. I can still see grandpa’s face and that little twitch in his eye that materialised whenever he was nervous. ‘Of course I do Papa,’ I told him happily.”

  Mother stared dreamily into space as she remembered the moment.

  “After all, I was sixteen!” She hugged me reassuringly. “I was a woman - and the man was big, strong and handsome. What’s more, he had food!” Mother lowered her head, not in shame more in embarrassment. “Any way, the long and short of it was that we went for a long stroll; we hugged and kissed, until eventually I let him make love to me.”

  My mother sighed, relieved at finally getting the burden of her guilt off her chest.

  “It was my first time you know,” she murmured, searching my face with those big brown eyes. “I thought I was in love and that letting him have my body was the right thing to do…” she trailed off, nodding bashfully adding in a whisper “I never saw him again”

  Then she smiled as she kissed me once again “Anyway, that’s how you came about, young man but the only thing that’s important for you to know now is that I love you and Daddy loves you more than anything else in the world,”

  I was about fourteen at the time, and more than a bit confused about the identity of my blood ancestors. “So what happened to my real father? Will I ever get to know him?” I asked inquisitively.

  Mother however, had already stepped back in time again and seemed lost in thought. “Mum?” I nudged her.

  Collecting herself with a deep sigh, once again she began to replay the painful memory. “I’m so sorry I should have said” she paused “the war we all thought was over still had many terrible months to go and as the Americans pulled out of town the next morning, Hal, your father was killed… In his tank… A direct hit.”

  I remember pulling away from her. I did not know what to do – I was so angry I didn’t know whether to stamp my foot, scream or simply bury my head in Mother’s breast.

  In the end, I think I just sat down on my own and wept silently.

  We never talked about it again. There was no need.

  Eventually, when the war was really over Mother met an English engineer, on a temporary assignment to install new equipment at the local shoe factory where she worked. He had fallen for her charms instantly and eventually they married; he never returned to England.

  Until mother’s confession of course I never knew he was anything but my natural father – and he really was a wonderful ‘daddy’ to me and in spite of the knowledge of my American ancestry I continued to worship the ground they both walked on.

  At the tender age of fifteen, I left school and started work at the local restaurant. Life was good and I believed that nothing in the scope of my childish imagination could possibly spoil that idyllic time and the multitude of dreams that flooded my innocent dreams.

  The sudden trauma therefore, of learning that the ferry my parents had been travelling on, had tragically sunk in the lake, delivered the most terrible numbing pain I had ever experienced at that time.

  “The ferry inexplicably sank mid channel, all are feared drowned.” The police officer reported without much sign of sympathy.

  Their bodies, together with those of fifteen other souls, were never recovered from the icy waters.

  I was so devastated, that I imagined I could never recover from my loss. Yet somehow, with time, you do eventually overcome these seemingly insurmountable obstacles in life. At least I did – and so in the end, the tall, strong, multi lingual Marcus Detori, was ready to take on the world.

  ******

  At the restaurant in the village where I lived and worked, Gino, the owner, told me that in the big cities you could earn as much in one week as you would in a month at his place. I eagerly or perhaps naively took him at his word and so once again, bursting with youthful confidence, moved at the first opportunity to Rome, to find this highly paid work in one of the new car factories.

  There is however, nothing in life quite as easy as talking and dreaming and I quickly discovered that the real world is so much tougher than my vision. In order to survive therefore, once again, I found myself washing dishes. Albeit in a smart hotel restaurant, in the wonderful city of Rome but still, just washing dishes. After a few weeks, I plucked up the courage to ask if I could be promoted to the lofty status of waiter.

  “It’d take years for a country bumpkin like you to learn a waiter’s skills,” the pompous Chef de Rang superciliously replied – bursting my bubble in an instant.

  As luck would have it however, that weekend the hotel had a large function for a visiting business delegation. The final numbers significantly exceeded the original booking and the manager called for all the hands they could muster to help to serve the banquet.

  I eagerly volunteered.

  Among the delegates was a small group from England and quite by chance I found myself allocated to their table.

  Already flushed with a liberal supply of fine Italian wine the English delegates were impatient for their food and launched a barrage of vocal assaults at the already harassed waiters, try as they may they could only serve the portions of food as fast as the over-stretched kitchen could churn them out.

