Chapter 2: The Hotel

Žaneta spread out a guidebook and two maps on the bed that she had printed back home. Markéta was lying on her bed by the window, watching something on her phone. The air conditioning hummed quietly. After the long journey, the room was pleasantly cool, but Petr still felt as though he had brought the outside heat inside with him.

His phone lay on the table beside him.

Still nothing from the Boss.

Žaneta ran her finger across the map.

“So, tomorrow. The boat, or Mdina?”

“The boat,” Markéta said without lifting her head.

„You make up your mind quickly.“

„Because I know what I don't want.“

„And what don't you want?“

„To walk around the city in this heat.“

Žaneta laughed.

„That's a surprisingly reasonable argument.“

Petr was only listening halfheartedly. He knew he should be paying attention. He also knew that if someone asked him in ten minutes what they had agreed on, he wouldn't be sure.

The phone vibrated briefly.

He looked at the display.

Radúz.

Nothing more.

Just a short message.

So you're here again.

Petr read it once and put the phone back on the small table.

“And Gozo?” asked Žaneta.

“I’d leave that for later.”

“Yeah,” Petr nodded.

“Yeah why?”

He looked at her.

“I don’t know. Just yeah.”

“That’s a strong argument. You’re in top form today.”

Markéta smiled faintly.

Petr got up and stepped out onto the balcony. Heat was rising from the hotel garden, even though it was beginning to get dark. Down below was a swimming pool, several loungers, a strip of lawn, and beyond them, the sea. Further along, the coast curved toward the cliffs. In the evening light, they looked closer than they actually were.

It wasn't the same view as last year.

And yet he had the feeling he was looking at the exact same place.

Perhaps he remembered a different room.

Perhaps he remembered a different Malta.

Down below, a delivery van drove past. Two hotel employees were unloading crates of drinks. Somewhere in the corridor behind him, a door slammed.

Everything felt ordinary.

And yet ever since his arrival he had the feeling he was waiting for something.

Not for Radúz.

At least that's what he told himself.

More like a message from the Boss. A deadline. Confirmation that things made sense.

The phone lay forgotten on the table.

Radúz hadn't written back.

Neither had the Boss.

"So, the ship at eleven?" asked Žaneta.

“Sure.”

“Great. At least we agree on something.”

Petr nodded.

Žaneta kept flipping through the guidebook. Markéta went back to her phone.

The room slowly filled with the familiar silence of people who had been spending vacations together for many years and didn't need to say something every single moment.

Petr looked at his phone one more time.

Then he turned it face down.

---

The second morning in Malta woke him with light.

He didn't know what time it was. He lay for a moment with his eyes closed, listening to the hotel. A trolley rolled by somewhere in the hallway. A child's voice came from the next room. The air conditioning hummed quietly, just like the night before.

Žaneta was sleeping beside him.

Petr reached for his phone before he sat down.

Nothing from the Boss.

Only yesterday's message from Radúz remained on the screen.

So you're here again.

He put the phone back on the nightstand and stepped out onto the balcony.

The sea was lighter in the morning than he remembered from the evening. Several boats were already moving on the surface. Down in the garden, hotel staff were straightening sun loungers around the pool, as if someone had scattered them during the night.

He stood there for a moment, looking at the coast.

The evening before, it had felt familiar.

Not anymore.

When he returned inside, Markéta was sitting on the bed and looking for something on her phone.

"Are you going for breakfast?" she asked.

“Yeah.”

"Mom's already in the shower."

Petr nodded.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in the large hotel restaurant. It was almost full. Someone was coming back from the buffet with a plate of fruit, someone else with eggs and bacon. Outside behind the glass, it was already hot, even though it wasn't even nine yet.

Žaneta was pouring herself some coffee.

"So the boat is happening?"

"It is," Markéta said.

„At eleven.“

„At eleven.“

Žaneta looked at Petr.

„You're talking rather little today.“

„Me?“

„You.“

„I haven't woken up yet.“

Markéta smiled faintly.

„You've been saying that forever.“

Petr reached for his mug.

Maybe she was right.

Perhaps not.

The phone lay next to the plate.

He kept silent.

---

The promenade was long and straight, with a stone railing along the sea.

Petr walked to the right of Žaneta. Markéta a few steps ahead of them, as she had done since she was little. Always a little out of reach, but still in sight. The sun beat down on their shoulders. On the other side of the street stood restaurants and souvenir shops, locals offered boat trips, and by one of the bars someone was playing a horn. Nobody stopped by him.

Žaneta stopped in front of a shop window with ceramics.

“Look,” she said.

Petr looked.

Blue bowls with Maltese patterns. A small candlestick. An elephant figurine that didn't belong there.

„Hezké.“

"Hmm," said Žaneta and walked on.

They had arrived here in the late afternoon, when the sun was still high and the shadows were short. Markéta was wearing sunglasses that Petr didn't remember. They were bigger than he would have expected. They changed her face somehow.

There were a lot of people on the promenade. Two older German couples, a group of young people with backpacks, a guide with an umbrella held high, and behind him a flock of tourists dragging themselves along like tired poultry.

At one of the bars, four men were sitting facing the sea. One of them had a phone on the table. A voice was coming from it. Petr didn't understand him, but he caught one word.

Esplosione.

Explosion.

He walked on.

Around the next corner, a young woman stood by the railing with a hat in her hand. She was speaking into the phone in English, rapidly and intermittently. When she turned around, Petr noticed smeared mascara under one eye.

