Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

At six o’clock, I have the place to myself – except for the chef, Maxime, who drinks sherry and paces back and forth. What am I doing here, you wonder. Sixteen, Moroccan, but light skinned thanks to my French mother from Metz. I polish etched crystal glasses – Baccarat, they say – and line up the real silver silverware two inches out from the plates like Luigi showed me. Dinner fork, salad fork, knives. You’d think it was a science or something, when in a couple of hours they’ll all be dirtied including the white linen table cloths and napkins.

   I get nervous when they’re all here – the big shots with their kids and dogs. But mostly it’s old people – retired people or silver-haired guys with girlfriends who don’t look much older than me. I study them, look into their eyes – those girls – and they look away. I know I shouldn’t do it. The boss says we don’t make eye contact. It’s an affront. It puts us on the same level as them – a level where we don’t belong – especially me. So it’s like a game. We’re supposed to blend into the background so they can have a smooth experience. But he catches me watching sometimes, and the boss slaps me on the back of the head when we get in the kitchen. But so far, most of the time, I keep out of trouble.

   “Jamal!” That’s the chef yelling. “We’re out of sherry.” That means go down to the cellar and get him more. The keys to the stores hang in the kitchen cabinet and I grab them. “No fooling around down there,” Maxime snaps.

   I salute him. “Yeah, chef.”

   I seen them guys hanging around the stores usually trying to pocket what they can. One guy carries off silverware. Every few days he slips a fork or spoon into his vest pocket and sneaks away with it. “The wife wants a full set,” he chuckled when he caught me watching. I guess I must’ve had my mouth gaping open, because he whined, “Everybody does it.” I kept on arranging the clean glasses on the tables, not looking into his face. “Don’t think you’re better than I am, boy. It’ll infect you too. You can’t help but become sick or a thief from all the money floating around here. It’s unhealthy, fills you with too many desires and too much envy.” And disgust, I wanted to say – like when that family of dress wearing sheiks came in and let their naked baby son run around and crap on the carpet. Luigi sent me to clean it up of course – and all those Arab brothers laughing and pointing at me. I’m one of you, I wanted to say, then realized I’m not really. I’ve got less money, but more manners.

   I’d only been at the Hôtel a few weeks then. But I sensed what that guy meant. My mouth watered at the thick, juicy steaks smothered in hollandaise sauce with mushrooms and the Black Forest cakes topped with cherries. None of it like anything I’d ever seen before and none of it for us, of course. But at least, I have the luxury of being here, of seeing another life. An old lady wrapped in diamonds and mink came in alone with her dog a few nights ago – a dog here sitting on the chair at her table at the Eden Roc restaurant! And she ordered two filets. Luigi, the head waiter, turned red when he had to cut it up in bite-sized pieces for her Pekinese. A ninety-five euro steak for that dog! “Surprised she didn’t serve him wine too!” Luigi muttered bitterly afterwards. Luigi’s been around a long time and seen a lot of stuff. My mouth watered at the smell of that beautiful piece of meat – and the dog with a bow and silver collar licked his chops and ate it from the old lady’s Christofle fork right at the table. They have a pet cemetery too – out in the garden. One with a sea view. The lucky dog’ll probably end up buried there too.

   But the views a knock-out. God can you believe it? I mean how many kids my age get to set foot at the Hôtel du Cap? Just going to the pool costs sixty euros. It’s sea water, of course. A coffee costs five times more than the café down the street. But they don’t mind here. The millionaires want to hang out behind the gates. They want privacy – and when you’ve got millions a few euros don’t really count. Luigi saw Madonna when she booked in. She took the boat from the pier – didn’t want to be caught up in crowds waiting for a glimpse outside the gates. He said she had a sosie, a look-alike – a woman who stayed here as a sort of decoy to fool the people so the real Madonna could get away to do what she wanted.

   Tonight, an icon film star is coming. We’re not supposed to know, but Maxime couldn’t help complain about the special requests – the guy’s girlfriend’s a vegan, whatever that is. Sounds like some extraterrestrial life form. “Only raw stuff, no meat, eggs, fish or cheese,” Max gagged. “Ah mon dieu! What am I? A potato peeler? A maker of rabbit’s food? The woman needs a good screw. It would give her an appetite for real food.” Luigi liked this, looked even like he might volunteer for the job. And there’s also the reception on the terrace. Another group of guys – a once famous boy band are releasing a new album. A new start – and they’re doing a little pre-launch party here with the producer – like a celebration, Luigi says.

   “If I could live like them…” Luigi sighs, his voice trailing off. He saw all the Arabs come in with the oil boom, and then the Russian mafia – and of course the Americans – always the Americans and now the Chinese. But Luigi says it’s not the place for new money. It’s mostly old money, people with names and histories and families. He says the Kennedy’s came too. “I am going to live like them someday,” I tell him and he rolls his eyes.

