The Hotel: A Reply

                In the threadbare lobby of the Kirschgarten Hotel, Mohogan leaned over the front desk, which was once a grand counter topped with polished granite flecked with gold, but the white-painted wood now was chipped down and stung with the aftereffects of radiation fires.  Now remnants of ash from blisterwinds smeared the elbows of the doctor’s white blouse.  She didn’t seem to care, though.

“I only need it for one night,” she sighed at the concierge who was pulling out the red leather-bound volume that was the guest book.  He thumbed past the first third of the translucent pages, which turned like crackling autumn leaves, yellowed and wrinkled.  Eventually he found the first available empty space and offered her a pen, turning the book so she could sign.

“It’s ten for a night,” he said, folding his hands on the countertop as she scrawled.  “Is that acceptable?”  Wordlessly, Mohogan pulled out the bills from her pocket and dropped them onto the drying signature before pushing the book away.  “If you would like a wake-up call,” the man began as he unlocked the key cabinet behind the counter.

“I wouldn’t,” she interrupted.  “But I’ll assume that your telephones are operable?”

“Yes, Madame.  Operators are available at all hours.”  With that, he handed over the key to her room, reciting which door it belonged to.  Mohogan picked up her brief case once again. 

“Sir,” she said as she tucked the key into her coat pocket, “how many have you known who have been claimed by Träumen?”  Black eyes narrowed just slightly as she looked at him.  The quiet fall of the polite employee demeanor was shadowed in the way his smile diminished.  She could see the unwelcome memories return to his tired gaze and sighing, he looked past her shoulder, seeing into all the pain that the name brought him.

“Three years ago, a son,” he murmured.  “And then my wife’s older sister and a coworker.”  A gloved hand lifted and ran ash-stained fingers through his dark hair.  “My daughter recently contracted it.  Doctor says she has three years.”  A lame laugh and gritted teeth.  “You?”

“There have been many,” Mohogan said.  Without any further details, she offered him a slip of paper with a phone number and a name.  “If you haven’t already paid for her coffin yet, I might be able to help.”  She left him there, staring at the paper in his palm and wondering what exactly the odd woman meant by handing it to him. 

The Kirschgarten was once the jewel of Dirkshen.  Mohogan had been here once before, when it was indeed the place to stay while summering in the country.  Years ago, when that lobby was a glittering testament to the lavish Rococo décor that so many of the old money families were currently wild about, she had sat down in the parlor at the bar next to her sister"a ten-year-old with a quiet toddler to keep an eye on"and sucked pointedly on tall, green colored mint malt while continuously smarting off at the cigar-smoking dandies with their pocket watches and lavender-scented ascots.  Now she looked at the crown molding and tried to imagine it in its once-upon-a-time gold glimmer against the pearly white walls. 

It wasn’t too difficult a task; the management at least had the decency to keep the place as clean as they could, but the hotel was just simply old and weathered.    It didn’t sparkle anymore.  What few staff members milled about did so in a dreary daze, eyes down on the cream colored marble floor that would never be rid of the ash in its pores.  Even the bartender took no notice as Mohogan paused by the dark counter, considered a bottle of brandy and then concluded that a more advantageous position for it would be on her nightstand.  The doctor tucked the spirit away as she continued straight to her room. 

When she shut the door behind her, locking it with no second thought, Mohogan stared out through the window directly opposite the entrance. East facing, fifth floor.  She would leave the blinds open and be awake at dawn.  With a sigh, Mohogan heaved the briefcase onto the bed with ease in its landing.  Two snaps of the brass locks and the doctor went about the swift task of disassembling the various layers of the case.  She removed the green velvet siding, stuffed with pouches of cotton with elastics stretched over the little divots between them to hold the phials of blood safely in place.  This board was rested carefully on the bed’s pillow, leaving the rest of the contents to be spread along the old, worn comforter.  A rolled up pallet of surgical instruments tied with a leather cord; a sectioned box with empty phials, syringes, curved needles and a few tiny spools of translucent thread; a thin journal which was merely a short stack of yellowed parchment, pages of varying dimensions sewn together five times over with impatient stitches; a few loose leaves of parchment, accompanying envelopes and a polished wood fountain pen with a splitting nib.  Mohogan closed the briefcase once all the contents had been removed, leaving a single photograph to stay in its now hollow hold.

