Артур Хейли – Hotel / Отель (страница 7)

Abruptly changing the subject, Warren Trent announced, “Curtis O'Keefe is checking in today. He wants two adjoining suites and I've sent down instructions. You'd better make sure that everything's in order, and I want to be informed as soon as he arrives.”

“Will Mr. O'Keefe be staying long?”

“I don't know. It depends on a lot of things.”

For a moment Peter felt sympathy for the older man. The St. Gregory was to Warren Trent more than a hotel; it had been his lifetime's work. The hotel's reputation, too, had for many years been high. It must be hard to accept that the St. Gregory had slipped behind the times. And Peter thought that new financing and a firm, controlling hand on management could work wonders[62], even, perhaps, restoring the hotel to its old competitive position. But as things were, both the capital and control would have to come from outside – he supposed through Curtis O'Keefe. Once more Peter was reminded that his own days here might well be numbered.

The proprietor asked, “What's our convention situation?”

“The Congress of American Dentistry begins tomorrow, though some of their people checked in yesterday and there'll be more today. They should take close to two hundred and eighty rooms.”

Warren Trent nodded approval. At least, he reflected, the news was not all bad. Conventions were the lifeblood of business, and the dentistry convention was an achievement.

“We had a full house last night,” Warren Trent said. He added, “In this business it's either feast or famine[63]. Can we handle today's arrivals?”

“I checked on the figures first thing this morning. There should be enough checkouts, though it'll be close. Our overbookings are a little high.”[64]

The most miserable moment in any hotel manager's life was explaining to indignant would-be guests, who held confirmed reservations, that no accommodation was available. He felt awful as a fellow human being and also because he was absolutely sure that those people would never again come back to his hotel.

In Peter's own experience the worst occasion was when a baker's convention, meeting in New York, decided to remain an extra day so that some of its members could take a moonlight cruise around Manhattan. Two hundred and fifty bakers and their wives stayed on, unfortunately without telling the hotel, which expected them to check out so an engineers' convention could move in. Recollection of the chaos, with hundreds of angry engineers and their women in the lobby, some waving reservations made two years earlier, still caused Peter to shudder when he thought of it. In the end, the new arrivals were sent to motels in outlying New York until next day when the bakers went innocently away. But the monumental taxi bills of the engineers, plus a substantial cash settlement to avoid a lawsuit, were paid by the hotel – more than the profit on both conventions.

Warren Trent lit a cigar, motioning to McDermott to take a cigarette from a box beside him. When he had done so, Peter said, “I talked with the Roosevelt[65]. If we're in a jam[66] tonight they can help us out with maybe thirty rooms.” Even fiercely competitive hotels aided each other in that kind of crisis, never knowing when the roles would be reversed[67].

“All right,” Warren Trent said, a cloud of cigar smoke above him, “now what's the outlook for the fall?”

“It's disappointing. I've sent you a memo about the two big union conventions falling through.”

“Why have they fallen through?”

“It's the same reason I warned you about earlier. We've continued to discriminate. We haven't complied with the Civil Rights Act[68], and the unions resent it.” Peter glanced toward Aloysius Royce who had come into the room and was arranging a pile of magazines.

Without looking up the young Negro said, “Don't yo' worry about sparing my feelings[69], Mistuh McDermott” – Royce was using the exaggerated accent – “because us colored folks are right used to that.”

Warren Trent said, “Cut out the comic lines[70].”

“Yessir!” Royce left his magazine sorting and stood facing the other two. Now his voice was normal. “But I'll tell you this: the unions have acted the way they have because they've a social conscience. They're not the only ones, though. More conventions, and just plain folks, are going to stay away until this and others like it admit that times have changed.”

Warren Trent waved a hand toward Royce. “Answer him,” he told Peter McDermott. “Around here we don't mince words.”[71]

“It so happens[72],” Peter said quietly, “that I agree with what he said.”

