020111: The Anya
The incessant rainfall of the previous day had finally decided that it was time for a break,petering out into a thin drizzle as clouds both old and young, whilst still harbouring torrential ambitions, bowed out to the rise of the morning sun.
A gold ray pierced through one of the windows on the seventh floor of the Four Seasons Hotel, entering a suite and settling upon the contours of a porcelain sculpture located to one side of a Queen sized bed and buried in the folds of last night's soiled sheets, glinting off the sheen of its surface.
The Anya awoke to the distinct sensation that its position had finally been compromised, four months after the city had been entirely rewritten. Eyes blinking to the growing sunlight it rose from the bed without hurry, naked body slowly making its way towards the bathroom, where the light had been left on. One of last night's -or was it the night before the last?- revelers stirred under the suite's blankets, silk coverings gliding over bare flesh, before the sleeper settled once again, and entered into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Door open, there came the sound of a flush from the bathroom, followed by the shower being turned on. A while later and a steady headful of steam had made its way into the bedroom, thinning to leave nothing but condensed miniature droplets of water by the corners of the hotel window.
Shower over the Anya returned into the room, still wearing nothing but now holding a toothbrush in one hand and a towel in the other. Drying its body the fabric was then used to soak up water that had found its way into any of the five-inch wide holes that marked the surface of an otherwise perfectly chiseled frame. Surrounded by rims of discoloured skin, the holes were deep from where the light disappeared into shadow. The towel's white surface was soon stained pink.
Running the toothbrush over a flawless dentition the Anya casually eyed two rows of books positioned in shelves that it had requested to be installed when it had first arrived. Eyes roving over the order of titles, the words spelt nonsense for some unwritten song: Slow Chocolate Autopsy, Voice of The Fire, Less Than the Dust, Crash, Titus Groan, Dancers At The End of Time, Gormenghast, At Swim-Two-Birds, Peter Pan, Crime and Punishment, Anna Keranina, All Quiet On the Western Front, Firefly Rain, The Cornelius Quartet, Titus Alone, Dune, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? First Day of The Somme, Bug Jack Barron, A Gentleman's Game, Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said, Sagittarius Rising and Blitzkrieg: From the Rise of Hitler to the Fall of Dunkirk, which the Anya had found to be too concise.
Back to the bathroom and out again, sans toothbrush and towel, the Anya stretched and gave out a contented yawn, rippling musculature, bare feet then traveling across the room towards the double oak wood doors of its spacious closet, picking out a pressed suit from amongst a row of pressed suits. Putting on a white shirt cut tightly with a generous collar, it decided to leave the top open, retrieving its pants from another side closet. Made of a fabric that reflected no light, and when placed over the Anya's slim frame the suit quickened about its occupant's person, instantly imbued with an alien sentience.
Dressed, it made its way into the next room.
Picking up the phone an order was made for tea, silence then while the daily menu of tea leaves were repeated through the end of the line, the Anya settling for Single Estate Kenya before indicating where it would be taken (it was the in-hotel cafe) before returning the phone to its hook. Taking its time to put on its boots it remembered then to pick up The Best of Myles which had been left by the study table, in a separate part of the suite. The table was found to be empty otherwise, and there was no reason to think that anything it left behind would have amounted to much of a difference anyway.
Making its way towards the door it left the room, never to return.
Descending the stairs because it abhored the idea of elevators there was a pause by the second floor, which passed through the event halls, the Anya observing that the New Year party for the National Aikido Association was still in effect, there being just as much laughter as when it first commenced, three days earlier. Outside the closed doors of the hall a few attendees were sprawled onto settees and single cushion seats furnished by the hotel, sleeping, some with their mouths agape, complexions flushed a uniform pink. Taking this in the Anya could not remember precisely if it had been in attendance of the same gathering at any one of those days, nor could it recall the exact venue where it had spent its time proper. Presently, it started down the stairs again, found itself wishing for a bit more uncertainty in its life, wondering, for a moment, what it felt like..
Down at the main floor its approach to the counter desk was muted by a large exotic rug, the central design a dragon's body with neither beginning nor end. The Anya indicated its departure, and where the bill was to be sent.
"Was there anything else, sir?"
"Have the car ready, if you please."
"Very good, sir."
Proceeding to the cafe, which was slowly creeping to life, the Anya took its seat by a table marked RESERVED, hardback placed aside just as the tea arrived, wisp rising from a deep china cup and a round teapot, both from the same set, adorned by the motif of a black-tipped heron. A plate of three chocolate coated digestive biscuits was also served. The waiter managed a "Good morning, sir," before repeating in an unintrusive tone the name of the selected beverage when he finally left the customer to breakfast. Nibbling at a biscuit the Anya opened its book to a page marked by a postcard divided in half, the top showing a photograph of a young girl dressed in an elaborate kimono, smiling beautifully into the unseen camera, the bottom a detailed New Year's greeting from the Japan Post. Eyes scanning the text it turned a page, its own face forming into a smile before it remembered itself. Closing the book, postcard back as before, the Anya left the table after it had drank its tea, acknowledging the waiter but making no mention of the choice of leaves before proceeding towards the main entrance where a Benz SL-210 was parked and waiting, its engine already turned on.
