Monsieur Micheau
Mark Mulholland
He steps from the house and shuffles to the edge of the pavement. He looks across the town square where lamplight rebounds from sandstone facades and yellow pools spill across cobbles. He looks east to the void of the recessed Hotel De Ville as he puts fire to a cigarette. He listens . . . nothing. He looks west to a mist that loiters around Sainte Catherine’s and he pulls on the cigarette. He listens . . . still nothing. Not a sound to be heard. He looks across to the houses opposite. No, nothing happening, nothing at all; nobody yet moves.
She called his name and he woke. Who was that? It was very odd. Bizarre. And, somehow, he knows the voice. Or has known it. How? And what was the dream before the voice? No, he can’t reach it. It’s gone. But the voice? He reaches and it is not gone. And he replays it. Never has he heard his name spoken so perfectly and with so much . . . what? He doesn’t know.
He pulls hard again on the cigarette and blows smoke up into the dark as he leans from one slipper to the other. He shudders in the chill of the November air. He glances to the church clock as the hands move toward the hour; he always makes it out before the six bells. And he doesn’t have an alarm, or one of those watches that bleep. He has never needed one. He doesn’t know why, he just wakes early. In any case, he doesn’t like modern things, especially digital things. And a mobile phone? Ha! The idea of it amuses him. Hasn’t he a phone at home? And he has another at work. Who could need three phones? A self-tuning radio is his sole observance to the communication age, his old television being seldom used. He shuffles and shakes away the cold. He finishes the cigarette and drops the butt into the sand-filled plant pot, closes the oak-panelled door behind him, and climbs the narrow staircase for a shower.
Love, that’s what. Never has he heard his name spoken with so much love. He can’t make sense of it. He replays it again and no, she did not call him, the voice; it was said, spoken, not called. The difference matters. Somehow he knows the difference matters, but he doesn’t know how.
The hands on the kitchen clock approach six-forty as he tidies and wipes the counter. He folds the linen towel and returns it to the stainless-steel rail. He takes his overcoat from the wall-peg, pulls the oak door shut, and at six forty-five he drives across La Place de la République. A gentle bubble and gurgle is pressed from the cobbles by the Citroen’s tyres and he notes that some lighted windows are now dotted among the houses. Another Monday, another week, he thinks, as he pushes the power button on the stereo and Radio Nostalgie joins him in the car. He adjusts the volume low. He lifts he eyes and brakes. He shakes his head as before him goes young Thierry Thévenin to his job at the abattoir, and not looking, and not listening except to those dammed ear pieces. The whole world has gone mad. Everyone now is tuned in to some private recital on their personal devices. He lets Thierry cross and then he drives on past the café where he waves inside to Jean-Luc, his old front-row partner, who is lifting chairs from tables. He continues past the tabac, the post office, and the charcuterie, all dark, before joining the main route at the Spar supermarket. He turns north onto an empty road. He slows to walking speed as he passes the boulangerie where he delivers a broad wave to Francine. He waits for her acknowledgement and then he pushes the pedal to sixty-five for three minutes before slowing and entering the hotel car-park by the east gate. He unlocks his office by the hotel foyer, hangs his overcoat on the coat-stand, and walks back to the reception desk. It wasn’t someone within his dream that spoke to him, he knows that. The voice came external, other. And the voice was real, as real as anything that has ever existed. More real than real. Beyond real. And how can that be?
‘Bonjour Monsieur Micheau,’ says Cedric, the night porter.
He greets Cedric with a handshake and asks about the night and messages. He inspects the breakfast buffet, checking the dates of the yogurts and adjusting the fruit basket. He walks the dining rooms and the veranda. He unlocks the bar and reads the staff notebook and roster.
At seven he greets Nathalie, the day receptionist, and asks her for a fresh list of guests present, guests leaving, guests arriving, and rooms ready. He ensures all is in order. He asks for a fresh copy of the group bookings and the seminars planning and repeats the examination.
‘The last week, Monsieur Micheau,’ Nathalie says as they finish their checklist and he walks away. ‘La retraite.’
‘Forty-four years, Nathalie,’ he answers with a shake of his head. ‘Where have they gone?’
At seven-twenty he takes a tray from the bar to the buffet where he prepares a pot of coffee, a glass of grapefruit juice, two croissants, a slice of brioche, a pot of fromage-blanc, a pot of cherry yogurt, a small jar each of apricot and strawberry jam, a knife, two teaspoons, and a paper napkin. He goes to his office where he eats slowly whilst reviewing hotel emails. He thinks again that he might buy a computer, now that he’s retiring and will be without the use of the machine at work. But he’s not sure.
After breakfast he visits the staff restroom in the cellar. He lifts his toilet bag from a shelf above a wide mirror, strips to his vest, and shaves. He washes and splashes aftershave on his thick neck. He sprinkles oil to his head and combs his hair back. He looks at himself. His square head and bulky neck top a broad body. He has added weight again; still not fat, but he is heavy. There is grey there, and some thinning, but he is lucky to have such hair at this age. His papa was the same, kept a great head of hair to the end. When he first came to the hotel he used to wear a formal suit, but the then owner asked him to soften the look with a lighter suit or a smart jacket and pants; the hotel owner suggested the black suit looked too funereal under the square dark head. I looked like an undertaker; he laughs thinking of it again. The big dark square head had served him well in the front row of the town’s rugby fifteen, but it was not the best look to welcome guests.
Beyond real? What does that even mean? But that’s where her voice came from. It makes no sense. Who was that? He can’t put an age to her. She is beyond age. And where? Where did her voice come from? She is beyond place, somewhere familiar and yet somewhere strange. He knows and yet doesn’t know. He can’t get a hold of it.
He dresses and returns to his office and at eight he lifts the staff folder and opens the payroll programme on his computer.
