credit card.
“No, let me get this,” Welling said, snatching the bill away from Cooker.
Cooker and Virgile said good night to Welling in front of the gates of the city hall without any excess politeness.
“Bye, old chap,” Cooker mumbled, wrapping his scarf around his neck.
“Good-bye, Mr. Morton,” Virgile said.
As Cooker pulled out his phone to call Elisabeth, a freezing breeze had chased the last night owls away from the Place de Rohan. The cafés had turned off their signs. The Bar de l’Hôtel de Ville was the only place still open, attracting hybrid techno animals who also milled in the deserted Rue de Ruat. High up, the Pey Berland Madonna had to be shivering. Cooker and Virgile would not yet be going home...
11
Night watch. Cooker had to ring several times before a stooped figure shuffled over and agreed to crack open the wrought-iron gate of the Hôtel de Villesèque. An enamel sign above the doorbell read “Logis de France. Traveling sales representatives welcome.” The night watchman had messy hair and tired eyes, reflecting many nights on call. Cooker figured he had fallen asleep at the reception desk before having to open the gate. Can’t blame him for being irritated with the two nutcases who wouldn’t quit knocking at the window, Cooker thought.
“Let me see what I have left,” the old man said, putting reading glasses on the tip of his beak-like nose.
Only three keys were missing from the board above the man, whose gray Scottish wool sweater gaped at the neck.
“Just one room?” the man asked with a sly smile.
“Two,” Cooker said, categorical but polite.
“Will you have breakfast in your room or in the dining room?” the man asked, addressing Cooker.
“Neither, thank you,” Cooker said.
“In that case, sirs, may I ask that you pay for your rooms up front, please.”
“Certainly,” Cooker said, tossing him a credit card.
Virgile stood at the counter and eyed the night watchman write his name in the old-fashioned registry with a black cloth cover.
“Please, two S ’s in Lanssien.”
“Sorry?” the man said.
“My name has two S ’s,” Cooker’s assistant said, taking advantage of the moment to glance at the short list of guests in the registry for Thursday, January 28.
Room number twenty-seven listed the name Wolvertem. “Paid” was carefully written in the margin.
“Don’t you have any bags?” the watchman asked, handing over two keys with heavy copper plaques engraved “H.V., Bordeaux.”
“The man is right,” Cooker said. “Why don’t we have any bags, Virgile?”
“But boss, you know that—”
“Oh, Virgile, stop justifying yourself. Let’s go. I’m exhausted.”
The watchman stared as the two men slipped into the elevator after saying a quiet good night. The old hotel clock read one thirty-five. The Rue Huguerie was in a torpor, which soon caught up with the night watchman. The Hotel de Villeseque’s sign was no longer flashing.
Unlocking the door to his room, Cooker flipped the light switch but the orange ceiling fixture didn’t go on. Propping open the door so he could see where he was going, Cooker headed to the nightstand and turned on that light. He closed the door, sat down on the squeaky bed, and slipped off his shoes. After straightening the nylon lampshade, he lay down, fully clothed and fell fast asleep.
The walls were so thin, Virgile could hear his boss’s regular snoring. It took him a long time to fall asleep between the scratchy, cold, and almost damp cotton sheets. A little before dawn—which a dull concert of street cleaners announced—he started stirring. He finally surrendered to the day when the noise of Cooker washing up in the next room was too jarring to allow him to eek out another fifteen minutes of sleep. After a hot shower, he listened to the day’s horror show of news, distilled by an enthusiastic newscaster who made the morning rather ordinary, all in all. This narrow,
“No, let me get this,” Welling said, snatching the bill away from Cooker.
Cooker and Virgile said good night to Welling in front of the gates of the city hall without any excess politeness.
“Bye, old chap,” Cooker mumbled, wrapping his scarf around his neck.
“Good-bye, Mr. Morton,” Virgile said.
As Cooker pulled out his phone to call Elisabeth, a freezing breeze had chased the last night owls away from the Place de Rohan. The cafés had turned off their signs. The Bar de l’Hôtel de Ville was the only place still open, attracting hybrid techno animals who also milled in the deserted Rue de Ruat. High up, the Pey Berland Madonna had to be shivering. Cooker and Virgile would not yet be going home...
11
Night watch. Cooker had to ring several times before a stooped figure shuffled over and agreed to crack open the wrought-iron gate of the Hôtel de Villesèque. An enamel sign above the doorbell read “Logis de France. Traveling sales representatives welcome.” The night watchman had messy hair and tired eyes, reflecting many nights on call. Cooker figured he had fallen asleep at the reception desk before having to open the gate. Can’t blame him for being irritated with the two nutcases who wouldn’t quit knocking at the window, Cooker thought.
“Let me see what I have left,” the old man said, putting reading glasses on the tip of his beak-like nose.
Only three keys were missing from the board above the man, whose gray Scottish wool sweater gaped at the neck.
“Just one room?” the man asked with a sly smile.
“Two,” Cooker said, categorical but polite.
“Will you have breakfast in your room or in the dining room?” the man asked, addressing Cooker.
“Neither, thank you,” Cooker said.
“In that case, sirs, may I ask that you pay for your rooms up front, please.”
“Certainly,” Cooker said, tossing him a credit card.
Virgile stood at the counter and eyed the night watchman write his name in the old-fashioned registry with a black cloth cover.
“Please, two S ’s in Lanssien.”
“Sorry?” the man said.
“My name has two S ’s,” Cooker’s assistant said, taking advantage of the moment to glance at the short list of guests in the registry for Thursday, January 28.
Room number twenty-seven listed the name Wolvertem. “Paid” was carefully written in the margin.
“Don’t you have any bags?” the watchman asked, handing over two keys with heavy copper plaques engraved “H.V., Bordeaux.”
“The man is right,” Cooker said. “Why don’t we have any bags, Virgile?”
“But boss, you know that—”
“Oh, Virgile, stop justifying yourself. Let’s go. I’m exhausted.”
The watchman stared as the two men slipped into the elevator after saying a quiet good night. The old hotel clock read one thirty-five. The Rue Huguerie was in a torpor, which soon caught up with the night watchman. The Hotel de Villeseque’s sign was no longer flashing.
Unlocking the door to his room, Cooker flipped the light switch but the orange ceiling fixture didn’t go on. Propping open the door so he could see where he was going, Cooker headed to the nightstand and turned on that light. He closed the door, sat down on the squeaky bed, and slipped off his shoes. After straightening the nylon lampshade, he lay down, fully clothed and fell fast asleep.
The walls were so thin, Virgile could hear his boss’s regular snoring. It took him a long time to fall asleep between the scratchy, cold, and almost damp cotton sheets. A little before dawn—which a dull concert of street cleaners announced—he started stirring. He finally surrendered to the day when the noise of Cooker washing up in the next room was too jarring to allow him to eek out another fifteen minutes of sleep. After a hot shower, he listened to the day’s horror show of news, distilled by an enthusiastic newscaster who made the morning rather ordinary, all in all. This narrow,
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