CHAPTER FOUR

George Tsappis. This chapter is part of "What Now!", a novel I put together in the spring of 1981. The novel revolves around and describes events of one day in mid-November 1975, taking place in a privately-owned Hotel in Central London. The plot and the characters I drew from my experiences in the Hotel industry and the Trade Union Movement in which I was heavily involved at the time. Chapter Four Edward Ley, Chairman and Managing Director of Ley Hotels Ltd, was asleep in his bed in the Penthouse suite, perched on the roof of Ley Hotel, when a screech and a knock, like someone clumsily trying to fit a key on the lock of his bedroom door, had suddenly exploded in his ears, likes a succession of screams and canon blasts, and woke him up. Startled he shot his myopic eyes open. But all he could see was an elastic loom which keep shifting and weaving about and making his head swim and ache, as if it was full of wriggling maggots feeding on his brain, and forced him to shut them again. He remained absolutely still, suffering the attack and struggling to discover whether it was real, or whether it was the previous night's binge playing tricks on him, when suddenly out of the pain and the anguish emerged a voluptuous figure, and an explanation, and his heart began to race with excitement ad sweet anticipation. "Isabel," he gasped, "My sweet, brave Isabel..." Overcome with anticipation, he threw the bed-clothes to one side and pulled himself up, but, as he prepared to leap out of the bed to go and open the door for her, a loud bang broke out and was quickly followed by the door flying open, and the surprise of it threw him back against the headboard. And there he remained, blinking and twitching with sweet anticipation, waiting for Isabel to come to him. But it was not Isabel who appeared in the doorway. It was the fuzzy figure of a waiter holding a tray in front of him. "What do you want? You...you scoundrel!" he shrilled. Ley's shrill was immediately seized by the paneled walls, the heavy velvet curtains, the mahogany furniture distorted it, amplified it, and returned it to his ears like a series of ferocious screams. But by now Ley felt so wretched and so let down, he suffered the onslaught without even the smallest thought about his personal discomfort. "What do you want...You...You scoundrel!" he repeated, even louder now. "Bring breakfast, sir." The waiter's flat, hesitant voice was almost lost in the whirl of furious echoes that Ley's second shrill had released in the bed room. And yet, somehow, it had reached Ley's ears with forceful clarity and compelled him to take note of it. Taking care to keep his aching head as still as possible, he leaned to one side, switched the bed light on, snatched his spectacles from under it, fixed them on his nose and gave the man another look. Unlike the waiter he expected to see, this man was short and squat, the white-linen jacket he was wearing at least one size to small for him and it dangled, unbuttoned, either side of his protruding belly. He also had a fat, idiotic face with bushy eyebrows which reached so high they seemed to part of his hairline, Every inch of him looked what a waiter ought not to look like, and Ley's sense of grievance had suddenly turned into pure malice. "You are not Barney" he growled, wincing. "Who the hell are you?" "Garcia, sir.." "Who?" "Garcia, sir. From the restaurant." "Where is Barney?" "He not here, sir." "I can see he's not here. Where is he?" The waiter's shoulders rose and fell in quick succession, making the tray he was holding pitch and shake, and the cutlery and crockery on it clash and jingle. "Take care you imbecile. You are going to drop the bloody thing," he hissed venomously. "You kicked my door. Why did you kick my door?" "Sorry, sir." "Sorry, sir," Ley mimicked, sarcastically. "Well, what do you want?" "I bring breakfast, sir" "Breakfast? What do you mean you bring breakfast? Do you know what the time is?" The waiter's shoulders rose and fell again, and the tray released into Ley's painful head another set of stabbing jingles. "I told you to be careful." "Sorry, sir!" "Don't keep saying that. You call yourself a waiter?" he sneered. "Look at you!" But the waiter did not look at himself. His only reaction was to adjust on his feet, as if to share the weight of the tray more evenly on his arms, confirming the belief in Ley's mind that the man had to be an even thicker imbecile that he had hitherto assumed. "What a mess!" he sighed, with uplifted eyes. "I'm plagued by idiots." He then lowered his eyes