'Table For Thirty-Eight' (An extract)
Alec: Today, I am thirty-eight. No, ladies and gentlemen, it is not my birthday. I always breakfast at the Savoy on my birthday. And even if it was my birthday, I would not tell you my age. No, no. Today, I am thirty-eight, because I sit at a table for thirty-eight. Mr. Thirty-eight made the unfortunate mistake of sleeping in a little too long, giving me the perfect amount of time to slide in and take his place. One can quite easily commandeer another man’s breakfast every day of the week. You need to know the hotels, to avoid walking in to one that has one of those awful buffets. You need keen eyesight to scan the empty tables quickly on entry. It is also important not to wear the same jacket too many days running, or people become suspicious. But a magic man never shares all of his secrets.
[...] Here, the world is less complex. People have their motivations, but they are fleeting, temporary, constructed for a five night stay and no longer. “People come, people go, nothing happens.” Nothing of lasting significance, nothing that can’t be erased when you hand your key back to the desk and go out whistling, through the revolving doors and into the rain. And then the maid comes in and hoovers and dusts away the evidence that you ever existed and the world goes on as before. But I never stay, of course. Hotel rooms are too impersonal for one thing, and too expensive for another. Besides, I’d only forget to hand the key in and accrue multiple homes, multiple walled boxes full of memories and secrets and sleep and half-empty mini-bars. I leave all of that, along with the room key, to Mr Thirty-Eight. He picks up the tab, I pick up the breakfast. [...] There’s an easier way if you ask me. Forget the everyday life, condensed into a battered suitcase and carried on the tube all the way here. Avoid the people who matter enough that you have to queue for ten minutes to use the reception phone to let them know that yes you are still alive, and yes the weather is fine, and yes you will relax and call tomorrow. A man can carry everything he needs in his jacket pockets. And anyone can memorise three phone numbers, which is more than enough.
[...] I tried to learn German once but I couldn’t stand the book. Such small print and so many words I didn’t recognise. I’ve picked up a bit from a man who works at one of the markets in town, on a stall that sells these awful sausages. He’s always waving them in people’s faces and growling at them in German until they buy one more out of fear than anything else. He caught me once and I too caved in and bought a fistful of little sausages that were wrinkley and brown. The Lord knows I wasn’t going to eat them, but there was a rather obnoxious guest staying at the hotel I breakfasted in the next morning, so I shoved the shrivelled little delights into the folds of his umbrella when he looked away.
I dislike eating here on Tuesdays, because the staff are paid on Monday’s, so on Tuesday’s he is normally jovial enough to put on some of his God awful music. But none of the others had empty places this morning except a place in Holburn which involves climbing at least two sets of stairs, and where the chef is off ill and the replacement has a penchant for kippers and little else.
[...] Here, the world is less complex. People have their motivations, but they are fleeting, temporary, constructed for a five night stay and no longer. “People come, people go, nothing happens.” Nothing of lasting significance, nothing that can’t be erased when you hand your key back to the desk and go out whistling, through the revolving doors and into the rain. And then the maid comes in and hoovers and dusts away the evidence that you ever existed and the world goes on as before. But I never stay, of course. Hotel rooms are too impersonal for one thing, and too expensive for another. Besides, I’d only forget to hand the key in and accrue multiple homes, multiple walled boxes full of memories and secrets and sleep and half-empty mini-bars. I leave all of that, along with the room key, to Mr Thirty-Eight. He picks up the tab, I pick up the breakfast. [...] There’s an easier way if you ask me. Forget the everyday life, condensed into a battered suitcase and carried on the tube all the way here. Avoid the people who matter enough that you have to queue for ten minutes to use the reception phone to let them know that yes you are still alive, and yes the weather is fine, and yes you will relax and call tomorrow. A man can carry everything he needs in his jacket pockets. And anyone can memorise three phone numbers, which is more than enough.
[...] I tried to learn German once but I couldn’t stand the book. Such small print and so many words I didn’t recognise. I’ve picked up a bit from a man who works at one of the markets in town, on a stall that sells these awful sausages. He’s always waving them in people’s faces and growling at them in German until they buy one more out of fear than anything else. He caught me once and I too caved in and bought a fistful of little sausages that were wrinkley and brown. The Lord knows I wasn’t going to eat them, but there was a rather obnoxious guest staying at the hotel I breakfasted in the next morning, so I shoved the shrivelled little delights into the folds of his umbrella when he looked away.
I dislike eating here on Tuesdays, because the staff are paid on Monday’s, so on Tuesday’s he is normally jovial enough to put on some of his God awful music. But none of the others had empty places this morning except a place in Holburn which involves climbing at least two sets of stairs, and where the chef is off ill and the replacement has a penchant for kippers and little else.
