Courtesy Call - Part One

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Chapter Six: Courtesy Call - Part One

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Calla

Virgo: If patience is a virtue, is impatience a sin? Stop stressing and give the world a chance to catch up with you.

Calla studied the circled message to herself on her notepad, tapping her bright, neon blue gel pen against the pad’s spiraled edge. She leaned against the door as she watched Mei putter about a linen closet Calla had never noticed before. “So,” she said, checking her notes, “you’ve been here sixty-seven years, give or take, yeah?”

“You’ve already asked me that,” Mei reminded her gently as she scooped up a pile of freshly folded towels. “Four times. Today.”

Taking the towels from Mei, Calla smiled sheepishly. “Sorry,” she said with self-effacing good nature, “I’m a curious sort, always wondering at things, but not too keen at keeping what I learn.” She shrugged, not liking that Mei hadn’t answered the question.

Calla had asked the other woman how long she'd been at the hotel several times, not just today but all week. And, Mei almost always gave the same answer, but added a qualification that time in the hotel never really lined up with that in the real world.

It was hard to track time in the Elysium for a few reasons. One was that there was no real sense of seasons. Night and day passed fairly consistently, twenty-four or so hours between them but, as for summer, fall, winter, and spring, it was hard to tell when the hotel kept moving from climate to climate.

Mrs. K. had told her a few days ago, when Calla and Mei had dropped in on her in the hotel’s greenhouse, that there had been a meteorologist living at the hotel who had specialized in worldwide weather and could tell you the date to the time of month using just the humidity or amount of precipitation in any given area. Just by studying the frost cover on the windows, she’d know it was mid-January in the French countryside. Just by the amount of a night’s rainfall, she could deduce that it was late November in Brazil.

But, despite extensive study, even she couldn’t quite make out the hotel’s exact pattern of time with this information. According to her, it could be early February in Maui one week then the middle of August in Taiwan the next.

Apparently, time moved both more slowly and more quickly than it did in the real world. While both worlds worked on a basic twenty-four-hour day system, those hours weren’t equivalent.

There’d also been a mathematician—apparently some big wig, some Pythagorean or Einstein-ish genius from the seventies—who theorized that the shifting process took a lot of energy. More than any process understandable by man. He’d thought that, even though every shift feels as quick as the blink of an eye to the Elysium denizens, the actual shift’s eclipse would be dependent on the amount of energy available at the moment, making the measurement of time outside of the hotel’s perception—that is, real world time—variable.

Or something.

It was that mathematician who’d began to first track each guest’s stay according to Elysium time. Now the hotel kept quite studious records of every guest’s stay.

After hearing that, Calla had pestered Lenten into letting her poke about the front desk. She’d searched for two hours through the hotel’s giant guest books that chronicled all the guests who ever stayed at the Elysium, before she’d finally found Mei’s name among the millions or more. According to Mei’s records, she’d seen twenty-six thousand, three-hundred and three sunsets since arriving at the Elysium’s gates. Later in her room, Calla had done the math. About seventy-two years.

Nibbling on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully, she followed Mei around to various rooms, she watched the woman restock fresh towels and cart off the soiled. She scratched her head with the ridged, bitten bit of her pen. There was something very off about all this.

Calla had asked countless questions. She’d observed Mei and all her interaction for days. She’d filled page after page of detailed notes. But still, she wasn’t any closer to finding an answer than she was before.

While she waited in the hallway for Mei outside Suite 108, Calla checked her notebook again, popping her pen in between her teeth and chewing impatiently.

According to Calla’s observation notes, Mei had answered seventy-two years six times to the question of how long she’d been at the hotel. She’d answered other numbers—sixty-eight and seventy-three—twice, but only after being led to the answer by prompting. She’d replied about seventy three times and evaded her question all together four times.

Calla quickly updated her tally. Five times. She’d evaded her question five times now.

What did all that mean?

