Democratisation at the Mesukanian

Democratisation at the Mesukanian

There was an accident on the main street, (I think someone was hit by a
bus), so I walked to the supermarket and then from their home. I walked
parallel to the commotion, along a narrow ally fenced on one side by a
tall brick wall and on the other by an empty concrete playground. The
alley opened onto a quiet junction and a churchyard. The church, that
stands alone by a small, slightly polluted brook or stream or some such
small black dribbling waterway, was hardly visible against the
pail-blue darkening sky. But I could tell some gothic detail. The birds
started up with an evening chorus which I rarely hear. Nothing moved; I
felt alone, and yet from all around me came this chirping. This
automatic acceptance of the movement of the astral bodies: of the
disappearance of day. They were everywhere and I ignored them. I
crossed the graveyard and continued along another path which hugs, I
think, the edge of a small park. The path was littered with twigs and
leaves which crunched underfoot, which is strange in the early spring.
I carried two plastic supermarket bags that hung in my hand, the
muscles taut from wrist to wrist, especially along the back of my neck.
I tripped over a root and fell, but my six eggs survived.
My room was cold. There was no heat. I tried to snuggle under the thin
spreads: to cocoon myself away from the biting breeze. I followed the
wall-cracks with my eye and frowned at the cockroaches, scuttling to
and fro.
At five I was back at the Mesukanian . I went in through a side
entrance and followed the thin passageway to the stairs. They're the
steepest stairs in the world. They head strait down, and with every
step, every drop, the temperature rises just that little. I went past
the kitchen floor: the waiters and chefs barking orders, shouting and
yelling at one another; the air heaving with smoke, sweat and a pungent
mixed odour. I headed down below: to P&;P, pots and pans - to our
floor. Here it was hotter still, the air yet more dense. But it was
worse for the cleaners, pressers, and washers bellow us. I sheathed my
pink plastic gloves and stationed at my sink, began to scrub. You can't
wipe your brow. Even if you had the time to remove the plastic from
around your palm you'd just be wiping liquid with liquid. Quickly my
T-shirt became saturated with my sweat.

I lived with a kind old man who called himself the Baron von Rothentrop
. He'd lost some of his marbles working for years as a washer at the
Mesukanian. He was always looking for them. He said little. Every now
and then he would fling his hands to his head and press them against
his forehead with great force, slowly pushing his hair back. He still
worked below me at the Mesukanian.

High above us, on the top floor of the hotel were the two owners'
suites. There were two owners. Each owned fifty per cent of the Grand
Mesukanian Hotel. Each loved to hate the other, each loved their suite,
cared little for the rest of the hotel and feared and detested the
hoards of dirty unwashed bellow, who were disgusting, working in such
conditions. One was Kinnon Boment Hilston Ohel-Fillafel the Third who
slept and eat?and eat and slept in his inherited rooms. He was a large
plump man with a round stomach and three rolls of fat beneath his chin
on which to rest it. When he paused from eating he would lean back in
his light-purple armchair, and crane his neck forward slightly, slowly
stroking his chins.
Einlira Ayonbi Roshi , who had inherited the other half of Mesukanian
and lived in the other half of the top floor, was a short, thin, bald,
diligent man who did nothing. He would strut about, passing from room
to room, barking orders. Sometimes he'd shout some insults at Kinnon,
who'd reply with a frown of mock offence, an expression for which his
thick, long eyebrows were well suiteed. Between them they owned
everything.

Below them strife was fermenting. A boy had been beaten for being late.
It was not John Pikant's first such flogging. Aunt Helda, working in
the kitchen had been hit by the headwaiter; she'd scolded herself with
the soup. All breaks had been cancelled to deal with the rush of
tourists. On my twelve-our-watch I saw Old Man Ovedadonra faint, fall
and hit his head - it cracket on the red floor tiles. The subtle
difference in the colour: the red tiles and his red blood, (they
differed so slightly), transfixed me. A chef, a large angry woman who
liked to throw her weight about, in all meanings of the expression,
only stepped over the poor old man, who'd worked at that there post
since before she was born.
On the eighth floor above ground, the floor given over to the
managers, the managers paced about, frowns fixed to their faces, ties
done up tight. They rabbitted down phone lines, marched to each other's
air-conditioned offices, plonking great big reports down on desks for
their fellows to contemplate and frown over. Then they'd pause to sink
into their soft leather armchairs and eat sushi and the like. And all
along they knew that for all their scuttling around their plush
offices, they could effect no substantial change. All structural change
had to ratified by a majority of the owners , which was about a likely
as the chance a manager visiting me in the kitchen, and helping my
scrub the grime from one of the large, deep frying-pans which had to be
wedged against your inner thigh, gripped tightly with the left and
scrubbed with all and any power you could muster from your right, your
hand, wrist, shoulder, your stomach even, all powering against the
smouldering black metal, fighting the grime.

The day John Pikant's father was killed everything stopped. Voices
started rising from the depths of the Mesukanian's dungeons. The staff
stairwells echoed to the sound of climbing feat. The managers started
sending messages to Kinnon Boment Hilston Ohel-Fillafel the Third and
Einlira Ayonbi Roshi in the top-floor suites. The two grey men were
startled and started shouting one at the other. In a frenzied moment
the managers started climbing the stairs to the top, just as they
reached the bolted door to the suites, they heard the cry of the
workers at the door to the offices. "Let us in!" cried the workers.
"Yes, let us in!" shouted the managers. "Do something!" screamed
Einlira Ayonbi Roshi. "Let them in. No, wait? What's going on?"
demanded Kinnon Boment Hilston Ohel-Fillafel the Third. The butler
opened the door to the suites and the managers swarmed in. They grabbed
the pikes and guns, the swords and shields from the suites' walls. They
rushed back down into the offices, flung the door open and beet the
insolent workers back down eight flights of stairs, back to the
basements where they belonged. Then, bolting each door they rose
through the floors they all climbed back up to the top-floor suites and
sat in the plush sofas that furnished them . They paused quietly. They
took deep breaths and gazed out of the gleaming panelled windows at
their new view, which spread out before them. We went back to
work.

I have scrubbed many pots and many pans, and my trousers are stained
with grime. My hands are strong but my back bent. My skin is always
red. John Pikant grew up. He worked as a presser in the heat of the
rolling room, where from morning till night he press fine clothes. I
envied him. He became a tall man, with a dirty mop of yellow-brown
hair.
The managers ruled. The hours stayed long and the work grew harder
still. Pikant started organising meetings. He talked to the new
headwaiter. The headwaiter talked to the managers. A little changed,
things improved slightly. But we still worked long hours. We were still
paid pittance, and the price of bread, (the only food any of us could
afford), was going through the roof. We wanted to go through the roof
too. To go through many roofs and get to those managers in the offices
and on the top floor. After one of John's meetings, we began to climb.
John Pikant pounded on the metal door . He calmed us and we waited.
"Just one." A voice called through the door. Slowly the door opened,
the barrier withdrew, and Pikant stepped inside. He disappeared into
the unknown, as they slammed the door.

Now we sometimes get to choose which managers stay managers. John
Pikant became a manager. Because of him things improved. The managers
still sit in the offices and sink into their plush chairs. We still
work hard in the basements: scrubbing, cooking, washing and the like.
But the air is no longer as pungent, dry and still, the hours and
conditions not so cruel . It's not as bad as it was, and at least now
if the managers are like they were we can just send word to Pikant, and
those managers are kicked out of the back door of the Grand Hotel
Mesukanian.