Дональд Уэстлейк - Castle in the Air

The heavy door finished opening, and in came a hesitant, tentative, reluctant Rudi Schlisselmann, dressed as a waiter in black tails and white shirt and black bow tie, and carrying a tray of beer mugs. Trying to look in all directions at once while a panicky placatory smile flickered and disappeared and jolted across his face, Rudi crept through the room, whispering, “Otto? Otto?”

No one could have heard such whispering in a room full of that chorus of happy wanderers, and no one did hear it, including the man whose name was being mentioned. That is, he didn’t hear it until one of Rudi’s whispered ‘ Otto’s came at the same instant the male chorus on the record was taking a breath. Also, Rudi was at that time very near the feigning Otto, and this combination of chorus pause and propinquity made Otto hear his name being whispered, which made him look surreptitiously around, which made him see Rudi passing by, which made him sit up and whisper, “Rudi!”

Unfortunately, the chorus was in full voice again, having replenished its breath, and Rudi heard nothing. Otto had to get to his feet and follow Rudi and tap him on the shoulder. Then he had to wait while Rudi juggled the tray full of beer mugs, as he’d been startled out of his wits. But the tray didn’t get away from him, the beer mugs didn’t fall, the crash didn’t awaken all the neighbors asleep at their places, and Rudi and Otto were not at once torn limb from limb by a crowd of fifty-five-year-old fat men. Instead, Rudi managed to keep the tray under control, and to keep himself under control as he turned around and whispered, “Otto! There you are!”

“Rudi? What are you doing here? ”

“I’ve got the local Volkswagen franchise,” Rudi whispered acidly, “what do you think I’m doing here? Come on, will you, my arms are falling off.” And he put the tray down on a nearby table.

“Come on?” Otto was having trouble catching up. “Come on where?”

“With me, naturally.”

“But I can’t leave yet,” Otto whispered. “I’m not finished.”

Rudi gave him a look of scorn. “What do you want, their shoelaces? I’m here with Herman Muller, I’m talking about something big.”

Otto looked around, rather regretfully; then shrugged. “Oh, well,” he said. “It’s an annual affair, I can finish next year.”

The Hotel Vendôme, on the Rue de la Paix in Paris’ First Arrondissement, is for those delicate few who find the Ritz garish. With a broadly sweeping but very dark lobby so thoroughly swathed in broadloom and brocade that the entire revolution of May 1968 took place outside without a single sound penetrating so far as the second rank of potted palms, the clientele is assured that absolutely no reminder of the twentieth century will ever disturb their slumber. Unless, of course, the management makes the mistake of letting a room to the wrong person; a possibility lessened by the outrageous prices charged.

But no system is foolproof. Consider:

It is early afternoon. Gently suspiring bodies, sodden with lunch, sag on all the low sofas. Gentle snores soothingly flow from beneath walrus moustaches. The principal light source is the diamonds worn by most of the female guests. A waiter in a maroon Eton jacket crosses, carrying a mint julep on a silver tray; not a sound emanates from the contact of his shoes with the thick carpet, swirling with art deco design. Then, with a faint shushing sound, an elevator door slides open — the amenities are twentieth century, even if nothing else is — and all hell breaks loose.

Her name was Maria Colleen San Salvador Porfirio Hennessy Lynch. She was the wife of Escobar Diaz McMahon Grande Pajaro Lynch, El Presidente of Yerbadoro, and she didn’t care who knew it. An explosive woman, with voice and gestures larger than life, she had the self-confidence and determination of the bull on first entering the ring. Larded with makeup, draped with layer upon layer of the most expensive clothing Paris could offer, she wore Inca jewelry hanging around her like scaffolding around a cathedral. She had never had second thoughts about anything, had never failed to get her way, and only had the slightest suspicion that, in fact, other human beings actually existed.

She entered the Vendôme lobby from the elevator under full sail, striding purposefully forward and bellowing at the top of her voice. “... never going to get my hair done if all we do is look at lots day in, day out!”

Shock! Turmoil! Spasms! Snores became snorts, red-rimmed eyes opened in astonishment, and several of the most active tenants even considered getting to their feet. Maria, unknowing and uncaring, continued both to stride and to shout: “If today’s barren field is as hopeless as yesterday’s barren field,” she announced to all of the First Arrondissement, “I am through looking at barren fields!”

In her foaming wake trailed five men, four of them trotting and smiling and bowing, one of them strolling and smiling and nodding. The stroller was Maria’s husband, El Presidente Lynch himself, a tall and handsome man, with a handsomeness that was at first appearance rugged but on closer examination merely decayed. Self-indulgence and cleverness showed in his full-lipped smile, in his sardonic eyes, in the casual ease with which his careless stride kept pace with everybody else’s bustling haste. As for the four bustlers, two were Yerbadoroan bodyguards, one was an official of the International Exposition Board, and one was a functionary from the French Government. They, and the Lynches, were here to find a site for the expected castle, and Maria for one was growing bored with the problem: “If the truth be told,” she roared at the lobby, shaking dust from the wall sconces, “I like that damn building right where it is.”

Her husband’s smile glinted in the musky lobby. Softly, he said, “You’ll like it better in Paris, Maria.”

His voice, particularly in comparison with hers, was the merest whisper, the slightest hint of sound; nevertheless, she faltered for a second, her expression becoming for just an instant uncertain. Then she smiled again, confidence renewed. “I’m sure I will!” she sang out, and sailed through the outer doors to the waiting limousine, the five men following after.

The “goddam building” was, in fact, a damn castle, called Escondido Castle, and it stood at present in pretty parkland by the Yerbadoro River, twenty miles north of Enfermedad City, the capital of the nation. Not quite two hundred years old, Escondido Castle had been built by one of those Irish freebooters who had taken over Yerbadoro from the Spanish back in the eighteenth century, and the design had been influenced both by the owner’s memory of stately homes in his native Ireland and by his work crew’s memory of Inca temples in the nearby jungles. The result was essentially pleasing, here and there surprising, and perfectly acceptable as a castle, though somewhat smaller than the word “castle” might suggest. In fact, the outbuildings and the wall around the courtyard would remain in Yerbadoro — and would look rather odd all by themselves — while only the main structure, a compact three-story building of large gray stone blocks, would be dismantled and shipped to France.

Today’s barren lot was a winner. Even Maria had to admit it, at the top of her voice: “You know, I like this spot.”

“I’m glad, my dear,” her husband said.

It was in fact a very pleasant spot, fairly high on a hill in Montmartre, the only truly hilly part of Paris. Narrow twisty streets, old buildings, and here a rectangular vacant lot where a ruined old factory, once an absinthe distillery, had recently been torn down. “Yes,” Maria said, turning in a slow circle, looking about her and nodding, “I think I could live here.”