As far as Calla could see, there wasn’t much pattern to it. Yes, her answers seemed to fluctuate more the more flustered she got, but wasn’t that true for everyone? Was that a sign of her going Faceless? Or just stress?

Calla twiddled her pen between her fingers, scowling. She needed to find a pattern to this. Needed to establish some way of measuring Mei’s condition.

She shoved her pen and pad into one of the many pockets on her camouflage-patterned cargo pants, hurrying to catch up to the other woman. “And the hotel,” Calla continued determinedly, taking the tower of towels from Mei, “it looked like the some royal’s castle then, right?”

“Versailles,” Mei answered. “Like a miniature Palace of Versailles.”

“But Versailles wasn’t even finished until after you came to the hotel, right?” Calla asked as she followed Mei into another room. “Then how did you know what Versailles even looked like?”

Mei paused and turned to look questioningly at Calla. “Someone,” she said hesitantly, “told me, I think.”

“Who was that?” Calla asked.

The other woman pursed her lips, trying to remember. Shaking her head, she dismissed the thought as she strode through the room and into the bathroom. “Why are you asking me all these questions?” Mei messily dropped towels onto the counter.

“I was just wondering.” Calla shrugged innocently. “Tell me about the people. What was Lenten like?”

“He wasn’t here when I first arrived.” Mei turned away quickly from Calla with her brow knit, still trying to remember, as she refolded the towels nicely. “He didn’t come until long after.”

“How long?”

“I don’t see how this is important,” Mei said as sharply as her soft-spoken voice would allow.

“Just curious. How long.”

She shook out one of the towels silently, quietly counting the years. But, as if lost among the numbers, she huffed as she folded and settled on the easier answer. “He’s been here for about thirty years.” Mei forcefully placed the top towel on the pile.

“And you’ve been here how many years again?”

“Sixty—” She shook her head. “I mean—” She paused and shook her head again. “About seventy years.” An apprehensive look creased her bowed face, like a student afraid of being called on in class for an answer they didn’t know.

“So that would mean about how many years?”

“Calla!” Mei turned so swiftly her hair fell dark and willful from the tight knot on her head as her hands flew out and knocked a bowl of decorative, floral-scented soaps to the floor.

She gasped and dropped to the floor, her hair curtaining her face sadly. “I have chores to do. I don’t have time for word problems.”

“Sorry.” Calla bent low to help pick up the spilled soaps off the tile. Studying at her now, Mei looked so lost, her fingers fumbling as they plucked up the delicate, decorative, waxy flowers.

Calla should stop. She was upsetting Mei. She could see that.

Hell, anyone could see that.

But, she couldn’t. She felt as if she were on the edge of discovering something important. Mei seemed to remember other people’s histories better than her own. She remembered things other people told her. She remembered when other people arrived. She even seemed to know other people’s schedules, only entering rooms she knew would be empty at this time. There was something important in that, a key to finding a solution, Calla was sure.

Making sure to mark her new mental notes, Calla launched into another line of questioning, ready to test her theory. “How did you meet Lenten?”

“I greeted him and Olive when they first arrived,” Mei answered stiffly as she placed the small pink and white shaped bits of soap in her palm.

“Where?”

“I don’t remember.” Mei stood with a deep frown that furrowed her face. Wordlessly, she began to stack the soaps back into their bowl with shaky hands.

“When was this?”

“About thirty years ago.” Mei sounded less sure than she’d been a minute ago. They both watched as a single soap slipped off the top to clatter on the marble counter.

“And Lenten arrived with whom?”

“Olive,” Mei replied, “of course.”

“Anyone else?”

“What?” Mei's fingers slipped, dropping another stray soap onto the counter. Her frown deepened as she picked it up again. “No. Just those two.”

“And when was this?”

“A long time ago.” Mei struggled to stack the soaps, the awkward floral shapes rolling and tumbling, toppling the entire tower on their way down.

“And what happened?”

“What?” Her hands stopped in mid-stack.