back to the waiver and hissed, "You're here now, aren't you?" "I'm here two years," the waiter answered, after a short silence. "Two years? You mean to tell me that you've been working in my Hotel for two whole years?" "Yes, sir." "Then how come I haven't seen you before? You are lying." The waiter's shoulders rose and feel again, the tray releasing more jingling, and Ley's sense of grievance had suddenly turned into pure malice. "You're foreign, aren't you?" "Spanish, sir!" "I thought so! Another one of Franco's cast-offs. Now, Car...or whatever your name is, who told you to bring me breakfast in the middle of the night?" The waiter looked up abruptly, a mocking smile flitting across his swarthy face, forming a series of dimples on his fat cheeks. "Your find the whole affair amusing do you?" Ley hissed. "No, sir." "Then why are you smiling?" "Sorry, sir." "That's better. Now, who told you to bring me breakfast in the middle of the night? Answer me." "Not night, sir. Day." "What?" Ley exclaimed, thrusting his arm up and bringing his left wrist closer to his eyes. He aimed to confound the imbecile with the evidence of his wristwatch, but to his amazement he discovered that the watch was not on his wrist. At a loss why it was not there, he cast a quick glance at the bedside table. It was not there either. And worse, he had no idea where it might be. "Are you completely mad? Can't You see that it is still dark? Answer me! Who told you to bring me breakfast in the middle of the night?" "Mr Luigi say - Breakfast for Mr Ley," the waiter answered, turning his face away as if to hide another smile. "Oh, God!" Ley exhaled, slapping the duvet. "How many times do I have to tell that idiot Luigi that under no circumstances am I to be disturbed before nine in the morning?" He paused to draw in a deep breath. Now, he had another reason to be angry and he was determined not to let that idiot go until the injury he had suffered was fully compensated. "Well, don't just stand there!" he continued. "Do your job. Put the tray on the table over there and pour me a cup of coffee." "Yes, sir." With short, careful steps, Garcia went to place the tray on the teak half-table leaning on the wall, a short distance away from the bed. He then poured coffee in the cup and offered it to Ley. Ley took it disdainfully and raised it to his lips. "God, what is this? It's stone cold!' he spat, thrusting the cup back into the waiter's hands. "Sorry, sir," the waiter said. "I go down and bring fresh coffee for you?" "Sorry, sir? What do you mean, Sorry, sir!. If you've done you job properly in the first place..." "I do my job, properly," Garcia interjected. "When I bring coffee, coffee hot. You shout and shout and coffee get cold. No my fault." Ley looked at the waiter with a start. The waiter's prompt interjection made Ley reflect how alone, how frail, how vulnerable he was at that moment, but the contempt and sense of superiority he felt over that man soon took care of all that. "Don't be insolent," he hissed. "Now get out. I'll deal with you later." But the waiter did not go. Nor gave a sign that he intended to obey. Instead he gave a jolt, adjusted abruptly on his feet, then began to glare angrily at him, and Ley was instantly tormented by terrible images of being attacked, of having his throat cut, of his blood squirting out and staining the soft duvet. "Thank you, waiter. You can go now. And don't worry about the tray. I'll see to it," he offered meekly, all the while blinking and twitching and slipping lower into the bed clothes. But that too failed to appease the waiter, and the fear of an imminent attack had reduced Ley into a squirming fidgeting thing in the bed. But as the tortuous seconds stretched away, and the attack did not materialise, hope began to give him courage. "You're not going to do anything foolish, are you, waiter?" he flung the challenge at him, and sank even lower into his bed. For Ley, this was the last shot, but thankfully it worked. Slowly the waiter's expression changed from anger into contempt. He then swung about, went to place the cup back on the tray, picked up the tray and carried it briskly away. Ley watched himself go on sighing with relief, for, by now, he freely admitted to himself that he had pushed the imbecile too far, and that he was extremely lucky to escape the consequences. And the moment the waiter was out, he leapt out bed, and went to close the bedroom door. Feeling much safer now, he switched the bed light off and climbed back into his bed, dismissing all possibility of regaining