The White House

The Concierge
Part Two

by Tatiana Pahlen

 

        For decades, The White House Hotel in London was notorious for gathering singles, if not single minded. All those desperate souls flew from around the world to experience the forbidden thrill of gaining lust between what they consider the "chaste walls." News of this place repute only came to me a week after my return. Was this a lousy trap planned by my scheming travel agent or simply providence's casual joke? In any case, once I checked in, I wasn't planning anything exciting but a get-together with the editor of European Herald.
        I walked up the stairs of The White House, rehearsing furiously the first words I would cast upon my travel agent on my return. Everything around seemed pale and dreadful. I gazed at the front mirror to discover I looked chalky myself, entirely white-washed. It's time to crash somewhere and sleep. The Lincoln bed once again grew in my vivid vision; a desire to crawl under the silken sheets made me noxious.
        I rushed to the front desk!
        "Hello, there!" A well-groomed young clerk glared boldly at my body with his razor sharp eyes. "Are you staying with us?"
        "Unfortunately." I said searching for a voucher in my empty pockets and started to tear apart all the three bags I was carrying.
        "Smoking or non-smoking?"
        "Non-smoking, please." I said and regretted immediately. On the plane I had fancied to get some Cubans, but my mind had chased this brilliant thought away. Isn't it too much of a cliché — cigars in The White House?
        "Here's your key!" He slipped a cold plastic card into my eager palm.
        "The presidential suite?" I asked with perk.
        "Certainly, indeed, indeed!"
        The lift packed with Pakistanis stopped at the third floor. I held my breath tight and was happy to get some air again. Intoxicated, I found myself battling with a persistence of a mad woman trying to break into someone else's room. My blood-shot eyes transposed the numbers. A frail, oriental bellman came to the rescue carrying my voluminous luggage. I examined my suite and the morbid sights through the window to the gray backyard fence — not good enough even for a jail view; tears blurred the rest of the picture. The Lincoln-presidential was hardly bigger than my luggage — a shoebox with two beds as slim as rails pulled together. Enraged, I ran back to the front desk.
        "It can't be the agency that booked me in this monk cell! Please check your papers again."
        The young clerk placed his slick finger on the guest book.
        "Non-smoking?"
        "Non-smoking!"
        "That's the only room we have!"
        "I'll take the smoking then, or drinking, or anything but bigger please. And the beds? They are so narrow! Who could possibly sleep on those rails? Do I look like Anna Karenina?"
        "Not quite! And certainly not a smoker."
        I raised my eyebrows as he continued his inquisition. "Can you prove that you smoke?" I nodded readily and started to cough. He seemed unimpressed. "Do you have cigarettes?"
        "No!"
        "Matches?"
        "No."
        "Show me your fingers!"
        "I won't!" Steaming heavily like a Samovar, I was about to spill the foam.
        "I won't give you a smoking room." He said.
        "Why?"
        "Not good for your health!"
        "Who are you to preach me what's bad and what's good for my health?"
        "I'm a doctor!"
        "And what are you doing at the front desk?" I paused, "Doc?"
        "I'm on my break."
        "Liar! I can read your hotel badge on your uniform."
        "It's not mine."
        "So, and this name Ben Stevens isn't yours?"
        "Nope!"
        I felt I was losing and changed the course. "Oh, forget it! Do you sell cigars?" His voice softened.
        "Any particular brand?"
        "Do you have stogies?" I lowered my voice.
        "What?" He chuckled.
        "Stogies", I whispered shyly, as if I was requesting a forbidden product out of the counter in the drug store. "Do you have them?" My voice became thinner, when his eyes spelled out.
        "Naughty, naughty girl."
        "Do you?" I kept soliciting.
        "No, they're all sold out!" He sneered at my face.
        "And how about Cubans?" I had straightened my posture.
        "Certainly! Romeo and Juliette?"
        "No." I shook my head.
        "Monte Cristo?"
        "No." I purred as my eyes had narrowed. "Do you have Lady Macbeth?"
        "Out of stock, dear." He measured my body.
        "But we have Lady Lewinsky!"
        "Lady Lewinsky?" I tuned, "Does it go with the Royal suite?"
        "Yes it does!"
        "I'll take it!"
        "And the book?"
        "What book?"
        "Lewinsky's book, her life in the White House. It's on us; we can assign it to your package."
        "No books, please. A cigar will be enough."
        "Don't you like to meet Miss Lewinsky? She is signing books in the Suite 1001."
        "Is she? Can she sign a cigar?"
        The clerk stretched his lips.
        "I bet she can!"
        "Then send my copy of Miss Lewinsky's memoirs to the Royal Library."
        "Certainly, ma'am!"