Andrés Neuman - The Things We Don't Do

I OFTEN SLEEP in hotels, or rather, I don’t sleep. A few months ago, I wish I could remember when exactly, in reception I was offered a gold pen to append my signature and, if I were to be so kind, to write a sentence, a greeting, anything. I took the pen somewhat reluctantly, appearing to object — not because I felt I was too grand but because, to be honest, I couldn’t think of what to write: I was tired, I don’t sleep well and I was playing for time. Seeing how uncomfortable I was, the receptionists bowed and stepped away, leaving me on my own with the visitors’ book. I took advantage to leaf through earlier dedications to find inspiration. On the last page I discovered the following note:

Outrage in the bar. To pay that much for a glass of brandy, even if it is Napoleon Grande Reserve, is a swindle. Stinginess also has its price. And, sooner or later, it’s bad business. Sincerely, N.N.

I was surprised that a protest of this sort was in the visitors’ book rather than in the one for complaints. Perhaps the person signing it had decided to take their revenge by leaving it in full view of any important people staying in the hotel. The fact is, the note put me off my stride, I’m not quite sure why, and prevented me from concentrating on what I ought to write. After several minutes of waiting in vain, all I did was sign and print my name in capital letters underneath. I closed the book, smiled at the receptionists, called my escort and retired to my bedroom.

I cannot say that the matter remained on my mind, because meetings and public appearances soon engulfed me in the usual maelstrom. But when in the next hotel in the next city, they opened the visitors’ book and asked me if I would do them the great honour, etcetera, etcetera, I couldn’t help recalling N.N. It was little more than a fleeting thought, as when a distant aeroplane momentarily distracts you from whatever you are doing. Little more than that. What I was not expecting was to find him again.

The new note read:

I understand that the cleaning staff burst into rooms in the morning and wake people up without meaning to. But for them to fiddle with the door handle in the early hours, rummage through papers or move luggage, is a violation of all the rights of their guests. If the aim is to keep an eye on us, it would be better to hire professional spies, who would do a much stealthier job and provide you with more precise information. Sincerely, N.N.

On that occasion, after a few moments’ bewilderment, I felt an urge to draw the concierge’s attention to it. I immediately dismissed the idea. I knew that as soon as I mentioned the note, the entire hotel staff would come up, fall over themselves to offer tedious apologies and keep me there with all kinds of explanations, excuses and gifts. So once again I kept silent. I added my signature in very big letters. Then I went up to my room. To not sleep.

What can I say now? That I gave the matter no further thought? Or that it casually occurred to me, like a distant aeroplane, etcetera? It was quite a troubled week, with disturbances in the streets that had to be dealt with severely. Ten days went by before my next trip.

Without further ado, I will copy the note I found in the visitors’ book in the next hotel, where the staff bent over backwards to shower me with all kinds of attention, congratulations, bows:

There is nothing wrong with offering a guest the possibility of choosing pornographic films, and more precisely, sadomasochistic ones. But it would also not come amiss to soundproof the bedrooms. Greetings from N.N.

I believe that the receptionists, who were staring at me expectantly, their fingers interlaced, could see my embarrassment. Fortunately, they decided this must mean their presence was inhibiting me from writing. They therefore withdrew, leaving me alone with the visitors’ book, staring at those messages that obviously by now could not be a coincidence.

I reflected: was this person following me? Did he know my movements and make sure he stayed in the same hotels as I did? Even though my escort guards whatever room I am in twenty-four hours a day, this hypothesis sent a shiver down my spine. How on earth could this person know my diary in such detail? And if he was trying to get in touch with me, why had he chosen such an extravagant method? Wouldn’t it have been much easier to send an email, a package in the post, or make a phone call? My next thought, albeit absurd, alarmed me still further: what if I was following him? Was I shadowing his footsteps without realizing it? How could I possibly know his dates, his itinerary, the hotels where he was staying? How could I be aware of any of this, when I haven’t the slightest idea where I’m going the day after tomorrow, or why I don’t sleep, or anything.

As I found more and more of these furtive notes, I confirmed something I already suspected: nobody reads visitors’ books, least of all the hotel management. However grandly they are presented, however ceremoniously the messages are received and the importance they are supposedly given, it is all for show. It is exactly like national constitutions: as soon as they have been written, nobody consults them.

One night, for example, I was obliged to read:

Considering how putrid your illustrious guest is, could the hotel authorities kindly carry out a thorough fumigation of the seventh floor. It’s a matter of public health and safety. Grateful thanks, N.N.

After this, the messages became increasingly hostile. N.N. no longer bothered making indirect references to me, but attacked me with complete impunity. People ought to read the visitors’ books, surely that is what they are there for. And yet no one seemed to realize what was going on, or at least no one said a word. Naturally it was not in my interest to mention the matter either. Given the unseemly revelations some of them contained, my best course of action was to keep them hidden. The worst thing was (and I sensed that this too was planned) the humiliation of raising my eyes from the books and having to smile, pretend, be friendly. For strategic reasons, I had at all cost to avoid appearing nervous or scared, at a time when my detractors were redoubling their attacks, and the foreign press was accusing me of having lost my sense of direction.

The warnings were not always on the last page. Plainly he, or they, operated within a certain margin of time. However, towards the end of the book I would without exception find the relevant, insidious message:

Rather than privatizing the universities, why not nationalize your mansions?

One can never know too much. Do you know what your wife gets up to while you’re travelling?

The judiciary is not room service.

Good luck to your daughter in the clinic. May your grandson rest in peace. This also happens to Catholics.

Etcetera.

Outside the hotels, nothing seemed to have changed. But the notes struck home like darts. I began to be more anxious to read the visitors’ books than the national press. My daily routine continued unaltered. At least until the evening when I read:

Shine my boots. N.N.

That was all the note said. There was no mention of a date or time. Was it nothing more than sarcasm? For some reason, I could sense it wasn’t. I signed the book (I had already grown accustomed to carefully tearing out these pages and then improvising lengthy paragraphs full of praise for the hotel facilities), thanked the staff individually, agreed to have my photograph taken with them, then went up to my room. To be frank, I was not entirely surprised to find a pair of worn black army boots I had never seen before at the foot of my bed. I looked all around me, then inspected the room, knowing as I did so that there would be nobody there. I sat on the edge of the bed to consider it. And realized I had no option.