his interrupted sleep. Even with the aid of his beloved Armagnac, sleeplessness proved a far too difficult and elusive an enemy to defeat. And now he was too alert and too angry to even think about it. Instead, he rested his giddy head on the headboard, cursing the fact that it was not already morning. If it were, he would summon James Reeves, to explain why he employed such imbeciles, and that idiot Luigi, to account why he flagrantly disregarded his instructions and had sent that imbecile to bring him breakfast in the middle of the night, and put his personal safety into jeopardy. He could... And Isabel would come. The thought of Isabel made his heart wrench with self-censure. If only he could gather enough courage to confess his love to her. If only... Suddenly quick, muffled footsteps penetrated the silence of the bedroom and startled him. Cocking his ears, he listened for a moment, trying to make out to whom they belonged, and in which direction they were heading. But they were too brief and too faint to resolve the issue for him, and the void was immediately filled with dark and frightening conclusions: the imbecile had changed his mind and had come back to murder him in his bed. This plunged him into a frantic search of how to protect himself. He thought of hiding under the bed, he thought of locking himself in the bathroom, he thought of going to the window and crying for help... Suddenly a whiff of perfume penetrated the many layers of cigar debris lining his nostrils, and took his breath away. "Isabel!" he gasped. To see her, to be near her, was what he wanted most in the world at that moment. And yet he hesitated: a question, a confusing and disorientating question had suddenly leapt into his excited brain and held immobile. What was it that had brought his sweet Isabel to the Penthouse at that time of the night? At length, from all the possible answers, only one stuck immovably into Ley's dizzy head: she was tired of waiting for him to make the first move and she had come to slip into his bed and satisfy her passion for him. But, if that was the case, why didn't she come directly into his bedroom? But that answer, too, was not hard to find. No doubt, the murderous imbecile had taken her prisoner. No doubt, she was already gagged and bound on the floor, and her clothes were ripped to shreds, and the Spaniard was clawing her frothy, white flesh with his filthy paws and slobbering all over her.. Frantic with anxiety, he leapt out of bed, but by the time he reached the middle of the room he realised that he was in no condition to tackle the murderous Spaniard on his own, and was nailed to the floor. He had to summon help. That was the first priority. But how? He had no telephone in his bedroom. He had it removed years ago, to stop its infernal ringing and its intrusion of his privacy. Now the nearest telephone to him was the one in his office. But that was across the passage, the very place in which, he was sure, the criminal Spaniard was torturing his sweet Isabel. How was he to get to it, without being seen? No, that would be too foolish and too dangerous. The only way to save his Isabel, was to open the door, dash to the stairs and reach the floor below... Settling on that solution, he gulped in a quick breath, crept to the door, unlocked it, pulled it ajar and took a cautious look into the passage. The passage was ablaze with light. The oily scent of Isabel's perfume hung heavily in the still and hot air. The main door to the Penthouse suite was wide open. But, to his astonishment, neither the Spaniard nor Isabel were there. The coast was clear. He could reach the floor below in perfect safety. But as he came out, and saw that the door of his secretary's small office was also open, he stopped himself: that's where the brutish Spaniard had dragged his sweet Isabel, or more likely in the bigger space of his own office beyond it. He cocked his ears, fully expecting to hear strangled cries of help, but nothing came out of there. Only Isabel's intoxicating perfume and soft footsteps swishing on the carpet. Perhaps he had strangled her already. Perhaps he ought to go and take a look, supply himself with the evidence of his own eyes before he went down to seek help. Tip-toeing cautiously, he went to take a look inside Isabel's crammed, small office. Neither of them were in there. But Isabel's perfume, now stronger than ever, was flooding in through the open door of his own office, a few feet in front of him. He was right. That's where he had dragged her. Gulping in a deep breath to steady