For a moment, her eyes became too sharp, too focused, as her face pinched in pause. To Calla, it was like watching the human equivalent of a computer glitch. She could see Mei’s mind literally stall before it kick-started again.

Mei turned away from Calla, twirling her long, black hair back into a neat knot. “I need more towels.” She scooped up the soiled towels and swept swiftly out of the room.

Calla bit her lip as she stared at the half-stacked soaps, wondering if she was pushing too hard. She lifted a small, slightly dented soap to her face, studying the bent, glossy petals.

The plan was to study the effects of going Faceless. To learn how much Mei could remember and how long she could keep those memories. See if they could establish some sort of timeline or could test how the whole process worked.

It was what she set out to do when she’d started. It was what she intended to do.

Hurriedly, she stacked the now warped soaps, cramming them into the bowl to make them fit and stay.

Calla liked to think that the more she kept Mei talking, the more those memories stayed alive in the woman’s mind. How could you lose a memory that someone kept forcing you to remember?

Calla was sure that the mind was just another muscle. It worked better with constant, steady use. Cranial crunches, that was all Mei needed.

She had to believe that. She just had to believe that, if she made Mei remember, everything would be okay.

So, squishing the last soap onto the tip of the mashed mountain, she rushed out of the room and back into the hall.

Calla stopped, hanging half-in and half-out of the doorway, as she tripped all over her trainers.

She watched, a chill running disturbed up her spine as Mei walk up to a Faceless servant with a sleek black bob, her steps stilted and lacking the woman’s usual balletic grace. With stiff arms and jerked movements, Mei took half of the indistinguishable servant’s towels.

As if in a choreographed dance, they both turned in time with each other before knocklessly entering opposite-facing rooms across the hallway, the doors automatically opening for them with an audible click of the locks as the Elysium itself allowed them access. Calla watched them both disappear through the doorways, matching each other step for step like twin wind-up toys.

Calla stood, shocked by the rigid fluidity of the act. It looked unnatural.

Inhuman.

As the doors shut behind the two women with another click of the locks and two Cleaning Service in Progress, Please Be Patient signs uncoiled to drip and drape down from the doorknobs, a sharp, sudden thought occurred to Calla.

Most of the hotel’s guests were just that, guests. They stayed there, lived there, and, overall, simply enjoyed the place. They didn’t work. They didn't worry. They were on a cognitive sabbatical; who worked on vacation?

Some of the guests did the occasional odd job here and there. Lenten was the manager. Flax was the chef and bartender. Mrs. K. was the gardener. Mei assisted where she could. But it was always more of a self-appointed role, more for the fun of it or for a sense of purpose than necessary.

The more menial, everyday tasks, like housekeeping or room service, were always delegated to the Faceless servants. They changed light bulbs and swept floors. They washed dishes and laundered clothes. They cleaned up messes.

And they restocked rooms.

Calla practically jumped, her heart choking her throat as the doors reopened, revealing the other women again, armfuls of dirty linens held tight against their chests. Entering the hallway again, Mei joined the Faceless servant as they both walked the same leaden steps toward the linen closet. Calla shivered at their automated movement, perfectly precise as their feet soundlessly marched across the carpet to a beat only they could hear.

Calla stared at them side by side. From behind, they almost looked identical. One’s hair was up and a little longer than the other’s. One was slightly taller than the next. If it weren’t for the clothes Mei had chosen—which were actually the same bland pattern and tone and cut as the servant’s—it would be hard to distinguish the two.

Calla was losing her. With every step, Mei was walking away from herself and toward them.

“Mei!” Calla sputtered, running after her. “Wait!”

She stopped abruptly as both Mei and the servant turned in perfect synchronization, the same blank, expressionless look on their angled faces.

Mei blinked blankly, highlighting the slight, ephemeral but essential difference between them. Her black eyes that gazed dully at Calla looked positively brilliant next to the fleshy, empty expanse of the servant’s face.

Calla swallowed hard, forcing herself to concentrate. Taking the towels from Mei’s grasp, she thrust them at the Faceless girl before pulling Mei away.

