MargenThe hotel insisted that room 412 did not exist. At reception they would show me the floor plan: the fourth floor ended at 410. And yet I slept every night in 412, with its narrow bed and its window onto a light well where it never quite got light.
They left folded towels. They changed the sheets. Someone, every morning, laid a biscuit on the pillow. So I stopped arguing.
The morning I finally agreed to check out, I brought down my suitcase and signed the form. The receptionist looked at the number, turned pale and called his manager in a shaking voice. They told me they had not put anyone on that floor in nine years. That 412 had been sealed off after the fire. That the one guest left inside never did check out.
I thanked them for the stay. I was very polite. After all, they had been the only ones to treat me as if I were still alive.