Punctual. If Gustov Gelno could be summed up into a single word, that is what it would be. Punctual. Mr Gelno took pride in always being on time, always delivering on what he had promised, and looking out for his guests. Discretion was another thing that was dear to his heart. He would listen to anything, comfort anyone, but he would never disclose anything from his guests.
Take, for example, Mr Wilhelm Wickgen. The man was elegant, eccentric, and always full of smiles. Everyone knew that it was ill-advised to disclose information to anyone regarding his whereabouts or his doings. The few who were uninformed of this normally ended up in some ditch or never woke from their beds. Yet, twice a week, Mr Wickgen booked into the Fifth Street Hotel, took the keys to room 465 and spent the night. More often than not, he spent the night with one of Adelwreth’s upper-class ladies. Some of these women were married to high ranking officials.
Gustov had gone about his rounds, checking that everything was in order. The doorman was at his post—red velvet jacket in crystal clean condition. The page boys never stood still; their shoes were polished to a sparkling shine. The desk clerk smiled and helped any man, woman, or child that lingered too close. The reception area of the hotel was filled with velvet-covered armchairs, exotic plants, water pitchers, and complimentary snacks. The paintings depicted the history of the Fifth Street Hotel, as well as Adelwreth and its surroundings. The world map stretched the entire length of the East wall.
The bar was unusual that night. A man was arguing with the barkeeper. Gustov looked up at the clock that hung above the front desk and decided that he could spare a minute or two before he continued with his rounds. He broke from his route and approached the man. He judged by his unkempt appearance and dishevelled hair that he was not a regular guest. Gustov knew every man’s preferred appearance. Some would follow the latest fashion, but at all times at least one or two things remained. If it wasn’t the haircut, it would be a moustache; if not that then perhaps a certain way the pants sat or the coat hung. Some people would even shine their shoes in a particular way, missing a smidge on the heel, or a spot on the toe. Some would never be at the bar without a cigar, others would carry a glass off to the comfortable armchairs. One thing was for certain: no one—at least not the regulars—would argue with one of his staff members.
“Good evening my good sir,” Gustov said as he arrived at the bar, glancing at the troubled barkeeper. “What seems to be the problem here?” He straightened his velvet jacket and looked the man straight in the eyes. The man’s eyes seemed to be swimming and his face was as red as a turnip.
“This man accuses me of not paying, uhh, and I did,” replied the man. Gustov looked at Jerome across the bar. Jerome met his gaze, picked up a glass that had a smudge on it and proceeded to clean it.
“Ah. I see.” Gustov looked at the clock and motioned a page boy over. “Well sir, may I offer you our services while we see if we can clear this up? Have you booked in with us or are you just visiting our bar?”
The man swallowed, belched and said:
“Room one twenty-three, uh, lost my keys,” he placed a hand to his forehead and rubbed it. “Could use a bath too I guess, uh.”
“Certainly,” Gustov said and turned to the page boy. “Escort this gentleman to the hot baths, take his suit to the laundry, run up to my office, get the spare key for room one twenty-three, wait for the man to finish and escort him to the room…” He breathed in deeply. “…then wait outside his door and do not let him out of your sight before he orders anything. Make him sign your register book. Unless he does that, he is limited to water and complimentary snacks.” He turned back to the man. “Could I kindly ask your name, sir?”
“John.” Gustov and John stared at each other for a few seconds.
“John who?” Gustov eventually asked.
“Crowley, uh” replied John and belched.
“Alright.” He gestured towards the page boy to carry out the instructions. “Mr Crowley, please follow Milden here, he will take you to any and all services that you require here at the Fifth Street Hote. If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to.”
Looking at the clock Gustov deduced that he had to double his pace to reach the kitchen in time for his routine inspection. He snapped his fingers at another page boy. The page boy responded promptly.
“Find out how much Mr Crowley owes the bar, ask the desk clerk when he checked in and how long he is staying with us.” He snapped his fingers again and the page boy was off.
***
Gustov reached the kitchen five seconds ahead of schedule—five seconds which he used to neaten his hair and straighten his jacket. When the clock in the kitchen struck 7:04 he opened the door and entered. He glanced over the apparel, searched for stains, smudges and smears. On his route, he tasted the soup, the beef, and the chicken, as well as a few salads and vegetables. Everything was in order—that was until he tasted the pastry. It was… different. Different was not good. Unless something new was unveiled, nothing was supposed to taste different in any way from the previous day. He pushed the dishes off of the table, snapped his fingers and immediately someone started the dish afresh and another cleaned up the mess.
“Nine, o’ four!” His voice boomed over the chef and utensils. The kitchen staff glanced and murmured under their breath.
He strode through the dining hall, inspecting placemats, knives and forks, chairs and carpets—even the candles. Everything should be perfect. Satisfied, he made his way back to the front desk. Lady Wheaton should arrive at any time.
