The Grand Hotel has stayed true to itself for decades, through political regimes, economic downturns and even a war or two. It offers elegance, refinement and most of all, familiarity. For those who have walked its halls and ballrooms, it remains itself: predictable, comforting and immune to the world passing it by.
Tonight, the main dining hall is alight with the vivacious clamour of weekend evenings. The clatter of utensils against porcelain plates echoes against the crystal chandeliers which cast a golden light on the gilded mirrors. The tall vases and sophisticated flower arrangements bring tender colours of pink, yellow and purple, contrasting with the deep red of the velvet curtains and stark, crisp white of the table cloths. Waves of gaiety ripple across the vast room, infusing the atmosphere with joy. When laughter erupts it is the kind of communicative happiness that makes heads turn with a smile, the kind that envelops and settles like a bright blanket over the room, every person absorbing a little bit of the sparkle, sounds landing on eardrum like snowflakes, evaporating in a soft shimmer.
Charles is sitting at one of the tables, near the centre. He is at ease in this environment. He is graceful with his guests, the waiters, the other diners. His gestures are fluid and polite. When he joins in the laughter, it is in his deep, quiet, gentle laugh, bringing in the others. His eyes are warm and welcoming. He is in his sixties; he is still slim but not trim; his hair is white, combed in soft waves. His demeanour shows that he has nothing to prove to anyone anymore. He can just be and enjoy the scene as it unfolds before him. He shows restraint, he has no desire to assert himself, and he looks tenderly at the young man sitting across from him who is trying to win over the other guests. He remembers a younger version of himself trying to do the same.
There is a lull in the meal. The main course has been served, eaten and taken away. No one is hungry. Desert can wait until someone becomes impatient with the conversation and calls the waiter over. For now, Charles is silent, slightly distracted; his party is loosely talking about a play; they are all relaxed, their senses lulled by the luxury around them.
Charles reaches into his pocket and retrieves a gold cigarette case. He raises and excuses himself from the table. Now is a perfect time for some quietude. He walks toward the large French doors which lead to the terrace. They are closed but a waiter, ever attentive, gently guides him to the side where he may step outside. It is dark; the flagstones are only dimly illuminated by the dining room glare. The terrace overlooks a classical garden with trimmed hedges and vast urns containing fanciful plants. A balustrade encircles it.
Charles walks to the edge. He notices a few steps leading down to the lawn but remains at the balustrade, setting his gold case on it. He takes out a cigarette and is about to light it when he hears a ruffle. He turns around and sees an old flame slowly walking towards him, a calm, lovely smile on her lips. “I saw you walking out. I’m here with the Gerrards.” He offers her a smile. She looks as beautiful as she did at 25. It seems unlikely that almost 40 years have gone by. Her silver hair shines under the reflection of the moon. She is charming in her long champagne-coloured silk gown. Like him, she has become more demure but from her emanates confidence, regality even. He offers her the case and she takes a cigarette which he lights before his own. He says nothing and they smoke in companionable silence. The cigarettes turn to ash. The night grows darker still. The silence that felt light at first has gained a bit of weight. The breeze carries with it a current of nostalgia and Elsa shivers slightly. She has a halting movement although she doesn’t know if she means to ask a question or turn around to walk away.
Charles raises his face to the open sky and stands immobile for a moment. Elsa waits. “Can you hear it?” he asks. She tilts her head, straining to listen. She can hear the faint noises of the dining room; she hears the sound of a car turning in the gravel driveway as valets prepare to usher the first guests who are leaving. She thinks she hears the lapping waves of the lake beyond, too far to see but its ripples carried by the wind. The sight of her so concentrated makes him smile, and for the first time since the beginning of the evening, a sadness that had been lodged deep behind his eyes disappears. The playful spark which has animated him throughout his life revives with a wicked glance. “It’s not a bird.” She turns to him quizzically and says with the utmost seriousness: “No. They're asleep at this hour, aren't they.” “I think it’s coming from the left.” She almost holds her breath to drown out all the other sounds and focus on the direction which he has pointed out. At last she catches it. The faint notes wafting through the night popping like tiny bubbles through the air. “Can you make it out?” she asks. “I think I can.” He starts to hum. She is startled by the emotion that his deep vibrato has conjured; it travels from her heart to her throat. She blinks back a sudden tear which threatens to drop. He is facing her now and he takes a small step toward her, his arms poised as if to dance. He nods. When she puts her hand in his, he closes his eyes, a peaceful smile on his lips as he continues to hum the melody. They sway gently to a slow rhythm.
Dance me til the end of love, he whispers.
The music ends and so does his song. They separate. Her eyes locked on his, she gives him a delighted, mock curtsey, a gesture of the girl she once was. They laugh, happy to have clasped onto a moment of their youth together. They turn around, back to the door; he guides her through, scarcely touching her elbow. The brightness of the dining room brings them back to their surroundings. They nod to each other and without a word, they part and walk to their tables.
This story was inspired by the Archeon Tarot by Timothy Lantz
© Cécile Charlton, 2021
