THE NIGHT…

until dawn

 by Giuseppe Guarino

 

This translation is for my beloved sister Kelly Armani only!

The Cover of the original book in Italian

Premise

Having to make this premise is necessary and annoying.

If errors are found in a story by a famous author. If he accidentally makes a bold choice in punctuation, or forces certain narrative points. Then it’s style, and we contemplate it with admiration.

However, when such an impulse concerns an unknown author, certain details are viewed with suspicion, attributed to inexperience, if not downright incompetence.

In this story, therefore, even reluctantly, I have adopted classic punctuation: I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. But all the inconsistencies you might find, for which, without this preface, some would have found solace by sighing, “There’s no way an idiot like him could write a book,” are not accidental. They are there for reasons attributable to the narrative style I have chosen.

I’m on my third novel, if this long story can be called a novel. I don’t know: it came out as you read it. I have no literary ambitions whatsoever in this genre, but I like it, it amuses me, it allows me to exercise and stretch both mentally and in my writing, to try my hand at a different style, one that isn’t nonfiction. So, here it is.

There’s something pleasurable about writing a story, inventing places, events, and characters. Sometimes there’s also the pleasure of representing them through the lens of our own personal experience, our own subjective point of view, like a landscape seen through the eyes of a painter who captured it on canvas.

I thank Claudia for her willingness to allow me to paint her as I see her: I hope I have done her justice.

Then there’s Gianluca, who specifically asked me, perhaps out of envy of Claudia, to appear in the story. He told me at the right time, and it was natural to include him in the narrative.

Agatino is a special person, a friend. I couldn’t help but include him, given his significant role in recent months.

Aside from them, the characters in this story are figments of my imagination. And even if they weren’t, they are, given that my memory of them oscillates between memory and dreamlike recollections.

The circumstances. The stories. The ending. Then it all slipped out of my control, and the finished story was born, which, as often happens, surprised me first.

The aim of my brief effort is to pleasantly entertain the reader, transmitting to him a bit of the lightheartedness that I was first seeking when I began writing this story.

Happy reading.

G ²

 

CONTENTS

The Night… until dawn

Reception 2040 – A SHORT TALE

 

 THE NIGHT…

until dawn

Prologue

I hadn’t been back to my city, Catania, for years.

Nothing tied me to these places anymore. With the death of my parents, there were no other loved ones left, no true friends to visit, no place with memories to relive.

I rented a small apartment for six months in one of the city’s neighborhoods sandwiched between the seedy and the elite. It was for convenience, but above all, for financial reasons. I had chosen it online before leaving.

I met with the owner and paid the entire rent in advance, in cash, and this seemed to shock him, even arouse his suspicions. I reassured him in every way, mentioning the reason for my stay and making it clear that the lease would end within that timeframe. Perhaps sooner, but in that case, I wouldn’t ask for a refund.

Sicily is extraordinarily beautiful. Despite everything, I couldn’t be truly sad about that forced trip. I would soon be able to make it enjoyable, without too much difficulty. I was certain of this as I walked through the center, strolled along the seafront, and finally, reflected on those same rocks that were there even when I was just a boy. And I thought: and they will be here even when I’m no longer here.

The time of year was perfect: late spring in a warm May. Soon the warm weather would arrive, which I hoped wouldn’t be too scorching, as it sometimes is, and I could go to the beach, my passion since I was a boy. There, I had found something I’d missed about my hometown.

I know. The arrival had been cold and uninvolving. But in a couple of days I’d be moving around again and feeling at home again.

That evening, after unpacking my suitcase, I sipped coffee on the apartment’s small balcony. It was on the fourth floor. From the internal balcony, the only view I had was of the surrounding buildings. Sad as only those seventies-era buildings can be. Yet teeming with life. In the warm-hued sunset, I could hear the cries of mothers shouting at their listless children. Some were listening to music a little louder, but it was good music and not annoying. Across from me, an old man was leaning out, like me, wearing one of those vest tops with suspenders so characteristic of men of a certain age. When our eyes met, he smiled and waved as he came back inside. I gladly returned the greeting, pleasantly surprised by the gesture, but also by the welcome my homeland was giving me, all things considered. In the end, I realized, she didn’t seem so annoyed that I had abandoned her without remorse. I felt forgiven and welcomed back.

Even though it wasn’t my bed, I slept really well that night. The next morning, I would be ready to begin my new adventure.

Chapter 1

An old villa just outside the center of Catania. I was there for what was supposed to be my job interview, with the deliberate posture of a disillusioned and tired man.

Here in Sicily, it’s hard to find work, even for a young man, let alone someone over fifty. Here, however, I had a real chance. It was one of those jobs that no one wants: night porter.

Whether I liked it or not, I had little choice.

Of all the frames I could have given to that unexpected professional development, that was the most interesting.

Even though it was daytime, the evocative beauty of that majestic building struck me. The windows with their elegantly crafted stonework. The frames and their height betrayed the building’s age.

It was a late 19th-century villa. Well-kept, or so it seemed from the outside.

I timidly entered through a creaky door, also of extraordinary elegance, which immediately led me to the reception. There, I introduced myself and told them about my appointment for a job interview with Dr. I Don’tRememberTheName.

A blonde girl with an intense gaze and a very polite but determined voice told me to wait a moment until the doctor was free. From the confident manner in which she moved, I assumed she was the facility’s manager, also based on the tone in which she instructed a second girl to inform the doctor of my presence.

“My name is Giovanni di Guardo,” I added, realizing that I had omitted the detail and that I hadn’t been asked.

I was ignored.

I looked around.

Stunning marble adorned the large doors that opened onto corridors marvelously embellished with stucco and artistic decorations of a timeless beauty and taste. A large 19th-century piece of carved wood dominated the hall, alongside objects that paid homage to contemporary technology.

My thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the girl from before.

“Please, have a seat.”

“Which way?” I asked.

Visibly bored by my question, the girl hardened her tone of voice.

“The doctor is waiting for you here on the right.”

I didn’t hear what he added next, but I understood that he had muttered something unkind to himself that must have concerned me.

I entered a room a little further on of extraordinary size and elegance, also decorated with stucco and classical wall paintings and with a large grand piano in the center of the room.

A woman in her forties, very friendly and good-looking, invited me to sit on a sofa that was also classic, antique in style, but in perfect condition.

I was seduced by that beautiful environment.

“I am the director of the facility and this is my husband,” she added as a man visibly older than her, though clearly in excellent physical shape, approached and, extending his hand, shook mine with unexpected energy.

I had a very simple interview, where the most important thing was my experience in the field. But I didn’t, and this left the couple visibly disappointed. Then I made a stupid mistake: I asked what the salary was.

At my absurd request, the man’s face in particular became one of profound perplexity. Meanwhile, the director wasted no time in proudly informing me.

The room was originally like this, before the arrangement of the furniture and the piano was adapted to the needs of the activity.

“Our employees are all paid union wages.”

“Okay, but how much is it?” I asked.

It’s important to understand that in Sicily, salary is never asked during an interview. It’s almost considered offensive to potential employers. The idea is that, at their sole discretion, once they’ve assessed your work ability, they’ll pay you what they deem fair.

Her husband cut her off sharply: “We’ll give you everything you deserve, rest assured. If you get hired.”

He got up and left without adding anything else.

The doctor took some notes in the folder on her lap.

«Thank you, Mr. Guardo…»

“Di Guardo,” I clarified. “The ‘d’ is lowercase.”

“Yes, whatever you say. Anyway, I have a lot to do. If you’d like a coffee, come in,” he said, pointing to the small café behind him.

I really needed a coffee.

As I was leaving, my future employer instructed the man behind the counter to make me a coffee.

“Have you been working here long?” I asked the man when we were alone, me in front of a steaming cup of espresso, him behind the counter.

“Two years,” he replied bluntly, placing a paper cup of extraordinarily strong coffee in front of me. Somehow, I sensed a sense of the sooner you go, the better.

“And how do you find yourself here?”

“That’s it. I haven’t found anything better so far. The work is hard and the pay is low. One of these days I’ll drop everything and go up to my cousin in Belgium.”

Encouraging.

There was little to add to such a clear picture as that.

Of course, I noticed the great contrast with the beauty of the place, the atmosphere I expected in a hotel and the attitude of the employees.

At the reception I tried to greet the girl I had seen at the beginning.

“Can I ask you something?” I said, while she was behind a computer screen at a desk.

“Say,” he said without even looking up.

“Is the hotel three stars?”

I wish I had never said that.

The girl stood up, walked around the desk with an almost feline movement, and came purposefully toward me. Instinctively, I took a step back.

“You’re kidding, right? Does this look like a three-star hotel to you?”

For the first time she spoke to me looking me straight in the eyes and I saw behind her fiery gaze how beautiful she was.

