the desk. She handed me a key with yet another monstrous fob.
"Chambre six."
Yes! "Can you tell me if my friend, Harold Chavell, still has a reservation for the day after tomorrow?" I didn't want another rude surprise tomorrow morning.
She repeated the name and referred back to the book. She looked up at me with a sweet face.
"Nan."
What? Not again! But I had checked, through the concierge, only this morning! "He has cancelled his reservation?" I asked, trying to keep my cool.
"Yes," she said, "because he is already here."
Again I questioned my understanding of the French language. "He is in the hotel right now?"
"Yes. I'm sure he is sleeping. It's very late, monsieur." Was she scolding me?
"That's good. Very good. Could you tell me what room he is in?"
"Absolutely not, monsieur. That is private."
91
Amuse Bouche
Suddenly this small town gal had Ritz-Carlton training.
"But he's a good friend of mine and I'd like to visit him."
"As I said, I'm sure he is sleeping at this late hour. Perhaps you could visit him in the morning? Have breakfast together?"
I could see she was not going to budge and I was too tired to try flirting. On the wall behind her was an old-fashioned mail slot system, one slot for every room. There were only twelve rooms in the hotel. How hard could it be to figure out which one Tom Osborn was in? I thanked her and took my belongings up yet another nasty set of stairs to the second floor and room six.
After sprinkling cold water on my face I plunked down on the bed and pushed buttons on the telephone until I finally succeeded getting a line to Canada. It was 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. I first tried for Harold Chavell at his office. A receptionist told me he was away for the day and offered to take a message. Instead I dialled his home number and reached his answering machine. I left a short message, updating him on my progress to date, such as it was. At least he'd know that Tom was indeed 92
Anthony Bidulka
honeymooning without him. True, this was not the cheeriest news, but it was news.
I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. and tried to get some sleep. I woke up ten minutes before it rang. Jet lag is a bitch.
Sneaking down the staircase in pure dark I began to wonder if any staff actually spent the night here. There wasn't even a nightlight or illuminated exit sign to aid my progress in the unfamiliar surroundings. The complete silence almost hurt my ears. I cautiously made my way to the front desk and with the help of a dozen or so matches found the registration book I'd seen the young woman use earlier. It didn't take me long to find out that Tom, registered under Chavell's name, was in room twelve. It was so easy I was a little crestfallen. Now what?
Shouldn't I have to hide under the desk to avoid a security guard or something exhilarating like that? Not this time. I returned to bed and a good book. I finally dozed off about an hour later.
Perhaps I was overcompensating, but I was determined not to be outrun this time. It was not quite 6:00 a.m. when I found myself in the deserted hallway outside of room twelve. I couldn't very well knock. The guy was probably still sleeping. I put my ear against the door 93
Amuse Bouche
hoping to at least hear him snoring or breathing loudly. Nothing. A quiet sleeper. I headed back downstairs and took a seat at one of the outdoor tables I'd seen the night before in front of the restaurant. It was chilly but refreshing. After too few hours of sleep I needed the cold to keep me alert. A hot cup of coffee and an English newspaper would have made it perfect. But the restaurant wouldn't be open for another hour or so and I doubted I'd find a newspaper, never mind a non-French version, here in what this morning was beginning to feel like Bedrock. So I wiggled my butt into my seat, sunk my hands into my jacket pockets and made myself comfortable. From where I sat I'd see anyone coming in or out of the hotel. Tom Osborn would have to make an appearance sooner or
"Chambre six."
Yes! "Can you tell me if my friend, Harold Chavell, still has a reservation for the day after tomorrow?" I didn't want another rude surprise tomorrow morning.
She repeated the name and referred back to the book. She looked up at me with a sweet face.
"Nan."
What? Not again! But I had checked, through the concierge, only this morning! "He has cancelled his reservation?" I asked, trying to keep my cool.
"Yes," she said, "because he is already here."
Again I questioned my understanding of the French language. "He is in the hotel right now?"
"Yes. I'm sure he is sleeping. It's very late, monsieur." Was she scolding me?
"That's good. Very good. Could you tell me what room he is in?"
"Absolutely not, monsieur. That is private."
91
Amuse Bouche
Suddenly this small town gal had Ritz-Carlton training.
"But he's a good friend of mine and I'd like to visit him."
"As I said, I'm sure he is sleeping at this late hour. Perhaps you could visit him in the morning? Have breakfast together?"
I could see she was not going to budge and I was too tired to try flirting. On the wall behind her was an old-fashioned mail slot system, one slot for every room. There were only twelve rooms in the hotel. How hard could it be to figure out which one Tom Osborn was in? I thanked her and took my belongings up yet another nasty set of stairs to the second floor and room six.
After sprinkling cold water on my face I plunked down on the bed and pushed buttons on the telephone until I finally succeeded getting a line to Canada. It was 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. I first tried for Harold Chavell at his office. A receptionist told me he was away for the day and offered to take a message. Instead I dialled his home number and reached his answering machine. I left a short message, updating him on my progress to date, such as it was. At least he'd know that Tom was indeed 92
Anthony Bidulka
honeymooning without him. True, this was not the cheeriest news, but it was news.
I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. and tried to get some sleep. I woke up ten minutes before it rang. Jet lag is a bitch.
Sneaking down the staircase in pure dark I began to wonder if any staff actually spent the night here. There wasn't even a nightlight or illuminated exit sign to aid my progress in the unfamiliar surroundings. The complete silence almost hurt my ears. I cautiously made my way to the front desk and with the help of a dozen or so matches found the registration book I'd seen the young woman use earlier. It didn't take me long to find out that Tom, registered under Chavell's name, was in room twelve. It was so easy I was a little crestfallen. Now what?
Shouldn't I have to hide under the desk to avoid a security guard or something exhilarating like that? Not this time. I returned to bed and a good book. I finally dozed off about an hour later.
Perhaps I was overcompensating, but I was determined not to be outrun this time. It was not quite 6:00 a.m. when I found myself in the deserted hallway outside of room twelve. I couldn't very well knock. The guy was probably still sleeping. I put my ear against the door 93
Amuse Bouche
hoping to at least hear him snoring or breathing loudly. Nothing. A quiet sleeper. I headed back downstairs and took a seat at one of the outdoor tables I'd seen the night before in front of the restaurant. It was chilly but refreshing. After too few hours of sleep I needed the cold to keep me alert. A hot cup of coffee and an English newspaper would have made it perfect. But the restaurant wouldn't be open for another hour or so and I doubted I'd find a newspaper, never mind a non-French version, here in what this morning was beginning to feel like Bedrock. So I wiggled my butt into my seat, sunk my hands into my jacket pockets and made myself comfortable. From where I sat I'd see anyone coming in or out of the hotel. Tom Osborn would have to make an appearance sooner or
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