   The sun sets over in that direction, over the islands out there. Every once in awhile I find myself staring out, fantasizing, thinking about what I’ll be when I get older. I’m not going to stay here doing this stuff forever, you know. I’ve got ambition. First a commis during the seasons here, then in the winters move to the five stars in the mountains – maybe Courchevel. Once you get a reputation for big places, you’ve got to keep it up. Mom says I should go back to school in the winters, but making this much money – a heck of a lot more than she gets from the RMI, how can I quit? I’m just lucky that Max liked me, that he said okay. Luigi says the only reason I got hired (they never take Arabs, he says) is because Luigi likes the looks of me - wants my ass. He says I’m a looker to those kinds of guys, but I think he’s got a weird imagination. Yeah, Max had a funny look in his eye alright; a shiny, strange look when he hired me, but too much sherry does that to a guy, I guess.

   Luigi says, “Get some experience with the world, kid. But don’t expect too much. That’s my philosophy,” he says. “That way I never get let down.” Luigi pocketed a tin of caviar after a big banquet too. “Go ahead and take some,” he insisted. “Who’s going to care?”

   I knew my mom would. I did spread some on a biscuit though and take a bite. Gross stuff, so salty and the little things popping in your mouth. Luigi laughed. I like the petit fours though and ate my share of them once the whole thing was over. Max said I could. He even gave me a few to take home for mom.

   I was feeling pretty good about the world up until a couple of days ago when that blonde girl came. She must be young, but mature for her age, like me. Her huge watery eyes beg for help or something. I felt a pang in my stomach the first time she flashed that look. A queer excitement raced up to my heart. And now I can’t get her out of my mind. The guy who looks like an old fella, her dad, or an uncle maybe, makes her walk out of the restaurant ahead of him with his hand at the small part of her back, but she keeps staring back, looking at me staring at her. At lunch, they sat out by the pool today. She wore a white bikini and looked like a goddess. The old man couldn’t keep his eyes away – like maybe he was afraid she might escape or someone might steal her. And when she saw me watching this afternoon, I caught hold of the edge of her smile, perfect white teeth flashing like pearls and she looked straight at me. She smiled at me. But I caught myself. Not allowed to smile back. What if Luigi or Max saw? That would be the end of it.

   The sun’s about to dip into the water now. It’s almost like you can hear the sizzling as its fire goes out in the sea. Sssssszzzz. That pinkish-red ball hangs there and then dives. I guess God flicks a huge Cartier lighter in the morning to bring it back to life. The lights go up inside and the faces of clients lit with candles makes ‘em look ghouly and old. The film icon comes in as if on cue – unshaven, wearing holey jeans, a dirty t-shirt, like a zombie coming out of a cemetery still covered with grime. And Luigi has to serve this slob all the same, just because he’s got money, and a name. He looks like a bum. Any other guy they’d kick out. They’d call the police, but this guy flaunts it. He makes Luigi kiss his ass and his girlfriend’s. This is what makes Luigi sick. “I’m going to retire soon, before I end up smashing someone in the teeth,” Luigi whispers to me between gritted teeth.

   The girl comes back, the blonde with her dad and she’s wearing lilac chiffon billowing over her jeans. A knock out. My chest feels tight like a steel band’s around it and I can hardly breathe. “Don’t just stand there. Go serve them water,” Luigi hisses. “Sparkling.” I jump out of the spell and go – hurry to the bar, without looking hurried. It’s to keep the atmosphere smooth – no jerks or starts. No screw ups allowed. The bartender rips off the metal cap with a hiss and hands the bottle to me. And I walk to their table, watching the girl, then trying not to watch her. But as the water splashes into their glasses – the biggest one’s for the water – she picks up her linen napkin and brushes the edge of my hand – accidentally. Or maybe not, and our eyes meet and she smiles, a big childish smile full of what? Expectation? I quickly put the bottle into the ice bucket and slip away, my hands shaking, my heart thumping. Oh my god, such beauty. I’ve never met anyone so beautiful. She must be a starlet or something.

The film star’s bruise-eyed, vegan girlfriend throws a tantrum at the sight of Max’s vegetable dish en croûte. It looks like a piece of art – with julienne of thinly sliced carrots on the side and a green tree of parsley in the center. “Nothing cooked!” she huffs and throws her fork on the floor to protest. “Oh go to hell,” her boyfriend mutters and cracks the claws of a thick-shelled lobster. “Just ignore her,” he apologizes to Luigi. Luigi wavers back and forth not knowing who to side with, then backs away. “Just bring her a head of lettuce that she can munch leaf by leaf.” Luigi doesn’t know if this is a serious order or not. Sometimes people ask for strange things here. The icon helps him out. “Just bring her a salad.”

   “The icon has spoken,” Luigi says to Max returning to the kitchen. “His pronouncement is that the woman must be laid, but he’s too drunk to do it. Wants to know if you’re man enough.”

   “Oh spare me the disgusting details,” Max barks.

  “Pede,” Luigi hisses.

   “What are you sneering at?” Max barks at me. “You little girl.” He shakes his butcher’s knife and I scurry out. The party outside with the producer and his boys flickers out early. Everybody stands around with half-empty glasses looking bored before slipping away and leaving the main man alone with a chatty redhead. “Life sucks,” Luigi says imitating the producer’s English accent. “Those guys are bad news.”

