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The Lobby—
You
walk back out to the driveway and retrieve your baggage, return and hoist your
trunk up the steps. Slip the ornate key into the lock, but there’s no need to
turn it. The massive doors simply open by themselves. They
close solidly as you set your bags down on a gleaming white-gold speckled
marble floor. Your gaze becomes a movie camera. It shifts from mahogany walls
with protruding gold candelabra to enormous white sofas near a roaring
fireplace on the right. Then pans slowly up to a massive chandelier suspended
from an etched, pearl-colored ceiling.
Then down, to the diamond-shaped bench
upholstered with burnt-orange crushed velvet. You
call, “Hello, hello, anybody here?”
No answer.
In
back of the bench stands a massive ceramic vase minutely decorated with
Chaucerian scenes of everyday life in the Middle Ages. You notice the
accents—smaller vases, placed on end tables or set upon mantles, filled with
blue and pink and white flowers.
The Hallways—
From
where you’re standing now, you can look left and right down identical hallways
of mahogany paneling interspersed with numerous carved doors and laid with
forest green and auburn carpet. Several large paintings give the hallways the
effect of a narrow gallery. Peering directly across the lobby, you can see a
staircase and the bottom of a huge stained-glass window that graces the
rearmost wall and rises toward the second floor.
“Good
evening … hello … anybody here?”
Over
to the left there’s an official-looking area, an arrangement of rosewood desks
and chairs, with an organized clutter of forms, storage boxes and other
paraphernalia.
It’s
a hotel lobby—an intimate ultra-exclusive five-star establishment. Except:
you’ve been wandering around for some time and haven’t seen a soul. All you’ve
heard is the light classical music that’s been playing uninterrupted since you
entered. Returning to the entrance, you now hear strong wind and driving rain
outside. You decide to crack the door for a quick peek. Grip one of the large
gold handles, and pull, then push—but all you hear is the thud of whatever it
is that’s now barring both doors. What is this—Hotel California?
The Rotunda—
Maybe
things will improve if you try upstairs. Mounting
the staircase, you pause to examine the towering window that dominates this
wall. “Hanover Manor,” etched in a broad arc, forms the center of the piece.
All around the lettering are medieval scenes similar to those on the large vase
downstairs.
From
the landing, the stairwell branches left and right. As
they were downstairs, the walls in the upper left hallway are lined with
paintings—Dutch masters, still lives, pastoral scenes. And
one surprising one—a portrait of the late Emperor Hirohito of Japan, who
ordered his nation into the Second World War but who became a world-renowned
marine biologist and a beloved figure at home and abroad.
Talk about a career change, you think,
studying the painting and recalling—another coincidence—all that you’d
recently read about him in Time
magazine.
The Billiards Room—
You
move on to the Billiards Room &
Whisky Bar. Surprise—it’s open. Disappointment: it’s empty.
The room is dimly lit, conical lamps overhanging the three
billiards tables across the room. At the long oak bar fronting an array of
silver goblets and crystal tumblers, as well as a collection of every spirit
imaginable, the lighting is subdued. And there’s something else about the
place—the music is completely different.
As Billie Holiday’s Easy Living fades away, you wonder what the next selection will be.
Know what
you’d like to hear—Someone
to Watch Over Me.
Why, then, are you not surprised when that’s the
next song that plays? Because
it’s something that used to happen when you were younger and listened to the
radio a lot. Back then, you just knew
sometimes that a certain song would be
next—and it almost always was.
You take a seat on a high stool. Something to drink would be nice. Then you hear a
melodious “good evening” which sounds like your wish is about to be granted.
You’ve
already guessed who this must be.
The Spa—
Inside the spa,
you literally step into a different world: the music is cool jazz piano and
saxophone; the décor and furnishings of the lounge area are modern.
Notices
on bulletin boards tell of upcoming golf tournaments; of procedures for
checking out croquet equipment and reserving tennis courts; suggested scenic
walks about the estate; sign-up sheets for skiing and camping excursions in the
North of England and Scotland; dress codes to observe when using the saunas,
Jacuzzis and swimming pool. This
is a huge facility you’re standing in. The beige-violet carpet is striking. You
see numerous seating areas with round glass tables surrounded by chairs with
cushions in bright floral patterns. Ideal spots, you think, for daytime
reading, sharing tropical drinks and conversation, or perhaps a game of bridge.
You like it here. The room is alive, though no one is present. Or
so you thought.
The Pool—
You
walk over to the pool entrance to try out the plastic card. The door slides
open. You step onto the tiled floor on the upper level of a double-deck
facility. The area is silent, save the intermittent hiss of steaming Jacuzzis.
Below, an Olympic-sized pool with potted palm trees between circular columns
along the length of its right walkway, floor-to-ceiling picture windows and
columns along the left.
You descend the steps. In
one of the far corners, is an electromechanical timing device that swimmers
apparently use to train or compete. The hands of the timer are frozen at 59
minutes and 4 seconds—a reading that suggests training for long-distance
events.
The
receptionist?
All
the while, you’ve been walking along with your briefcase in one hand and that
mysterious controller in the other, absent-mindedly tapping your thumb on its
curved blue surface. Nothing happens, save the light and the hum; you just like
the feel of it.You’re
about to mount the tiled steps when you see her.
