The Night Porter – Part 2: Six O'Clock

On the last night before Viktor's holiday, the hotel was quiet.

No goldfish. No sleepwalkers. No stag parties. The guests had gone to bed, and the lobby lay hushed under the great crystal chandelier. Alena sat on the high stool at the desk, and Viktor stood beside her, pouring tea, with the unhurried grace of a man with nowhere else to be.

"Come," he said, at five-thirty.

"Where?"

"The roof."

He led her through a service door, up a narrow stair, past linen cupboards and old trunks, to a small iron door that opened onto the hotel's flat roof. A cool breeze greeted them. The sky was pale grey and rose. And below, the whole of old Prague lay spread beneath them, a forest of towers and red roofs, sleeping in a thin silver mist.

"Oh," breathed Alena.

"I come here every dawn."

"Why didn't you say?"

"It was mine." He looked at her. "But I wished to share it."

They stood at the parapet together, his shoulder just touching hers. The Vltava gleamed in the distance. A few early trams chimed. The rose light climbed the castle hill, touching the roofs one by one with gold.

"It's the best part of the day," she said.

"I told you."

"Can I ask you something?" said Alena.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Viktor?"

His moustache twitched. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must work every night shift for the rest of the year."

"I'd do that anyway."

She kissed him, tender and tentative, a hand rising to his grey-flecked moustache. He kissed her back with a grave and gentle sweetness, tasting of strong tea. The sun lifted over the skyline in a blaze of gold. Pigeons wheeled over the rooftops.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Alena. "Very green."

Guests at the Meridian are often seen at dawn, on the roof, with two cups of tea. They have never been asked to leave.

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