The Alchemists Of Vra

Opening Chapter-8

“Hotel d’Plempt,” she said.

“Oh, good,” said Oscar. “That’s convenient. The driver ought to be pleased about that.”

He wasn’t, however, which became evident when he pulled open Oscar’s door and spent a moment panting through it.

“Would you mind holding this?” he asked, before shoving the entire collection of purple suitcases onto him.

With squeaky stops and starts, the taxi trundled through Plempt, jostling among others in a manner suggesting the passengers’ prior vying was contagious. Although Oscar remained buried beneath suitcases, he tried being casual about it. He wasn’t able see anything of the city unless he strained: something that didn’t convey the nonchalance he aspired to. At one stage, he did catch a glimpse of buildings when a pot-hole had suitcases bouncing in his favour.

Their arrival was signified by a particularly squeaky stop and a lurch that he didn’t care for. When the driver opened Oscar’s door, he and the suitcases fell from the thing and tumbled across the hotel’s driveway. The Affable Nations’ Assembly meant there was a large audience of austere animals milling about the place to watch him, including a consignment of Press, which wasted no time in taking photographs. Amidst a plethora of camera flashes, Oscar stood and wiped muddy snow from his fur, while the Press debated whether rhyming ‘stupid cat’ with ‘purple’ pushed their journalistic credence too far.

Vaasi-Vee alighted the taxi and glanced at her scattered luggage, while the driver gathered suitcases amidst a swathe of apology and followed her up the hotel steps. Ignoring a smattering of applause, Oscar retrieved his little suitcase from a puddle. Someone threw him a coin, which he pocketed, considering it compensation, as bursting from taxis did not afford the decorum expected of a Velvet Paw unless officially requested. He trotted up the steps after them, pretending to deliberate over important political things to counter the smirks that followed him.

Inside Hotel d’Plempt, his concerns evaporated, and he gawked at the sort of opulence that leaves interior designers snapping their pencils and wondering what to do for the rest of their lives.

The foyer was stunning.

Not only in a visual sense, or even an architectural one. It was stunning in a very literal sense, too. It was stunning in agricultural, political and culinary senses also, but these weren’t apparent from the foyer.

It was large and gilded in pink marble. From its ceiling hung an enormous chandelier, with several others in orbit. Their lit glass flooded a vast ceiling in soft white, and made the pink marble shine in translucent rose. At the foyer’s far end, two graceful arcs of staircase wound up to floors above, which overlooked the foyer to render it an atrium. Upon walls either side, huge throws of burgundy velvet cascaded from the ceiling like waterfalls, and hanging plants dripped beside them in a frame of deep, shiny green. The place was also busy. Animals scissored across its foyer like a poorly coordinated finale of musical spectacular. Some waited at an enormous curve of desk that wound halfway along a wall, while others did the same by lifts opposite, which pinged softly when arriving to haemorrhage animals across the floor. Staircases and balconies accommodated meandering animals clearly used to such splendour, considering they weren’t passing out and falling from them. Oscar, however, wasn’t used to it, and although he’d been trained to blend into any environment, the hotel’s opulence left him seriously overwhelmed, and tumbling across driveways didn’t help.

“Can I help you at all?”

He turned to see a cat in a smart uniform with the sort of smile that had probably booked a suite.

“Well, yes, rather,” he said. “I believe I have a room booked in the name of Dooven.”

With a nod, she gestured that he follow her to the massive curve of desk. After she’d wandered some length behind it, she stopped and rummaged through things upon it.

“Is that Dooven spelt with a G?” she asked.

Oscar stared. “A what?”

“A G.”

“Er, no,” he said. “I shouldn’t think so. Dooven is spelt with a D, as in dangerous.”

She looked at things upon the desk again. “Dooven,” she repeated.

He nodded helpfully.

“And definitely not with a G?”

“How could Dooven be spelt with a G?” he said.

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

“It is not spelt with a G, I can assure you.”

After some more deliberation and looking, she said, “Look, can I just ask again—for the sake of clarity—that the name Dooven is not spelt with a G?”

He sighed. “Look. My name is Dooven. Oscar Teabag-Dooven.” He spelt it out for her.

“So there’s really no G in there at all,” she said.

“Not unless your spelling is atrocious.”

“Is your spelling atrocious?”

“What?”

“Is your spelling atrocious?” she asked. “If it is, then it explains why it might be spelt with a G.”

“No. My spelling is excellent. Especially considering it’s my name.”

She frowned and thought again. “Are you certain it’s your name?”

His stare solidified. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m just trying to ascertain what reasons might lie behind Dooven not being spelt with a G.”

Oscar put his little suitcase down and placed both paws carefully upon the desk. “There’s only one reason Dooven is not spelt with a G,” he said, “and that’s because it isn’t.”

“How old were you when you learnt to spell your name?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Well, can you perhaps try? Otherwise this could go on all night.”

“I think it already has.”

Some animals arrived at the desk nearby and checked in with no trouble at all.

“Listen,” he said, leaning closer. “It really isn’t complicated. I’m sure my office has booked a room in the name of Dooven. After all, they arranged a taxi to pick me up from the station and bring me here.”

“Ah, but a taxi doesn’t have a desk.”

“No, but it does have wheels.”

“Are they spelt with a G?”