   “Yeah, bad news boys, ha ha,” I say making a play on their name. I carry a silver tray of finger sandwiches to the buffet. An ice carving of the boys stands over the table melting away like their fame. When I go back, the blond girl’s on her way out again and she looks beat, dark circles and red eyes. Maybe she was crying. When she sees me staring, I feel she’s begging for help, like she wants to be rescued from that guy (who maybe isn’t her father after all) – maybe even from herself, and I don’t know what to do. So I ignore it and walk into the kitchen where Luigi rolls out the trolley of deserts.

   When the night’s over, I’m dead. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. Luigi says it gets worse when you get older. But I won’t be doing this much longer. Max’s already gone – retired to his room upstairs. He’s one of the lucky ones who gets a room here – at least until the end of the season when the whole place closes down, boarded up and deserted like a ghost town. Sheets on the yellow satin furniture and all the beds will be stripped naked. I step out back for a minute. “Smoking’s not good for you,” Luigi grumbles, then lights up one too.

   “Yeah? Look at you.”

   “I’m old enough that it doesn’t matter.”

   “Besides, I only smoke one or two.”

   “Me too.”

   “Liar.”

   Luigi stubs out his cigarette. “Back to work, kid.”

   The ember dies under the heel of my black leather shoe – the ones that the hotel makes me wear. Part of the uniform, they say. Part of the class they sell. The boys from the band have mostly dribbled away with model-girlfriends on their arms, and the bar’s about to close. The restaurant’s empty except for the icon who’s scraping his girlfriend out of her seat and pulling her towards the door. She collapses in a heap on the thick carpet and he leaves her there. “Ah, fuck it,”

   He glares at me and I finally walk to the lady sprawled by the door, her hair strung over her face, and slip her arm over my shoulder. “Fucking bastard. He’s a fucking bastard. He makes me sick.” Her words slur together but she manages to stand up on her skinny legs and wobble along beside me.

   “What’s your room number, ma’am?”

   “You wanna fuck me? He won’t do it. You want to?” She puts her slimy lips on my cheek.

   “Luigi, what’s the room number?”

   “Sixty-one.” He looks at me sly-like – like he got something over on me. Everybody hates a drunken woman slobbering on herself. So he pushed the job off on me. Up at the room, the door’s open a crack. It’s a suite – all couches and silk pillows and thick shiny drapes. The icon’s naked. “Deposit her in there.” He points to an adjoining room. Clothes and shoes and dirty underwear and used syringes on the bedside table. Looks like a war zone. So this is the lap of luxury. Limp as a noodle, the woman flops on the bed. I don’t cover her or anything with the guy there watching me.

   “Here kid.” He hands me fifty-euros and shoves me out the door. “You didn’t see anything,” he says. “You talk to any reporters and I’ll personally take care of you.” He makes a strangling motion with his hands.

   “No sir. Thank you, sir.” In the hall my chest feels all tight from the nerves. My knuckles itch too. Then the girl pops out, the blond goddess with torn lilac chiffon, tears streaming down her cheeks. I can’t help myself. “You okay?” She looks pitiful. Her eyes turned up with that begging look, bruises on her bare arms. “Did he do that?”

   “Leave me alone,” she says and stands there, arms crossed over her chest waiting for something, maybe for him to come out and find her.

   “Maybe I can help.” I realize I’m staring down at her breasts visible under the transparent blouse, then straight into her eyes. An affront. It’s forbidden. We’re not on the same level, Luigi’s words yell back at me.

   “Who are you?” She sounds haughty, like she’s on a pedestal looking down at me. “You’re nothing more than a slave, a peon.” Her hatred seethes out tarnishing her beautiful face like a crack in a porcelain vase. And I’d thought she was beautiful. Her watch hangs open on her arm. A steely Cartier. I put my head down and walk away leaving her barefoot and practically naked in front of his door.


   Back in the kitchen, the stainless steel counters gleam and Luigi’s got his pack of cigarettes in hand. “That girl, that blonde with the old man, he’s not her father is he?”

   Luigi’s eating a millefeuille and spews out flakes of pastry in a cloud like he thinks I’m stupid or slow or something. “Her father?” And he starts to laugh really loud. I get the impression he’s laughing at me. “You’ve got a lot to learn kid.”

   “She’s his wife you think?”

   “Sounds like you’re love struck. Get her out of your mind. You don’t have enough money to pay for a chick like that.”

   My cheeks heat up. “I don’t think she’s like that, Luigi.” He can’t stop laughing. “You just don’t get it kid.” He slaps me on the back. “Let’s call it a night.”

   I slip out the door ahead of him and hop on my scooter. I liked her. I really did. I don’t know why she acted that way. I wanted to help.

   I feel really tired now, like I’m carrying a bag of lead on my shoulders. But tomorrow I get paid. Maybe tomorrow I’ll buy a Cartier watch. The wind feels so cool on my face and that sea air – oh so alive. I gotta wonder about people like that. The icon, the drunk woman, the girl in the hallway, the kid crapping on the carpet.

Soon, I’ll be there, in a place where a kid’ll wait on me. And I don’t want to create no misery. Someday soon I’ll be a guest on the Cap and not just a commis.