At nine-thirty he walks the grounds of the hotel and tours the gym and the indoor swimming pool. He meets up with Didier, the hotel caretaker, and they have a chat and a cigarette in the loading bay in the back yard.
‘And Dubois?’ Didier asks. ‘How is Wooden Head?’
After generations of ownership by a local family, the hotel has been sold to a group of investors from Toulouse. Madame Dubois has joined as the new manager and as his replacement.
‘I don’t know,’ he answers. ‘She doesn’t say much. She isn’t interested in my opinion, or my way. She answers only to Toulouse.’
‘She doesn’t give much away,’ Didier agrees. ‘She is wrapped as tight as those bound feet, you know, that Chinese thing. Or a mummy. Yeah, maybe a mummy. It would be difficult to say if there was a beating heart there at all.’
Monsieur Micheau throws his cigarette to the ground and stands on it. He turns to go.
‘You could take up golf,’ Didier teases him. ‘Or tennis. You might land a rich woman there.’
He laughs. The thought of dressing up in sports clothes is too much for him. He can’t imagine it.
‘Or you could join the Saint Vincent,’ Didier continues. ‘They do great work. Plenty of women there too. Spinsters, widows, and empty-nesters, they’re really into charity work.’
He laughs again, but as he walks away he thinks there might be something in the Saint Vincent idea.
At ten he greets the kitchen and restaurant staff and allocates tasks. At ten-fifteen he does the same with Florence and Esther, the femmes-de-ménage of housekeeping. At ten-thirty he has a coffee with Chef and they review the week’s menu they agreed on the previous Thursday. They go over the week’s bookings and special requests, and review the seminars planning and the associated lunches and dinners. He checks with Chef that orders are made, deliveries are planned, and the staff roster is organised.
At eleven-thirty he and Chef have the Plat du Jour in the staff canteen. Today it is Boeuf Carotte, a frequent speciality of Chef but not one of Monsieur Micheau’s favourites. At twelve he is in the restaurant lobby where he greets guests and where he remains for the entire lunch service. When the last diner is gone he organises the cleaning and the preparation of the tables for evening service.
At two-thirty he is at his desk again, a pot of coffee and a plate of Chef’s biscuits before him. He attends to paperwork for the next hour.
At three-thirty he meets Madame Dubois in her new office on the third floor. After the meeting he greets Élisa, the evening receptionist, and he reviews with her the same guest, group, and seminar checklists he did earlier with Nathalie. He tours the kitchen, restaurant, and bar. Monsieur and Madame Peraud, both retired doctors, are in the bar playing cards. Each season they visit for one week. Each visit they ask for room 207 for no reason other than familiarity, it isn’t a special room. Each morning they have the same breakfast, and each day they order the set menu for lunch and dinner. And each afternoon they play cards in the bar and wait for the television quiz shows. They love television quiz shows. He checks all is well and then leaves them be. How can someone go from medicine to television quiz shows? He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t think much of television quiz shows; they only exist for those with nothing to do. He then returns to his desk, lifts his overcoat from the coat-stand, locks his office, and goes.
At home he sets the table just as he has done every day since he was five. It used to be set for three, then two, and now one. But he still lays it proper, each item in its right place, and a folded linen napkin by the side of the plate. Maman and Papa moved the evening meal forward when he started in the hotel and had to return there for evening service. ‘We will eat early, we will have tea at the hour of the English,’ his papa said. Papa had spent much of the war in England and was fond of his experience there. When Papa first told of it, he wondered how anyone could eat tea instead of dinner. He thought it right funny. But now it pleases him to think of Papa and to eat tea at the hour of the English. He imagines the English to have exquisite manners and politeness, as they do in those Agatha Christie novels he reads. And he longs to visit one of those grand British hotels where guests dress for dinner. That would be the best ever. And perhaps now it could be done. Perhaps he could break into his retirement savings and buy a trip. Just a few days, or a week. Maybe not The Ritz or The Dorchester or Claridge's, oh just imagine it, Claridge's, where the stars and royalty go, he’d be like the king of France, limousine for Monsieur Micheau, the concierge would call before escorting him down the red carpet, the footman ready with the door open. No, not those, he thinks he could never afford those. Oh, if only. But still somewhere nice could be possible. Yes, perhaps, he can do it. He could see himself in some grand formal dining room, with service to perfection, ornate silver cutlery and finest bone china tableware, embroidered linen, and everything so British. Yes, he is decided, he will definitely do that.
At six-forty he drives to the hotel where he takes up his post in the restaurant lobby where he is assisted by Alain, the Maitre D’, and Aurelie, the waitress. When evening service is finished he invites Alain for a cigarette on the outside-porch.
At eleven he stands by the reception desk and bids goodnight to Élisa. He greets Cedric the night porter and together they go over the guest, group, and seminar lists for the next day. He revisits the restaurant and kitchen and has a quick word with Cedric about the breakfast buffet. He takes his overcoat, locks his office, and at eleven-thirty he is driving the Citroen back into town.
Tuesday he works. It is one of his two scheduled days off, but he always works it.
Wednesday is his day off that he takes off and he goes into a travel agency and enquires about an English hotel package. A girl in a blue uniform, behind an orange desk, tells him there are bargains if he could go in mid-January, even for some of the great hotels. She gives him a printed copy of options and he leaves assuring her he will return the next week.
