come because of room number twelve.”
“Eh?” the informer coughed quizzically.
“Mad depravity is running riot in there,” warned the manager.
“Anything found in nature must be natural,” the informer said dismissively. Then, taking his leave, he said, “If anyone wants me on the phone, I’ll be in room number twelve.”
The manager became even more confused—yet at the same time, he was comforted to think that the government’s eyes and ears knew what was happening in thehotel. He remembered that he was going to summon the head bellhop, and just as he pressed the ringer to call him, he observed Blind Sayyid once again slinking up to him. Losing his grip on his nerves, he shouted, “She told you to wait until she invited you up!”
The man grinned in habitual servility to the rebuke, then pleaded, “But I’ve been waiting so long….”
“Wait without any backtalk—and remember you’re in a hotel, not a boneyard!” the manager fumed.
The man retreated in feigned patience, as the manager recalled the head bellhop. “How are things going in room number twelve?” he queried.
“I don’t know, but there’s a lot of racket in there.”
“How can they all squeeze into that place? They must be sitting on top of each other!” the manager marveled.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” the head bellhop mused. “In any case, the officer is inside with them.”
The man wandered off as the manager went to look once more out the window, and saw the night weighing heavily in the void. The lights were on throughout the hotel, casting a wan radiance through the atmosphere thick with damp from the howling, raging wind outside. A battalion of waiters came from the restaurant, bearing trays crammed with all kinds of food, and the manager’s astonishment grew. The room had only one dining table, so where would the woman’s guests put all those plates? How could they consume their meals? One of the bellhops told him that the room’s door no longer opened, and that the food only went in now through the little peep window.
What’s more, the uproar from the room was afflictingthe entire hotel: the whole spectacle was now simply incredible.
After a half hour, the bellhop came back to confirm that the lot of them were drunk.
“But I haven’t seen a single bottle go up there!” exclaimed the manager.
“Maybe they hid them in their pockets,” the bellhop surmised. “They’re singing, shouting and clapping—a case of drunken rowdiness, to be sure. And sinfulness too, for there’s as many women as men in that room.”
“And the informer?”
“I heard his voice singing, ‘The World Is a Smoke and a Drink,’” said the bellhop.
Thunder boomed outside as the manager said to himself, “I could well be dreaming—and I could just as well have gone mad.” At that instant, a group of common people approached—their faces and clothes proclaimed their low social status. They asked the inevitable question, “Is Ms. Bahiga al-Dahabi staying here?”
The manager smiled despairingly as he contacted the woman. She asked him to keep them waiting in the lobby and to serve them drinks as well. He pointed the way to the group of them and ordered the staff to give them tea. The lounge was overflowing, upsetting the undertaker. The manager again smiled hopelessly, muttering, “This hotel is no longer a hotel, and I’m no longer the manager, and today is not a day, and lunacy is laughing at us in the shape of meat and wine!”
The rain began to gush down again in sheets, and the sky to thunder. The asphalt at the hotel’s entrancegleamed with the light of the electric lamps as feet scurried in from outside. The waiters all cried, “There is no god but God!” while the passersby took refuge in the foyer. The battering blows of the rain rattled the window-panes without ceasing.
The manager left his post and went to the entrance, turning his face up to the blackened sky. Then he looked down at the
“Eh?” the informer coughed quizzically.
“Mad depravity is running riot in there,” warned the manager.
“Anything found in nature must be natural,” the informer said dismissively. Then, taking his leave, he said, “If anyone wants me on the phone, I’ll be in room number twelve.”
The manager became even more confused—yet at the same time, he was comforted to think that the government’s eyes and ears knew what was happening in thehotel. He remembered that he was going to summon the head bellhop, and just as he pressed the ringer to call him, he observed Blind Sayyid once again slinking up to him. Losing his grip on his nerves, he shouted, “She told you to wait until she invited you up!”
The man grinned in habitual servility to the rebuke, then pleaded, “But I’ve been waiting so long….”
“Wait without any backtalk—and remember you’re in a hotel, not a boneyard!” the manager fumed.
The man retreated in feigned patience, as the manager recalled the head bellhop. “How are things going in room number twelve?” he queried.
“I don’t know, but there’s a lot of racket in there.”
“How can they all squeeze into that place? They must be sitting on top of each other!” the manager marveled.
“I don’t know any more than you do,” the head bellhop mused. “In any case, the officer is inside with them.”
The man wandered off as the manager went to look once more out the window, and saw the night weighing heavily in the void. The lights were on throughout the hotel, casting a wan radiance through the atmosphere thick with damp from the howling, raging wind outside. A battalion of waiters came from the restaurant, bearing trays crammed with all kinds of food, and the manager’s astonishment grew. The room had only one dining table, so where would the woman’s guests put all those plates? How could they consume their meals? One of the bellhops told him that the room’s door no longer opened, and that the food only went in now through the little peep window.
What’s more, the uproar from the room was afflictingthe entire hotel: the whole spectacle was now simply incredible.
After a half hour, the bellhop came back to confirm that the lot of them were drunk.
“But I haven’t seen a single bottle go up there!” exclaimed the manager.
“Maybe they hid them in their pockets,” the bellhop surmised. “They’re singing, shouting and clapping—a case of drunken rowdiness, to be sure. And sinfulness too, for there’s as many women as men in that room.”
“And the informer?”
“I heard his voice singing, ‘The World Is a Smoke and a Drink,’” said the bellhop.
Thunder boomed outside as the manager said to himself, “I could well be dreaming—and I could just as well have gone mad.” At that instant, a group of common people approached—their faces and clothes proclaimed their low social status. They asked the inevitable question, “Is Ms. Bahiga al-Dahabi staying here?”
The manager smiled despairingly as he contacted the woman. She asked him to keep them waiting in the lobby and to serve them drinks as well. He pointed the way to the group of them and ordered the staff to give them tea. The lounge was overflowing, upsetting the undertaker. The manager again smiled hopelessly, muttering, “This hotel is no longer a hotel, and I’m no longer the manager, and today is not a day, and lunacy is laughing at us in the shape of meat and wine!”
The rain began to gush down again in sheets, and the sky to thunder. The asphalt at the hotel’s entrancegleamed with the light of the electric lamps as feet scurried in from outside. The waiters all cried, “There is no god but God!” while the passersby took refuge in the foyer. The battering blows of the rain rattled the window-panes without ceasing.
The manager left his post and went to the entrance, turning his face up to the blackened sky. Then he looked down at the
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