„They said he was fine and then he wasn’t,“ she said.

Petr passed by her.

Žaneta walked beside him and said nothing.

At the end of the promenade was a small harbor. The boats rose and fell on the waves. Nearby sat a man repairing a net. He did it slowly, without haste, as if he had all day. Next to him stood a basket of fish, and the sun reflected off the scales.

Markéta stopped by the railing.

“Dad,” she said, “there’s someone there.”

Petr stepped closer.

Down on the rocks a girl was sitting and smoking. Alone. The water was crashing against the stone and white foam was forming around her feet.

“Where did you get that?” asked Markéta.

„What?“

"That look. As if you were worried about her."

Žaneta smiled slightly.

Petr couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound stupid.

The sea was calm.

Markéta took out her phone and started taking pictures of the harbor. Žaneta took off her glasses and wiped them with the hem of her shirt.

Petr looked down at the rocks one more time.

The girl was still sitting there. Smoking and looking straight ahead, as if she were waiting for someone to come, or as if no one were ever going to come again.

---

The lounge was cooler than outside.

Petr felt it right behind the door. The air conditioning was running at full blast and the air was dry, a bit sweetish, like in every hotel in the world. Same scent, different region. He walked through the lobby and stopped at the bar entrance.

It wasn't seven yet.

The room was mostly empty. Two men sat by the window with beer, talking quietly. Behind the bar stood a waitress, moving glasses from one shelf to another for no apparent reason. The lights were dim, orange-brown, the kind meant to induce coziness, but turning the late afternoon into evening before it was time.

The piano stood in the corner where it always stood.

Petr saw it immediately, but headed to the bar first.

"A gin and tonic, please," he said.

The waitress nodded.

He took the glass, paid, and walked over to the table by the window. It was within sight of the piano, but not too close. He sat down.

The piano was empty.

It was an older instrument, dark, with a few small scratches on the side. The lid was closed. On top lay three folded sheets of sheet music and a small glass with a few pencils. Nothing else. No bag, no coffee mug, no coat draped over the stool.

Peter took a drink.

He assumed Radúz would play in the evening. It had been like that last time. He would arrive after seven, sometimes around eight, sit down at the piano, and just sit for a moment as if he needed to get used to the light or the people. Only then did he begin.

But that was then.

Petr realized that he actually didn't know whether Radúz still worked at the hotel.

It was absurd. He had written to him. Radúz had written back. Both of them knew Petr had returned to Malta. And yet in none of those messages was there anything specific. No I'll be there. No I'm looking forward to it. Just sentences that could be read in different ways.

Condensation formed on the glass in his hand.

The waitress crossed the room to the table of the two men. One of them laughed. Petr didn't know at what.

Beyond the window was the sea, but from here he could barely see it. Just a low wall, a piece of garden, and the darkness arriving slowly.

Radúz could have played in a different hotel. He could have left. He could have found another place, another job, another island. People change plans. They don't announce them to everyone who remembers them in some older form.

Petr looked at his phone.

No message.

He put it back in his pocket.

Last time he had arrived early on purpose. He had sat here much the same way, drinking slowly and pretending to read something on his phone. He had nothing to read, but he held the screen in front of him as an excuse.

Now it was almost the same.

Except back then he was waiting for someone he knew was coming.

Now he was waiting for a possibility.

He finished half his gin and tonic.

The piano in the corner stood silently and closed. Without Radúz, it was just an instrument. A piece of wood and metal that meant nothing on its own.

Petr knew that.

Yet he kept looking at it.

---

The room was dark.

Žaneta had gone to bed early. Markéta was delayed somewhere, sent a message that she'd be there in a moment, and didn't come. Petr waited for a while, then stopped waiting and went out onto the balcony.

It was still warm outside, but differently than during the day. Softer. The air smelled of salt and something burnt that the wind from the city occasionally carried over.

He leaned against the railing.

Below him stretched the promenade. The lamps stood at regular intervals and people moved between them. Music drifted up from one restaurant, but only the bass rhythm reached here.

Two or three lights shone on the sea.

Petr didn't know if they were ships or stars.

He took out his phone.

Nothing from the Boss.

Nothing from Radúz either.

The lounge closed at eleven. He had been sitting there for almost an hour and the piano remained empty the whole time. No one came up to it. The waitress was mopping the floor. One of the guests had fallen asleep over his glass.

Petr left without asking anything.

He could have asked.

Who's playing tonight?

Does she still work here?

He didn't ask.

He looked down at the promenade.

A group of young people walked past beneath the balcony. They were laughing at something he couldn't hear. One of them stopped under a streetlight and pulled out a phone. For a moment, the light illuminated his face. Then he walked off to join the others.

The phone in Petr's hand remained dark.

The last time he was in Malta, messages used to arrive regularly. Not every day, but often enough for him to get used to it. In time, he began to recognize the hours when the phone usually lit up.

Now it was silent.

Petr placed the phone on the railing.

In the room behind him, Žaneta rolled onto her side. There was the rustle of the duvet and then silence again.

A ship out on the sea shifted.

Or maybe he just imagined it.

Markéta still hadn't come back.

Petr stared into the darkness and for the first time it crossed his mind that perhaps none of the things he had come for would happen at all.

He picked the phone up from the railing and slipped it into his pocket.

The lights out on the sea stayed right where they were.