Hotel Bali

1.-1

1.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here together to join Giancarlo Costa and Sylvia Szabó in holy matrimony…”

The words seemed to drift towards her from a distance, and she closed her eyes. Even with her lids lowered, she could see herself standing there on the main square, wearing a white silk gown that was more striking than anything customary around here, in Venzone. The style was unusual, and the fabric didn’t rustle like taffeta, but softly hugged her willowy, feminine body. If she’d open her eyes, she’d see part of the town’s old fortification wall, and beyond that, the endless Alps. This was an image she’d always dreamed of, ever since she was a teenager.

She finally opened her eyes and really did see the city wall in the distance, as well as the fountain surrounded by potted flowers in front of City Hall. There was a bicycle leaning against the fountain, and she’d parked her own there too. Bicycles, Venzone. She still hadn’t fully comprehended that she was actually here, and hadn’t the faintest idea if she’d made the right decision when she’d agreed to move, but she knew that the decision had been hers. And she could still change things if she wanted.

“Un cappuccino, signorina,” the waitress at the Alla Vecchia Concordia said as she placed a silver platter down on the terrace table. The sugar substitute sat beside the white coffee cup with the gilded handle. Szilvia smiled at the waitress. She’d only been coming here for two weeks, but the staff already knew that she took her coffee without sugar. She ripped open the small packet of substitute and poured the white powder into her drink. The foamed milk sat thick and regal on top of the coffee, and Szilvia watched as the powder slowly seeped under. She stirred her coffee, took a sip, and closed her eyes again. Not as good as in Rome on the Piazza del Popolo. Not at all: the coffee was better here on the sunny, cobblestoned main square of this little town. Though Udine, a much bigger city, was only a stone’s throw away, time seemed to have come to a halt here, just like anywhere in Rome. And that was a fact.

“Ciao, Sylvia!” called several locals in greeting: the owner of the shop decked out with lavender flowers; the newsstand vendor; her neighbor; a stranger… Some of them waved in passing, either on foot or riding bikes, and the shop owner even sat down to enjoy her own cup of coffee at the adjacent table.

Sylvia pulled out the daily paper from her bag and began reading. It was eleven in the morning, the sun was bright, and all she had to do that day was write up a commissioned article and wait until siesta, when she could have lunch with Giancarlo. She was a lady of leisure, almost, compared to the hectic days she’d spent in Rome. She had plenty of time to write her novel. Or daydream about her wedding…

“We are gathered here together to join…” she heard the words repeated in her head, and thought that perhaps this should have been the opening sentence of her novel. It was so cinematic. She saw herself, the change of location, the start of her new life as if she were in a movie, through the eyes of an observer, like a fly on the wall, positioned slightly overhead. And she was critical, as she always had been of herself any time she arrived to a turning point in her life or was involved in some kind of conflict. She stared at the faraway mountains and knew: this was true serenity, sitting here, observing the snow-covered peaks and the clouds that hovered like a fog below… But she still didn’t know if she’d made the right decision. When could a decision be considered right? You only find out the answer later, in hindsight. Right now, she saw an attractive, well-groomed, thirty-five year-old woman on the screen of her life’s movie sitting on the terrace of a café in a sleepy little town, conversing with the friendly strangers who lived there, calmly stirring her coffee, free to finally finish her novel… and start her life.

If she had been back in her old life in Rome, this same woman would be sitting in the editorial office of Giornata, would have been done reading through all the important Internet news sites, and would have decided on whom to interview for next week’s column. Then, she would have had coffee with a few colleagues, gone to an art show opening, or conducted an interview with the lead actor in a newly premiered play, or with an author whose book was soaring upwards on the bestseller lists. Whatever the agenda, she would have been running full throttle all day. Then in the evening, following a theater performance and a light supper enjoyed in the company of her friends, she would have written up her latest article or interview. Her cozy apartment on XX Settembre Street, which, though quite small, was in the middle of all the hustle and bustle, a location where everything converged. She was amidst the fun and business in a city where every day seemed like a special event.

Here in Venzone, it seemed like nothing ever happened. Festival season would be coming soon, as Giancarlo had already mentioned, but Szilvia could only sarcastically imagine what a festival might look like in this small city (more like a tiny village according to her standards). The nearest big city was Udine, but how different it was comparted to Rome. To her, Udine seemed to be in a perpetual state of siesta, and didn’t much feel like she was in any center of action… like she had been in Rome.

Previously, she would never have given up her little flat on XX Settembre Street. She had held onto it even while she was in a serious relationship years ago. The apartment was always a safe base; she hadn’t regretted keeping it. But now that Giancarlo had come thundering into her life and had asked her to make a decision, she chose him. Her instincts had guided her, not her mind. She knew that it was better to keep her mind out of this. If she’d listened to her head, she would never have left Rome. It had taken her so long to find that city in the first place and to realize she could live there. She had conquered plenty of obstacles before she managed to find herself and set up a life that was her own.