  I remember the menu to this day: Prawn Cocktail, Minestrone Soup, Chicken Cacciatore and Pistachio ice cream.

  My first contact with the English group was as I served the prawn cocktail.

  “What’s this supposed to be?” one of the men asked my colleague, who waved his hands in uncomprehending despair.

  I leaned over the table and said sheepishly, “It’s Prawn Cocktail sir.”

  “Well at last someone here speaks English!” another man boomed self-righteously.

  The one who had asked the question, prodded with distrust at the bowl in front of him, in which about six tiny prawns were buried in a mountain of limp chopped lettuce.

  “Looks more like bleeding Epping Forest to me!” He snorted in disgust.

  Another man, evidently their “leader” rose purposefully from his seat. “This is total rubbish! I’m going to call the manager!”

  Taking his cue, others followed with a fresh tirade of uncomplimentary remarks.

  I do not know what persuaded me to do it. Perhaps it was because I was well aware, that the food was substandard or maybe I just felt a genuine sense of guilt about it. I will never know. Whatever my motivation, I rushed up to the table and announced loudly. “Gentlemen! I can see that you warrant special treatment. So why don’t you just leave it to Marcus!” I placed my hand on my chest in salute. “Okay?”

  The men seated at the table fell silent for a moment.

  “Well Marcus,” the leader smirked at me, settling smugly back into his chair “let’s see what you can do. Okay with you boys?” he continued, looking around conspiratorially at his colleagues.

  I rushed back into the kitchens and to the cold room, where I knew the seafood was stored. I grabbed a platter, scooped a huge pile of prawns onto it and dashed back to the dining room.

  “How about these gentlemen?” I smiled at them and with a flourish filled each of their bowls to overflowing.

  “Now that Marcus is what I call a prawn cocktail!” the leader smiled and tucked in with obvious satisfaction.

  Guests at the other tables were being served their minestrone by now and once again; I could hear the groans of complaint about the soup course ringing out across the room.

  “What’s wrong with the soup?” I asked a passing waiter.

  “Bloody Chef’s drunk again,” he grumbled. “It was mostly water in the first place –but he hasn’t even bothered to warm it up properly!”

  I darted back into the kitchen, grabbed a saucepan, part-filled it with the so-called soup and hoping the chef would not see me, ducked into the cold room again and grabbed a scoop of gelled consommé and threw it into the pan followed by a generous squirt
of tomato purée. In a couple of minutes, the brew was bubbling merrily. After letting it simmer as long as I dared, I filled a tureen with my ‘special brew’ and slipped back to my party.

  “Sorry about the delay but for you gentlemen, a special Old Italian recipe!” I announced, proffering the steaming tureen. “I hope you’ll think it was worth waiting for!”

  I served the soup and deliberately waited for their reaction.

  “Ah, now that’s what I call a bowl of soup!” one of the men declared and leaned across to the next table, where each of the delegates sat po-faced in front of their uneaten soup.

  “You should have paid for the upgrade! This is bloody good!” he laughed at his own humour and returned with relish to his soup.

  Relieved that they were satisfied at least for the moment, I decided to “upgrade” the Cacciatore too by ensuring that they all had giant portions.

  That also pleased them and so together with the extra bottle of wine I managed to procure for them ‘on the house’, they appeared to enjoy the rest of the evening.

  I finally retired exhausted to the kitchens, whereupon one of the other waiters sidled up to me. “There’ll be hell to pay when Chef finds out what you’ve been up to!” he hissed.

  “Come on,” I retorted, “it’s only a few prawns and a couple of bits of chicken.”

  The waiter shook his head. “Maybe but that was Chef’s own stock you raided; he won’t like it and the wine waiter will have your guts for that bottle of wine, if he finds out”

  “What do you mean 'his own' stock?” I queried.

  “How do you think these fat bastards make their money eh?” The waiter sneered.

  “I don’t know?” I responded innocently.

  “You ninny, don’t you realise they sell food and wine to the porters and other restaurants for cash.”

  At that moment the Chef appeared, a short fat man wearing a tall hat or ‘Toque’. One hand rested on his huge belly the other held a meat cleaver, which he patted menacingly against his leg.