himself, he crept to the open door of his own office and stuck his cheek on the door post. The Spaniard was not there either, but Isabel was, engaged, and fully clothed in a short skirt and tight-fitting blouse, in laying out the conference table. But, instead of feeling relief, Ley was wracked by a new question which had suddenly exploded in his head: what was she doing there laying the conference table instead of coming to him? And the answer? That, too, came without the smallest delay. Obviously, she was on her way to his bedroom, but had come across the fleeing imbecile and was forced to tactically retreat into his office and wait there until he was gone. "You can come now," he croaked excitedly, stepping in and thrusting both hands out to her. "He's gone." Ley's voice seemed to have taken Isabel by complete surprise, because she looked up so abruptly, her bountiful bosom shook and bounced wildly under her tight-fitting blouse. "Did I disturb you?" she gasped, her tone oscillating between surprise and apology. "No, no. You didn't disturb me. You can come now. He's gone," Ley croaked and advanced boldly at her. Isabel cast a quick, ruffled glance at his outstretched hands, clearly at a loss of what to make to of it all. But then she shook her body, as if reviving to a new thought, placed the pile of paper pads she was holding on the conference table, skirted around it and went to Ley's large desk, across the floor. From there, she picked up a watch, then came to stand in front of Ley "You must have been working late last night," she explained with a suppressed smile, placing the watch in one of Ley's outstretched hands. "I found it on the floor. Over there." Ley glanced at the watch wildly, his head swimming. He had recalled coming into his office to perform his nightly duty of saying goodnight to his Grandmother, and of taking his indispensable nightcap of a large Armagnac from the hospitality cabinet before going to bed, and of knocking himself against one of the chairs, and of a sharp pain on his wrist... "Yes, I had some work to do in here," he mumbled, fumbling awkwardly to fix the watch on his wrist. "I must have dropped it. Come. He's gone," he went on when the task was completed, and thrust both hands out to her again. But instead of surrendering into them, as he expected, Isabel shrunk back a couple of steps as if anxious to increase the margin of safety between them. "Who's gone?" "That imbecile. Come! He won't be back. We're all right now. We won't be disturbed." "Which imbecile?" "Gar..whatever his name is? Come." "Come where?" "Into the bedroom of course," he answered and made to take hold of her elbow. "Come." "But I don't understand,' Isabel reflected, nudging her elbow out of his grip. "What's in there?" The nudging of that elbow out of his way, the look of confusion on Isabel's face, had planted in Ley's head the faint, but persistent suspicion that perhaps things were not as he thought they were, and began gnawing at his confidence. "But then, what are you doing here at this hour of the..?" he mumbled, confused. "This hour?" she exclaimed, puzzledly. "But I'm only five minutes early." "Five minutes!" Ley gasped, his eyes involuntarily shifting from Isabel's face to the half-turned reproduction ormolu-clock which stood on his desk. It was showing just after a quarter past nine, questioning him, telling him something which he ought to know, but which nonetheless remained confused and beyond his grasp. Disgruntled, he withdrew his eyes from the clock and landed them on the window. The venetian blinds were drawn up and the glass panes looked curiously translucent. It was the evidence that his excited brain seemed to need, because he suddenly remembered reading somewhere, or someone telling him, about the weather forecast and the expected fog. With a sharp fall of his heart, he realised that he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake. At once, he swung his eyes away from the window and sunk them to a spot under the conference table. He dared not face Isabel. And he dared not meet the stern eyes of his Grandmother, whose eyes he felt glaring critically at him from beyond the conference table. Not yet. Not until he was calmer. Not until he found a way to redeem his mistake in the eyes of both of them. "I'd better get a move on," he heard Isabel say. "Mr Reeves and his team will be coming up soon. You'll be chairing the meeting." "Meeting?" Ley reflected, and looked up. But not at Isabel. He directed his misted eyes to his friend and ally, his beloved forty-year