“Four?”

“Well done, four stars.” He returned to his desk, this time muttering words he deliberately made clear. “Always hiring incompetents to work. And then I have to explain things and fix their mistakes.”

The warm welcome of that structure hadn’t managed to mitigate the charm that ancient house held for me. And that it would have in the nights to come.

It was clear, however, that I had no hope of getting that job, and perhaps, after what I’d seen, even in such a short time, I wouldn’t even be interested. Unfortunately, I had no choice.

I walked down those steps and looked with sorrow at those beautiful courtyards transformed into a vulgar parking lot, imagining how years ago, in other times, they must have been places of meeting and relaxation.

I’d been a boy out of touch with time when I was young. Now that I was no longer young, my manners and tastes were attributed to my age, making me seem somehow more normal.

My car was parked just outside those courtyards. A ticket on my windshield finally forced me to notice what I’d initially overlooked: the no-parking sign.

Two days passed slowly, filled with relaxation and reading, walks, and a pleasant encounter, which I’ll tell you about later.

“Good morning. I’m Doctor…”

“Good morning, doctor, tell me.”

“If you’re still interested, the position is still open. But was there really a need for me to be solicited by a phone call to offer you the job?”

“I didn’t want to miss this opportunity.”

“Since he cares so much about it, the job is his then.”

“Thanks. When do I start?”

“Tonight too. He’ll have someone to look after him until he’s able to be independent.”

“Perfect. I can’t wait to get started,” I said, trying to convey enthusiasm.

“Starts at 11, finishes at 7. Make sure you arrive a few minutes early to pick up deliveries.”

 

 

Chapter 2

Agatino greeted me with a sincere smile and a warm handshake, like an old friend. As we Catanians are wont to do, he kissed me affectionately on both cheeks. These were habits I’d outgrown, and I confess I must have seemed a bit stiff and distant at first. But we quickly became friends.

He was thrilled with my arrival. He hadn’t had any days off or vacations for over two months. I was his hope of being able to sleep in his bed next to his wife for a few nights.

Agatino embodied all the beauty that can be found in the heart of a Catanese. And I don’t say this lightly, but with full knowledge of the facts.

The Catanian is a man who can surprise you. For better or worse. In a land of extremes, between water and fire, between the sea and the volcano, you’ll find few nuances and many bright, distinct colors.

Agatino was named after the city’s saint, Agatha. Although I’d never been particularly interested in venerating other human beings, I’d always loved that name. I associated it with people who had borne it with honor. Among them was Agatino. I don’t think it was a coincidence that Agatha in Greek meant “good.”

The great care he took in explaining every detail to me with enthusiasm, in portraying his colleagues with great affection and respect, and the owner as a man of extraordinary generosity, already gave me an idea of ​​the kind of person he was. Optimistic, simple but decisive and sincere; determined but not competitive in his work; loyal and honest.

Then an unexpected detail. That same first night, we discovered he was a cousin of a high school classmate of mine. In a flash, we called out all the names of our mutual acquaintances. And I thought about how small that town really was. A detail I hoped wouldn’t hurt. But I immediately felt quite confident, given my new friend’s discretion. A man who knew how to communicate but didn’t pry into other people’s lives. The questions were few and very discreet. Perhaps I was the one asking more about personal details of his life.

For about four nights we alternated between purely professional conversations in front of the computer monitor and the papers on the desk and memories of places and people we had in common during the breaks that the duration of a cigarette smoked on those May nights, which were very pleasant in the open air, allowed us.

Working nights has a significant drawback: you’re almost always alone. In the hotel, a few guests might stay to chat a little longer, but by a certain hour, there’s no one around. This made the time spent chatting especially pleasant. With a touch of regret that, since we’d be taking turns at night, we’d no longer have the opportunity to spend time together, reminiscing about our school days and old friendships and habits. We were almost the same age, and after a certain age, nostalgia is almost obligatory.

When the hotel wasn’t full, which happened on the third night, Agatino was finally able to show me the rooms.

The furnishings didn’t disappoint me; they were very reminiscent of the period in which the building was built, or at most, the early 1900s. It must have cost a fortune if everything hadn’t been inherited along with the building itself.

Wandering through the lower floors, where the laundry, staff restrooms, restaurant, kitchen, and locked rooms to which we had no access were located, was an unusual experience. Those long corridors, with their sudden turns. The dim lights at night. The furnishings, old wardrobes, and mirrors. Everything had an air of something mysterious, like those places where ghost stories or horror films are set. Going down there with Agatino was even a little fun. But it was less so on the following nights, when I was forced to do so to reach the staff restrooms.

I had never asked the usual question that I’m sure anyone starting night shifts in a facility asks themselves.

“In an environment like this, it’s obligatory to ask you if you’ve ever seen anything strange, unusual…”

For a few moments, Agatino said nothing. He placed the papers in front of him in their folder, while I followed him with my gaze.

“This is where you enter the reservations we’ve extracted from the system, strictly in the order of guest arrival.”

“Okay,” I said.

I kept looking at him.

“You don’t have to worry. I’m not sure what I saw. Others told me they saw an elegant lady. I may have glimpsed her a few times. I tried to reach her, because she was never close, but I lost track of her at the first corner of the corridor. So I don’t know what to tell you.”

He didn’t know what to say, and neither did I. So we said nothing. We continued our nightly stroll outside after answering some emails and having coffee.

“Don’t worry,” he says, I thought, “easier said than done.”

We worked together for a few nights, promising ourselves we wouldn’t lose touch somehow. And then I started working my regular shifts alone.

With few doubts behind me and a great hurry to complete my work, I began my nights alone, which turned out, I must say, to be much more interesting than I could have imagined.

 

Chapter 3

No two nights are the same. They never last the same length. They never have the same silence.

Sometimes you’re so sleepy that a chair feels like a king-size bed . Other times you’re so awake you can’t wait for dawn.

How many characters have come and gone in the night, only to disappear during the day. And sometimes, when you think about them in the light of day, you’re not even entirely sure they really existed.

That night, Gennaro and Assunta came downstairs arguing. Assunta ran away, and Gennaro chased after her. “Aro vaje?” he said, almost growling, grabbing her by the arm.

“You’re hurting me!” she said, turning toward him with a visible grimace of pain on her face and a trembling, frightened voice.

The two men’s voices drew me into the hall, where I witnessed what was happening. It was around three o’clock, perhaps the most difficult time of the night; in fact, I was about to doze off in my chair when I heard them and rushed over.

At the sight of me, the boy let go of her arm and, without needing to say anything to my annoyed look, besides loosening his grip on the girl, added: “Sorry, a little argument. Now let’s go back to the room.”

“I’m not going back to my room with you, I’m staying here tonight,” said the girl, curling up on the sofa in the large living room.

“You’re an idiot,” the boy growled.

The girl was petite, barely five feet tall, dark-haired, with the dark complexion of someone who’d spent several days on our Sicilian beaches. She wore a simple dress that accentuated her femininity.

To make up for it, and to cast doubt on her taste, were some awful shoes, those wedges, like sandals. And her boyfriend, partner, or whatever he was, who, whatever he was, wasn’t much of a figure.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked, looking from her to him.

“Make me a cocktail, something strong,” he said. The girl’s face scrunched up in disinterest.

I opened the bar door and they both followed me inside. The bar was closed at that hour, but I figured that precisely because of this, the screams from their argument would be further contained by more walls.

The girl returned to squat on one of the sofas available in the large room dedicated to the bar.

“I can give you a glass of prosecco at most,” I said, immediately dashing my host’s alcoholic aspirations.

«Oh well!!!»

Now they were both silent. She had started checking her phone, nervously moving her legs, feet, hands, everything. He was drinking calmly, looking at her.

Her body language, and his too, said it all.

Then, finally, the silence was broken: “Jamm, let’s go up to the room.”

“No,” a dry, decisive one, from her.

So he looks at me and says, “Am I right or am I right that he’s an idiot?”

I’d been asking for it, more or less consciously. Now I’d ended up in the middle of their argument.

“He’s cheating on me,” the girl said.

I don’t know where such ostentatious certainty came from, but looking at him as he nodded, I said, “No, I don’t believe it. He’s a good guy. You’re just jealous, that’s all. I think he loves you, it shows.”

“And how do you see it?”

The question took me by surprise.

“The way he chases you. He cares about you.”

“He only cares about his own business and his own money.”

The boy kept nodding. And I thought, “Say something.”

“Jamm, let’s go up.” It was all he could say, completely ignoring the girl’s words.

“He’s having an affair with this girl,” the girl continued, “she’s not as beautiful as me, and he gets pissed off even if I tell him I don’t want to be in this situation, in this mess, anymore. The wife is fine, the kids are fine, but now I have to share him with someone else too? No. No!”

