The Blue Hour by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page B

hostile. It reminded me that I should try to resuscitate my still-reasonable, if rusty, French while here. The desk clerk finished his conversation. Turning back to us, he said, “My colleague, he gets the owner now.”
    We had to wait ten minutes for the arrival of the man in charge. His name was Monsieur Picard. He was French, in his midfifties, short, fit, dressed in a crisp white shirt and tan trousers, formal, chilly; his face reflecting, I sensed, a lifetime of enforced diffidence and the dodging of emotion.
    â€œThere seems to be a problem?” he asked, his tone borderline supercilious.
    â€œWe booked a room, but you don’t seem to have a record of it,” Paul said.
    â€œDo you have the confirmation?” Monsieur Picard asked.
    Paul shook his head.
    â€œNor do we. So a reservation mustn’t have been made.”
    â€œBut I made the reservation.”
    â€œClearly not.”
    â€œWell, you do have rooms, yes?” I asked.
    â€œHas not Ahmed here told you that we have just one room free?”
    â€œAnd how much does that cost?”
    â€œIt is a room with a balcony and a sea view. And you will need it for how long?”
    â€œA month,” Paul said. “That’s what we booked it for.”
    He pursed his lips, then turned to Ahmed. He directed him in French to scan the ledger. Ahmed thumbed through its many pages, glancing down, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, seeing whether they could house us for all that time. I began to wonder: Did Paul actually make the reservation, or was this one of his many “little oversights” that seemed to decorate our lives? Now I was starting to feel angry with myself for not checking up on the reservation before departure. Another part of me was castigating myself for questioning his veracity; given the sliminess of the hotel owner and the sleepwalking style of his desk clerk, who’s to say they didn’t lose the reservation or weren’t playing games to get a better price from us?
    This latter scenario began to seem more plausible after the next exchange. Ahmed turned to the owner, nodding his head, saying something that sounded positive. The owner now spoke to us.
    â€œI have good news. We do have that room available for the entire period you desire. The other good news is that it is the best room in the house—a minisuite with a balcony that faces the Atlantic. The price is seven dirhams per night.”
    Paul’s face fell. Immediately the adding machine in my brain was whirring away. That was almost one hundred dollars: double the price Paul told me he had negotiated.
    â€œBut the room I booked cost three-fifty,” Paul said.
    â€œYou have no record of this offer, do you?” Monsieur Picard said. “As we too have no record of this reservation and are trying to accommodate you—”
    â€œI booked a room for a month at three hundred and fifty dirhams,” Paul said, angry, stressed.
    â€œMonsieur, if there is no proof, all we have is words. And words—”
    â€œWhat are you, a fucking philosopher?” Paul hissed.
    I put a stabilizing hand on my husband’s left forearm.
    â€œHe didn’t mean that,” I told Monsieur Picard. “We are both exhausted and—”
    â€œI did fucking mean that. This guy is playing with us.”
    Monsieur Picard smiled thinly.
    â€œYou act as if you are doing me a service by staying here. By all means find another hotel—and one of this quality and cleanliness that can offer you a suite of this size for a month. The door is there. Bonne chance .”
    He turned and started heading up the stairs.
    â€œCould we see the suite, please?” I shouted after him.
    â€œAs you wish,” he said.
    I started following him upstairs. Paul lingered by the reception desk, fuming.
    â€œYou coming up?” I asked.
    â€œLooks like you’re the one in charge now.”
    â€œFine.”
    I continued