The Alcove—
Your mental review is interrupted by footsteps and voices
coming from the stairwell. Farnsworth and Van Scoy.
You need to see the butler—but now is not the time.
Frantically you search for a place to hide. See a small alcove off the rear of
the rotunda that hosts a huge picture window framed by roped velvet drapes.
Voices and footsteps signal they’ve reached the landing and are now starting to
climb the remaining flight.
“How are you going to—”
“Just leave to me, James. The less you know, the
better—there’s bound to be some sort of enquiry.”
Just in time you rush over, untie the sashes and yank the
sides closed. Slip behind the curtain, tug to align both ends. The voices draw
nearer.
“Tonight, then?”
“I just told you—don’t ask.”
The Pub—
The Falstaff's atmosphere is warm and inviting. Wood
everywhere—the kegs, the exposed ceiling beams and solid arches overhead, the
thick cedar posts planted throughout the bar area. Brass everywhere, on the
railings, stands and the woodwork trim. There’s an upright honky-tonk piano in
one corner. In another, a
dartboard and throwing space, and a performance stage with stand-up mikes
situated in front of a large fireplace.
The shelves and mantels are lined with beer steins and seidels,
along with whimsical figurines, souvenirs, and curios. The arches and columns
are posted with notices, menus, adverts, coasters, plaques, and
photographs—the same as bars the world over.
Except
that there are no clocks. You
ask Bruce what time the bar closes. “When
the last one standing isn’t any longer.” A comedian, he circles and flails his
arms to mimic the final customer collapsing.
The Dining Hall—
You’ve
resided in the manor for several days, and have entered—or peered
into—several spectacular rooms. But nothing could have prepared you for the
grandeur, the sheer size of the Grand Dining Hall. You pause at the entrance to
take it all in—the sea of white linen, with vases of flowers, ice sculpture
and candles atop; the towering cathedral ceiling; the chandeliers and
candelabra; the gleaming hardwood floors; the tall palms and ferns in ceramic
containers. The concierge, looking regal in a flowing evening
gown, her hair exquisitely coiffed, is seated at a grand piano on the elevated
dais.
A strolling violinist threads through the tables. And
now Chef Arnaud Le Clercq is standing before you.
“Ah,
enfin! The guest of honor has
arrived!” his voice beams to the entire room and you observe the microphone
clipped to his tuxedo lapel. A spotlight suddenly illuminates you both. He
escorts you to the centermost table and as you walk arm and arm, polite
applause fills the hall. The chef seats you with Bruce, Savannah, Reggie,
Mildred and Christopher. They all look fabulous. Thomas is circling the table
pouring champagne.
The Bedchambers—
Nobody’s
around at reception, so you climb the stairs and try Her Majesty’s door—it’s
locked. Continue down the hall and find His Majesty’s, which is not. Inside,
you immediately spot a gold key with a purple jewel (just like the one that
unlocked this virtual room). You walk around, then enter a solid marble
bathroom. There
they are—your toiletries, all nicely laid out.
Walk
back out and open a closet.
There they are—your hanging items, all neatly
arranged.
In
the center of this magnificent chamber is a sliding door, which leads to the
adjoining suite. In a large closet you find your trunk standing upright.
Nearby, your briefcase. You snap it open. Everything’s there, undisturbed.
The Library—
Penelope’s
not in the library. It’s deserted. In
addition to Uncle’s final letter, you wonder if the missing DVD is also hidden
inside one of the books. But where to begin? The place is huge, the shelves
containing thousands of titles—it could take hours.
Nevertheless,
you search section after section, opening and examining the volumes you find at
eye level. Your search is fruitless, but you find title after title you plan to
delve into when things settle down.
It makes you realize you’re thinking in
terms of a long future, as if you’ve unconsciously decided to permanently
remain.
In
one corner, a ladder has been left standing in front of one of the bookcases.
Could it be? You don’t suppose Penelope would go to all that trouble to shelve
a special book up high—and then leave the ladder just standing there in a
telltale location, do you?
The Outdoors—
At
long last the front entrance is unlocked. You step outside into late-afternoon
sunshine and find the grounds humming with activity. Live fiddle music is
interspersed with the sounds of people congregating. You cross the driveway and
from the base of Shakespeare, spy the manor gang assembled in front of the spa
annex. From the other direction—the sound of a dog barking somewhere near the
rear of the dining hall, which causes Christopher to tear off in that
direction. You head toward the group. Something sure smells good. You
hear Bruce’s voice calling: “Hey Arnaud, mind givin’ me a hand? Toss some more
prawns on.” Oui, Monsieur Bruce. But I do not know la préparation spéciale for this dish.”
“Ah,
no worries, mate. Just baste and toss ’em on.
They always figure out how to
cook themselves.” You
draw closer and soon you are in the midst of fiddle-playing gardeners, barefoot
dancing couples, spirited conversation and feverish preparations for a giant
outdoor food fest. Meeting and greeting, you stroll from group to group. It
feels good to finally get outside. The sky is gorgeous as sunset approaches.
You decide to walk down to the main gate and back. The place looks different in
daylight and you marvel at the ridges of the hills and valleys beyond. For a
moment there, your imagination plays tricks and you think you can see
snow-capped mountains in the distance.