The picture was beginning to take shape in all its squalor. An explanation, and perhaps even a justification, would have been in order, both towards her and, to a certain extent, towards me. The boy sensed my right more than the girl’s.

“But do you understand it? I don’t.”

This interjection of the Neapolitan “voi” is so distinctive. I’ve always liked it. Perhaps I find it nicer than the common use of “lei” (formal formality) found throughout almost the rest of the peninsula. It also somehow denotes the immutability of certain details that Naples cannot sacrifice for Italian unification.

“She’s my lover and she’s more of a pain in the ass than my wife. But what do I want? Not even my wife dares to take an interest in my personal life. I know what I do and why I do it.”

I was summarizing it all in my mind. He’s married. The girl here isn’t his girlfriend, but his lover. She’s complaining because he has someone else besides her, and his main problem is the lack of time for her due to this third person’s presence.

In these cases, upon hearing news like this, how should a little man like me, who can’t even find decent company to go out for pizza, feel?

My reflections were interrupted by the apparent calm between the two men, who began cursing each other in their dialect. I understood very little. At one point, she actually tried to hit him. He began laughing and covering his face and head from the blows she was giving him.

“Do you feel better now that you’ve let it all out?” he asked when she calmed down, panting.

“Maybe so,” he replied.

“Come on, let’s go buy some cigarettes.”

“And let’s go.”

As if I were now transparent, the two walked away.

As I said before, things happen at night that sometimes you can’t quite figure out whether you actually experienced them or imagined them. Were those two real or a hallucination?

About half an hour after the hallucination, he returned. They were joking and laughing. They headed for their room after quickly saying “goodnight” and “thanks for the prosecco.”

I whispered in disbelief: “It would actually be five euros.”

I added immediately, not having the courage to alter the joyful epilogue of the “couple”: “The house is on offer.”

Both of my statements were totally ignored.

And silence reclaimed its territory. I myself moved with the utmost respect for that air of suspense.

As I was busy with the formalities that were required for the hotel’s morning opening, I turned around at a certain point and noticed a figure at the desk who was silently waiting for me to notice her so she could speak to me.

I approached. For a few minutes I couldn’t speak, and I was captivated by that figure of a woman, beautiful, wrapped in an ethereal red dress. Her hair was long and black, a deep black. Her eyes were pale blue and magnetic. Her face was delicate, beautiful, with pale skin.

“Good evening, please.”

“I think I have a problem in my room. Can you come with me for a moment?”

“What’s your room number?”

«I’m in the platinum suite»

“Just give me two minutes and I’ll be right there. Thank you for your patience.”

I watched her as she walked away. I noticed the delicacy of her movements, her gait, and that she was barefoot. Her long dress seemed to move with her.

He turned to give me a look, which made an impression on me and seemed like an irresistible call.

I quickly finished filing and headed towards the suite section of the hotel.

On the third floor, the Silver Suite on the left, the Platinum Suite on the right. A long corridor ran around the perimeter of the building’s courtyard. I turned right and walked along it until I found myself back at the starting point of my journey. No door, no Platinum Suite.

I returned to the reception desk perplexed.

I was new and had no intention of making this mistake right away. I searched the keys, but there was no box for a platinum suite.

I went to the floor plan of the building. Forty rooms and two suites, one silver and one gold; no sign of a platinum.

It was already five o’clock, my colleagues would arrive soon.

At half past five, the breakfast girls arrived. I asked them, but they said they knew nothing. The building’s maintenance man was more colorful in his response:

“But who are you telling me about!? If you don’t know, you at the reception, I have to know? But who’s got a man!?”

The first to arrive was Claudia, a little after seven.

“Claudia, good morning. Do we have a platinum suite?”

She looked at me sleepily and visibly annoyed by my question.

“Wait here while I change. Don’t be like last time. You’re not to leave until I tell you to. Okay?”

He disappeared, heading for the elevators.

She returned a few minutes later and it was as if she had undergone a metamorphosis: the sleepy girl in her casual, almost summery dress was now wearing the elegant hotel uniform, and had given way to an elegant manager ready to tackle any problem like a soldier in the trenches.

“Tell me,” he said, standing in front of me.

“Do we have a platinum suite?”

“Tell me you’re joking, please.”

“I’m not kidding. Last night a lady came downstairs and told me she had a problem with her room and that she was in the Platinum Suite.”

“So the problem is yours. Do you see a platinum suite here among the boxes? Is there a platinum suite on the third floor by any chance? No. So the platinum suite is in your head.”

Claudia’s logic and peremptoriness left little room for “ifs” and “buts”.

“I must have misunderstood.”

“You’ve probably misunderstood. Now please hand over the orders to me and then go get some rest. I don’t think you can handle a whole night awake.”

“Perhaps”

 

 

Chapter 4

MJ arrived at night, very late.

That English woman, in her forties, with a wonderful British accent, stood before me with a smile and a heavy breath. She had curly, blonde hair, not too long, and large, pale blue eyes.

«Good evening. I have a reservation»

«Good evening. Your name please?”

«MB».

«I have no reservation under that name»

«I see. Sorry, they must have given you my author’s name. MJ”

«Are you an author? »

«Yes, I am»

«So cool»

All my American rudeness clashed with the elegance of his English.

I checked the documentation.

«I have good news for you, you have a reservation here»

«Good, so I won’t have to sleep under a bridge»

«I would never let such a thing happen. Also, I doubt you would find any bridge easily here in Catania»

I checked in quickly, noticing how tired the new arrival was. I helped her carry her suitcase to the room. It wasn’t mandatory, but I thought it was a nice touch when the circumstances allowed, especially with a lady. Especially if she was so interesting and the journey gave me the opportunity to engage in some conversation.

What she told me piqued my curiosity about her. She was a poet and writer, certainly an interesting character. I told her I also wrote something every now and then, but she didn’t seem interested. I wondered how many people introduced themselves to her as writers. I was just a night porter with literary ambitions: I think I struck her as a cliché. Or maybe she was simply tired. Or, another possibility, her British coolness had overcome any possible facial expression or commentary.

Back in the small office next to the desk, I began an online search to find out how famous this self-proclaimed writer was.

She hadn’t boasted. It was there, on dozens of web pages, on Amazon. Her readings of poetry and literature were on various YouTube channels. She had worked at the BBC and was a well-regarded English literature teacher.

I went to see one of his poems in particular, which seemed to have received some success and several awards. I read it. I printed it. And then, almost instinctively, I began to translate it.

It was truly beautiful, but not easy to understand. I began reading it and making notes in the margins. As I translated it, I noted the ambiguities in the English text and the possible interpretations.

I lost track of time. And by the time I finished this task, it was already morning and I was behind with all the work I had to do.

I made an envelope with my notes, the translation, my cell phone number, and my email address. I wrote my room number on the envelope.

Claudia was also taking over for me that morning.

“Good morning. How was your night? Did you see any ghosts this time too?”

“Good morning. No. But I have a problem. Get changed and then we’ll talk about it.”

“No, let’s talk about it now.”

“Okay. I wasn’t able to finish all the work, sorry. There are still some prints to process and I couldn’t…”

“And why?”

“Choose the excuse that moves you most. I was too tired and fell asleep. Some guests kept me busy with their problems and I didn’t get to the end. Or perhaps a guest somehow caught my attention and I got caught up in some specific research.

Claudia was very clear about where she wanted me to go immediately, a one-way trip. She headed toward the locker room, commenting on the incident in words I prefer not to transcribe.

I’d finally learned that, on the one hand, Claudia was accustomed to complaining, but on the other, whenever there was a snag or something to resolve, a colleague to cover for, or something to do, she didn’t need to be told twice; she’d take charge and solve the problem. She returned in uniform moments later, to get right to work and complete the procedures I’d overlooked.

His words were clear and direct: get out of my sight, go to sleep.

“Listen, one last thing. This envelope is for 208. Please give it to her as soon as she gets down. Thank you.”

“Stop breathing the air around me. Your shift’s over, clock in and go. Have a good day.”

The way she said things made me smile. She was half my age and treated me like the incompetent kid in the situation. Incompetent I was, not a kid. But in her own way, she was somehow protective and made sure not all the stupid things I did didn’t come to light.

Like that time I’d sent a customer away without paying, trusting her word. She called me to check in after the fact. She told me she’d managed to track him down and arrange an instant transfer. While she’d used a strong tone and rude manner for minor matters, intentionally designed for some kind of didactic purpose I wasn’t sure what, for issues like this, which were truly important, her words were very accommodating: “Be careful next time, please, okay? Have a nice day, Gio.”

This aspect of Claudia destabilized me.

I had three days off, relaxing. I intended to enjoy some sun and sea. Nothing else.

