Photo by Orlova Maria on Unsplash
There has never been a type of grace that has manifested itself so elegantly as walking down the wide and luxurious staircase at the Highball hotel in a three piece suit. The hotel completely trapped in time. Encased in the height of fashion, sophistication, and splendor.
I observe the calm and order of the utopia I have created, I do this every morning. I sit amongst the subjects of my kingdom, and enjoy breakfast as one of them.
She sits above us all. A majestic two feet above us. She takes her place unnoticed, and patrons make a habit of seemingly ignoring her. After all, the only reason for her presence is to set the ambience of the environment.
We take our seats at the same time. She begins to delicately command the room. Ever so gently introducing the carefully selected melodies of her choosing.
I always say, it’s not true luxury until someone who isn’t you starts playing a piano. And the Highball hotel is nothing if not the epitome of class.
“God, she’s beautiful isn’t she?” I asked Claude, the current record holder for longest stay.
“Positively stunning, but perhaps you could shed some light on this question I have. When does she sleep?” He replied with slight smile, although at no point turning from his omelette to look at me in the eye.
“The piano always plays at the Highball, don’t you know that by now?” I answered.
After a series of chuckles and polite reassurances of humorous agreement, I moved on to the more recent arrivals.
“Good morning Mrs. Casella, are you enjoying your stay?” I inquired politely.
“How could I not? Everything here is simply executed to perfection, and perhaps best of all, my husband is hundreds of miles from the border of the south lawn.” She said with a smirk.
“Well, we shall do our best to hold him off, should arrive early.” I then said with a wink.
Her key had migrated from it’s usual place a few inches to the left of the water-glass, and was now attached to her car keys instead. This brightened my day considerably. This place is becoming home to her, just as it has for Claude and so many others over the years.
I was keeping a cautious eye, ever since breakfast began, on Warren and Alissa, who were sitting far removed from the rest of the patrons. The corner table was a sort of hiding spot, although usually it was occupied by only one refugee.
Alissa stood up and turned to leave, and she was a mess of dripping makeup and tears. It was at this point that Warren made the decision to grab her arm and pull her back to the table. She emitted a small shriek of pain, but muffled it professionally.
“Quite enough of that, don’t you think?” I said, looking Warren directly in the face.
Startled, he chose the words. “She’s my wife.”
“Yes, I believe you are correct. But this is my hotel. And I will have my key back now, sir.” I firmly stated.
“Do you have any idea who you are dealing with? Expect a call from my lawyer.” He retorted with a haughty scoff.
He was still trying to pull his wife with him out the door, having left the key on the table. She did not appreciate being pulled, and since he had already caused her harm, I thought it appropriate to stand in his way, and demand she be released.
What I received was a sarcastic smile, and a well-practiced left hook headed for my jaw. I ducked.
His fist slammed into a very expensive custom sculpture, sending a piece of it flying through the air and shattering a vase that was, truthfully, almost as expensive.
Shocked, he let go of her and stumbled forward. Blinking several times as his handiwork unfolded before our very eyes.
“You may also expect a return call from mine.” I said with a nod, turning over custody to my much larger doorman, who escorted him outside. This allowed me to turn my attention to the disheveled Alissa. “My deepest apologies, ma’am, please take as long as you’d like in staying here. Truly, it is the least we can do to soften the commotion you’ve experienced this morning. This key certainly now belongs to you.”
Sobs of thanks and a tearful hug were returned. When I saw Alissa at dinner in the evening, she looked considerably happier and even slightly optimistic.
I sat with my newest desk clerk to enjoy a bottle of chardonnay and a delightful meal. Nearing the end, a matter was brought to my attention.
“You know, Anthony is positive he can still hear the piano when he wanders down to the lobby in the evenings.” She informed me. “Is he quite alright?”
“Poor fellow, he used to say that as a joke to me back when we were both young men. He mused that this magnificent room echoed the sounds in essence long after we had all retired for the night.” I explained.
“I see. Unfortunate, he seems so sharp during the daylight hours you can hardly tell.” She observed.