The stationary was snatched up and tossed onto the desk for future attention before Mohogan undressed, taking off unnecessary layers and letting them fall to the floor.  Hat, gloves, coat and boots all hastily discarded in favor of loosening the tightly laced waist-cinch in her long skirt, just to give her a little more room to breathe, and then a bit more to accommodate the gentle pour of brandy that swept down the parched throat.  The doctor let out a long, satisfied sigh, slumping into the desk chair and thunking the bottle down in front of her.  No, she didn’t want to write this letter, but it had to be done, otherwise people would get angry and Mohogan could tolerate people’s nonsense only as far as her patience could extend, which, in fact, was only a foot in front her.  And since angry people usually didn’t have the know to stand within that radius, Mohogan figured that it was in everyone’s best interest that she suffer a few moments.  Though, writing Jullen wasn’t the worst she’d endured, it certainly wasn’t a favorite pastime.

Mohogan pulled a piece of paper towards her and unscrewed the cap of her pen before hastily jotting down her note to the young courier, not even bothering with a salutation at the top.

I’m expected to arrive back in Luscolie by next Thursday.  Have everything ready for my return, but don’t bring it by immediately.  Wait twelve hours or so, god forbid I actually get some rest at home.  Also, I need more Naighaglen, place the order for me as soon as you get this.
                                                          ~Dr. Driscol

Mohogan stuffed the paper into the envelope and sealed it shut before scrawling an address on the front.  She looked around for a moment until she found the bell for room service and yanked a few times on its cord.  Without bothering to wait, Mohogan moved right on to her next item of business, picking up the telephone’s receiver and punching the number for the operator.  There was one moment of silence and then a voice answered.

“Dirkshen Switchboard, how can I connect your call?”

“I need Mister Haagel’s office at the hospital,” Mohogan said as she turned back towards the room and glanced at the door.

“Right away, Madame.  Please wait one moment.”  So she waited.  A few seconds later, another voice answered, though it wasn’t Mr. Haagel.

“You’re reached Donavin Haagel’s office.  Who may I ask is calling?” 

“This is Doctor Mohogan Driscol.  I was sent a letter from Mr. Haagel a month previously and I’m returning the call.”  By this point, Mohogan had taken the phone from her nightstand and brought it to the desk so she could sit within range of her brandy bottle.  Already, she was reaching for it.

“Oh, certainly!”  Mohogan’s eyes rolled. “Yes, right away, Dr. Driscol!”  The line hummed on hold and Mohogan ran her tongue along the bottle’s mouth before taking a sip. Then, finally,

“Dr. Driscol,” a male voice said, obviously pleased, “I’m Donavin Haagel.  It’s a relief to finally hear from you.”

“Wonderful, Sir,” Mohogan answered.  “If we’re spent on pleasantries, I would like to get straight to business.”  There was a stiff pause but then a sigh through the phone.

“Well, certainly, Doctor.”  A knock on her door.  Mohogan put her hand over the receiver and called the visitor in.  Only the door was locked, so she only heard the futile jiggle of the glass-handled knob.  She clicked her tongue, annoyed and put the phone down right as Mr. Haagel was beginning to summarize his deal in order to pick up the letter she’d written and go to the door.  Quickly, she unlocked, opened it and slapped the paper down into the bellhop’s hand before slamming the door and bolting it again. With a groaning sigh, Mohogan returned to her chair, took up the bottle and the phone and put her ear back to the speaker in time to hear, “"and currently half of the ward is taken up by victims of Träumen.”

“What’s your point, Sir?” Mohogan said, peering down into the amber liquid.

“Well, Doctor, I consider myself gambling man-”

“A dangerous hobby in these times, Sir.”