She took out her laptop. In Venzone, she was no longer working a regular job, but rather accepted commissions on a freelance basis. She contributed to a women’s magazine, for instance, writing book reviews about so-called “women’s fiction.” At first, she enjoyed the task, but now that she’d been here two weeks and she’d read five “women’s novels,” she felt that this wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d originally thought. Often, after reading the first few pages, she knew how it would continue, how the plot would unfold.

She switched on her computer. The woman sitting at the neighboring table called over to her: “No pause for even a coffee break?” Szilvia smiled at her and launched the word processing program. First, she thought she’d write up the critique that was due, but instead, she created a new folder. She gave all her folders Hungarian names, and this one was labeled “Regény.” Novel. She clicked open a file and a wave of letters washed over her. She was only at the beginning of the story, eighty-thousand characters in, though she’d started writing it so long ago… It was high time to continue.

She ordered a bottle of mineral water, and she was about to start working, re-reading what she’d written so far (she’d lost track of the storyline), when she heard something in her purse go: ping! She pulled out her cell phone. An electronic reminder flashed. She knew even without looking what the memo was about, even without opening the calendar. Why on earth had she even bothered to set this reminder in her phone last year? There was no way she could forget the date and location. They had burned themselves into her brain seventeen years ago.

June 30. Budapest.

That’s what the memo would have read if she’d have bothered to look. She had only one week left. One week to decide if she’d go or not. If she did go, all she had to do was hop in her car, and she’d be there in a few hours. Back home in Hungary. No, not home. Just: there. She hadn’t made a decision yet, though she already knew what she would do. It wasn’t the promise made long ago that impelled her, and perhaps not curiosity either, but something entirely different. It was the tormenting feeling that assaulted her from time to time on those hot, stifling nights in Rome, when even the fan wouldn’t bring relief, and she’d spend the whole night wide awake, bathed in sweat. Sure, she was curious. Curious to know about the girls… where they ended up, what became of them, and about how they recalled things. If they even remembered, that is. If they showed up. How would it feel, being all together again?

She was re-reading her novel, but she couldn’t concentrate on the story. There was something about to burst inside of her, and she knew she had to go, return to Budapest. Now that she’d started her new life at Giancarlo’s side in a drowsy little Italian city, it was time to face the reason she’d escaped from her hometown, her home country in the first place.

She absentmindedly tapped the PgUp and PgDn arrows on her keyboard, browsing her novel, and when the waitress reappeared, she ordered another cappuccino and a buttery roll to go with it.

“I’ve made your reservations. I’ll send you the tickets via email. Make sure you review the dates to make sure they are correct. You’ll be leaving on an afternoon flight with Thai Airways from Denpasar, arriving to Bangkok at 8PM, and continuing on at midnight with British Airways. You arrive in London at dawn the next day, and as you requested, I reserved a place on an evening flight to Budapest, so you’ll have a stopover of more than half a day in London,” the customer service assistant from the travel agency explained over the phone to Dóra.

The woman spoke English quite well, and after they’d reviewed the flight connection times, Dóra transferred money to the agency for the tickets, put her credit card away and stepped out of the office. She glanced vaguely at the carved Garuda bird statue standing by the door, walked along the narrow hallway, and found herself in the lobby of the main building. Suddenly, she was engulfed by the stifling, humid, tropical heat, and felt beads of sweat popping up on her back and chest. She took a deep breath, enjoying the moist air as it flooded her windpipe. She loved the feeling, adored it. Heat was her vital element. She worshiped the tropical, sultry, endless summer. The palm trees. And especially the ocean.

This lobby was different from those in hotels where she had been employed in the past. Here, the side walls were open. Colorful birds fluttered in and out, sometimes attempting to nest in the foyer’s enormous chandelier; the staff always got their brooms out on such occasions and did their best to deter the birds from their intentions. There was no air conditioning. Instead, a fan with wide paddles hung from the wooden ceiling, circulating the air. When the monsoon season set in, bringing periods of seemingly endless rain, the furniture was brought inside, and if there was a downpour, the staff rolled down the bamboo screens so the wetness wouldn’t burst into the lobby. But at the moment, the sun outside was brilliant, making the lobby seem dim, as if looking at a backlit photograph. A path to the right led towards the garden, the pool, the ocean, and the bungalows. When Dóra arrived to the lobby, the three receptionists behind the front desk brightened. She smiled and waved to them, and murmured to herself in Hungarian:

“Good morning to you all.”

Actually, it was nearly noon. The receptionists were sitting quietly, bored behind the desk, their idleness justified by the fact that there weren’t many new arrivals to the hotel at this time of day, and guests who had already checked in were either down by the water or cooling off in their air-conditioned rooms.