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday he works. And so, too, Sunday. This is his last day. He completes his daily routine up to lunch service, but afterwards the hotel is quiet. Saturday night guests have checked out and gone, and there are few guests booked for the night. And, as is typical on short cold days, all are already arrived and are gone to their rooms. He isn’t expecting any drop-in guests on the last Sunday in November. The kitchen and restaurant staff have cleaned up and gone; November through January, bar Christmas week and New Year, the restaurant does not open on Sunday evenings. The staff files are gone to the third floor. So, too, the planning lists for guests, groups, and seminars. So, too, the staff rosters and the maintenance schedule for Didier. And on Thursday Chef met with Madame Dubois to plan the coming week’s menu. He stands by the door of his office and he is unsure of direction. For the first time since he was a teenager, he has nothing to do. There is no-one about but Sandrine who works the Sunday second-shift at the reception desk. Didier has been in to clean the indoor pool, but he is gone to spend the day hunting boar. Madame Dubois said farewell on Friday before she travelled home to Carcassonne for the weekend. It was a formal goodbye by the reception desk, each not knowing quite what to say. ‘Well, Monsieur, call in for lunch someday, on the hotel,’ she said and then made an abrupt exit without a return look or a wave, or, as he knew, a thought.
He walks the grounds and visits the pool and the gym. He visits each accommodation floor. He walks through the kitchen and dining rooms. He takes an espresso coffee by the bar. He tries to take it in, as though somehow, if he makes an effort, he can hold on to it better. The memory of her voice comes again unbidden. Nobody calls him by his name anymore; well, apart from Jean-Luc at the café and old Labrouche the church sacristan, or an old friend who might return for the fête de la Saint-Jean. Somewhere through the years his name was dropped and lost. He is Monsieur Micheau to all. But not to her.
He goes home for dinner and, with nothing in the hotel to do, he waits for nine bells from Sainte Catherine’s before he again points the Citroen north.
He unlocks his office by the hotel foyer, hangs his overcoat on the coat-stand, and walks back to the reception desk.
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Micheau,’ says Sandrine.
In the kitchen he releases two plates of Chef’s biscuits. In the bar he makes two large coffees. He leaves one coffee and one plate of biscuits beside Sandrine and the remainder he carries on a tray to his desk.
At eleven he bids Sandrine a goodnight and welcomes Cedric, the night porter. He asks Cedric to print lists for guests, groups, and seminars and then they agree on what needs to be ready for the morning.
He returns to his office and switches his computer off. There is nothing to pack and bring. There are no personal items to be boxed. It is all personal.
He takes his coat and locks his office. Suddenly he remembers the key. What should he do with it? He hands it to Cedric. ‘For Madame Dubois,’ he says. He reaches out and touches Cedric on his arm. ‘Go well,’ he says, before turning and walking away.
‘Good night, Monsieur Micheau,’ Cedric says. ‘Bonne continuation.’
He visits his cousin Elsa in Perpignan for some winter sunshine but has Christmas at home. On Christmas Eve he takes an early coffee with Jean-Luc and old Labrouche the church sacristan. They chat on Christmases past until old Labrouche scuttles away at eight to open the tall double-doors of Sainte Catherine’s. Later he meanders around the market and then he walks to the Spar shop for some supplies. Afterwards he walks on and finds himself passing the hotel. He decides to go in and say hello. Nathalie is busy at the reception desk and doesn’t notice him. He looks past reception to the restaurant where he sees Alain and Aurelie attending diners.
‘Monsieur Micheau,’ Nathalie exclaims, seeing him. ‘What a surprise.’ She looks at him and he notices her glance to his hands and feet. Suddenly he realises he is wearing his loose comfortable pants and his blue running shoes. Not that he uses them for running, but he wears them for his stroll on market day. And then he remembers he is carrying two plastic bags of supermarket shopping. How stupid to come in looking like this.
‘Is everything alright, Monsieur?’ Nathalie asks.
He feels awkward and annoyed at himself. He wants to be out and gone before anyone else sees him.
‘Everything is fine, Nathalie. I just went for a little walk to get some shopping and thought I would pop in to wish you a happy Christmas.’
And with that he makes a brisk exit and walks directly home.
That evening he goes to the carol service in Sainte Catherine’s. He enjoys the music and the communal voice. He should come more often; he used to like church. But he has only been twice in twenty years. First it was with Papa. And then with Maman. The thought comes to him that one day it will be his own heavy carcass that is carried through those tall double-doors. But he lets the image drop and rejoins the hymns.
For the days of Christmas he spends his mornings in the café and afterwards he rereads his collection of Agatha Christie novels. This leisure he doesn’t mind, as he has his trip to London approaching and he spends every evening dreaming of grand British hotels with his bag-in-a-box red wine to loosen the imagination. He can’t wait.
Mid-January is here and he drives the Citroen to the station, takes the train into the city, and takes the bus to the airport. Four hours later he is in a black cab in London. ‘The Stafford Hotel,’ he says to the driver. He can’t believe it, he is here. Yes, here he is, really here, a new suitcase, a new suit, in a London taxi, and on his way to The Stafford. The new suit struggles to hold his excitement from bursting out and spilling all over the cab.
In his room in the Stafford he retrieves the girls and women of his life; Maman, Aunt Isobel and Aunt Marie, his cousins Elsa and Estelle and Céline, little Beatrice his neighbour who died, girls at school he liked, friends at catering college, and those from the hotel. But as he pulls at the memories he knows her voice is not here, that it doesn’t belong here, that it is beyond here, before here, and somehow, eternal of here.
Eight days later he is home in the townhouse with a glass of wine. How wonderful was that? It was everything he had wished for. Such elegance. Such style. Such history. What stories. And everything so British. The next morning, wearing his new London-bought tweed coat, he is knocking on the café window as Jean-Luc is lifting chairs from tables.
In the late morning he decides to walk to the hotel. He dresses first into his new suit and over that he wears the tweed coat. He wants to tell them about it. How excited he’ll be in the telling; and perhaps they’ll think him silly for being so appreciative of such things, though they won’t say it. He laughs thinking about it. And the rooms, he’ll make sure to tell Florence and Esther about the wonderful rooms. And he wonders if they will notice the tweed coat. So British, they’ll say, and he’ll laugh. Didier will have some choice comment to make on the whole thing. And Chef? He’ll have to tell Chef about the food. And Alain? He’ll recommend a few pointers to Alain on service. Yes, the telling could take all day.