***
Gustov timed it perfectly. He entered the reception hall as soon as a page boy was rushing her luggage up the stairs to her room. Room 372. He glanced around, making sure everything and everyone was in their place.
“Sir, there is no Mr Crowley on our records and he owes the bar one-hundred-fifty-two Adels and seventy-three Crowns, all as you expected sir.” The page boy disappeared as quickly as he appeared. Gustov nodded in appreciation and then nodded at the barkeeper.
“Ah lady Wheaton, you grace us with your presence, as always. We do hope you enjoy your stay here with us. If there is anything, anything at all that you require, do not hesitate to ask. How is dear, dear Frank and Lemina doing?”
Lady Wheaton laughed and took his arm as she glided across the hall.
“My dear Mr Gelno, this place is as wonderful as ever! I am just attending a seminar on ancient Diluvian culture held here at the Town Hall.” She sighed. “As the case stands, I would so appreciate one of your page boys to carry my books for me and that wonderful carriage man of yours to take me there in the morning. I know it is a lot to ask, but my horses need rest and they have travelled far, and as a fact they need the strength to take me back.” She batted her eyes at him then sighed again. “The children are fine, just poor Lemina keeps on going on and on about this new boy called Wilhelm Wickgen. Frank is studying hard and is about to submit a paper on the natives of Adelwreth to the School of History and Culture.”
Gustov swallowed and escorted her to her room, exchanging niceties and pleasantries. He opened the door for her as she entered.
“I am quite confident you know this Wilhelm Wickgen,” she smirked, “and I’ll have it all before my stay here is over.” He bade her goodnight, closed the doors and replied softly,
“No, you most certainly won’t.”
***
There were a few minutes for ablution necessities and then off to the dining hall for round two. This round was done in reverse. First the dining hall and kitchen, and lastly the reception hall. The kitchen still had not perfected the pastries. Therefore, the pastries would be forgone that night. Instructions were issued to all waiters that the pastries were to be steered clear from, perhaps even placing reduced prices on other items that evening.
Everything at reception was in order, except at the bar. Another argument was underway. It was Mr Crowley no doubt—the same hoarse voice, the same tone, but the man was dressed fashionably this time and had cleaned up well. The page boy, however, was nowhere to be seen. Gustov sighed, looked at the clock above the front desk, and approached the bar.
“Mr Crowley, what seems to be the problem?”
“Uh. This man says I can’t buy uh brandy.”
“Mr Crowley, we do not have you on our records for any booking whatsoever and you owe our bar over one-hundred and fifty Adels. Please do calm down this ruckus or we will be forced to remove you from the premises.” The two men stared at each other, then Gustov said: “Now, you are welcome to stay and enjoy any complimentary service for as long as you would like, but please sir, refrain from pestering the staff.”
In that instant, something in the man’s eyes changed. Something sparkled that had not been there before.
“Well, uh, in that case, I’ll tell you a story, if you can listen to the entire thing, I’ll uh leave, if you pass out, you cancel my debt and give me free brandy for as long as I live.” Gustov looked at the clock, he snapped his fingers at a page boy and gave him the route list for the next three hours. That was how long he could listen, and that was also about the time it would take for Mr Wickgen to arrive.
“Please, I am all ears.” Gustov sat on one of the bar stools and gestured for John to sit beside him.
***
“I was born to Lord Crowley and Lady Bagon,” He started. “The lord was a wealthy man. He had inherited a thriving textile business and grazing lands. Almost sixty acres of pristine lands with a river cutting through its edge. Alas, with many uh… inheriting lords, he squandered it all. First, a mishap deal with an inventor, investing thousands of Adels, then a drought for which he was ill-prepared. By the time I turned seven we had lost everything. Consumption took two of my brothers and one of my sisters.”
Gustov motioned to the bartender to bring over a brandy while John continued about his early years and his family’s demise. The bartender responded promptly and John took a sip as soon it arrived.
“…Now, uhh… If you can imagine cleaning a chimney, squeezing yourself up through that narrow brick space. Soot and dust clinging to everything and getting in everywhere. This was what put food on the table.” He sipped again. “My Lord Crowley had never worked a day in his life, and it would be utter shame to go out and learn something. I felt the insults. The other children teasing me, calling me the black lord. The filthy lord. After some time, I met a boy called Greg. He always wore a cap and had a distaste for the upper class. He shared his lunch with me—he ate like some lord’s son—but he claimed he did not have any parents. Now, if you will see, he is the same Old Man Greg that the caps revere so much. When it came out that he was thieving and scheming I parted ways with him.” He belched, took a sip, and wiped his face.