When he tried pulling his ears, but missed, he had an idea.

“G?” he said, in feigned realisation. “Yes, of course. G. Sorry, I thought you said M.”

“So Dooven is spelt with a G?”

He nodded and tutted at his ineptitude, before pointing at the top of his head, “I don’t hear very well, you see.”

“So, Dooven with a G then?”

“What?” he said, to prove the fact.

“Dooven is spelt with G?”

“Yes.”

The cat looked down at the desk again. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we don’t have any reservation for Dooven spelt with a G.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

She looked up. “We have no reservation under the name Dooven spelt with a G.”

“Then why have you been banging on about it?”

“Because this is the G counter. If your reservation is made under a name beginning with G, then it would be here.”

“The G counter?”

“Yes.”

“You have a counter specifically for reservations beginning with G?”

“Of course. Hotel d’Plempt is a very busy hotel, especially during the Assembly.”

After taking a deep, shuddering breath, he said, “Then why didn’t you mention this when we met?”

“I did,” she said. “I specifically asked you whether Dooven is spelt with a G.”

“But Dooven sounds like a D! Did you not think so? Did you not think to yourself, ‘Dooven—hmm, sounds a bit like a D’?”

Her look became withering, as though used to animals being unreasonable. “It could have been a silent G.”

He raised his paw to stop the conversation before something serious happened to one of them. “Look,” he said. “Perhaps we can start all this again over at the D counter.”

“Certainly. Good idea.”

He picked up his suitcase, but when the animal remained where she was, he stared again. “Are you not coming?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I work on the G counter.”

His stare collapsed into a swathe of blinks. “Tell me,” he said, “this place isn’t managed by a certain Percival S. Minton, by any chance?”

She shook her head, saying she’d never heard of the animal.

Having found his room, which was not under D, but under T for Teabag-Dooven—which was academic in the end, as they didn’t have a pen either—Oscar changed into extra-fluffy, black pantaloons with matching scarf. Returning downstairs, he wandered, along with what appeared to be the majority of Plempt’s population, into the hotel’s main auditorium for the D’dôdô-Sette’s recital. While sidling toward his seat, he wondered how many patrons cramming into the place were part of the Assembly, and how many attended merely to hear the silly cat’s rant.

It was a very posh affair, and he was glad to have brought his extra-fluffy, black pantaloons. He’d only worn them once before, in his living room shortly after purchase. Since then, they’d been kept in his wardrobe in an vacuum sealed box to ensure maximum fluffiness at atmospheric pressure. He’d fluffed his fur as well, which he hoped would detract from his missing ears.

The auditorium was large, terraced and bustling with animals squabbling over seats. He’d anticipated a more exclusive gathering, with a nice buffet and some catered hot-fin, which would allow him to take the D’dôdô-Sette aside, should the need arise. Instead, he was left wondering how he’d manage to contain anything, should national tempers fray.

He stood on his chair to count how many were present, and got to two hundred before those sitting behind prodded that he sit. After doing so, he wondered whether the peculiar cat he’d given a lift to might be among them. He stood again, but got to ten before being prodded again. He was about to have a third attempt, when lights dimmed.

An animal muttered in indignation at an apparent power failure, before several shushed him.

The stage below became bathed in spotlight, and a voice from speakers burst forth.

“Right,” it announced. “You lot had all better brace yourselves for a memorable trip around the world—or certain bits of it, at least—as you’re are about to travel across land and sea in verse, with the great bard, the D’dôdô-Sette, as your guide!”

There was a clunk of microphone being replaced in a cradle, followed by a squelch of feedback that had the audience cringe. A curtain moved when paws flailed behind it, though stopped when opportunity for dramatic entrance passed. The flailing recommenced along its length until finding a parting that afforded escape. When the D’dôdôSette appeared, the audience exploded with ecclesiastical rapture. The audience’s whistles, applause and screams had Oscar not only fall off his chair, but hide underneath it. As their immediacy of thrill settled into thunderous ovation, the D’dôdô-Sette beamed, paws outstretched, basking in their accolade.

“Thank you, oh, thank you!” he cried.

Which was met with more thunder.

Oscar returned to his seat, his stare oscillating between the cat upon stage and berserk audience.

“Please! Please!” the D’dôdôSette cried. “Oh, you mustn’t! Truly, you mustn’t!”

Oscar couldn’t help but agree.

Still the roar continued.

“Oh, honestly! You’ll do me an injury! I am certain of it!”

If anything, the applause grew.

“If this goes on much longer,” he implored, “I’ll simply have to leave, don’t you know!”

It did not abate.

“No—seriously,” he cried, his paws waving for silence. “That’s enough now—come on, please—”

Thunder, applause and a rapture that cannot be measured.

“I will,” the D’dôdô-Sette warned. “I will leave. Honestly—”

His pleas were drowned by adoration.

“I can’t hear myself think! My brain! Oh, my brain! I can’t—”

When he gestured frantically offstage for help, a second peal of feedback squealed through the auditorium, followed by demands that everyone be quiet because there was a lot to get through and it was already well after nine.

While Oscar’s bewilderment blossomed into the sort of thing often found in nurseries, the audience settled into a severe silence of anticipation. The D’dôdô-Sette took a breath to begin, which was accompanied by a communal intake of anticipatory one from the audience.