It is just after midday when he arrives at the hotel. He enters by the east gate and strolls along the driveway. He looks for Didier in the grounds but does not see him; the cold weather, he knows, will keep Didier indoors for weeks. He tidies the lapels of the coat as he steps into the foyer. The door of his office, his old office, is open and he sees that it has been freshly painted and the carpet replaced with glistening tiles. A high shelf above a steel rail runs around the room. A dozen coats hang from the rail. The office has been transformed into a cloakroom. He steps towards the reception desk. A young blonde girl, her hair tied tightly back, greets him.
‘Bonjour Monsieur. Do you have a reservation?’
‘No, I’m not a guest,’ he answers. ‘I’m the old manager . . . I mean, I was the manager, I just called in . . . .’ Suddenly he doesn’t know what to say. ‘Is Nathalie here?’ he asks.
‘Nathalie?’ The blonde girl asks, confused. ‘Oh, you mean the last receptionist. No, she didn’t come back after Christmas, got a job in the new medical centre. No shift work there, you see. She has children, I believe.’
He wonders how he never thought of that before, that the shift work on the reception desk might not suit a woman with children.
‘Ah, I see,’ he says.
He turns to look towards the restaurant dining-rooms and he looks for Alain or Aurelie but just as he raises his head the elevator doors open with a chime and Madame Dubois steps into the foyer.
‘Monsieur,’ she greets him in that cold, formal, and disengaged way of hers. He takes her offered hand but notices she has a confused look on her face as though she is about to question him. ‘Ah yes,’ she taps the side of her head. ‘The lunch, of course.’ She turns and beckons Alain who has appeared in the restaurant lobby. ‘Alain, a table for Monsieur.’ And with that and no more she walks away.
Alain gives him a warm welcome, takes his coat, and walks him to the table, but before a conversation can be struck Alain darts back to his station in the lobby. After some minutes Aurelie appears at his table with a half-litre carafe of red wine. She welcomes him with a big smile and a touch on his arm, but she, too, quickly leaves him to continue her work. He notes he hasn’t been offered la carte and guesses he has to settle for the lucky dip of the Plat du Jour. Anyhow, he didn’t come for food, he had forgotten the invite for lunch. He just came in to tell them about England. Aurelie brings him a basket of bread and he asks about Chef. She says that she will let Chef know he is here and then sets about attending the other diners. Both Alain and Aurelie are in new black uniforms, a change, no doubt, insisted by Madame Dubois. He thinks they carry a touch of the funereal look of his once too formal suit. He thinks it a change for the worse. Aurelie arrives with his lunch, it is the Boeuf Carotte and Monsieur Micheau pours himself a glass of wine and laughs.
‘Chef says he’s busy,’ Aurelie tells him. ‘But he’ll give you a call at home someday.’
If he was to try and describe her voice to Aurelie, he ponders through his eating, how would he do that? If I was on my deathbed, he thinks, and the person I loved most visited and said my name, that would be wonderful, but sad too as it would carry a goodbye. But if the person I loved most came from the other side and said my name, that would be wonderful, but beautiful too as it would carry a hello. That’s the best he can do. That’s the best he can make of it.
When he is finished Aurelie clears his plate and bread basket and brings him coffee.
‘It isn’t the same without you,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s a different world.’ But then if seeing him again makes it better she smiles and he nods slowly as she turns and goes.
After his coffee he tries to get Alain for a moment but it isn’t possible. Madame Dubois enters the dining room every ten minutes or so and Alain is on his toes and busy. Aurelie appears at his table with his coat. He stands and puts it on.
‘How do you like my new British tweed?’ he asks.
Aurelie thinks it funny and laughs and touches his arm. She says goodbye, kisses him on both cheeks, and leaves him.
He walks back to the hotel foyer. Alain is not in the lobby as he goes through. He passes the reception desk and the blonde girl wishes him a good day. He would like to go up to the accommodation levels to see Florence and Esther, but Madame Dubois is standing guard in the foyer between the elevator and the stairs. It is as if she had guessed his intentions and has made a pre-emptive block.
‘I’ve been to England,’ he says to her.
She shivers as if the news chills her. ‘England? Oh, how horrible.’
He walks on, past Madame Dubois, past his old office, and leaves.
‘Goodbye, Monsieur,’ she says.
He turns to say something, but she has stepped away and is gone.
Slowly he walks back to town. He is tired and his body is weighty. He passes the boulangerie without a glance. He passes the Spar shop and turns towards the marketplace. He passes the charcuterie, the post office, and the tabac. He passes the café without a nod or a wave. He breathes heavy as if someone has stolen much of the air. He lumbers across the cobbles of La Place de la République and he goes home. He hangs the new tweed coat on the wall-peg in the hallway and slowly climbs the narrow staircase. He removes the new suit. He dresses into his comfortable pants and a warm sweater. In single movements he goes back down the stairs. He is restless and cannot find something to do. He tries reading, but can’t. He fills a half-litre jug of red wine from the bag-in-a-box and sits in his lounge, and he spends the rest of the day watching television quiz shows.
The next morning he trundles down the stairs and unlocks the oak-panelled door. He lights a cigarette and shuffles to the edge of the pavement. A hard frost has hardened on a sprinkling of snow and rebounded lamplight sparkles here and there. A few grey cobbles show through the white. He looks around. Lighted windows are dotted among the houses and a few well-wrapped bodies hobble across the plaza. It is cold, very cold. The freezing air closes on him, biting hands and face. He leans from one slipper to the other. He blows smoke as he looks to Sainte Catherine’s where the tall double-doors are wide open.
