L'Arrivee (2)

Johnny burst from the elevator elated and confident. He knew his way around expensive corporate hotels from trade shows in Vegas, Atlanta and other major hubs.

When it came to checking into an expensive hotel, he knew the drill.

He stormed up the stairs, through an immense, silent lobby and approached the empty front desk like a rock-star.

"Salut, Bonjour!", he called out to the lone desk clerk just inside the side door behind the desk. He had his gold Hilton Rewards card in hand and felt slightly drunk at the opportunity to speak French.

"Bonjour, Monsieur," responded the young woman with a perfect european accent.

"J'ai besoin d'une chambre." Johnny continued with an accent that she couldn't quite place.

"It's not from Ontario, not from anywhere around Montrealaise, probably Acadian from New Brunswick", she thought to herself.

She was sizing him up for his primary language like everyone does within seconds during any retail situation in Montreal. The salesperson usually does this just by the way someone carries themselves, before the initial hello.

When asked if he had reservations, he replied succinctly, "Aucunes, mais," and he presented his gold-colored rewards card, loaded with credits from various business trips.

The desk clerk explained that the hotel was booked up with fans of the Montreal Alouettes, who were playing in Canadian Football Championship. She intimated that he probably knew that and continued with a broad smile that there may be something she could do. He was just happy that she continued that conversation in French instead of switching to English like people used to do before he had spent much time in Montreal.

She picked up a telephone receiver and spoke canadian-french in stuccato bursts that Jean didn't completely follow. The call was punctuated with a warm, drawn-out, "Merci!"

She looked up again with a friendly, professional smile and said in a French that had recovered its European accent, "We do have a room for you. It's a suite and we'll have to move you to a single room tomorrow but enjoy, you will be charged at the single room rate".

He handed her his credit card and gave his home address. She looked up puzzled from her computer screen and said, "You're not Canadian?"

Jean recounted how he came to speak a French that mixed a very rustic Quebecois and Acadian with European vocabulary and expressions, "pas vraiment, non," he winked.

She smiled at the delivery as he continued his explanation. By this time other front desk staff were popping up to start their shift and sharing a laugh with the animated character who would be a guest at their hotel.

She handed him a small envelope with two room keys, circled the number and provided a brief explanation of amenities and contact information.

She pointing out the way to his room across the lobby, finished with a canned, "Bonjour!"

Keys in hand, Jean went over the conversation in his head to make sure that he understood everything the desk clerk said. He didn't go back to the Jetta weighed down with his baggage. He lit a canadian Marlboro and felt the color leaving his face. The adrenaline that propped him up was ebbing quickly. He was starting to feel a little wobbly kneed.

To the left were banquet rooms named after notable french-canadian figures from history. To the right, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall ran the length of the corridor. On the other side of the glass were small pools with swirling fog rising from the water that were bordered by plants and islands and connected by irregular inlets.

In corner of his eyes, he noticed shadowy masked figures dressed in black that motioned to each other in the swirling fog of the heated pools. It seemed to him that they were confirming his identity. He looked straight ahead, tried to ignore them and was happy when he turned left to the guest rooms at the end of passage. Was he just tired or was he really being followed?

He checked the numbers on the door against the number written on the envelope containing his key and realized that he somehow he missed the room. He was still a little concerned about the shadowy figure he thought he saw in the pool. The massive hotel was silent as he retraced his steps down the long, empty corridor.

The door number that matched the one on his key wasn't found on a door like the others. The door was much wider, though not as wide as a banquet room door, and set in from the hallway. He tried the key and the door opened to what seemed to be a upscale apartment. It made him think of the apartment of Andrea's aunt in Paris.

On one wall of the dimly lit apartment was long buffet, in the center of room was a formal dining area leading to arm chairs and couches finished with expensive fabrics. Through the far wall the rumour of a grey, chilly dawn came through floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on misplaced park setting that he knew hid more shadowy figures under the eaves.

Jean pulled the curtains closed. In the complete darkness he lit a cigarette, sat down and thought about the cars that followed him through Vermont. Who were they and why were they always after him?