old Armagnac, waiting for him in the hospitality cabinet. If only he could get to it, then everything would be all night. "The meeting. Of course I will. Of course. Is the fog as bad as..?" he faltered. "Pretty bad, that's why I left home an hour early." "I'm sorry, my dear. It's all my fault," he said, slowly returning his eyes to her. "You could have stayed in the hotel last night, you know. It's not that we are ever full at this time of year. I meant to call you, you know, ask you to come. We could have had a spot of dinner together, but Archie, that is Captain Harvey, came. I don't suppose you know him?" Isabel shook her head negatively. "He's an old friend from my army days. A bit of a rake, if you ask me, but fun to be with. Anyway, he comes to visit me from time to time, for a drink and a chat about the old days. I meant to call you afterwards, but it carried on and on... Well you know how it is. One thing led to another, it was past eleven by he time he left, by which time, of course, it was too late to call you. But never mind - there will be other times, won't there?" "That's very nice of you, sir!" "Oh, my dear Isabel. There's no need to be so formal...Edward. Call me Edward," he implored. Isabel's face went distinctly red under her make-up. "If it pleases you," she breathed, dropping her eyes away. "But..." "It would please me very much. After all, we've been together for so long..." "Not that long!" she smiled. "What is it, four months?" "Seventeen complete weeks and one day, to be exact. That is, counting today of course." "You certainly are counting the days," she giggled. "Surely you're not surprised!" You must know by now how I feel about you?" "Thank you. It's nice to be appreciated by..." "No, no I mean it," Ley interjected, and with a sudden move took hold of her hand and squeezed it warmly. "In fact, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Isabel." "Thank you. But, I would bet a pound to a penny, you say that to all the girls," Isabel teased, withdrawing her hand from him. Ley cast her a wounded looked. The withdrawing of her hand traumatised him. And now it was that smile. It seemed to be suspended between pleasure and mocking. "What girls?" he breathed. "Well, there must have been other girls," she answered, flippantly and pulling away started on her way back to the conference table. "Your past secretaries, for example. Before me you had other secretaries, didn't you?" she went on, after picking up the pile of paper pads and resuming where she left off. Ley watched her jumpily for a moment, wondering whether that was meant as a brush-off to him, or whether it was merely an expression of Isabel's diligence and conscientiousness. "A whole string of them, but none of them were like you," he answered shortly. "So, there..." "Oh, Isabel, stop teasing me. Surely you know how I feel about you?" But Isabel continued with her task, making it absolutely clear to Ley that she had no intention of answering that question. "You do believe me, don't you?" he begged. But again, Isabel did no answer. "You do, don't you?" Isabel stopped abruptly and looked up to observe him critically for a moment. "You make things very difficult for me, you know," she said at length. "But why?" "Because," she replied. "But I thought you liked me!" "I do, but not that way." "Not that way!" he reflected, his eyes misting. "Which way do you like me then?" Isabel, though, continued to observe him critically for a moment longer. She then dropped her eyes away and resumed her task without a word, leaving Ley's self-control in tatters. "I love you, Isabel. I love you very much," he whined, and dashed across the floor to go to her, tears running down his face. Isabel, clearly moved by Ley's emotions, stopped to watch him come for a moment. She then placed the last pad and pencil into place, skirted hurriedly around the conference table and came to meet him. "Oh, come here, crying like a baby," she said, opening her arms wide for him. Ley surrendered into her arms, burying his face in her soft neck. I know I'm not what one would call a catch for a woman like you, Isabel.." he sobbed. "But I love you. I love you very much..." "I know, I know. But I'm a married woman." Ley gave a jolt, as if that statement was a stab in the belly. But he knew he could not back out now. He could only go forward, risking everything. Quickly he unburied his head from her neck and looked pleadingly in her eyes. "Divorce him. I want you to divorce your husband and marry me, Isabel," he began. "You can have the hotel, everything, have