Mark Mulholland
He steps from the house and shuffles to the edge of the pavement. He looks across the town square where lamplight rebounds from sandstone facades and yellow pools spill across cobbles. He looks east to the void of the recessed Hotel De Ville as he puts fire to a cigarette. He listens . . . nothing. He looks west to a mist that loiters around Sainte Catherine’s and he pulls on the cigarette. He listens . . . still nothing. Not a sound to be heard. He looks across to the houses opposite. No, nothing happening, nothing at all; nobody yet moves.
She called his name and he woke. Who was that? It was very odd. Bizarre. And, somehow, he knows the voice. Or has known it. How? And what was the dream before the voice? No, he can’t reach it. It’s gone. But the voice? He reaches and it is not gone. And he replays it. Never has he heard his name spoken so perfectly and with so much . . . what? He doesn’t know.
He pulls hard again on the cigarette and blows smoke up into the dark as he leans from one slipper to the other. He shudders in the chill of the November air. He glances to the church clock as the hands move toward the hour; he always makes it out before the six bells. And he doesn’t have an alarm, or one of those watches that bleep. He has never needed one. He doesn’t know why, he just wakes early. In any case, he doesn’t like modern things, especially digital things. And a mobile phone? Ha! The idea of it amuses him. Hasn’t he a phone at home? And he has another at work. Who could need three phones? A self-tuning radio is his sole observance to the communication age, his old television being seldom used. He shuffles and shakes away the cold. He finishes the cigarette and drops the butt into the sand-filled plant pot, closes the oak-panelled door behind him, and climbs the narrow staircase for a shower.
Love, that’s what. Never has he heard his name spoken with so much love. He can’t make sense of it. He replays it again and no, she did not call him, the voice; it was said, spoken, not called. The difference matters. Somehow he knows the difference matters, but he doesn’t know how.
The hands on the kitchen clock approach six-forty as he tidies and wipes the counter. He folds the linen towel and returns it to the stainless-steel rail. He takes his overcoat from the wall-peg, pulls the oak door shut, and at six forty-five he drives across La Place de la République. A gentle bubble and gurgle is pressed from the cobbles by the Citroen’s tyres and he notes that some lighted windows are now dotted among the houses. Another Monday, another week, he thinks, as he pushes the power button on the stereo and Radio Nostalgie joins him in the car. He adjusts the volume low. He lifts he eyes and brakes. He shakes his head as before him goes young Thierry Thévenin to his job at the abattoir, and not looking, and not listening except to those dammed ear pieces. The whole world has gone mad. Everyone now is tuned in to some private recital on their personal devices. He lets Thierry cross and then he drives on past the café where he waves inside to Jean-Luc, his old front-row partner, who is lifting chairs from tables. He continues past the tabac, the post office, and the charcuterie, all dark, before joining the main route at the Spar supermarket. He turns north onto an empty road. He slows to walking speed as he passes the boulangerie where he delivers a broad wave to Francine. He waits for her acknowledgement and then he pushes the pedal to sixty-five for three minutes before slowing and entering the hotel car-park by the east gate. He unlocks his office by the hotel foyer, hangs his overcoat on the coat-stand, and walks back to the reception desk. It wasn’t someone within his dream that spoke to him, he knows that. The voice came external, other. And the voice was real, as real as anything that has ever existed. More real than real. Beyond real. And how can that be?
‘Bonjour Monsieur Micheau,’ says Cedric, the night porter.
He greets Cedric with a handshake and asks about the night and messages. He inspects the breakfast buffet, checking the dates of the yogurts and adjusting the fruit basket. He walks the dining rooms and the veranda. He unlocks the bar and reads the staff notebook and roster.
At seven he greets Nathalie, the day receptionist, and asks her for a fresh list of guests present, guests leaving, guests arriving, and rooms ready. He ensures all is in order. He asks for a fresh copy of the group bookings and the seminars planning and repeats the examination.
‘The last week, Monsieur Micheau,’ Nathalie says as they finish their checklist and he walks away. ‘La retraite.’
‘Forty-four years, Nathalie,’ he answers with a shake of his head. ‘Where have they gone?’
At seven-twenty he takes a tray from the bar to the buffet where he prepares a pot of coffee, a glass of grapefruit juice, two croissants, a slice of brioche, a pot of fromage-blanc, a pot of cherry yogurt, a small jar each of apricot and strawberry jam, a knife, two teaspoons, and a paper napkin. He goes to his office where he eats slowly whilst reviewing hotel emails. He thinks again that he might buy a computer, now that he’s retiring and will be without the use of the machine at work. But he’s not sure.
After breakfast he visits the staff restroom in the cellar. He lifts his toilet bag from a shelf above a wide mirror, strips to his vest, and shaves. He washes and splashes aftershave on his thick neck. He sprinkles oil to his head and combs his hair back. He looks at himself. His square head and bulky neck top a broad body. He has added weight again; still not fat, but he is heavy. There is grey there, and some thinning, but he is lucky to have such hair at this age. His papa was the same, kept a great head of hair to the end. When he first came to the hotel he used to wear a formal suit, but the then owner asked him to soften the look with a lighter suit or a smart jacket and pants; the hotel owner suggested the black suit looked too funereal under the square dark head. I looked like an undertaker; he laughs thinking of it again. The big dark square head had served him well in the front row of the town’s rugby fifteen, but it was not the best look to welcome guests.
Beyond real? What does that even mean? But that’s where her voice came from. It makes no sense. Who was that? He can’t put an age to her. She is beyond age. And where? Where did her voice come from? She is beyond place, somewhere familiar and yet somewhere strange. He knows and yet doesn’t know. He can’t get a hold of it.
He dresses and returns to his office and at eight he lifts the staff folder and opens the payroll programme on his computer.
