The Hotel

The lobby at the St Gregory, New Orleans,² was becoming busier. A group of new arrivals had just come in and were registering, preceding others still checking baggage³ that was being unloaded from an airport limousine. A small line had formed at the reception counter. O'Keefe stood watching.

It was then he observed what apparently no one else, so far, had seen.

A middle-aged, well-dressed Negro, valise in hand, had entered the hotel. He came towards Reception, walking unconcernedly as if for an afternoon walk. At the counter he put down his bag and stood waiting, third in line.

The exchange, when it came, was clearly heard.

'Good morning,' the Negro said. His voice — a midwestern ac­cent—was friendly and cultured. 'I'm Doctor Nicholas; you have a reservation for me.' While waiting he had removed a black Homburg hat⁴ revealing carefully brushed iron-grey hair.

'Yes, sir; if you'll register, please.' The words were spoken before the clerk looked up. As he did, his features stiffened. A hand went out withdrawing the registration pad he had pushed forward a moment ear­lier.

'I'm sorry,' he said firmly, 'the hotel is full.'

Undisturbed, the Negro replied smilingly, 'The hotel sent a letter confirming the reservation, not cancelling it.' His hand went to an in­side pocket, producing a wallet with papers, from which he selected one.

'There must have been a mistake. I'm sorry.' The clerk hardly glanced at the paper placed in front of him. 'We have a convention⁵ here.'

'I know.' The other nodded, his smile somewhat thinner than before. 'It's a convention of dentists. I happen to be one.'

The clerk shook his head. 'There's nothing I can do for you.'

The Negro put away his papers. 'In that case I'd like to talk with someone else.'

While they had been speaking still more new arrivals had joined the line in front of the counter. A man in a belted raincoat inquired im­patiently, 'What's the hold-up there?' O'Keefe remained still. He had a sense that in the now crowded lobby a time bomb⁶ was ticking ready to explode.

'You can talk to the assistant manager.' Leaning forward across the counter, the room clerk called sharply, 'Mr Bailey!'

Across the lobby an elderly man at an alcove desk looked up.

'Mr Bailey, would you come here, please?'

The assistant manager nodded and got up. As he walked slowly ac­ross, his lined, tired face took on a professional greeter's smile.

An old-timer,⁷ Curtis O'Keefe thought; after years of room clerking he had been given a chair and a desk in the lobby with authority to handle minor problems posed by guests. The real authority of the hotel was in the executive offices, out of sight.

'Mr Bailey,' the room clerk said, 'I've explained to this gentleman that the hotel is full.'

'And I've explained,' the Negro replied, 'that I have a confirmed reservation.'

The assistant manager smiled broadly, his obvious goodwill includ­ing the line of waiting guests. 'Well,' he said, 'we'll just have to see what we can do.' He placed a nicotine-stained hand on the sleeve of Dr Nicholas's expensively tailored suit. 'Won't you come and sit down over there?' As the other allowed himself to be led towards the alcove:

'Occasionally these things happen, I'm afraid. When they do, we try to help.'

Mentally Curtis O'Keefe admitted that the elderly man knew his job. Smoothly and without fuss, a potentially embarrassing scene had been removed from centre stage into the wings. Meanwhile the other arrivals were being quickly checked in with the aid of a second room clerk who had just joined the first. Only a youthful, broad-shouldered man had left the line-up and was watching the new development. Well, O'Keefe thought, perhaps there might be no explosion after all. He wait­ed to see.

The assistant manager gestured his companion to a chair beside the desk and took his own. He listened carefully, his expression neutral, as the other repeated the information he had given the room clerk.

At the end the older man nodded. 'Well, doctor,' — the tone was briskly businesslike— 'I apologize for the misunderstanding, but I'm sure we can find you other suitable accommodation in the city.' With one hand he pulled a telephone towards him and lifted the receiver. The other hand pulled out a leaf from the desk, revealing a list of phone numbers.

'Just a moment.' For the first time the visitor's soft voice had taken on a sharpness. 'You tell me the hotel is full, but your clerks are checking people in. Do they have some special kind of reservation?'

'I guess you could say that.' The professional smile had disappeared.

'Jim Nicholas!' The loud and cheerful greeting rang across the lobby. Behind the voice a small elderly man took hurried steps towards the al­cove.

The Negro stood. 'Dr Ingram! How good to see you!' He held out his hand which the older man grasped.

'How are you, Jim, my boy? No, don't answer! I can see for myself you're fine. Doing well too, from the look of you. I understand your practice is going well.'

'It is, thank you.' Dr Nicholas smiled. 'Of course my university work still takes a good deal of time.'

'Don't I know it! Don't I know it! I spend all my life teaching fel­lows like you, and then you all go out and get the big-paying practices.' As the other grinned broadly: 'Anyway you seem to have gotten the best of both — with a fine reputation. That paper of yours on malignant mouth tumours has caused a lot of discussion and we're all looking for­ward to a first-hand report. By the way, I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to the convention. You know they made me president this year?'

'Yes, I'd heard. I can't think of a finer choice.'

As the two talked, the assistant manager rose slowly from his chair. His eyes moved uncertainly between their faces.

The small, white-haired man, Dr Ingram, was laughing. He patted his colleague jovially on the shoulder. 'Give me your room number-Jim. A few of us will be getting together for drinks later on. Г d like to have you join us. No objections, I hope.'

'Unfortunately,' Dr Nicholas said, 'I've just been told I won't be getting a room. It seems to have something to do with my colour.'

There was a shocked silence in which the dentists' president went deep red. Then, his face muscles hardening, he assured, 'Jim, I'll deal with this. I promise you there'll be an apology and a room. If they re­fuse to put you up, I guarantee every other dentist will walk out of this hotel.'

NOTES

1. Arthur Hailey, a novelist, born in 1920 in Luton ['lu:tn], England. During World War Two he served in the British Air Force. In 1947 he emigrated to Canada. At present he is living in California, USA. He has written several plays as well as a number of successful books: The Final Diagnosis (1959), In High Places (1962), Hotel (1965) and Airport (1969).

2. New Orleans: a city in southeastern Louisiana, USA, in the heart of the Deep South.

3. baggage = luggage

4. Homburg hat: a felt hat for men — мужская фетровая шляпа

5. convention: a meeting, often periodical, of members or delegates, as of a political group, commercial organisation, professional association, etc. — съезд

6. time bomb: a bomb designed to explode at a pre-arranged time — бомба замедленного действия (с часовым механизмом)