“Why so, Mr. McDermott?” Royce taunted. “You think it'd be better for business? Make your job easier?”

“Those are good reasons,” Peter said.

Warren Trent slammed down his hand hard upon the chair arm. “Never mind the reasons! What matters is, you're being damn fools, both of you.”

It was a recurring question. In Louisiana, most hotel chains had nominally complied with the Civil Rights Act, but then, quietly went back to their long-established segregation policies. As for the St. Gregory, it simply resisted change.

“No!” Viciously, Warren Trent stubbed out his cigar. “Whatever's happening anywhere else, I say we're not ready for it here. So we've lost the union conventions. All right, it's time we got off our backsides[73] and tried for something else.”

It was quiet in the big living-room, with only a whisper from the air conditioning, and occasional sounds from the city below. Warren Trent could feel his heart pounding heavily – an effect of the anger. It was a warning, he supposed, which he should heed more often. Yet nowadays so many things upset him, making emotions hard to control and to remain silent. It was because he sensed so much was disappearing beyond his control. Besides, anger had always come easily – except for those few brief years when Hester had taught him to use patience and a sense of humor, and for a while he had. How long ago it seemed! – more than thirty years since he had carried her, as a young bride, across the threshold of this very room. And how short a time they had had: those few brief years, joyous beyond measure, until the paralytic polio struck without warning. It had killed Hester in twenty-four hours, leaving Warren Trent, mourning and alone, and the St. Gregory.

He rose awkwardly from the deep chair and moved to the window, looking across the rooftops of the French Quarter. Was the hotel worth fighting for? Why not give up, sell out and let time and change take them both? Curtis O'Keefe would make a fair deal[74]. There would be enough money left on which he could live, at whatever standard he chose, for the remainder of his life.

Surrender: perhaps that was the answer. Surrender to changing times. After all, what was a hotel except so much brick and mortar?[75] He had tried to make it more, but in the end he had failed. Let it go!

And yet… if he did, what else was left?

Nothing. For himself there would be nothing left. He waited, wondering, his eyes looking at the city spread before him. It too had seen change, had been French, Spanish, and American, yet had somehow survived as itself.

No! He would not sell out. Not yet. While there was still hope, he would hold on. There were still four days in which to raise the mortgage money[76] somehow, and beyond that the present losses were a temporary thing. Soon the tide would turn[77], leaving the St. Gregory solvent and independent.

He walked stiffly across the room to an opposite window. His eyes caught the gleam of an airplane high to the north. It was a jet, losing height and preparing to land at the Airport. He wondered if Curtis O'Keefe was aboard.

When Christine Francis found him, Sam Jakubiec, the stocky, balding credit manager, was standing at the Reception, making his daily check. Most hotels cared nothing about the morals of those who stayed within their walls. Their concern was a single basic question: Could a guest pay?

With a swift movement Sam Jakubiec put the ledger cards back in place and closed the file drawer containing them. “Now,” he said, “what can I do?”

“We've hired a private duty nurse for 1410.” Briefly Christine reported the previous night's crisis concerning Albert Wells. “I'm a little worried whether Mr. Wells can afford it, and I'm not sure he realizes how much it will cost.” She might have added, but didn't, that she was more concerned for the little man himself than for the hotel.

Jakubiec nodded. “That private nursing can run into big money.” Walking together, they moved away from Reception to the credit manager's office.

“Madge,” Sam Jakubiec said, “see what we have on Wells, Albert.”

Without answering, the secretary opened a drawer. Jakubiec took the card the secretary offered him. Scanning it, he observed, “He looks all right. Stayed with us six times. Paid cash. One small problem which seems to have been settled.”

“I know about that,” Christine said. “It was our fault.”

The credit man nodded. “I'd say there's nothing to worry about. I'll look into it, though; find out what the charge is going to be, then have a talk with Mr. Wells. If he has a cash problem we could maybe help out, give him a little time to pay.”