CHAPTER 2
From When Fear Is Not Afraid, Chapter 8
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In which Oscar tries ordering a taxi from a hotel so dreadful that the only thing holding up its walls is a brazen determination not to draw attention to its squalor through inadvertent collapse.
It was evening, and Oscar stood in front of a large cracked mirror in a room on the fourth floor of a hotel in Liebe. He’d been standing in front of it for some time, unable to decide what pair of pantaloons might best suit an occasion of abject humiliation. Whenever he tried a tried a pair on and fluffed them, he envisioned himself amongst a crowd of prestigious poets, which had them deflate like a punctured tyre. Although he’d suffered humiliation at a poetry recital in the last book, this time things were different. The Mechanics of Verse lecture would not be the inane ramblings of a pathologically self-centred cat, but the most revered gathering of poets in the world. This, however, wasn’t is only concern. His own attempts at imagist poetry sustained him through the ludicrous world of curiosa: poetry was an antidote to his struggles as a Velvet Paw of Asquith. But although he might act like a Velvet Paw, he didn’t feel worthy of the title, and worried that when those attending proved he wasn’t one of these either, he’d be left with nothing. With a sigh, he decided upon a pair and stuffed the remaining ones back into a little suitcase. After securing a scarf, he donned a hat, refusing to face swathes of poets with the added disadvantage of being earless.
He left the room and entered a hallway which deserved nothing of its first syllable and little of its second. The hotel was appalling. Having decided discretion was essential, the Catacombs booked a room in one of Liebe’s worst. This didn’t bother Oscar, however, as Liebe’s best hotels would be crammed with poets of credence in lieu of the lecture, and he was relieved not to be amongst them. The hallway’s carpet was threadbare and devoid of colour except for a nondescript brown, which he doubted was part of its original hue and more an accumulation of the sort of thing vacuum cleaners had been invented for. Wallpaper, originally on the wall, had peeled and fallen over the years, having collected like autumn leaves along the skirting board. Some had caught upon ornate lamps, which jutted like withered claws from walls, but only one of them worked—up until he wandered past it, when its bulb fizzled and went pop. Not that it mattered, as there was ample light spilling in from street lamps outside; the cracks in the walls large enough to pass for windows. There was also evidence of rising damp so severe that it might be better described as reverse rain, and which, despite making the place smell like mud, nevertheless reduced the hotel’s fire-risk markedly.
The lift wasn’t working, so he took the stairs, which turned out to be just as broken and twice as dangerous. In the lobby, it was quiet, dark and dingy, and smelt like dead badger. It was, however, in a far better state of disrepair than upstairs as recent fire damage had gone some way to drying the place. Wallpaper, although in its more traditional location, was a collage of several patterns, including one that had been banned in more upmarket hotels for ecconomic reasons. There was a wooden door on one side of the lobby so warped, that it appeared to be solely responsible for supporting the upper floors, and beside it hung faded pictures that, although doing nothing for the lobby’s ambience, did a great deal to cover up its missing masonry. In one corner were some armchairs arranged around a little table that was missing a leg, which accounted for their arrangement, and another corner housed some stools against a window overlooking the street outside—at least, it would have done, had it not been covered with several sheets of brown paper and sticky-tape. There was an aquarium also, though it had no water, and although it had some gravel, most of it was on the floor. There were some pot plants dotted around the place, one of which was in a pot, and a poor scattering of magazines that were dated shortly after the invention of the printing press.
Despite all this, Oscar felt it had the sort of rustic charm that was inevitable after having stayed in a hotel decorated with aerosoled manure. Moreover, there were no other patrons present, which pleased him greatly.
There was, however, a dog behind a reception desk who appeared even less interested in Oscar’s presence than the newspaper he was reading.
He didn’t look up.
He hadn’t looked up when Oscar had checked in earlier that afternoon, either. He had, however, given him a key, which turned out to be for appearances only, as none of the rooms’ doors had locks and only three of them had hinges.
Oscar approached the desk.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said.
The dog continued reading.
“That is, in as much as you’ve clearly done nothing with it. It’s quite a novel approach and lends the place an old-world charm. A sort of teetering fragility. Though that might be the woodworm. I saw a rat earlier. Is it staying long?”
The dog’s indifference was admirable.
Oscar placed his key on the counter. “You can have this back, if you like, as I clearly shan’t be needing it.”
The dog licked a claw and turned a page.
“Tell me,” Oscar said, “which is the quickest way to the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe?”
“Depends on where you are,” the dog said, without looking up.
“Well, I’m here. In Liebe.”
“Then it should be fairly quick, relatively speaking.”
“Yes, but from this hotel: which is the best way to get there?”
The dog shrugged. “There is no best way. As with most things, there are both advantages and disadvantages.”