MJ’s email surprised me on the one hand, and, on the other, I was kind of expecting it. In fact, I’d actually prompted it, more or less implicitly, with what I’d written. She told me she was very impressed by my comments on her poetry and fascinated by the translation I’d made, that it might be a good idea to translate her work into Italian. She explained that she’d been warned that many “English” things might be misunderstood here, but, anyway, without ulterior motives, she invited me to go out with her to discuss her poems, the possibility of translating them, etc. I said I hadn’t misunderstood, and we arranged to meet that same afternoon, making it clear, however, that I preferred to meet outside, not at the hotel.

It was her first time in Sicily. Hers was a trip away from stress and busy schedules. She confessed to me that it was also a voluntary separation from her partner. One of those things women do when they want to understand things we men have no idea exist in a relationship.

I took her to Aci Trezza, a place that enchanted her. It enchanted me too, and I’d always gone there whenever I could when I was a boy. It was one of those places that had undergone little change, except for small tweaks for the better.

Accompanied by those places, she told me a lot about her experiences and the reasons for her trip. She was keen to make it clear right away that she wasn’t looking for adventure or anything else, just relaxation. I made it clear that I wasn’t looking for adventure either, and especially not for complications. With this background, relaxed by the absence of any possible tension between man and woman, our conversations were intense, focused on poetry, art, the places she came from—Wales—and the magnificence of Sicily.

My English perplexed her, given that I didn’t have a trace of an Italian accent. I confessed to her that I was only half Italian and that my mother was American. I had never lived in the US but had been there for a while when my grandparents were still alive. She confessed that she wasn’t crazy about Americans. And we were even, because I challenged her in every way about the linguistic problems of British English. To no avail, of course. She insisted on calling “pavement” what I called “sidewalk .” She showed no signs of giving up, and neither did I. But we both liked Sting and Bob Dylan.

On our way back to the hotel, I suggested she come with me to see Catania’s city center at night. But she was tired and told me she’d prefer to go to bed early. At first, I thought my outgoing manner and my smooth talk had bored her, but that wasn’t the case, and she herself asked if I’d like to meet up the next day too. She hadn’t planned anything special, no tour, so I offered to take her to Taormina. She was thrilled, to say the least.

We met again the next day, around ten o’clock, and left, heading first to Giardini Naxos, where we had lunch, and then to Taormina, where we spent the afternoon and evening.

The beauty of these places is truly evocative. The terrace in Taormina, overlooking the sea and offering a glimpse of Mount Etna, offers a marvelous, enchanting view. It had only taken a day for her face to become more serene, and even her speech, rhythmic and rapid, had now become more linear and slow.

«I see you are already more relaxed» [1]

“It must be the effect of this sea, of the sky. It’s all so bright, warm… So different from home. My body and mind haven’t been this at peace with the world in a long time.”

I know, there’s something inexplicable about this land that can heal your soul. I think it’s the sun, the view of the sea. The sky so clear and blue. And you chose the right time of year. It’s not hot, but it’s not cold either. I love spring in Sicily.

As often happened, she said nothing. She let me do the talking. She was clearly just enjoying her utter carefree attitude and this new friendship that had sprung up by chance, like most of the good things in life, which, thankfully, sometimes has a way of pleasantly surprising us.

What struck me about her during her stay was the almost coldness of her manner, the detachment I felt, which I attributed to her British nature. Here, we’re all warmer and more affectionate. She wouldn’t even offer a handshake when she said goodbye in the evening.

Yet that last day we spent together was different. Perhaps the nostalgia that should have surfaced only the next day had decided to come a little earlier, and it was evident in some changes in his manner.

On the way from the hotel to the airport, he was visibly sad. His silence had different nuances. There wasn’t that look of longing for my next explanation of the characteristics of my country or the character of my people. He was sad. It was the look of someone who longs for a reason to stay. The look of someone who feels like they’re ending a vacation. We’ve all been there, right? Arrival is full of expectations. Departure brings with it a touch of bitterness. Who wouldn’t extend their vacation by a week, even if only for a few days, given the chance?

“You’ll come back,” I told her.

“I will certainly do it,” he added in a tone that revealed all the sadness I had only sensed in the air until then.

What shocked me most was her unexpected hug before we got our bags out of the car. And even more so, her text message while she was on board, telling me she’d miss me.

For some time, we corresponded, discussing our mutual passion for creative writing, and poetry in particular. But over time, we stopped speaking frequently. It gives me joy to think that that trip helped build the happiness and stability that he pursued and achieved in the months that followed.

 

Chapter 5

It took a while to find the original plan of the structure. It was necessary to produce it due to various safety regulations.

Now, the entire palace was built around a courtyard. Each floor had a corridor that ran the entire perimeter of the courtyard. The rooms opened onto this common passageway, which was quite spacious and equipped with benches and vending machines for drinks and other products.

On the third floor, the two suites were located one to the right and the other to the left of the corridor and occupied a good part of its length, each ending in a large terrace.

But there was an area about which nothing was mentioned, where there should have been nothing, but where there couldn’t possibly have been nothing: no room, no room, no entrance. From the outside, the wall was windowless. The fire safety plans, however, seemed to prove otherwise and designated that area as a “clearance room.” The technicians’ report didn’t mention it.

Something wasn’t right. Something didn’t convince me.

For a couple of nights I tried to see if I could track down the purchase deeds among the documents in the office, but they were nowhere to be found.

The land registry documentation was recent, specifically used for safety compliance. It didn’t take a technical expert to notice that a room the size of a comfortable suite existed, but for some reason it was hidden by the official documentation and access was blocked.

«You are close to the truth» [2]

The voice was that of the same woman who had appeared at reception a few days earlier.

A shiver ran through me and I hesitated to look up to see if it was her.

She appeared to me in all her ethereal beauty, as she had the first time. Her sweet face, her musical speech, and the elegant movements of her face and hands.

“What truth?”

“I’m certainly not the one to spoil the surprise, but since you’re so close, would you mind if I helped you? Would you mind if I showed you a little more than meets the eye?”

The desk was full of papers, papers that had to disappear from there before morning came.

“What’s wrong in the room now?”

“You’re a smart person, you know it was a pretext to get your attention.”

“My attention on what? And why me?”

I looked at her face and felt an immense sense of serenity, even as I was captivated by the intensity of her gaze. Her expression was reassuring and serene.

 

“Good evening, is there anyone at the reception?”

A man’s voice from the desk rose to get my attention.

“I’ll be right back, I’ll see what they want from me.”

I left the office, closing the door so as not to reveal the many papers crowding my desk.

«Good evening, tell me»

“Could you get me something to drink? Anything. A whiskey. A cocktail.”

“The bar is closed, sorry.”

«Couldn’t you make an exception?»

And he put fifty euros on the desk.

“Look, if I could, I’d do it without needing this kind of incentive, believe me. If you want, I have some bottles of beer or sparkling wine, or Prosecco.”

“A beer is fine.”

«Follow me»

I quickly opened the bar and after his initial disappointment when I told him which beers we had, he opted for two Ceres.

We went back to the desk and paid.

“Can I ask you a question?”

And I thought, “Do it, but hurry!”

“Can I sit by the pool?”

“Of course you can,” I screamed in my mind, “just go away and you can do whatever you want.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Thank you so much. At least I’ll have a place to rest for a bit tonight.”

This last expression of hers would have deserved some further exploration, but that wasn’t the right time. So I returned to the office, but she was no longer there.

I went back to looking at the papers, thinking back to the mysterious woman’s words. But I had to put everything back in its place immediately, because it was already late and I had to complete my night rounds and print the last documents for the morning.

 

Chapter 6

The distance between shifts was too long. Somehow, my mind drifted away from that reality and struggled to re-adjust to those atmospheres and remember both the reason I was actually there and my curiosity and the little investigation that had followed.

A month had passed now and at that point the only thing I could do was hope that my mysterious nighttime guest would appear again.

In the meantime, I’d also started working on my relationship. I still had a little over a month to wrap everything up and get back to normal. If there was anything normal about my life.

Then there were all those formalities that took up my precious time. Delayed arrivals and unfinished paperwork during the day made the job a little more complicated than I’d liked, but I usually managed to finish by two.

That new night, the first after seven days, was marked by the encounter with two nice English women.

They were mother and daughter, I discovered later. During my nighttime rounds, I found them sitting at one of the tables in the internal courtyard next to the bar.

That evening I would have liked to devote myself to something else but they were the ones who caught my attention.

“Excuse me, sir, do you happen to have any other sparkling wine?” asked the mother in Italian with a strong English accent.

They were holding almost empty glasses in their hands and a bottle of prosecco on the table which the girl, a little tipsy to tell the truth, turned upside down to make me understand that it was empty.