At nine-thirty he walks the grounds of the hotel and tours the gym and the indoor swimming pool. He meets up with Didier, the hotel caretaker, and they have a chat and a cigarette in the loading bay in the back yard.
‘And Dubois?’ Didier asks. ‘How is Wooden Head?’
After generations of ownership by a local family, the hotel has been sold to a group of investors from Toulouse. Madame Dubois has joined as the new manager and as his replacement.
‘I don’t know,’ he answers. ‘She doesn’t say much. She isn’t interested in my opinion, or my way. She answers only to Toulouse.’
‘She doesn’t give much away,’ Didier agrees. ‘She is wrapped as tight as those bound feet, you know, that Chinese thing. Or a mummy. Yeah, maybe a mummy. It would be difficult to say if there was a beating heart there at all.’
Monsieur Micheau throws his cigarette to the ground and stands on it. He turns to go.
‘You could take up golf,’ Didier teases him. ‘Or tennis. You might land a rich woman there.’
He laughs. The thought of dressing up in sports clothes is too much for him. He can’t imagine it.
‘Or you could join the Saint Vincent,’ Didier continues. ‘They do great work. Plenty of women there too. Spinsters, widows, and empty-nesters, they’re really into charity work.’
He laughs again, but as he walks away he thinks there might be something in the Saint Vincent idea.
At ten he greets the kitchen and restaurant staff and allocates tasks. At ten-fifteen he does the same with Florence and Esther, the femmes-de-ménage of housekeeping. At ten-thirty he has a coffee with Chef and they review the week’s menu they agreed on the previous Thursday. They go over the week’s bookings and special requests, and review the seminars planning and the associated lunches and dinners. He checks with Chef that orders are made, deliveries are planned, and the staff roster is organised.
At eleven-thirty he and Chef have the Plat du Jour in the staff canteen. Today it is Boeuf Carotte, a frequent speciality of Chef but not one of Monsieur Micheau’s favourites. At twelve he is in the restaurant lobby where he greets guests and where he remains for the entire lunch service. When the last diner is gone he organises the cleaning and the preparation of the tables for evening service.
At two-thirty he is at his desk again, a pot of coffee and a plate of Chef’s biscuits before him. He attends to paperwork for the next hour.
At three-thirty he meets Madame Dubois in her new office on the third floor. After the meeting he greets Élisa, the evening receptionist, and he reviews with her the same guest, group, and seminar checklists he did earlier with Nathalie. He tours the kitchen, restaurant, and bar. Monsieur and Madame Peraud, both retired doctors, are in the bar playing cards. Each season they visit for one week. Each visit they ask for room 207 for no reason other than familiarity, it isn’t a special room. Each morning they have the same breakfast, and each day they order the set menu for lunch and dinner. And each afternoon they play cards in the bar and wait for the television quiz shows. They love television quiz shows. He checks all is well and then leaves them be. How can someone go from medicine to television quiz shows? He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t think much of television quiz shows; they only exist for those with nothing to do. He then returns to his desk, lifts his overcoat from the coat-stand, locks his office, and goes.
At home he sets the table just as he has done every day since he was five. It used to be set for three, then two, and now one. But he still lays it proper, each item in its right place, and a folded linen napkin by the side of the plate. Maman and Papa moved the evening meal forward when he started in the hotel and had to return there for evening service. ‘We will eat early, we will have tea at the hour of the English,’ his papa said. Papa had spent much of the war in England and was fond of his experience there. When Papa first told of it, he wondered how anyone could eat tea instead of dinner. He thought it right funny. But now it pleases him to think of Papa and to eat tea at the hour of the English. He imagines the English to have exquisite manners and politeness, as they do in those Agatha Christie novels he reads. And he longs to visit one of those grand British hotels where guests dress for dinner. That would be the best ever. And perhaps now it could be done. Perhaps he could break into his retirement savings and buy a trip. Just a few days, or a week. Maybe not The Ritz or The Dorchester or Claridge's, oh just imagine it, Claridge's, where the stars and royalty go, he’d be like the king of France, limousine for Monsieur Micheau, the concierge would call before escorting him down the red carpet, the footman ready with the door open. No, not those, he thinks he could never afford those. Oh, if only. But still somewhere nice could be possible. Yes, perhaps, he can do it. He could see himself in some grand formal dining room, with service to perfection, ornate silver cutlery and finest bone china tableware, embroidered linen, and everything so British. Yes, he is decided, he will definitely do that.
At six-forty he drives to the hotel where he takes up his post in the restaurant lobby where he is assisted by Alain, the Maitre D’, and Aurelie, the waitress. When evening service is finished he invites Alain for a cigarette on the outside-porch.
At eleven he stands by the reception desk and bids goodnight to Élisa. He greets Cedric the night porter and together they go over the guest, group, and seminar lists for the next day. He revisits the restaurant and kitchen and has a quick word with Cedric about the breakfast buffet. He takes his overcoat, locks his office, and at eleven-thirty he is driving the Citroen back into town.
Tuesday he works. It is one of his two scheduled days off, but he always works it.
Wednesday is his day off that he takes off and he goes into a travel agency and enquires about an English hotel package. A girl in a blue uniform, behind an orange desk, tells him there are bargains if he could go in mid-January, even for some of the great hotels. She gives him a printed copy of options and he leaves assuring her he will return the next week.