Dessert was enjoyed, goodbyes were exchanged. The last key was given, and the night was finally concluded.
I was awakened only two blissful hours into my dreams by Anthony, who called to ex- claim that the piano was positively beautiful tonight.
“Yes, yes, my friend. She was simply magnificent during dinner this evening wasn’t she?” I agreed.
“No, I mean now! You should come down and sit with me, I’ve only returned to my room to call you. I shall head right back down the moment we hang up.” He insisted.
“Please get some sleep, it’ll do you much more good. We’ll have breakfast together tomorrow and enjoy the music then, how does that sound?”
“Well, I am rather tired. But do consider coming with me one of these evenings, I just can’t seem find where it’s coming from!” He exclaimed.
“Alright Anthony, I’ll consider it. Now off to bed for both of us.” I ordered.
I had a thought, just before I could make good on my own instruction. No doubt, the old man was hearing things. But do sounds that are only in your head usually have, direction? It seems odd that he had already taken the initiative to find the location of his imaginary midnight concert.
I put on my collared shirt and my suit pants once more. Not the tie, not the belt. It was far too late for such formalities.
I wandered down the staircase, and sleepily looked at my empty realm. Even my new desk clerk had gone to the bathroom, it seemed.
The moment I heard it, ever so slightly, a chill ran up my back to the top of my head. I knew that sound. I whipped my head to the piano platform on my right.
She was absent from her bench, and the piano lay silent. The noise had come from the left.
Fishing the master-key from my pocket, I walked cautiously down the hallway on the ground floor. There were only two suites on the ground floor, and Anthony occupied one of them.
Why, then, were there three doors?
My key worked on the door I did not recognize. I questioned my sanity, my lucidity, if I was even awake at all. Nonetheless, I ventured down an exact replica of the staircase that be- longed in our lobby.
The music grew louder. I was swallowed up into a grand ballroom, with only a single piano raised two feet above the ground, and my extraordinary pianist at the helm.
A well stocked bar and four stools were on my left. I was failing to process what was happening to me, but I have learned a few things over the years.
Even if you are absolutely out of your depth, you must never give away shock or surprise. And, if you should find that difficult, a nice cocktail never hurt.
Calmly walking over to the bar, I took a glance to confirm that this was in fact the same performer whom I had brought here to perform in my restaurant. She indulged in no glance her- self, remaining completely focused and enthralled in her craft. Her element.
I made a drink for myself. A simple whiskey highball. From behind the bar, I leaned against it, watching as she reset her position and took a smooth breath.
Clair de Lune rose into the air. Of course, I had heard it. In my own lobby, I had heard it. This was not the same thing.
She played only for us. Her fingers slipped and glided effortlessly, creating new textures and emotions with every gently weighed flourish and pause.
From this lower level, the basement that I had just discovered, one could not see the night sky. And yet, her simple implied wish that the moon should sit in the darkened corner of the room seemed to be enough. It obeyed her.
I could see the night sky in her eyes.
It concluded all too quickly, but I was ready, regardless of my hunger for more. I walked the floor and handed her a drink of her own, which she graciously accepted and sipped politely.
“May I?” I requested, gesturing towards half of the piano bench, the only seat on the plat- form.
She nodded, and allowed enough room for me to take a seat next to her.
“How did you come to be here?” I asked. “We haven’t had a basement level since nineteen sixty-five.”
She gave a slight smile. “This is the hotel trapped in time.” She answered.
“Why have we not met here before?” I continued.
“Why would it seem strange to hear the music at night? The piano always plays in this hotel.” She said in return.
“Yes, of course.” I chuckled.
I put down my glass, and turned to her, looking her directly in the eye.
“Why did you allow me to hear you play from your heart?” I asked.
A silence sat in the room, until she finished her drink. Then she turned to me again, this time she spoke in a voice barely higher than a whisper.
“Masters of Keys.”
An understanding was reached. The king and queen of Highball hotel.
Logan Cox has a forthcoming work set to appear in Button Eye Review. He lives in Spain with his family, and can most likely be found at their side, arguing the rules of in-home game show play.