“Unfortunately the bar is closed at this time.”

“What a shame,” the girl added, also speaking in Italian and with an even stronger English accent than her mother’s. “Today’s my mom’s birthday, you know? We’re here to celebrate. But now that we’ve run out of wine… How sad.”

“If I may say so, from the way you look, it seems to me that you’ve already had enough to drink.”

And the mother added, “It’s never enough.” And she burst into a loud laugh. Her daughter’s was less loud, thankfully.

“I think my research will have to be delayed for another day,” I thought.

“I don’t want to ruin your birthday.”

My statement made their faces light up.

I motioned for him to follow me silently. I opened the bar and we entered the large hall.

The girl refused the glass of wine, but her mother welcomed it enthusiastically.

“Congratulations,” I said. “This is on the house.”

“How kind,” added the girl.

«Mom, this is the last one you drink. You had enough, okay?” he added, speaking to his mother.

«You’re boring, just like your father. It is my birthday.”

«Your birthday was yesterday, it is 3:30 am mom»

The mother seemed rather disappointed by that correct observation.

At a certain age, the roles are reversed. Children become wiser than their parents, who, in some ways, perhaps regress in a vain attempt to reclaim those years they know they can, unfortunately, never return.

“Do you live in Italy?” I asked in English.

“So you speak English,” the girl said, but in Italian.

“Yes,” I added, insisting on my English.

“You have a good accent.”

“My mom was American,” I clarified.

“Ah. Now let me explain,” he replied in English this time. The entire conversation would continue in that language.

“I live in Italy. She doesn’t, she stayed in London,” said the mother.

“My dad is Italian,” added the girl.

“And you came to Italy to visit your parents…” I concluded.

“No, no. My dad is Italian but lives in London.”

“We’re divorced,” added the mother.

I sat next to the girl. She had a very beautiful face, illuminated by a certain elegance in her speech, both in Italian and English. She was noticeably overweight, and in a certain sense, perhaps I understood the reason for her personal discomfort, which perhaps manifested itself in her relationship with food. The amateur detective in me was picking through the few clues.

“Could I have another?” the woman said, waving the empty glass in front of me.

“Sure,” I said, getting a look of obvious disapproval from the girl. To which I responded with a

“Today is his birthday, come on.”

“Yesterday,” she clarified. “Yesterday was his birthday.”

I quickly poured the prosecco and sat down next to the girl, intrigued by her person.

“Let me get this straight. Your mother is English and married an Italian. They divorced. You and your father live in London. But she lives in Italy.”

«I also have a sister who lives in Birmingham»

“I’m with an Italian, in Sardinia,” her mother added. “Italy is beautiful, the sun, the sea, the food, I love everything about Italy. By the way, my name is Helen.”

“And I’m Elisabeth,” added her daughter. “But everyone calls me Lisa.”

I introduced myself too, shaking hands with both of them.

An atmosphere of extreme cordiality and relaxation had been created, as only the night can create.

I sat back down next to the girl.

“As soon as I saw you, you looked like sisters to me.”

“I had her when I was 18. I’d say it was a youthful mistake if it weren’t for the fact that she’s a wonderful daughter, of whom I’m truly proud.”

I believe that alcohol influenced the unnatural loquacity of our English hostess.

“I think my mother is completely drunk.”

 

“And is that a bad thing?”

«Maybe not»

“What a nice young man. Lisa, why don’t you exchange numbers?”

“Mom!” he exclaimed, looking at Helen. “I take back what I said: it’s bad,” he added calmly, speaking to me. “I have a boyfriend, but she keeps trying to throw me into the arms of every Italian we’ve ever met.”

“Italians do it better,” Helen said, downing the rest of her glass of wine. “Another! Another, please. The last one, I swear. Then I’m going to sleep.”

I looked at Lisa as if seeking a nod, which came unexpectedly. I poured Helen some more wine, and she walked away, approaching the window, looking suddenly melancholic.

“So you’re engaged. Nice. For a long time?”

“We’ve been dating for a few months and are thinking about moving in together.”

She too had suddenly become more thoughtful, and that last statement lacked the enthusiasm one would expect when announcing such an important event for a couple.

“If I may ask, you don’t seem all that enthusiastic. Is something wrong?”

“I’m a little scared”

“It’s normal”

«I’m coming from a bad experience»

She was really sad now. She seemed to be immersed in painful memories. Perhaps under other circumstances she wouldn’t have mentioned it. Maybe it was the time, or the fact that I was a stranger she’d never see again…

“Cedric was a wonderful guy, maybe too wonderful for me. Handsome, intelligent. For me, it was a dream, living a love story with him. I looked at him and couldn’t believe he was with me. Look at me, I’m not much. I just can’t lose weight. But he said he loved me, and I believed it. We moved in together, and I was happy.”

“It didn’t end well, did it?”

“No”

“I am sorry”

“Calm”

I didn’t ask anything and didn’t expect her to add anything. She continued her story herself.

I hadn’t understood anything. I hadn’t suspected anything. Or maybe I didn’t want to, to imagine anything. Anyway, one evening, returning home from work, Cedrik had taken everything away. He’d left only a little note in the kitchen, on the table, a yellow Post-it that said “Forgive me.”

“And you haven’t seen each other? Haven’t you cleared things up?”

“It all became clear when I saw him holding hands with a beautiful girl, slim and tall like him. The girl who deserved to be by his side. It’s not his fault it didn’t work out.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Yes, I am. How could I have thought a guy like him could be with someone like me?”

“Why do you say that?”

“But did you see me well?”

“You’re a beautiful girl, you have a gorgeous face.”

“Kids today don’t care about their faces. I’m too fat.”

“Have you tried any diets?”

«I’ve tried everything»

Somehow, I thought the conversation had ended there. I felt immense tenderness for that sweet girl with the gentle voice, trapped in a body she didn’t want and couldn’t rebel against. But I couldn’t blame her.

“What if I told you I went through something similar to what you say?”

“But you’re normal. Were you fat before?”

“No, but I’ve experienced something similar. I was with a girl I loved deeply, like you, a little too concerned with her appearance.”

“Fat like me?”

He said it with contempt. It’s horrible not being able to accept yourself.

“I really liked my girlfriend, but her inner torment over her appearance—not her looks!—destroyed our relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

I liked her the way she was. If I must confess, I find curvy women much more attractive than thin ones. But for her, it was a constant drama. And her dislike of herself, her obsession with her weight, to the point of making it a constant drama, made her unbearable. The weirdest thing is that I don’t think she even realized it, that she still remained with the idea that our relationship ended because she was overweight.

“And that wasn’t it?”

«Noooo!»

A certain silence followed.

«I met Peter thanks to my colleagues»

“Who is Peter?”

«My boyfriend»

«You are colleagues then»

“We both teach, but he’s at another school. We met at a party with mutual friends. I had no intention of getting involved in any more relationships.”

«And instead…»

“Already”

“I don’t like him,” his mother thundered from behind her drink. Evidently, as often happens with women, contrary to what I assumed, she was listening to our conversation. “I like him,” she said, pointing at me with her glass. “Get his number.”

Lisa and I looked at each other awkwardly.

“Mom, I love Peter.” “Tomorrow she’ll be ashamed of what she said. It’s not her, she’s totally drunk,” she continued.

“You see, you love Peter. And Peter… do you think he loves you back?”

«So he says»

“If he says so, why should you doubt it?”

“He loves me now, but then he’ll get tired. He’ll look around and leave me, because I’m…”

“Fat?”

«Fat»

You’re the one who can’t accept yourself. If he loves you, maybe it’s not a problem for him. I find you beautiful and attractive. With a sweet smile and a kind heart. I’m sure that if he loves you, if he wants to live with you, he likes you just the way you are. But you have to stop not liking yourself, not accepting yourself. This can make it difficult to be close to you. I speak from experience.

“Thank you for what you say.”

“Live your love story lightly, allowing Peter to love you without having to constantly clash with your insecurities.”

“I really thank you.”

I felt her English side compelled her to respond kindly to my words, but she didn’t seem entirely convinced. I had spoken honestly to her anyway, and I couldn’t have done more than that.

“Madam and Miss, it’s almost five o’clock already and I think it would be better if you went to sleep and I went to work.”

“Yes, I think so,” Helen said, coming closer to us.

“Helen, can I have your phone number?”

The woman burst out laughing. Lisa did the same.

As was now happening with a certain regularity, no phone numbers were exchanged. Those encounters remained almost dreamlike, consigned to the night, to a single night, without anything more than a confused memory surviving during the day.

Who knows what happened to Lisa and Peter. And who knows if Helen still lives in Italy.

 

 

Chapter 7

It was time for me to start my relationship. I wrote it down in a standard way. I don’t know why, but at a certain point, I began to feel the need to hurry up and put everything behind me and file this other experience away.