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday he works. And so, too, Sunday. This is his last day. He completes his daily routine up to lunch service, but afterwards the hotel is quiet. Saturday night guests have checked out and gone, and there are few guests booked for the night. And, as is typical on short cold days, all are already arrived and are gone to their rooms. He isn’t expecting any drop-in guests on the last Sunday in November. The kitchen and restaurant staff have cleaned up and gone; November through January, bar Christmas week and New Year, the restaurant does not open on Sunday evenings. The staff files are gone to the third floor. So, too, the planning lists for guests, groups, and seminars. So, too, the staff rosters and the maintenance schedule for Didier. And on Thursday Chef met with Madame Dubois to plan the coming week’s menu. He stands by the door of his office and he is unsure of direction. For the first time since he was a teenager, he has nothing to do. There is no-one about but Sandrine who works the Sunday second-shift at the reception desk. Didier has been in to clean the indoor pool, but he is gone to spend the day hunting boar. Madame Dubois said farewell on Friday before she travelled home to Carcassonne for the weekend. It was a formal goodbye by the reception desk, each not knowing quite what to say. ‘Well, Monsieur, call in for lunch someday, on the hotel,’ she said and then made an abrupt exit without a return look or a wave, or, as he knew, a thought.
He walks the grounds and visits the pool and the gym. He visits each accommodation floor. He walks through the kitchen and dining rooms. He takes an espresso coffee by the bar. He tries to take it in, as though somehow, if he makes an effort, he can hold on to it better. The memory of her voice comes again unbidden. Nobody calls him by his name anymore; well, apart from Jean-Luc at the café and old Labrouche the church sacristan, or an old friend who might return for the fête de la Saint-Jean. Somewhere through the years his name was dropped and lost. He is Monsieur Micheau to all. But not to her.
He goes home for dinner and, with nothing in the hotel to do, he waits for nine bells from Sainte Catherine’s before he again points the Citroen north.
He unlocks his office by the hotel foyer, hangs his overcoat on the coat-stand, and walks back to the reception desk.
‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Micheau,’ says Sandrine.
In the kitchen he releases two plates of Chef’s biscuits. In the bar he makes two large coffees. He leaves one coffee and one plate of biscuits beside Sandrine and the remainder he carries on a tray to his desk.
At eleven he bids Sandrine a goodnight and welcomes Cedric, the night porter. He asks Cedric to print lists for guests, groups, and seminars and then they agree on what needs to be ready for the morning.
He returns to his office and switches his computer off. There is nothing to pack and bring. There are no personal items to be boxed. It is all personal.
He takes his coat and locks his office. Suddenly he remembers the key. What should he do with it? He hands it to Cedric. ‘For Madame Dubois,’ he says. He reaches out and touches Cedric on his arm. ‘Go well,’ he says, before turning and walking away.
‘Good night, Monsieur Micheau,’ Cedric says. ‘Bonne continuation.’
He visits his cousin Elsa in Perpignan for some winter sunshine but has Christmas at home. On Christmas Eve he takes an early coffee with Jean-Luc and old Labrouche the church sacristan. They chat on Christmases past until old Labrouche scuttles away at eight to open the tall double-doors of Sainte Catherine’s. Later he meanders around the market and then he walks to the Spar shop for some supplies. Afterwards he walks on and finds himself passing the hotel. He decides to go in and say hello. Nathalie is busy at the reception desk and doesn’t notice him. He looks past reception to the restaurant where he sees Alain and Aurelie attending diners.
‘Monsieur Micheau,’ Nathalie exclaims, seeing him. ‘What a surprise.’ She looks at him and he notices her glance to his hands and feet. Suddenly he realises he is wearing his loose comfortable pants and his blue running shoes. Not that he uses them for running, but he wears them for his stroll on market day. And then he remembers he is carrying two plastic bags of supermarket shopping. How stupid to come in looking like this.
‘Is everything alright, Monsieur?’ Nathalie asks.
He feels awkward and annoyed at himself. He wants to be out and gone before anyone else sees him.
‘Everything is fine, Nathalie. I just went for a little walk to get some shopping and thought I would pop in to wish you a happy Christmas.’
And with that he makes a brisk exit and walks directly home.
That evening he goes to the carol service in Sainte Catherine’s. He enjoys the music and the communal voice. He should come more often; he used to like church. But he has only been twice in twenty years. First it was with Papa. And then with Maman. The thought comes to him that one day it will be his own heavy carcass that is carried through those tall double-doors. But he lets the image drop and rejoins the hymns.
For the days of Christmas he spends his mornings in the café and afterwards he rereads his collection of Agatha Christie novels. This leisure he doesn’t mind, as he has his trip to London approaching and he spends every evening dreaming of grand British hotels with his bag-in-a-box red wine to loosen the imagination. He can’t wait.
Mid-January is here and he drives the Citroen to the station, takes the train into the city, and takes the bus to the airport. Four hours later he is in a black cab in London. ‘The Stafford Hotel,’ he says to the driver. He can’t believe it, he is here. Yes, here he is, really here, a new suitcase, a new suit, in a London taxi, and on his way to The Stafford. The new suit struggles to hold his excitement from bursting out and spilling all over the cab.
In his room in the Stafford he retrieves the girls and women of his life; Maman, Aunt Isobel and Aunt Marie, his cousins Elsa and Estelle and Céline, little Beatrice his neighbour who died, girls at school he liked, friends at catering college, and those from the hotel. But as he pulls at the memories he knows her voice is not here, that it doesn’t belong here, that it is beyond here, before here, and somehow, eternal of here.
Eight days later he is home in the townhouse with a glass of wine. How wonderful was that? It was everything he had wished for. Such elegance. Such style. Such history. What stories. And everything so British. The next morning, wearing his new London-bought tweed coat, he is knocking on the café window as Jean-Luc is lifting chairs from tables.
In the late morning he decides to walk to the hotel. He dresses first into his new suit and over that he wears the tweed coat. He wants to tell them about it. How excited he’ll be in the telling; and perhaps they’ll think him silly for being so appreciative of such things, though they won’t say it. He laughs thinking about it. And the rooms, he’ll make sure to tell Florence and Esther about the wonderful rooms. And he wonders if they will notice the tweed coat. So British, they’ll say, and he’ll laugh. Didier will have some choice comment to make on the whole thing. And Chef? He’ll have to tell Chef about the food. And Alain? He’ll recommend a few pointers to Alain on service. Yes, the telling could take all day.
