The Night Porter – Part 1: Reception

"Room 302 wants a goldfish," said Viktor.

"At two in the morning?"

"He is very insistent."

Alena put down her pen. It was ten past two at the Hotel Meridian in Prague, a grand old pile of marble and brass off Wenceslas Square. She was thirty, the new night manager, brisk, with a black pencil skirt, glasses on a chain and a legendary capacity for calm. He was thirty-six, the night porter, tall, grey-haired, with a neat moustache, a black uniform and the slightly weary air of a man who had seen everything twice.

"Do we have a goldfish?"

"There is one in the restaurant. For decoration."

"Does it belong to the hotel?"

"It belongs to the chef."

"Then no."

"Understood." He picked up the telephone, listened, and said in perfectly measured Czech, "Sir, the goldfish is sleeping. May I offer a bowl of warm milk?" He hung up. "He accepts."

She stared. "Milk?"

"It is a mystery."

By four, they had dealt with a drunk Dutch stag party, a sleepwalking diplomat, a missing cat and a woman who wanted a taxi to Vienna. Viktor handled each calmly, with a murmur and a nod and a faint ironic glint. Alena, who had trained for years, found herself taking notes.

At five, the lobby was empty. The chandeliers glittered. Outside, the cobbled street lay blue and silent. She slipped off her shoes under the desk. He poured tea from a tin pot into two thin cups.

"You are very good at this," she said.

"Twelve years."

"Not the guests. The calm."

"It is the same thing."

"Can I ask you something?" said Alena.

"Yes."

"Why do you stay?"

"Because no one else sees the hotel at night," said Viktor. "It is a different building. Softer. It is the best part of the day."

"Green?" she said, a lamp, a button.

"Green," said Viktor, with a rare smile. "Very green. More tea?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Six O'Clock.