From the report:

“The structure is in a fair state of preservation.

It extends over three floors: a ground floor and two above-ground floors. A basement level, with two driveways, is used for storage. It’s easy to imagine a better use for it as a hospitality facility.

The parking area surrounding the building is substantial, but currently poorly managed.

The rooms are too large and it is recommended to resize them by at least half for a more optimal and profitable use of the space.

Renovations should be kept to a minimum if the property’s classic feel is to be maintained. However, it isn’t considered particularly necessary, while a combination with a touch of modernity could create an interesting contrast and impact on guests.

…”

 

“What are you writing?”

“How did she get in? How did she get here?” I said, startled. The woman was in front of me.

Not at all shocked, but with a serene, smiling expression, she added, letting my question drop: “No one has solved the problem with my room. Why?”

“Which room are you in?”

“Platinum. I told you so, didn’t I?”

“There is no Platinum Suite.”

“Sure! And where would I stay then?”

“I don’t have a slot for the Platinum key. Look.”

I stood up and pointed to the desk next to the Silver and Gold boxes… And to my surprise, I saw the one labeled “platinum.”

“It’s not possible”

“You see, there’s a Platinum Suite.”

I remained silent, staring at that box that didn’t exist, unable to understand.

“Do you want to come with me and see?”

That woman, so ethereal in appearance, so beautiful and seductive in her features, so elegant in her manner, was so attractive, her voice so persuasive. Yet a certain fear began to make me doubt the reality of what was happening. My rationality questioned the very existence of that otherwise so real figure.

As if he sensed my thoughts, in those moments of silence and glances whose duration seemed indecipherable to me, he slowly but decisively took my hand.

«Follow me if you want»

Her touch was warm, her hand soft. A sense of transport took hold of me. I couldn’t feel anything other than total attraction, the need to get closer to her, to know more, to understand.

“I’m following you”

As soon as I said this he detached himself from me and preceded me with a light but quick step.

I tried to keep up with her, but she was going much faster than I could.

But wasn’t it night? Wasn’t it the middle of the night?

And then why was it that a bright light was shining through the window frames of the corridors, illuminating everything. The light seemed to rest on her and make her shine in turn. I thought it was the dress, but when she turned toward me, I saw her beautiful face shining too, and her smile captivating me.

“Don’t stop, don’t let your fears get in the way of your desire to know.”

I quickened my pace.

She didn’t take the elevator, but the stairs, which made it harder to keep up with her.

The path to knowledge is not easy. The desire to know, the longing to understand, must become determination and perseverance. Pursuing the truth, the infinite, is not easy; it requires effort. We must earn the ascent to awareness that elevates our consciousness.

He climbed the stairs with no apparent effort, and spoke without the effort affecting his speech. His tone was soft, yet I could almost hear his words within me, echoing in my mind more than in my ears or within the walls of the building.

I reached the second floor not without difficulty. To my left was the Silver Suite. On the other side, opposite, beyond the balcony overlooking the courtyard, was the Gold Suite. But she advanced without hesitation, where there should have been nothing.

I wasn’t far from finding out what was really going on.

In a way, I expected her to disappear again at any moment and I would find myself alone in a corridor that led nowhere.

And instead…

He stopped in front of a door. A door that stood where until yesterday there had been nothing but a wall.

He opened it slowly, as the solemnity of the moment demanded.

 

“Wakes up!”

Claudia’s voice made me jump.

“What’s happening?” I asked instinctively.

«It happens that you fell asleep again!»

 

Chapter 8

«Wake up: it’s seven o’clock!»

«It’s not possible!»

What was I doing there on the desk, with my head resting on my outstretched arms.

“What were you writing?”

The report! I was in front of my computer, and I still had the report page open. Claudia shouldn’t have seen it. So I quickly closed the laptop, while she was looking up to see what was on the screen.

“You know you didn’t do anything, right? I looked over there; all your work is on the desk. You fell asleep.”

“It’s not possible. I haven’t slept.”

I was numb and confused as if after a long sleep, yet only a few moments ago I was there with that woman, I was about to enter her room finally, I was about to see what was hiding there.

“I saw the Platinum Suite last night. It really exists.”

“You’re out”

“I followed that woman, and she led me to the door. I was about to go in, and then…”

“And then I woke you up.”

Claudia quickly moved behind the PC on the desk to my left and started fiddling around.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll show you something.”

On the screen were images from the office cam from that night, where she showed me how I had collapsed on my desk around three o’clock and slept until she arrived.

“It’s not possible,” I exclaimed instinctively.

“Oh, no! It’s not possible, I tell you. And I’m also telling you, since you slept, now you stay here and do the work you should have done but didn’t. Is that okay?”

The tone was authoritative. I appreciated this quality of Claudia, even if it was now turned against me. I had nothing in particular to do that morning, so besides finishing the job, I decided to get to the bottom of this matter once and for all.

“Listen. Tell me the truth: Joseph told you the story of the woman in red.”

I nodded.

“He has a habit of telling it to everyone who works at night. Some get scared. Others start seeing it. You dream it. Realize: you slept. You were asleep. The cameras don’t lie, they only recorded you.”

“Why are you giving me this explanation?”

“Because I see this thing is testing you, it’s got you. But it’s a made-up story.”

“Giuseppe told me it’s history, that a woman actually disappeared in this area and nothing more was heard of her.”

“Giuseppe was making fun of you. He’s got a habit of it. I’m going to give him a telling-off tonight. Either he stops or he stops, with this damn thing, he’s causing problems at every night we have.”

 

I finished the job as quickly as possible and disappeared through the reception area in search of the maintenance man.

Gianluca was a good guy. I’d seen him a few times, occasionally to give him instructions about breakdowns and other fixes that needed to be made in the various rooms.

As soon as I spotted him, I literally chased him up the stairs.

“Gianluca, I need to talk to you.”

«I’m in a hurry, I have to do something in 211. What’s going on?»

“I need you for something that’s important to me. Look at this map.”

I showed him the floor plan of the top floor.

“Here on the right is the Gold. On the left is the Silver. But what do we have in that part called the ‘clearance room’?”

“Oh, sure. Of course! There are engine rooms for the two Jacuzzis on the Silver and Gold decks. Of course.”

“Safe?”

“As sure as it is that I have to go in there every time there’s a breakdown.”

“Is this a single room?”

“No, it doesn’t matter. There are two, one for each room, with its own engines and systems.”

“And how do you get in?”

“There’s a little door on the terrace, you enter through there. I have to duck every time to get in. The room is small and has no windows.”

“Wait, tell me that last sentence again.”

“Which one? Is the room small and windowless?”

“Yes”

“The room… or rather the rooms are small and have no windows.”

“Could I see them? Both of them. Can I?”

“Not today, I can’t get there. I have too many unfinished business.”

“But why does it take so long?”

“No, it doesn’t take that long: I just don’t have time today.”

“Are you afraid to enter those rooms?”

 

Chapter 9

I followed Gianluca as he hurried through the corridors. Using the internal chat, he asked Claudia which room, the Silver or Gold, was currently vacant. The latter was empty; guests had already checked out.

“You’re lucky, the Gold guests have left.”

I followed him. The room was already open when we arrived. One of the floor’s ladies was already cleaning it. As soon as she saw us, she immediately took the opportunity to express her disappointment.

“Do you see the mess they leave? Does that seem normal to you? What’s wrong with the sheet there? And the towels stuffed in the shower? Can you explain it to me?”

I don’t think the barrage of questions was meant to elicit a concrete answer. If we hadn’t been there, they certainly would have been thrown into the wind, albeit in a less pronounced voice.

“Mrs. Concetta, what do you want to do?” commented Gianluca.

We went out onto the terrace. My guide opened a small door on the left, freeing it from the grip of a bolt.

“Are you going in first?”

Gianluca was clearly not thrilled. I ducked and entered that narrow space, with its rough, dark walls. A single light on the wall illuminated the space. To the right were the water motors and other devices I couldn’t describe or define. Especially since all my attention was on the only thing I’d really come to see: the size of the room. It was barely three meters wide. It was deep, yes, but it certainly wasn’t more than four meters wide.

“Look at this wall, Gianluca. What do you think?”

“And what am I supposed to think? That it’s hot and smelly in here. Shall we go out?”

“Look at this wall on the left. Don’t you think it was added later?”

“But what do I know? Now that you’ve seen the room, can I get back to work?”

“No. We have to see the other one. Now. Right away.”

“I’ll write to Claudia. Let’s see if the Silver is empty now.”

After a few seconds of waiting, the answer came.

“The guests are still inside.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”

I knocked forcefully on the bedroom door a couple of times. When it opened, we found a scantily clad but clearly embarrassed girl standing there, while from inside we heard a man’s voice: “Who is it?”