It is just after midday when he arrives at the hotel. He enters by the east gate and strolls along the driveway. He looks for Didier in the grounds but does not see him; the cold weather, he knows, will keep Didier indoors for weeks. He tidies the lapels of the coat as he steps into the foyer. The door of his office, his old office, is open and he sees that it has been freshly painted and the carpet replaced with glistening tiles. A high shelf above a steel rail runs around the room. A dozen coats hang from the rail. The office has been transformed into a cloakroom. He steps towards the reception desk. A young blonde girl, her hair tied tightly back, greets him.
‘Bonjour Monsieur. Do you have a reservation?’
‘No, I’m not a guest,’ he answers. ‘I’m the old manager . . . I mean, I was the manager, I just called in . . . .’ Suddenly he doesn’t know what to say. ‘Is Nathalie here?’ he asks.
‘Nathalie?’ The blonde girl asks, confused. ‘Oh, you mean the last receptionist. No, she didn’t come back after Christmas, got a job in the new medical centre. No shift work there, you see. She has children, I believe.’
He wonders how he never thought of that before, that the shift work on the reception desk might not suit a woman with children.
‘Ah, I see,’ he says.
He turns to look towards the restaurant dining-rooms and he looks for Alain or Aurelie but just as he raises his head the elevator doors open with a chime and Madame Dubois steps into the foyer.
‘Monsieur,’ she greets him in that cold, formal, and disengaged way of hers. He takes her offered hand but notices she has a confused look on her face as though she is about to question him. ‘Ah yes,’ she taps the side of her head. ‘The lunch, of course.’ She turns and beckons Alain who has appeared in the restaurant lobby. ‘Alain, a table for Monsieur.’ And with that and no more she walks away.
Alain gives him a warm welcome, takes his coat, and walks him to the table, but before a conversation can be struck Alain darts back to his station in the lobby. After some minutes Aurelie appears at his table with a half-litre carafe of red wine. She welcomes him with a big smile and a touch on his arm, but she, too, quickly leaves him to continue her work. He notes he hasn’t been offered la carte and guesses he has to settle for the lucky dip of the Plat du Jour. Anyhow, he didn’t come for food, he had forgotten the invite for lunch. He just came in to tell them about England. Aurelie brings him a basket of bread and he asks about Chef. She says that she will let Chef know he is here and then sets about attending the other diners. Both Alain and Aurelie are in new black uniforms, a change, no doubt, insisted by Madame Dubois. He thinks they carry a touch of the funereal look of his once too formal suit. He thinks it a change for the worse. Aurelie arrives with his lunch, it is the Boeuf Carotte and Monsieur Micheau pours himself a glass of wine and laughs.
‘Chef says he’s busy,’ Aurelie tells him. ‘But he’ll give you a call at home someday.’
If he was to try and describe her voice to Aurelie, he ponders through his eating, how would he do that? If I was on my deathbed, he thinks, and the person I loved most visited and said my name, that would be wonderful, but sad too as it would carry a goodbye. But if the person I loved most came from the other side and said my name, that would be wonderful, but beautiful too as it would carry a hello. That’s the best he can do. That’s the best he can make of it.
When he is finished Aurelie clears his plate and bread basket and brings him coffee.
‘It isn’t the same without you,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s a different world.’ But then if seeing him again makes it better she smiles and he nods slowly as she turns and goes.
After his coffee he tries to get Alain for a moment but it isn’t possible. Madame Dubois enters the dining room every ten minutes or so and Alain is on his toes and busy. Aurelie appears at his table with his coat. He stands and puts it on.
‘How do you like my new British tweed?’ he asks.
Aurelie thinks it funny and laughs and touches his arm. She says goodbye, kisses him on both cheeks, and leaves him.
He walks back to the hotel foyer. Alain is not in the lobby as he goes through. He passes the reception desk and the blonde girl wishes him a good day. He would like to go up to the accommodation levels to see Florence and Esther, but Madame Dubois is standing guard in the foyer between the elevator and the stairs. It is as if she had guessed his intentions and has made a pre-emptive block.
‘I’ve been to England,’ he says to her.
She shivers as if the news chills her. ‘England? Oh, how horrible.’
He walks on, past Madame Dubois, past his old office, and leaves.
‘Goodbye, Monsieur,’ she says.
He turns to say something, but she has stepped away and is gone.
Slowly he walks back to town. He is tired and his body is weighty. He passes the boulangerie without a glance. He passes the Spar shop and turns towards the marketplace. He passes the charcuterie, the post office, and the tabac. He passes the café without a nod or a wave. He breathes heavy as if someone has stolen much of the air. He lumbers across the cobbles of La Place de la République and he goes home. He hangs the new tweed coat on the wall-peg in the hallway and slowly climbs the narrow staircase. He removes the new suit. He dresses into his comfortable pants and a warm sweater. In single movements he goes back down the stairs. He is restless and cannot find something to do. He tries reading, but can’t. He fills a half-litre jug of red wine from the bag-in-a-box and sits in his lounge, and he spends the rest of the day watching television quiz shows.
The next morning he trundles down the stairs and unlocks the oak-panelled door. He lights a cigarette and shuffles to the edge of the pavement. A hard frost has hardened on a sprinkling of snow and rebounded lamplight sparkles here and there. A few grey cobbles show through the white. He looks around. Lighted windows are dotted among the houses and a few well-wrapped bodies hobble across the plaza. It is cold, very cold. The freezing air closes on him, biting hands and face. He leans from one slipper to the other. He blows smoke as he looks to Sainte Catherine’s where the tall double-doors are wide open.
