The Hotel on the Roof of the World (30 page)

‘Earthquake Mr Alec, Miss Conny!' he shouted excitedly. ‘Did you feel it?'

So that's what an earthquake is like. Conny and I looked at each other in horror. ‘Barba's pool!' we shouted together. We rushed outside to find Barba already surveying the site with Bonnetti. They searched hard but no damage could be found. As we crossed the lobby, a receptionist called out to Mr Barba that there was a phone call for him. He took it in the lobby and beckoned me, Conny and Bonnetti to come and listen.

‘Who is this did you say?' he called out down the orange receiver. ‘Reuters?'

He covered the mouth piece and looked across at us. ‘We're going to have some fun here,' he sniggered. ‘Yes, yes, we did have an earthquake. Yes just now. There are huge cracks in the swimming pool, all the water has gone out of it. The hotel crockery has been destroyed.' The few days out of the hotel had been good for him and he was now on a roll. ‘Yes, honestly. No I don't know how many buildings are destroyed but most of our Tibetan staff have gone home.' The line broke. Barba roared with laughter all the way back to the Coffee Shop at the thought of the free publicity he was about to get for his swimming pool.

Barba resumed work with the dance troupe he had recruited for the opening ceremony. This was going to be his swansong and he planned an extravaganza like nothing seen on the Tibetan plateau before. He had hired 120 dancers, musicians and models – including the former Miss Tibet contestants – who would march through the hotel grounds and around the swimming pool in a great yak caravan. At their head, an actor playing Marco Polo would dive into the tempting waters to rescue the Miss Tibet models, beckoning from the far side of the pool.

I had some questions relating to the welcome party that Barba wanted to lay on for his wife. I had to ask him how many fireworks he wanted. He wasn't in his office, or with Bonnetti, or sitting at his table in the Hard Yak Cafe. I finally managed to track him down by the poolside, mid-rehearsal with his dance troupe. I could tell that it was not the right time to interrupt. The ‘team' of 120 local artists was proving difficult to manage. They were talking amongst themselves, calling out to each other, some shouting and laughing. Heather was having trouble translating, her shrill voice barely audible above the chatter of the Tibetans. Barba was becoming irate. He screamed at poor Heather. He screamed at the masses. The girls of the dance troupe started to giggle. This sent Barba spiralling into outer orbit. There was no way he was coming back to earth without a large explosion taking place. A Tibetan with a yak horn walked up to Barba to ask him not to shout so much.

‘You f*** off!' screamed Barba, pointing for him to leave. Not understanding, the Tibetan shook his head and looked at his friend. His friend came up to Barba to ask him what was going on. ‘You can f*** off too!' screamed Barba. One by one, 120 dancers and musicians were told to f*** off. Finally all that were left were three Chinese policemen, who were also told to f*** off, and a handful of models, who ran off through the building site of oxyacetylene torches to regroup with their fired friends in the hotel forecourt. It had been a strange thing to do. Four days to opening and Barba had fired the entire cast of his show. I decided my questions about fireworks could wait.

Jig Me was furious. How dare Mr Barba order people about like this. On Barba's instructions he had invited 200 dignitaries from Lhasa to the opening party. He had promised them a special show. What would they see now? Jig Me was right to be upset and tension built up again between Party A and Party B. The Morning Meetings became battlefields and we all suffered as angry waves of halitosis engulfed the table. Mr Pong gave lengthy explanations of police reports into wrongful behaviour. There was no escape.

To make matters worse, a telex for Barba arrived from Holiday Inn head office. Harry pulled it off the telex machine.

‘Ooh, Mr Barba's not going to like this one!' he said, passing it to me with a smile. I could see what Harry meant. I took the small strip of paper and walked out into the forecourt across to the management building. Climbing the eight flights of stairs to the fourth floor was as tiring as ever and I paused for breath outside Barba's office before knocking on the door. Heather stopped me.

‘You can't go in now. Mr Jig Me is there. He is very angry.' Before I could gather my breath to reply, the door flew open and Jig Me stormed out, running off down the stairs shaking his head. He had left the door open.

‘Mr Barba?' I called.

‘Come in Alec. What is it?'