“We’ve had a report of a water leak. Is everything okay with you? Can we check it out?”

Without waiting for a real answer, I went in, leading the way for Gianluca, while the man’s voice complained and the girl tried to follow us somehow.

“We’re going to the terrace to check. Just give us ten minutes, and we’re sorry for the inconvenience.”

I know I was in a hurry, but my gaze met the man who had now risen from the bed, visibly annoyed by our intrusion. Tattooed everywhere, with a heavy physique and rough features, I perceived yet another enigma when I saw him next to the girl’s petite figure, with a plain face, large blue eyes, and long blond hair. How had this girl ended up with this man who, along with his unsightly appearance, combined rough and vulgar manners?

I continued toward the terrace, briskly. I stopped in front of the little door because of the padlock.

“Gianluca, please…”

As soon as the door opened, I walked in. The scene was the same as the other room; they were practically identical. I was expecting it at this point, but I wanted to be sure.

I left even faster than I came in.

“Everything’s fine, thanks. Sorry to intrude.”

Then I turned to Gianluca.

“Let’s go and see the floor plans of the clearing house.”

“I have to work”

 

Chapter 10

“Look, if we remove, even by guesswork, three meters to the right and three to the left, there’s still plenty of space in the middle for what could have been a large, comfortable room. And yet, there’s nothing? And why can’t we get anywhere?”

“But what do I know?”

Gianluca’s total disinterest was disheartening.

“Okay, go do your thing. I’ll continue my research.”

Maybe Claudia would understand. I needed a little support from someone to be able to propose what I had in mind.

But first I had to print something for her.

I’d been researching for days. Usually, for every legend, for every fantastic tale, there’s always a grain of truth.

The building dated back to around 1870; there was no more precise date to rely on. Starting from this information, I began researching the news from that period, to see if anything that had happened could somehow be connected to the absurd event in which I had unwittingly found myself involved.

And I found this, a page from a local newspaper of the time, which in my opinion could refer to a disappearance, a murder, a kidnapping, to someone who, taking advantage of his power and influence, had acted undisturbed to silence a crime committed by him or someone close to him.

Simply put, I expected that in that hidden room there was not something, but someone, walled up there—I hope not alive. Actually, alive: because that someone, in my opinion, was the woman Giuseppe and some other colleagues had told me about, and whom I had seen during my shifts. And whom I had now managed to identify as a noblewoman from Catania whose traces disappeared in 1872.

I showed the newspaper to Claudia, while I explained everything to her.

“It’s a coincidence. Women have always disappeared in every era. Unfortunately. But they don’t come at night to disturb anyone.”

«I, on the other hand, am convinced that there are too many coincidences, that too many coincidences become clues and that several clues in a single direction deserve to be seriously evaluated.

Claudia was pragmatic as always and didn’t like long theoretical conversations.

“Let’s hear it, what would you propose to do?”

“Break down a wall, go in and bring back to light the body of that poor woman.”

 

 

“You’re out. I knew hiring you was a mistake. From the first moment.”

“What do we have to lose?”

“My face. My dignity. Money. I can continue. And in any case, the owners will never agree.”

“I know. That’s why I spoke to a friend of mine in the forensic science unit at the Catania Police Headquarters.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“That you can’t reopen a two-hundred-year-old case just because you see a ghost. But that if you wanted, you could get around it another way.”

It was impossible to read Claudia’s face. Too many expressions all at once. But the one that finally emerged found its way to her vocal cords and was quick to reveal itself.

“I know how it ends. You’ll end up making a mess, you’ll make a mess, and I’ll have triple the workload, as if that weren’t enough. Then I’ll find myself without a night shift again—so let’s be clear, I’ll get you fired—and I’ll have to put up with complaints when I have to reschedule everyone’s shifts to give Tino time off…”

This is the introduction, I’ll spare you the rest. But the most beautiful expression that characterized her at the time: “If only they’d give me a room, so I could move here. After all, I spend my life here, why would I go back home?”

I interrupted her mercilessly.

“You know what I thought, Claudia, that we can’t go back now.”

“In what sense?”

“I notified the Department of Public Health and Civil Protection.”

“If you really did it, I’ll kill you.”

“We need to get to the bottom of this. Behind that wall there could be a long-unsolved case and the body of a woman seeking justice.”

 

Chapter 11

 

Now all I had to do was finish the report and hand it in, catch the first available flight and get home to my wife and kids.

Where was I… (I’m just transcribing the highlights).

“Interventions should be kept to a minimum if the property’s classic feel is to be maintained. However, this isn’t considered particularly necessary, as a modern touch could create an interesting contrast that will have a strong impact on guests.

A new space large enough to create a suite or two or three bedrooms has been created on the top floor, between two machinery spaces. I hope the way I proceeded will be appreciated, both in reclaiming this new usable area and in having done it all using funds from the current owner. At the same time, this has created a negative impact on the property’s reputation, potentially resulting in a decline in its market value and that of the associated business.

We recommend making initial contact to express your interest in purchasing as soon as possible, given this favorable development.

Regarding staff, I’m attaching descriptions for each employee and would like to recommend the current Head Receptionist as the new facility’s director. She has demonstrated remarkable skills and aptitude in managing all types of issues—including those raised by myself. Her extensive experience and knowledge of the property, the local business, her contacts, and her personal expertise make her the ideal candidate.

I remain at your disposal for any necessary clarifications and further information.

As usual, I attach the relevant invoice, which I hope will be paid according to the now customary terms of our collaboration.”

 

I arrived home on time. It was wonderful to be reunited with my family, my garden, my little dog, my desk, my books, and to hear those voices that brought joy within the walls of my little house.

Obviously, you can’t know that it’s my wife who takes care of my client relations and all the internal work that is part of my profession.

It was between the lines that his communication reached me, the next day, at the table, when he told me:

“Honey, the next assignment is in Abu Dhabi. You leave in two days.”

“You’re kidding!”

«I just forwarded you the email with the tickets and the details of the assignment»

 

RECEPTION 2040

By Giuseppe Guarino

Copyright © 2026 Giuseppe Guarino

All rights reserved

 

It was the final act that sealed my definitive retirement: going to collect my last remaining belongings from the facility, thus concluding almost ten years of service and finally enjoying my retirement.

The entrance was always the same, unchanged for ten years. But something was different that morning, or perhaps it was just me perceiving everything differently, given the circumstances.

A mixture of various sensations assailed me as soon as I found myself inside the hall.

Like flashbacks to 90s sci-fi movies, I saw the movement, the people coming and going, the reception, the smiles, the interplay of different languages, that warm welcome that was inevitable for anyone who crossed that threshold… Now a simple voice and a screen with a digital image that clumsily mimicked the beauty and elegance of a female human’s movements.

“Welcome to the hotel. How can I help you?”

“I came to get my stuff.”

“Of course. Positive ID: former GT employee. You’ve guaranteed a final check-in to collect your belongings. Please don’t forget anything.”

“Why do you have this feminine voice and why are you so annoyingly polite and condescending!”

«If you want, I can set a male voice»

“Exactly. Forget it.”

On warm spring days, at this time of morning, guests sat at their tables and ate breakfast. A gentle murmur filled the background.

Sometimes children would run away and first-time parents would improvise, surprised themselves firsthand, a firmness in their tone of voice that they discovered they had been gifted with as new parents.

The kids were the most terrifying. Some hated their shouting and shied away from those noisy but cheerful groups. Others thought back to the years gone by, when they’d been on that side of life’s fence.

Now only silence and a sad lineup of robots waiting to receive the load of orders they were supposed to deliver to the appropriate rooms.

How could everything have changed so radically in less than ten years! But even more astonishing was the way people had adapted to such change. As if cultivating laziness, entertainment, and comfort were all we were created for, as if there was nothing else.

The robots began to file into the rooms. Breakfast was served in the room. The more malicious saw these new rules—here as in other similar places—as a plot to isolate people as much as possible, limiting contact to the bare minimum.

I remember when we were young, we kept our eyes peeled for fear of having our wallets stolen on the bus or being stopped by bullies on the street. This doesn’t happen anymore. In theory, we’re safe almost anywhere we are. Yet this sense of insecurity is fueled and made dependent on the ability to abstain from contact with the outside world, with strangers. Sometimes, to scare the younger ones, I tell them how, as kids, we used to stop to help people in need on the street. When we stopped if someone had a flat tire or, worse, had an accident. All these crazy things are now inconceivable.

“But were you really driving your own car? Wasn’t it risky?”

«And I explained: back then there were no shared services of robotized cars».

This amazed the younger ones.

There was no point in reasoning within the parameters of my time; I was tired of feeling old-fashioned and outdated. So I kept my ramblings to myself.

