Dancing-colour vista

Unclear time of day, atmosphere-bloaty duskiness, dousing anyone I saw in this through-street in luminescent odd light. Between a couple of shanty-store pockets I smiled at a lady passing me, and was jolted when she returned one – what was it in that gesture, was it the traces of someone I had once known? As I carried on, seeing the hotel come into view, the warmth from that acknowledgement remained with me a moment, then faded.

Just one more carriageway to cross, then I was back. Into the much-trodden lobby with its worn red carpets, Murano glass chandeliers and aura of manufactured privacy. Then into the lift, zooming to the 27th floor, almost soundlessly. My room was an unbroken quiet. With the curtains open, it was difficult not to gaze out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, attempting to compute how such a thronging, dancing-colour vista could be rendered so docile.

Various lights flowed underneath the glass and I considered what their source might be. But for now I was encased. Shielded from the clamour I enjoyed, that outside that continued to move, all life devouring the fruits of the city, yet it was distant, simply a view.

I began to dig into my thoughts about the slipping-away week, my hazy hours in this brand new land... what I must do next, the suppliers I had to meet, agents still on my radar... liquidy blobs of thoughts blending with the panorama, reappearing, dropping out... until seamlessly, I blacked out into slumber.

I was detached from that sleep by a tapping. What time was it? The disorienting essence from an unscheduled sleep, from not knowing the precise time – that feeling largely confined to hotels. Along with the tapping there were words, soft and muffled.

I scanned across the still-uncurtained window vista and collected myself, managed to clear my throat enough for a ‘hello?’. It was the room attendant. ‘Sir, am I disturbing you? Can I clean your room?’ The voice delicate. ‘Yes, yeah, yeah, it’s fine, come in.’ I pulled myself up from the position I had fallen into, felt cold in the whatever-time-it-was. The voice, now a figure, opened the door and entered. As he brought in the bloated trolley, stacked with well-folded towels, numerous disinfectants and other tubes of perfumes, I recoiled at how messy I’d left the room. Cups, half-filled, spotted around the place, random clothing nestled at strange angles, general disturbance.

Even though I’d recovered from my reclined position, I wasn’t paying full attention to anything, was not looking up, instead checking my phone to see what was happening elsewhere, so I just let him get on with whatever it was he was attending to. ‘How’s your stay?’ I was surprised that he’d spoken. I mumbled certain pleasantries, replied that it was so-so, that what I liked most was the fervent atmosphere, the un-boxable aura of distance. Maybe I went into too much detail. Yet a modicum of, what was it, excitement? ghosted across his face when I finally glanced up from my various devices. It appeared that I’d stirred something, possibly triggered his own embedded respect for and proudness of the city and what it stood for.

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