‘Not such good news from head office I'm afraid Mr Barba.' I passed him the telex which he read out aloud: ‘WE HAVE LEARNT FROM A REPORT IN
TIME
MAGAZINE THAT YOU ARE OPENING A SWIMMING POOL. WE HAVE NOT BEEN INFORMED OF ANY CAPITAL INVESTMENT IN THE HOTEL. STOP ALL WORK IMMEDIATELY UNTIL A FEASIBILITY STUDY IS CARRIED OUT.'

For once Barba was calm. He screwed up the piece of paper into a little round ball, rubbing it between the palms of his hands. He flicked it into the bin and we sat in silence for a few seconds.

‘Now, where was I?' he started. ‘Oh yes, Jig Me says I have to write a “self-criticism”. Those police I threw out yesterday are making a fuss. What do they expect? Creative genius without a little bit of shouting?' He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don't have time for self-criticisms now, I have a show to run! Alec, get me Bonnetti, get me Charlie, I have to find 120 models and musicians today! Now!'

His only option was to use the hotel staff. The waitresses would act as the models, housekeeping staff would sing and all other staff not on duty for that day would be called in to form the yakherders' caravan transporting Marco Polo.

Bonnetti and Charlie sent search parties into the staff quarters to muster up as many staff as possible for dress rehearsals and Barba, realising this was his last chance, was on his best behaviour.

Two days to go. The tiles were all in place and the grouting was drying. The last pipes were being welded together and the pool building site between the north and middle blocks was being cleared. The Italians had arrived: a choreographer, two models, chefs and Mr Pepino, the
maître d'hôtel
. The VIP guests were all on schedule to arrive and Barba's self-criticism had been accepted as an apology. We were lulled into a false sense of security.

While the pool excavations had been going on, Conny had been working on another Barba invention – the first ever ‘Lhasa Hairdresser of the Year' competition. Invitations had been given out to all the newly opened hair salons in Lhasa and a prestigious award of a fancy certificate and Wella shampoos awaited the winner. From a sales point of view it had been a great success and the Disco, where the grand event was to take place, was packed. We had, however, underestimated the competitiveness of Chinese hairdressers. I sat on the judging panel and looked with interest at the creations. The big trend was long straight hair at the back and a short fringe blow dried to stand up in an unnatural vertical position at the front, with the top of the fringe curling outwards. It was quite difficult to judge one from another but along with the other jurors I did the best I could. The winners were announced in reverse order which caused some confusion as the first person called out thought that she had won. After this was carefully explained the remaining winners were called out. Instead of applause, cheers and Oscar-acceptance speeches, there were shrieks from the audience and shouting in Chinese. One of the girls lashed out at her neighbour and two little coiffeurs leapt screaming into the fray, pulling each other's hair. The girls started to get vicious and at one stage it looked as though we were going to have a punch up on the scale of the chefs' Karaoke Night kung fu brawl. A journalist from the
Tibet Daily
rushed up to take a photograph. Barba jumped on him and smashed his camera to the ground. He shoved the screaming girls into a side room of the Disco, pushed Conny in behind them, locked the door and shouted ‘You sort it out!' through the key hole.

Somehow she managed to calm them down and the rest of the evening was strained, but without incident. It had cost Barba a second ‘self-criticism' for smashing the journalist's camera and had been excitement we could have well done without, only two days before the swimming pool opening.

Back at the telex machine another gloomy message awaited Mr Barba. The Italian minister, on his way to Lhasa to join the fashion show and restaurateurs, had opened a copy of
Corriere della Sera
at Milan airport, only to find his name emblazoned across the front page. He was accused of scandalously wasting tax payers' money by taking an all-expenses paid trip to Tibet, with the dubious prospect of ‘desecrating' religious sites with an Italian fashion show. He quickly scurried back home, denying that he had any knowledge of the trip. I thought Barba would be upset by the news but he was not too worried. Instead it seemed to cheer him up and he laughed out loud when he read the telex. I had forgotten that he thrived on scandal.

In the Morning Meeting, he announced the welcome news that he would be taking the rest of the day off, as his wife would be arriving at the hotel in a couple of hours.