She quickly steered the other woman in the opposite direction. “Tell me about Olive.” Even to her, Calla's voice sounded tense and a little desperate. “What was she like when she arrived?”

“Olive?” Mei sounded somewhat distant and detached. “Olive,” she said again before her face warmed into a smile, as if just the child’s name was enough to bring her back from the brink. “She was the sweetest child I’d ever seen. So small and so sad, but she had a light about her you could see even through her tears.”

Relieved that Mei had snapped out of it, Calla continued. “What about Flax? How’d you meet him?”

“Flax?” Mei asked, only slightly confused. “He wasn’t called ‘Flax’ back then.”

“What?” Calla asked questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“He had a different name then.” Mei flushed, getting a faraway look on her face before letting out a girlish giggle. “But the same handsome face.”

Her voice was so wistful it sounded youthful, adolescent.

“He told me he loved me.” Mei sighed.

“Who?” Calla asked. “Lenten?” She couldn’t imagine the stiff man saying it; it just didn’t picture. But who else could she have meant? Calla shook her head.

“Who?” Mei asked.

“Lenten,” Calla said again. “He said he loved you?”

Mei shook her head. “Who?” But her mind quickly breezed by her confusion. “He said he wished he could introduce me to his Mama,” she said, imitating Flax’s deep, southern drawl.

Flax? She was talking about Flax? “Flax said he loved you?”

“Who?” Mei repeated again in agitation. “Who are you talking about?” Doing a double-take, Mei peered into Calla’s face closely. “Who are you?” Looking around, her eyes widened. “Where am I? What am I doing here?”

“Mei.” Calla touched her arm to comfort her only to have her flinch away in fear. “Mei,” she said again, grabbing her arm and forcing Mei to look at her, into her eyes. “I’m Calla, Mei. We’re at the hotel. The Elysium. You know, with Rowan and Flax and Lenten and Olive."

“Let me go,” the other woman ordered, struggling in Calla’s grasp. “I have chores to do."

“No, Mei,” Calla said.

“Let me go!”

“Tell me about Olive,” Calla said, hoping it would bring the woman back again. Please.

“Let me go!”

“Tell me about Olive,” she repeated. “Please.”

“Let me go!”

“Mei!” She shook the woman by her elbow, trying to jog her again.

“Calla.”

Calla turned. Over her shoulder, she saw Lenten standing stiff and tall behind her. “Let her go,” he told her, the command clear in his tone.

With a frown, Calla released the other woman, who rushed down the hall toward the linen closet, shutting herself safe behind its door.

With a huff, Calla turned on Lenten. “I was helping her!”

“It look more like you were harassing her.” Lenten calmly took off his glasses to stuffily slick the lenses with a cloth from his pocket.

“I was helping.” Her jaw set stubbornly as he tucked the folded bit of cloth back into his coat. Irritated with his snooty, stuffy, stiff attitude, she spat at him, “She’s fading, you know? She’s going Faceless—”

“That’s enough, Calla,” he scolded sharply. “You will leave Mei alone—”

“Who do you think you are?” she shot back. “Talking to me like that? Like I was Olive. Newsflash, Lenten, I’m not eight years old and I’m not your niece.” Stepping right up into his face, she said, “And you will not talk to me like that.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, waging a silent battle of wills, before Lenten shook his head and stepped back. In a calm, controlled voice, he told her, “You will stop hassling Mei.”

“I was helping,” she repeated.

As if she hadn’t spoken at all, he continued, “The Elysium Hotel doesn’t permit guests to pry, pester, or otherwise interfere with the lives and stay of other guests.” Glaring over the silver rims of his glasses, he repeated, “You will not attempt to...help her anymore.

Attempting, her ass. “I was helping;” she insisted before adding more quietly as he turned and walked away, “I was.”

Feeling less sure than she’d like, she bit her lip and stared at the closed linen closet door. “I was.”

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