“As opposed to this place,” said Oscar, his indignation growing, “which has only the latter.” He wondered why every experience he’d had checking into hotels ended up being harder than physically getting to them. “So, would you be good enough to advise me of the quickest route out of the myriad available?”
“In a hurry, are you?” the dog asked, turning to the following page.
“I am, actually. I think I spent too long fluffing my pantaloons.”
The dog glanced over the counter at them, before returning to his page. “Not long enough, if you ask me.”
Oscar shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I’m not asking you—”
“Then what are you doing at my desk?” Another turn of page.
“Look, I need to get to the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe almost immediately—”
“You’re a poet, are you?”
“Not really. But I do need to get there—”
“You won’t need to be there unless you’re a poet.”
“Well, in a way then, yes, I am a poet.”
“Only the greatest poets are invited to the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe,” the dog said, frowning at one particular sentence. “And such creatures would certainly not downplay their status in the manner you just did.” The dog looked at him. “Nor would they have sought accommodation in an establishment such as this.”
“Establishment? You’re actually comfortable using that word?”
“I’m certainly more comfortable than you are,” he said, returning to the paper, “judging by those pantaloons.”
Oscar fluffed them. “Why? What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re bigger than you are, for a start.”
“It’s the current fashion.”
The dog humphed. “Where—in the dark?”
“No. Asquith, actually.”
After an unimpressed humph, he took the key and threw it into a shoebox containing several others, before returning to his paper.
“Right—look—can you at least order me a taxi?”
“I could, but the fact that you need one means you’re not worthy of attending the lecture.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you need a taxi then you’re clearly not a poet. Those worthy of attending the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe stay in much fancier hotels closer to the place.” He glanced at Oscar with the sort of contempt that usually books suites. “If you’re in this dump i
t says more about you than I need to.”
None of this was doing Oscar’s confidence any favours, and he considered going back to his room and staying there until the rot in the floorboards gave way and he returned to the lobby unconventionally. “Look,” he said, “I would like a taxi all the same. And if it’s too difficult then I can call one myself, if you have a telephone. Do you have a telephone? And by that I mean one that works and not used to prop up collapsed shelving.”
Another page was perused. “Your insistence on telephones and taxis proves that you know even less about poetry than I do. I see it all the time; animals believing themselves to be worthy of the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe just because they can rhyme a few words.”
“Just get me a fluffing taxi,” Oscar growled, “before I pull you across the desk and use you to flag one down.”
The dog’s indifference could have been nominated for an award. “I shall not direct you to the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe,” he said, “because you are not worthy. And as for your threats to use me as a flag—” He peered at Oscar’s pantaloons again, “are rather hypocritical, considering you’re wearing some.”
“Whether you believe me or not,” said Oscar, his teeth inseparable, “I nevertheless have an appointment at the Inaugurate Halls of Liebe. Just because I have booked a room in the sort of place that’s barely capable of housing internal walls does not reflect my credibility as a poet.”
“Of course it does. A gifted poet has pride enough to hire an abode worthy of such talent, not languish a squalid cesspit like this.”
Oscar placed his paws upon the counter and leant upon both, saying, “I’ll have you know that one of the greatest hotels I have ever stayed in was also one of the most disgusting.”
“I rest my case.”
“You rationale is appalling,” Oscar growled. “I cannot believe you consider poetry to be related to pride.”
“My case is now comatose.”
“Poetry is about what one sees and feels. It’s inherently introspective and has nothing to do with image!”
“My case is now clinically dead and funeral arrangements are pending—”
“Pride is the antithesis of poetry!”
“It’s now cremated, buried and residing within a box labelled return to sender.”
Oscar stared at him. “You just don’t get it, do you? And I suppose you believe the epitome of a poet is a creature such as the D’dôdôSette?”
“Oh, quite the epitome, indeed,” the dog said. “The animal is both artist and performer. A bard, no less. His whopping pride complements his massive talent.”
Leaning across the counter, Oscar hissed, “I not only know the D’dôdôSette well, but can assure you that although he was once as arrogant as you believe, he has come to realise conceit to be the greatest hindrance to the art!”
The dog offered a lethargic chuckle and put his newspaper down. “Your claim to know the D’dôdô-Sette is even more fantastic than your claim to be a poet.”
Oscar was about to say something further, before suspecting the dog’s impudence was a hobby. His own confidence was already cowering under the table mentioned previously and was contemplating a career change by becoming one of its legs. “I don’t need your help anyway,” he said, leaving the desk.
“Finding your way might be difficult,” the dog said, returning to his newspaper, “considering how lost you are to begin with.”
Oscar stormed from the hotel and tried slamming its door. But because it didn’t close very well to begin with, it rattled and fell off, which cheered him enormously, though he peered up at the building in case the rest of the place followed.
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