The Boarding House - Toni Castillo Girona (fantasy novels to read .TXT) 📗

kettle stopped the hissing quite immediately, releasing the power button, so he knew the water was ready. He got up, putting himself in front of that magnificent assortment of teas and infusions. After pondering for a while, he came to a decision: a lovely cup of Earl Grey

would do.
He went back to that settee, this time holding the cup of tea with his right hand. He had a few sips before closing his eyes momentarily, trying to make that annoying sound of running water disappear. He could not, so he opened his eyes again looking a bit upset. “I told you!”

, he seemed to hear someone whispering in his ears, “I told you not to come!”

. That probably was his wife, an old but yet sweet voice, coming from the past. It was a bit late to do otherwise, so why bother? There he was, hearing voices. He smiled briefly; travelling was something he intended to do in order to stay away from his own wretched life, going further and even much much further every now and again, as if trying to escape. Curiously, that place, that boarding house, was reminding him of her: an old glorious image belonging to maybe the only past he would like to recall. For a moment, that smell of fresh dahlias was replaced completely with her perfume; he looked around as if searching for her; but apart from him, there was no-one in that bedroom. That intense scent remained, so he got up leaving the cup of tea upon the table where it belonged, and looked around one last time. Still nothing to see. He nodded tiredly; he was starting to fall asleep again, so it was a good idea to go back to bed. He came close to the dahlias, smelling them. Their perfume was that of hers.
“I miss you.”

, he said, his face buried in yellow dahlias, “I miss you so much”

, he added, still inhaling that fierce fragrance from the dahlias, closing his eyes in order to smell them more intently.
Above him, some steps could be heard. The other guest was apparently getting out of the shower, and was due to bed; so that first night in that old medieval European city, the boarding house would have been in deep silence again if it had not been for some tears of insurmountable sorrow being shed in that very room, where a man was letting some fresh yellow dahlias conceal his face.