everything." "I can't do that," she cried pushing him back. And circling round him, strode briskly towards the door. Ley swung about to watch her go, in his head tumbling the long list of secretaries that Reeves had supplied him with, during the past twelve years since his father died and the hotel had passed to him, recalling, some of those who had succumbed to his advances and some of those who threw their arms up in horror and walked out on him. And, as he was recalling them, the second lot seemed a lot more numerous than the first. But he did not care. None of them mattered to him. But the mere thought of losing Isabel make him tremble. "Don't leave me, Isabel. Please don't leave me," he sobbed. Isabel stopped by the door and turned to cast him a weary look from over her shoulder. "I'm only going to my office." "I don't mean now. Don't ever leave me. Please Isabel..." She heaved in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not leaving," she said at the end of it. "What would be the point? Everywhere is the same. But, at least, you didn't grab me like all the others. And anyway, I can't keep running. I have to work," she added, and, swinging back, went out, pulling the door behind her. Ley stared reflectively at the space that Isabel had just vacated, for a moment. The air in the office was hot, dry, and redolent with Isabel's perfume and the images of her, a combination that parched his throat and drove him to the hospitality cabinet. In the past, Ley turned to his Armagnac to help him sleep, chase away his loneliness, his anxieties, his sorrows, or simply because he enjoyed the taste and the effect it had on him. On this occasion, he was turning to it in celebration. For seventeen weeks he held back from expressing his love to Isabel for fear of losing her, but now all that was behind him, and without losing her..! Trembling with excitement, he poured himself a stiff measure of Armagnac from the decanter. But, as he was raising the glass to his mouth, he felt his Grandmother's searing stare burn the bald patch on his head. "Don't say a word Grandma. I'm not in the mood for it," he snapped, but without looking at her. "How can I keep quiet when I see you making such a fool of yourself," came the answer. "Look at you. You're fifty-one years old, half blind, bald, and you can't see a single day through without reaching out for that damned decanter. And she, what age is she? Thirty five? And beautiful. Why should she leave her husband and her children for someone like you? Come on! Why don't you pack it in before you ruin everything?" "I can't. I love her." "Love is it? Is that what's making you behave like a foolish teenage? Aren't you ashamed of yourself? And what for? All for a bit of crumpet? You can buy as much of that as you want." "Keep quiet, Grandma. I won't have you talking about Isabel like that, do you hear me?" "I can hear you, but you'd better hear me also. You're a fool, that's what you are. A fifty-one year old fool. Can't you see that there is no future in it for you? Apart from one husband and her three brats, there is the generation gap standing between you. How are you going to overcome that?" "The age difference is nothing. Love overcomes everything." "Love or lust? Get some sense into your bald head. Why don't you leave things alone? They were not all that bad before. That young masseuse, what's her name, that one with the blond hair and small tits, who visits you every so often... Won't you miss her? And what about that other woman, that one that Barney fixes you up with from time to time? Are you sure you want to give all that up?" "Keep quiet, Grandma. They don't mean anything to me. And anyway, it has nothing to do with you. I'll always respect you for what you have achieved, and of course I'll always be grateful to you for taking care of me after my mother died, but I won't have you interfering this time. It is far too important to me." "Gladly, if what you are doing only affected you. But what right have you to promise the hotel away? You didn't build it. I did. You have no right. No right at all." "Don't be such a misery, Babs Ley! I'm in love. Don't you understand? I'm in love. How can you think of such things in a time like this? What does it matter, eh! What does it matter?" he chuckled, and lifting his eyes to the portrait of Babs Ley, keeping stern vigil over the conference table from above the hospitality cabinet, he raised his glass to it in playful salute. "To you, Grandma, and to my sweet love," he said and clapped the glass to his mouth