The suburb of Marais had been hit with some of the worst riots
and looting in Paris. The working class citizens were attacking
both the police and middle class in a mad, angry frenzy after
hearing international word of the Ambrosia vaccine. Knowing that
the citizens were not confident with President Bourges-Maunoury's
administration, activist groups like SCHUSE and Silhouette took
advantage spreading their propaganda and gaining many new members
and supporters. Every government offices, hotels, and houses in
the area suffered vast damage from the mass uprising many months
ago.
Young walked up to the worn, brass, framed glass doors and
pushed the cylindrical handle. The heavy door stuck to the floor
and scraped across the ground swinging awkwardly. The three of
them entered the spacious, high-ceiling lobby of the hotel, which
was decorated in creamy wallpaper and huge potted plants sat next
to the spaces where stolen paintings used to hang. The tiled
floor, which would once reflect the warm light from the huge
crystal chandelier, was know cracked and covered in dusty
footprints. The reception desk sat in the centre of the lobby in
between two wide twisting staircases that lead to the first floor
rooms; they overlooked the lobby from the balcony above the
reception.
A man sat behind the counter smoking a cigarette as his
flickered through a magazine only looking at the pictures. He
tapped the cigarette releasing small fiery ciders into the
ashtray on the desk and blew out a slow moving tangled string of
smoke that floated to the ceiling,
"Err...Excusez-moi...monsieur." Decker said feeling awkward
trying to recall his French. The receptionist glanced up from his
magazine and smiled weakly.
"Bonsoir monsieur. Je peux vous aider?" the receptionist asked
politely, leaning forward from his chair and cupping his hands
together. Decker stood puzzled, he was struck back with the speed
at which the receptionist seemed to speak as the French words
rolled fluently of his tongue in a blurb of unfamiliar noise. The
small receptionist sat there waiting patiently for a response
from Decker whose confidence had deserted him in an instance. He
was like the small shy new child that had walked into their first
classroom on their first day of their new school; everyone
staring at, waiting for them to speak.
"Erm...American, Américain?...err...Anglais? Do you
speak...?" Decker stuttered and splattered nervously turning
bright red.
"Ah... Américain, oui, oui. How can I help you
monsieur?" the receptionist said in English, grinning at the
fumbling American standing at the desk. Decker smiled back
feeling the blood flush in his cheeks, the receptionist was still
grinning, and Decker knew he was laughing at him.
"Err...One...erm...Une chamber? Room? Please." Decker was
trying to ask for a room.
"Une chambre...okay...one room zat is for one night? Oui?" the
receptionist replied sharply and coldly pronouncing the S's
and TH's in the sentence as if they were Z's.
"Yes, oui." Decker said relaxing a little now he could
understand what was being spoken.
"Une famille room?" the cold receptionist asked.
"Err...Oui?"
Decker answered, not really sure what the receptionist just
asked.
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