“Indeed, for I have paid many Doctors who claim they have found the cure so far and have yet to achieve satisfactory results.  You are my next and last option.  I can offer you a job here at the hospital and-”

“Sadly, Sir, I am not interested in working for you or any hospital, for that matter.”  Mohogan rubbed her temple as she recited for the millionth time her personal policy.  “If you want me to come to the hospital and heal patients, I will be happy to do just that for five hundred per successful cure.”

“Five hundred?” the man repeated, obviously dumbstruck, “surely you think your treatment is worth more than that piddly sum.”

“I’m not one for excess,” Mohogan said.  “Five hundred per patient takes care of everything I need.”  She took another drink while the man pondered what she’d told him.

“Point taken.  Very well, Doctor, if you agree to come and heal all patients currently housed at Dirkshen Municipal Trauma Center, then I will give you a temporary apartment in the city, access to all supplies and facilities you need for your work, and pay you five hundred in cash for every person healed.  Do we have deal?”

“Put it on paper and I’ll sign it when I get there.”  Mohogan sighed a bit, though a quiet grin graced her lips for a few second.

“Count on it.  When can I expect you, Doctor?”

“I will be there at the end of the month and not a moment sooner.”

“Very good.  Well, I won’t take up more of your time, Dr Driscol.”  And she took that liberty to hang up.

 

"X"

Most would probably spend n hour or so in the company of the doctor and then conclude their first impression with characteristics like ‘embittered,’ ‘poor conversationalist,’ and ‘unnecessarily caustic.’  But despite being aware of these less-than desirable qualities, Mohogan didn’t mourn her ownership of them.  After all, those very traits kept impatient and superficial headkicks away from her and her business.  However, she did the one particular thing about herself, though it had nothing to do with her attitude.  And as she consciously began to realize that the phone had been ringing, Mohogan remembered her loathing for the part of her that she would never be rid of.

With an aggravated growl and a toss of sheets, she sat up and smeared sticky strands of black hair off her forehead before snatching up the telephone and barking, “WHAT,” at it.  She only dwelled on her despised inability to sleep in any other way but lightly for the moment of startled silence that cushioned her waking rage.  Then a mildly familiar voice said, “Dr. Driscol?”

“Who is this?” she said while untwisting the long skirts from her legs so she could sit more comfortably.

“Ah, my name is Kewlar Begett.  I’m the concierge who checked you in at the front desk.”

“What’s this about, Begett?”

“If you’re not busy,” he said, though his intonation grew softer after the first word, obviously realizing that he’d disturbed her, “I would like to talk about arranging for you to help my daughter.”  Mohogan pinched the tip of her tongue between her teeth and stared at the baseboards of the corner nearest her.  When she offered her business card to the man, she expected that he, like so many others, would toss it.  Mohogan had too many fabricated factors against her: medical malpractice, extortion, fraud, dysthanasia and a myriad of other nonsense that poor, paranoid people would rather trust than the word of a cantankerous old woman.  Either that, or he would take it to his wife that evening and talk with her long and hard about whether it might actually be a good idea to employ her services.  She didn’t predict he’d be calling her hotel room mere hours after she checked in.

“When do you get off work for the day, Begett?” she asked.

“Um, well, in an hour I do.”

“If you would not mind me accompanying you home, I can cure your daughter this evening.”  More silence.  But she did expect that.

“You honestly say that she can be cured"you mean for good"?”

“You may believe what you wish but I have not had a patient that I could not heal completely and permanently,” Mohogan said.  “I will meet you in the lobby at midnight.”  The phone went back down and the doctor got out of bed, reaching immediately for the bottle.  She was dressed and repacked soon enough, wondering if she should go down and b***h about not staying for an entire night so she could get her money refunded, even partially.    She decided against it when she was back in the lobby, the man waiting right at the elevator.  Though it had been a while, Mohogan could tell that he’d been crying before she arrived.

                “I won’t have to walk a ridiculous distance, will I?” she asked.  Now he smiled.  It was enough to make Mohogan decide she didn’t care even if it took ten miles.

Author's Note

Please review if you read. Even if it's only one word, I'd be appreciative.