What follows is the first section of “Abyssinia” from my latest collection, Saint Severina’s Fire. Links to the US and Rest of World distributions of the book are below.
Petra reclined against the silk upholstery of an armchair in a secluded corner of the smoking room. Before her, on an unused ottoman, sat three pages that she had taken from the hotel registry. The theft was performed without the slightest difficulty. The book had been left unattended for a moment on the edge of the front desk. The pages came out as cleanly and easily as petals from the blossom of a rose. The layout of the sheets, a simple design denoting the details of the guests, their room or suite, and the time of their arrival or departure, was topped with the official emblem of the Hotel Argentum: a stylized image of the building bathed in the effusive light of a single blazing star.
Two painted figures gazed out upon the room from the confines of their gilded frames above Petra’s chair. A single wall-mounted lamp illuminated the twin portraits, bathing them in an isolated pool of soft, amber light. On the right was shown an older woman in an elegant, yet tasteful gown of mahogany and olive, her hands so thin and frail that they resembled finely sculpted bone. A tiny parasol spread its jeweled canopy above her head as if to shield her from the effusions of the lamp above. With one hand near her waistline, she clutched its ebony base, while the other hand was delicately wrapped around the center of the handle just below her chin. Her stern regard gave her the appearance of a widow, or perhaps the aged matriarch of a once noble bloodline.
Her compliment on the left was a man in the uniform of a military official. The insignia worn on his collar were no more familiar to Petra than the seal of Kublai Khan. A row of medals hung like petrified stars from the blackness of his greatcoat, while a bright crimson sash ran from his shoulder to his hip. His expression was as grim as that of his companion, though, while his sallow eyes bespoke abasement, beneath it all there flamed an undercurrent of indomitable authority. The man would seem to wear his pathos as a veil.
There was no indication as to whom the portraits were meant to illustrate. No inscriptions revealed their names or honorifics. They were not the founders of the hotel, whose visages appeared in much smaller portraits in the lobby. Petra would never dream of asking the hotel staff about the enigmatic figures. To know their identities would diminish their mystery and it was precisely this that she cherished.
She sat up in her armchair beneath the dim glow of the surrounding lamps. The lingering scent of tobacco suffused the room. She was alone in the intimate chamber, free from the scrutiny of the other guests and from the constant ministrations of the staff. Dominik was sleeping in their suite upstairs. For the first time since they’d arrived, she felt at one with the hotel.
She unfolded the pages taken from the registry and spread them out before her on the ottoman. A quick scan of their contents immediately revealed the name that she was searching for. Celia de Fiore had been written in a stylish hand, followed by Milan, 3:17pm, Galicia, the latter referring to the title of the suite in which the woman was staying. Petra had overheard the name a couple of hours before in the dining hall. An attendant had approached the woman’s table carrying a plain white envelope, apparently an urgent missive that couldn’t wait until she returned to her room. Celia was seated only a few tables over from Petra’s own. Though the woman sat alone, the chair opposite hers was occupied by an oversized doll. The latter was attired from head to toe in antiquated military regalia. The hour was so late that not a single other guest was in the hall.
“Dominik,” uttered Petra under her breath, as she pretended to study the cocktail menu. “Look at the woman seated by the door and tell me I’m not simply delirious.”
Dominik, of course, had already engaged himself in a furtive operation of tactical surveillance. He pushed his spectacles flat against his face, the dome of his head reflecting the golden emanations of the lamps above. “I don’t know whether it’s a doll or a force of nature,” he said, his eyes trained anywhere but on the object in question. “I simply can’t believe it. She has to be a figment of our imagination. We’d best ignore her.”
The doll, were it stood upright, would rise roughly to the level of its owner’s waist. That it was an antique could not be questioned. The paint upon its face, which bore an idiotic grin, was given to a tapestry of crackling lines and patches of exposed wood. Its uniform was in pristine condition, though it appeared to be pieced together from the military styles of multiple times and places. The woman who kept him looked respectable enough. She gazed wistfully before her as she picked at her Salade Niçoise with a fork, occasionally sipping her cocktail.
“Ignoring her is not an option,” stated Petra, brushing her long, dark hair to one side of her face. “I have to know more.”
“So it always goes,” replied her mate. “Do try to be kind in any case.”
Petra was aghast. “I wouldn’t dream of offending her,” she said. “She’s a treasure to be cherished, and I will treat her with all due reverence.”
A quick shower in their room upstairs preceded Petra’s act of vandalism. They were staying in Fiume this time. This was the second occasion on which they’d stayed in that particular suite. They’d sampled every major suite in the hotel at least once and had chosen no favorites. Petra tapped her forefinger two times upon the page. Another entry immediately below, written in a far more austere hand, caught her eye. The name was Col. Augustus Olcott, no place of origin was given, and the time of check-in was precisely three minutes after that of Celia’s. What truly demanded her attention was the title of the suite in which he was staying. There were seven named suites in the hotel, and Abyssinia was not one of them. Was it possible, wondered Petra, that the eccentric woman had managed to convince the hotel staff to log an entry for her doll? She again examined the two entries, one after another. Her interest was most definitely piqued.
A few minutes later, back in the confines of Fiume, Petra stole up the stairs and into the master washroom, taking care not to awaken Dominik who was softly snoring on the bed outside its doors. One wall of the lavatory was covered in white tile on which an image of the hotel had been painted in deep azure. The image was not dissimilar to the hotel logo, but for the fact that the building was shown from behind. The star above the premises was designed in an extravagant style, its radiance expanding to fill the entirety of the night sky. A single lamp protruded from the wall above the painting, its pale light shining down upon the edifice as if it were illuminated by the star itself.
The lower half of the painting was chiefly occupied with the hotel gardens. The winding footpaths, marble stairways, stone fountains, and lavish flora were cleverly depicted in fine, blue lines. Petra lowered herself before the image, raising a hand to the ceramic tiles before her. The gardens had been divided into sections, each of which was identified by a title. Her palm resided on the narrow divide between the Beryl and Carnelian Grounds. She closed her eyes and let her fingers slowly pass from one tile to another. A barely perceptible impulse surged through her body, its source residing in a place she couldn’t name. She was dimly aware of an answering signal somewhere in the expanse before her, a subtle point of light that persisted like a flame viewed through a veil of gauze. It seemed to reside in an indefinable space roughly one inch behind the tiles. Within seconds, she’d located the exact spot. Opening her eyes, she found her fingers resting to one side of a footpath in an upper quarter of The Amethyst Grounds. The signal pulsed and fluctuated beneath the overturned bowl of her palm. Something awaited her there, though it was not quite ready for her yet. For now, it existed only in potential, like a seed still in gestation.
She pressed softly against the tile with her fingertips as if to mark the precise location before rising and stepping away from the wall. She took herself over to the sink below the mirror at the far end of the room, spent several minutes attending to the intricate mysteries of her face, returned at last to the bedroom, and slipped beneath the sheets beside her sleeping husband.
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