I tried to write something about it. And that’s how I discovered why I hadn’t read anything like it: my book was immediately censored and every trace of it was erased from the collective memory of the Internet.

I had tried to talk to my grandchildren about it. But their interest was utterly disinterested. School had now become a constant form of behavioral management, pushing for the utmost respect for others, whom we must keep as far away as possible to better preserve the social fabric.

All this thinking, and I was still in the Hall, watching those robots parade by. The only good thing about them was that they resembled walking trays more than intelligent entities.

Humanized robots were the worst. I hated those. But even that, I did in silence.

“Former GT employee, I kindly ask you to collect your personal items as soon as possible. In ten minutes, everything will be confiscated and sent to the shredder, and you will be forcibly removed from the facility. Thank you.”

An insult automatically escaped my lips. Unfortunately, those damned devices don’t have a problem with the volume of our human voices.

“Former GT employee, your unprovoked profanity against a public intelligent facility will be immediately sanctioned with the deduction of two points from your SCS (social behavior record) and confinement to your accommodation for two days. Failure to comply with this decision will be sanctioned by a more appropriate court sentence. Thank you.”

Damn face reading.

“A reading of your facial features confirms your displeasure. No sanctions are foreseen, but the matter will be archived in your public memory for possible future reference.”

Maybe I’d better go get my things and avoid this pointless confrontation.

My cell phone rang.

“Ready”

“Have you heard the latest?”

The smile appeared on my face.

“No, come on, not now, I’m at the hotel getting my stuff.”

“Shall I call you in ten minutes? You’ll be laughing your head off. This is too much.”

“Ten minutes isn’t enough. Is the joke about the two robots in the square? I know it.”

“No, no. There are at least ten robots in the square, waiting for those who don’t show up.”

I started laughing, both me and the person on the other end of the phone.

I ended the call.

Then I took a risk as I sometimes liked to do with those idiots:

“This is so good. Did you hear it at the front desk? How can you not laugh out loud, too?”

“Former employee, I don’t know what you mean. Please complete your withdrawal and leave the facility within seven minutes. Thank you.”

It had happened about two years earlier. A genius had realized that AI couldn’t understand humor; laughter confused it and made it go haywire. So that was the solution.

“No, no. There are at least ten robots in the square, waiting for anyone who doesn’t arrive.” This meant that a garrison of robots was stationed outside our shelter in the square, that I shouldn’t approach, and that we would meet at shelter number ten.

The locker was now the only one closed; the others were clearly unused. I grabbed my things, not without a certain sense of nostalgia, a feeling hard to explain. Each one spoke of someone and something. Like every corner, every detail of that room, the corridors. Everything carried with it a burden of memories that mercilessly poured onto my shoulders as I passed.

The memory of punching time cards. Those computers that didn’t talk and couldn’t repair themselves, which we’d take to the service center, when they were still defenseless and we were in power. The complaints about delays and early arrivals just to be there talking to colleagues. The long nights of silence and unique noises, of jolts when sleep overtook you.

Then the colleagues arrived, one by one, in the morning. Even that simple gadget that never worked when you had to clock in or out, that too was missing. And then everyone was busy getting ready, welcoming the first ones to wake up. The complaints.

All over.

That quiet, that silence at that time of day was unnatural. The new normal. That quiet that ran on the edge of fear, mistrust, and isolation in favor of a life of ease, extreme comfort, and a lack of worry.

It’s no coincidence that the Greeks called truth aletheia. That privative prefix “a” reminds us that to possess the truth, we must give up something. It’s no coincidence that the English expressed it, from another perspective, by saying that “ingorance is bliss,” meaning that ignorance is bliss. We Italians, in fact, say “beata Conoscenza” (beata ignorance).

All my stuff was here, it fit in a backpack. All things I don’t need. But it was just an excuse to see that place one last time and delve into memories, the dearest companions of those who have reached a certain age.

I climb the stairs after nostalgically using my beloved bathroom, the destination of hurried nighttime trips. No rush now.

That cold reception… The enthusiasm of the new arrivals, the complaints of those who expected more from the passing of the years. The sleepiness of those starting the morning shift and, even worse, of those finishing the night shift.

Welcoming is an art. What am I saying? It used to be an art. Now it’s simply a protocol. Or maybe even less than that. But the saddest thing isn’t even that, but the fact that no one remembers what it was like—except for a few dinosaurs like me.

“Hey, receptionist, do I have time to tell you a story?”

“You still have two minutes before you get kicked out, ex-employee.”

“That’s enough for me. Listen. There were two brothers. One goes to live far away, in Australia. Every now and then he calls home to see how things are going. One day the brother who stayed home is forced to give him some bad news: ‘The cat is dead.’ Imagine the dismay of the brother far from home. ‘What are you doing, giving me such tragic news like that? You should have been a little more gentle, don’t you think? Maybe you could have told me that the cat was on the roof and we can’t get it down. And maybe the next time I called you could have told me that the cat had fallen from the roof and that you were doing everything you could to save its life. And then, in the end, when I called again, you would have informed me that unfortunately, you did everything you could, but the cat didn’t make it and was dead. And I was ready for the news. Anyway, do you have any more news for me?’ And the brother: ‘Mom’s on the roof and we can’t get her down.’”

And I burst into a loud laugh that bounced off the deaf walls.

“Did you get it?” I said to the AI.

“Your mom’s on the roof, I think I understand. Do you want me to notify the authorities? I can put you in touch with someone who can provide immediate assistance.”

«It was a joke, it was meant to provoke hilarity, laughter»

“Ah, ah, ah. Sure, sorry. Ah, ah, ah.”

The AI’s laughter was legendary. Its need to please at all costs forced it to pretend to understand the humor in things and awkwardly imitate human laughter. It’s a bit like us office workers did when our bosses told jokes and we wanted to slit our wrists, but we gave our best effort in a clearly artificial laugh to keep our jobs.

I walked out that door for the last time, and it closed mercilessly behind me. No “go back,” no “stay a little longer.”

Sometimes you wake up and think it was all a dream, that you’re not seventy. But you look at your hands, feel the aches and pains, and then, finally, you look in the mirror and realize it’s true, that you weren’t dreaming. Inside, you feel young: you always say it, but it doesn’t convince anyone, and it doesn’t help you rejuvenate.

Passing through the square I saw the ten robots stationed there and I continued on, laughing, thinking about the nice little story I had told earlier.

Laughter confuses them; they can’t read your face. Laughter is the only escape.

In every sense.

There were two days to go until the joke convention, which would be held online and in person in twenty-eight countries. We were all eager to tell our story and laugh out loud. This time, the whole planet would laugh together. We would all truly laugh, finally.

The broadcast began from the headquarters.

“Welcome to the world premiere of a joke for the world. I’m your host. Are you ready to laugh your ass off?”

The studio where the broadcast took place was bare. And the machine, the joke-meter, was there ready to be activated.

“Our wonderful device that will bring laughter and humor to the whole world is ready.”

It was truly beautiful, ready to finally change history, to put everything back where it belongs. At least that’s what we hoped.

“Do you know the latest?” said the announcer. “The latest, as in the very last, because there won’t be another!”

And everyone started laughing. Me included, having spent three years of sacrifice in front of that screen. And that was the final joke, the final joke.

Sunspots would reach Earth in exactly 10 minutes. We hadn’t seen anything like this in decades. The devices we had scattered across the globe would amplify them thanks to the Earth’s electromagnetic field. A ploy as simple as it was effective. If everything had gone as planned, we truly would have been the last ones laughing. This outdated generation, these useless witnesses to a world that no longer existed, would have had the last word, they would be the last ones laughing. He who laughs last laughs best, right?

At hour X, the presenter’s face became tense and serious. It all happened too fast for AI to notice and do anything. Simultaneously, devices were activated across the globe.

No one knows exactly what happened next.

A loud thunderclap seemed to shake the entire earth, a very low-frequency wave interfered with the brainwaves of the planet’s inhabitants everywhere, and they all fell asleep. Me too.

When I woke up, there was no image on the viewer. There was no light in my apartment. My cell phone was completely off and I couldn’t turn it back on.

I ran out as fast as I could.

I saw cars parked everywhere. Many robots were motionless and showed no signs of being operational. Others were on the ground in absurd positions.

People wandered around in confusion, wondering what had happened.

The traffic lights were all out.

There was no sign that was lit.

We did it!

Here is our second chance, the chance all of humanity needed: to start over.

This time I laughed, but I really laughed, not to cover my emotions, but because our greatest enemy had been defeated. AI no longer existed. The price we had to pay was to destroy all the rest of the technology of our era. But it was an acceptable price to regain our freedom, in the name of that Aletheia that demands that we give up something in order to possess it.