4

“I

heard the other guest having a shower,” he said to his landlady quite out of the blue. They were in the dining room, beside the kitchen, in what he could understand would be the basement in any other house placed in Barcelona. He was seated at a huge wooden table, where all was delicately set: a crystal jug containing home made orange juice right in front of him; silver cutlery on his left, beside a white linen napkin; some bread and pane cakes put upon a big ceramic plate, a bit far from his reach it has to be said; a fruit salad made of water melon, apple and candied pineapple; a smoky teapot upon a silver tray to avoid the wood to be damaged; a white cup made of expensive porcelain surely in order to have tea or white-coffee – though the milk was nowhere to be seen-; and last but not least some ham on a crystal recipient, on his right.
“Oh, surely it was a dream,” she said smiling, “because you are the only guest in this house right now.”
He looked up, frowning: “Am I?”
“You bet.”, she responded, still smiling. A bell could be heard from the kitchen. “Oh!, “ she exclaimed, “the oven!”
She went to the kitchen, coming back after a bit carrying another plate filled with croissants. She put the plate upon the table, beside the teapot, moving the silver tray from where it rested slightly towards the table's centre, in order to make some additional room.
“Don't eat them right away; they are still hot.”, she warned him.
“Don't worry, I won't.”
She went to the kitchen again and came back with a cup of tea. She took a seat on his left, by the garden's door.
“So, am I the only guest? Is that so?”, he asked her again.
She sipped her tea before responding: “Well, that certainly is.”
He nodded. That was a bit odd, but he was starving. Maybe that was not the right moment to think about such matters; later on, perhaps. After all, that breakfast looked really tasty. He tried that fruit salad first.
“It's good,” he said, still chewing.
She put the cup upon a coaster before uttering: “You are really kind, thank you.”
He looked at her for a while. She was a good-looking woman, despite the fact she was probably in her early sixties. He was really bad at guessing people's age, but still he thought her husband was surely a lucky man. He stopped surveying her briefly to let his gaze stroll quite chaotically around the dining room walls, where certain portraits hang. He, himself, did not have portraits hanging on his flat walls. He had never fancied them. Maybe, he said to himself on one such an occasion, it was because it was sad to look at them for they belonged to a far away past, like stolen moments from an ancient life due to cease; those ones hanging from his landlady's home walls reminded him of that very same dreadful feeling.
“Am I going to have tomorrow's breakfast all by myself, like this morning?”, he wanted to know.
“I'm afraid there is no other guest coming.”, she admitted.
“Well, at least that means I'm going to be so tranquil here.”, he said, cheerful.
Her eyes glow fleetingly. He had finished the fruit salad and now was drinking the orange juice quite eagerly.
“It's been a while since the second room was occupied.”, she said almost in a whisper.
“Why's that?”, he inquired, leaving the empty jug upon the table again. She sighed, arms-folded, lifting her head a bit. He helped himself with the teapot. “What's in there?”, he asked.
“Strong coffee.”
“Great!”, he said, pouring some of it in that porcelain cup. It was black, indeed. “So, tell me, is anything the matter with that second room?”
“As far as I know, nothing that cannot be mended.”, she stated.
“I see, so, what is it then?”
She sighed again, staring at him.
“You don't want to hear a story like this one in your first day here.”, she observed.
“I'd love to.”
She smiled. Indeed; such a good-looking woman, nonetheless. She looked a bit nervous though; probably because of the tale she was about to tell him; or maybe because he was a total stranger in that house, not to mention the fact he was from abroad, and despite so she intended to relate that tale to him. She unfolded her arms and sat up in the chair.
“Okay, I think this story deserves to be told, after all.”, she said.
“I'm all ears.”
She got up and started to go around the dining table. Finally, she decided to stay by the garden's door. Turning her back on him, she opened it; some sun rays penetrated through the room making the silver tray glow.
“You see, today's really warm.”, she said. “But this house's always cold.”
“I'm not cold.”, he admitted, trying to sound polite.
“Of course you are not, I put the central heating on early this morning.”, she turned around.
“That may be, then.”, he admitted, dryly.
“Anyway,” she went on, “ there are days when even turning the central heating on it's not enough.”
“Is that so?”
She did not respond. He looked at the garden for a bit; it was cosy. A picnic table laid in the middle, with some wooden benches around it. A huge plant pot could be seen on its right, its base made of porcelain and depicting some sort of an angel with unfolded wings, crying.
“We've been here for five years, you know.”, she said, “only five years.”
“I see.”
“During all this time, this residence has been a peaceful place to be, as a guest, for professors and tourists equally.”
She stopped talking and looked at her wristwatch. Then, as if remembering something, she asked him: “Aren't you late or something?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I've got plenty of time. Please, do continue.”
She nodded, concealing her wristwatch under a sleeve. “This house was not a boarding house at all at first, did you know that?”, it was a rhetoric question, so he decided not to interrupt her, “So, we bought it five years ago to start this enterprise, you see. Many guests have come to enjoy a short stay among these very walls, most of them have come back twice or even more times.” She stopped talking and added: “Oh, sorry, I did not mean to boast.”
“You didn't.”, he assured her.
“You are extremely kind,” she said. For the best part of a minute, she said nothing. He was sure she was trying to find the right words to go on, the best way to explain such a tale without making a fool of herself or something of that sort. Eventually, she continued: “Well, one day an old gentleman knocked at our door. He was a writer in need of some peaceful place to write. Our second room was available by then, so we took him in.” She got up, getting her empty cup of tea. Then, excusing herself, she went to the kitchen where she poured some more tea in it. From there, she went on: “He was polite and clean, and he stayed for one whole month. The weird thing is that he had breakfast in there, you know,” he could see her in the kitchen pointing with her index finger at the ceiling, “and he never came downstairs to have breakfast in here.”
“You are quite right there, that's a bit odd.”
“Oh, we have had some guests quite fond of their own loneliness, but even those ones wanted to have breakfast in the dining room, though at a really odd times.”, she smiled. “Anyway, he had breakfast every single day in his room. I put his breakfast upon a silver tray and every morning, at 6:00am, I was due to bring it upstairs.”
“Quite an annoying thing to do, I guess.”, he observed.
“I was exhausted because in order to serve him the breakfast, I had to prepare it at least half an hour before. That meant I woke up every morning at about 5:15am.”
She came back from the kitchen, still holding her cup of tea. She was yet to have a sip.
“So, what happened?”, he asked.
“One cold and bleak morning, I brought his breakfast upstairs, as usual. I knocked at his door, but I got no answer. Therefore, I thought him asleep, so I left the silver tray upon a chair by his door and went downstairs again.”
As if trying to recreate that very moment, she rested her cup of tea upon the wooden dining table. She looked a bit pale.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Oh, yes, don't worry about me.”
She sipped some tea from her cup. It seemed that that lovely cup of tea was calming her. That odd tale was starting to get extremely interesting, but he could almost foresee where she was getting at.
“So, what did you do?”, he asked.
“Not much, really. I did my housework; I went to the supermarket for some supplies, then I came back home in order to clean the first room up. I did not think to go upstairs to check on him. I was just fairly busy with my own stuff.”
“I see.”
“So, the