Image: still from the Grand Budapest Hotel, Wes Anderson
I don’t remember making my way to bed, or waking up, or even getting into the car that drove me to the Arena (although maman claims I threw a mighty tantrum throughout). My memories start again with me standing in the most decadent lobby I had ever seen, my leather jacket and big duffle bag starkly out of place between the liveried staff and dressed up guests.
Frozen to the spot from a mix of confusion, exhaustion and fear, I was pulled out of my own thoughts by a short, frowning woman planting herself in front of me:
“Can I help you?”
I shook myself out of my stupor and, in a torrent of words, attempted to explain my situation: I was looking for Vittorio Alfonsi, my name was X, he was a friend of my mother’s (no, not like that) and I was here because my mother had kicked me out because I hadn’t accomplished anything in a year.
Visibly surprised by my overshare, the woman took a step back.
“Just give me a moment - I’ll check Mr. Alfonsi’s schedule.”
The awkwardness of my actions sinking in, I made my way to one of the plush, brocade-covered chairs in the lobby and attempted to disappear inside one. I looked over: the woman was on the phone behind the reception desk, a skeptical look on her face. After a few minutes of what seemed like negotiations, she nodded, hung up, then sighed before looking towards me. Not wanting to make the situation any tenser than it already was, I quickly looked down. A few seconds later, pointy, black suede shoes appeared in my line of sight:
“Mr. Alfonsi will come to get you in just a few minutes”
I looked up slowly. The woman winced when I met her eye, probably fearing another outpour. I managed a shaky smile in thanks - she looked relieved I didn’t try to speak and immediately turned away, taking refuge behind her desk.
I waited for what felt like hours, dozing off as my hangover and lack of sleep made themselves known. I was woken up by a short man with overgelled hair stridently yelling my name down the lobby: Mr. Alfonsi had arrived.
As we walked towards his office, he peppered me with questions he didn’t give me the time to answer. Alfonsi was an impatient man, and it felt like even the few minutes it took to walk from one place to another were wasted in his eyes. He seemed to be perpetually moving in short, precise movements. Even once he sat down behind his desk, he continually rearranged either his hair, his suit or the various frames, awards and stationery pieces methodically ordered in front of him.
Vittorio Alfonsi was sharp. His sinewy, middle-aged figure jabbed at you from the shoulders, the elbows, the meticulously manicured hands. He wore a grey suit complimented - of course - by some obscenely pointed Italian shoes. His face was just as angular as the rest of him. He had a cutting jaw and elegantly crooked nose, mounted by piercing blue eyes which jumped from one thing to the next, always inquisitive, always looking for an imperfection to point out.
His rearranging ground to a halt as he turned his attention to me:
“You are here to learn discipline. I should warn you now, this most likely looks nothing like what your mother imagined.”
I nodded dumbly.
Lifting one bored eyebrow, he explained the unusual arrangement my mother had negotiated on my behalf: I was to stay within the hotel’s old staff quarters, admission to which had been closed for several years. Some people still lived there, though, administered by the head governess.
Madeleine, as she was called, was a thin matron with the rigid expression of one who’s seen it all. She led me to my room, all the while methodically explaining shower times (we had communal bathing spaces), laundry and meal shifts as well as who my new neighbours were. I was the Arena’s youngest resident by a long mile: other boarders were at least 50 years old and had worked at the hotel ever since they were my age.
The boarding quarters were a simple, functional area. Rooms were organized in an identical manner - a bed, a wardrobe, a small desk with a chair. Residents’ tenure was measured by the number of non-standard pieces of furniture they had salvaged from the hotel’s occasional refurbishings. Madeleine, though her character was as austere as her bun suggested, had the most incredible residence of all : she had taken over two adjoining rooms, using one as her bedroom and the other as a form of salon.
I had originally attributed Madeleine's expansive ameublement to her tenure at the Arena - until, just a few months after I arrived, both rooms got a full makeover. One of the boarders, Philippe, about twenty years my senior, explained the refurbishments to me. One of the Arena's most faithful clients was a Middle Eastern princess who spent three to five months a year in the entire third floor of the hotel, her staff taking over the second floor. Every year, her personal assistant came a few weeks in advance to completely redecorate the princess’ living quarters for the season, and enlisted Madeleine to help.
Naturally, every year, she kept the spoils.
Thank you to Ava, Marine, Steve for your insights!