‘Bonnetti, Alec, Harry, I expect to see the three of you tonight in tuxedos for the Ladies Travelling Alone on the Roof of the World Programme.' He grinned at us. ‘Room service, champagne, a Tibetan serenade and
plenty
of fireworks. That's an order!'

But Barba's morning didn't go exactly as planned. Shortly after Mme Barba arrived, the orange telephone in Barba's bedroom spluttered into life. Barba reluctantly reached over for the receiver.

‘Mr Barba, very sorry to disturb you. It's Charlie here.'

‘What do you mean: “Sorry to disturb you”? Don't you know I'm busy? Can't you leave me in peace for five minutes?'

‘Sorry, Mr Barba, but you must come and see. Another guest has died.'

We all gathered in room 1512. Barba, Jig Me, Charlie, Harry, Bonnetti and myself. Charlie told us that one of his chambermaids had cleaned the room as usual: made the beds, emptied the waste-bin, dusted the surfaces, refilled the Chinese thermos flasks and moved on to the bathroom. She had washed out the basin, cleaned the toilet and then pulled back the shower curtain to find… a naked man in a bath of blood, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. His slashed wrists had fallen against the sides of the bath and lines of congealed blood streaked his fingers. Given that he was dead, Charlie's first concern had been to look after Dolkar, the poor chambermaid who had found the body. Dolkar was a very petite Tibetan girl, with a rosy complexion and a permanent smile. Charlie envisaged that she would now be in a state of deep shock, needing sympathetic counselling and therapy. He wanted to ask her to take a few days off to be with her family but when he found her she was already down the corridor cleaning the next room.

‘What was the problem?' Dolkar asked. She might as well have found a dead mouse, or Himalayan Hamster.

‘His name is Sidney,' Harry called out, looking through the belongings in the bedroom. ‘American passport. Gold Amex card.'

‘Has he paid?' Barba asked. ‘Does anyone know if we can still use the number from his card even though he's dead?'

‘Nobody knows he's dead yet, so if we make the transaction for the hotel room before the death is reported we should be all right,' suggested Harry.

Before we had time to consider whether ethics entered into this equation, there was a scream from Bonnetti.

‘He moved! Mr Barba! I swear he moved!'

‘How do we know he's really dead?' asked Harry walking back into the bathroom with the Amex card. ‘I called for the doctor to come as soon as I heard the news from Charlie. He had just gone to the south wing to give some oxygen to a guest but he should be here by now.'

The door crashed open and Dr Grubby stumbled in, panting heavily and waving his medical bag at us.

‘Shouldn't run,' he gasped between deep breaths. ‘Bad for the heart at this altitude. When I heard we had an emergency, I rushed to get my equipment.' He smiled. ‘Ooh here is the patient.' He was excited at the prospect of some real work instead of the mundane headaches, nausea and food-poisoning, but he was anxious that he might be too late for this one. ‘I'll just look for his pulse. Nothing. Yes? No. That's my pulse. Yes. Yes! Wait! I feel something! It's faint but it's there! He's lucky the cuts were not deep and the blood dried quickly – he's going to make it.'

Harry stuffed the Amex card back in Sidney's wallet.

An ambulance came up from the People's Number One Hospital, and Sidney was carted away. I often think what a nightmare it must have been for poor Sidney – trying to commit suicide and then waking up in the People's Number One Hospital. Truly a fate worse than death.

As the dignitaries arrived for the opening of the swimming pool there was no further mention of Sidney the Slasher. Suicidal guest stories do not tend to put people in the party mood. After all my doubts about the swimming pool, I must say that it looked beautiful for the opening party: a bean-shaped pool of crystal clear water surrounded by an immaculate lawn of freshly laid turf. There was even sunshine for the occasion. We had secured all kinds of props to add to the decor – including a surfboard, pool lights and a life-ring donated by the Holiday Inn Bali. A string of paper lanterns hung across the courtyard and twenty round tables draped in Charlie's finest table linen awaited the VIP guests.

Jig Me's 200 dignitaries from the hierarchy of Tibet filtered in, taking their seats at the dinner tables along the poolside. The Italian chef had worked on a special banquet with imported goods, the Italian models had gone through their paces and Mr Pepino had overcome his altitude sickness and was now hovering around the tables as only a top
maître d'hôtel
can.