“At fourteen, they were conscripting militia to defend the outlying country in the North from the native attacks. Something struck me about those bright blue uniforms. I marvelled at them, but I could not bring myself to abandon my family at that time. A few weeks later, I met a girl called Catherine. She was from the higher middle class. Her father clawed his way through the bureaucracy. I knew I would never be able to win her affection by being a lowly poor-poor. After the Battle of the Hill, many people were outraged. The colonial militia was overrun and the settlers were brutally murdered. My mother passed away and my father fled to Brittain, leaving me and my youngest brother Charles to fend for ourselves. Now with nothing else holding me back I uhh… encouraged Charles to join up with me. We lied about our ages. Painted moustaches on our faces and received those brilliant blue uniforms. Training was three weeks. We learned how to load shot and powder, march in a line, form up, present, fire, and follow commands. I was never any good at that.” John chuckled.
Miranda Thule entered the reception hall and exchanged pleasantries with the desk clerk. Lady Wheaton also came down the stairs and joined their conversation. Gustov wondered if Miranda was perhaps attending the same seminar, perhaps even presenting it. Women in this colony were treated differently than all over the world. They were smart—brilliant even—and encouraged to learn, unlike in other countries.
“Now… uh… at first we marched around a lot, up North, mirroring the movements of the Natives. Never really engaging—oh there were a few night raids, where you didn’t know if you were supposed to shoot, hide or run. Me and Charles mostly shot. The only real battle was that final one of the war, the Battle of Miloby Creek. The settlement was being attacked and we were close by. The captain ordered everyone to enter the town from one side, in an attempt to drive back the Natives. I knocked out our officer, rallied the men, and ran around the town, setting up an ambush on the other side of the bridge. When the Natives began fleeing, we caught them in a crossfire. Any of them that crossed the bridge was as good as dead, so most jumped into the river. There they were sitting ducks and after a few minutes, they began to surrender. Shortly after, King Bugna sued for peace. Now…” His voice became louder and more frustrated. “Because I knocked out the officer—some Maynard fellow—I was dishonourably discharged. Charles stayed with the colonials. I made my way back to Adelwreth and started working in the Furniture Factory. My story had reached Adelwreth, however, and although nobody could publicly admit it, some saw me as a hero. Oh, the tabloids and papers would have you believe that Maynard had won the battle through a brilliant manoeuvre, but some people knew the truth. One of them was young Catherine. I saw her at the Harbour Midnight Fair. Spoke to her, and before long we were planning our wedding. Her father gave us a grand wedding at the church on Seventh Street. We were happy together, we bought a house in Twelfth Street, and lived simple lives.”
He sat now, saddened, sipping his brandy slowly. Gustov kind of admired this man. He looked at the clock and his thoughts trailed off. He had never done anything out of the ordinary or grand, never joined the colonials, never married. His life was a simple one—he had a room with a single bed in the servant quarters. He followed his daily routine and made sure the Fifth Street Hotel was in impeccable condition. He took care of his guests’ needs and kept their secrets secret.
Lady Wheaton had gone up the stairs again and Miranda was now in the company of Alexander Vladikoskov, a man with a fur coat and a neatly trimmed beard. He wondered for a moment how any of them would look in ragged clothing. What makes them regal, and others less? It certainly was not the clothes. However, it did look that way. He turned his attention back to John.
“…and then, Wilhelm Wickgen entered our lives. Just as he entered that door now.” Gustov’s eyes followed John’s gesture towards the door. “Self-assured, pompous and utterly evil.” His eyes teared up. “Catherine took her own life because according to her, she married the wrong man.” He gulped down a glass full of brandy. “And since that day I have been watching him, seen him do to others what he did to her, someone has to put a stop to this.”
Gustov tensed up as John removed a revolver from his belt.
“Mr Crowley, although I share utmost compassion for you and your story, I cannot condone violence in this place.” He sat up in his chair and winked at the doorman, who then accompanied Mr Wicken, shielding him from their line of sight.
Gustov mustered all his skills as a conversationalist to dissuade John from violence, citing religion, common sense, laws, and finally offering him complete access to the bar for as long as Gustov was the manager at the Fifth Street Hotel. In a moment of clarity, John sat back and said, “Well, being a military man and being a man of my word, you have listened to every word of my story. So I guess uh I’ll be leaving.”
***
Over the next few days, Gustov had a lot of things on his mind. Was his discretion as warranted as he had always thought? Where was Mr Crowley now? Is he succeeding as he always did in his story? How many more people would suffer the same fate?
He stopped his route as he saw Mr Wickgen escort Lady Wheaton to Room 465 and decided that he was not there to think of the consequences people had to face. He was there to be punctual, discrete, and invisible. One day, everyone would be dealt with according to their deeds. Perhaps, somewhere, Mr Crowley would be able to drink at a bar for free, for as long as he lived.