The valet was nowhere to be seen. Taking the driver's seat the Anya let the engine purr, accelerator giving way invitingly under the heel of a patent leather boot. It was a wonderful car, and the Anya felt itself fill in the mood of the moment. Back in the hotel cafe, heads had begun to turn.
Satisfied, it selected a Johan Johansen record, released the handle-brake and, carved wooden knob under a pale hand, shifted the gear to Drive. Gliding the car onto the main road where traffic was scant, the faint sound of violins sang in to fill the silence. Having choosen the shortest route to the highway. the Anya noticed only the roar of the engine.
The sky, eager to return to its earlier itinerary, had started again to rain.
A gold ray pierced through one of the windows on the seventh floor of the Four Seasons Hotel, entering a suite and settling upon the contours of a porcelain sculpture located to one side of a Queen sized bed and buried in the folds of last night's soiled sheets, glinting off the sheen of its surface.
The Anya awoke to the distinct sensation that its position had finally been compromised, four months after the city had been entirely rewritten. Eyes blinking to the growing sunlight it rose from the bed without hurry, naked body slowly making its way towards the bathroom, where the light had been left on. One of last night's -or was it the night before the last?- revelers stirred under the suite's blankets, silk coverings gliding over bare flesh, before the sleeper settled once again, and entered into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Door open, there came the sound of a flush from the bathroom, followed by the shower being turned on. A while later and a steady headful of steam had made its way into the bedroom, thinning to leave nothing but condensed miniature droplets of water by the corners of the hotel window.
Shower over the Anya returned into the room, still wearing nothing but now holding a toothbrush in one hand and a towel in the other. Drying its body the fabric was then used to soak up water that had found its way into any of the five-inch wide holes that marked the surface of an otherwise perfectly chiseled frame. Surrounded by rims of discoloured skin, the holes were deep from where the light disappeared into shadow. The towel's white surface was soon stained pink.
Running the toothbrush over a flawless dentition the Anya casually eyed two rows of books positioned in shelves that it had requested to be installed when it had first arrived. Eyes roving over the order of titles, the words spelt nonsense for some unwritten song: Slow Chocolate Autopsy, Voice of The Fire, Less Than the Dust, Crash, Titus Groan, Dancers At The End of Time, Gormenghast, At Swim-Two-Birds, Peter Pan, Crime and Punishment, Anna Keranina, All Quiet On the Western Front, Firefly Rain, The Cornelius Quartet, Titus Alone, Dune, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? First Day of The Somme, Bug Jack Barron, A Gentleman's Game, Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said, Sagittarius Rising and Blitzkrieg: From the Rise of Hitler to the Fall of Dunkirk, which the Anya had found to be too concise.
Back to the bathroom and out again, sans toothbrush and towel, the Anya stretched and gave out a contented yawn, rippling musculature, bare feet then traveling across the room towards the double oak wood doors of its spacious closet, picking out a pressed suit from amongst a row of pressed suits. Putting on a white shirt cut tightly with a generous collar, it decided to leave the top open, retrieving its pants from another side closet. Made of a fabric that reflected no light, and when placed over the Anya's slim frame the suit quickened about its occupant's person, instantly imbued with an alien sentience.
Dressed, it made its way into the next room.
Picking up the phone an order was made for tea, silence then while the daily menu of tea leaves were repeated through the end of the line, the Anya settling for Single Estate Kenya before indicating where it would be taken (it was the in-hotel cafe) before returning the phone to its hook. Taking its time to put on its boots it remembered then to pick up The Best of Myles which had been left by the study table, in a separate part of the suite. The table was found to be empty otherwise, and there was no reason to think that anything it left behind would have amounted to much of a difference anyway.
Making its way towards the door it left the room, never to return.
Descending the stairs because it abhored the idea of elevators there was a pause by the second floor, which passed through the event halls, the Anya observing that the New Year party for the National Aikido Association was still in effect, there being just as much laughter as when it first commenced, three days earlier. Outside the closed doors of the hall a few attendees were sprawled onto settees and single cushion seats furnished by the hotel, sleeping, some with their mouths agape, complexions flushed a uniform pink. Taking this in the Anya could not remember precisely if it had been in attendance of the same gathering at any one of those days, nor could it recall the exact venue where it had spent its time proper. Presently, it started down the stairs again, found itself wishing for a bit more uncertainty in its life, wondering, for a moment, what it felt like..
Down at the main floor its approach to the counter desk was muted by a large exotic rug, the central design a dragon's body with neither beginning nor end. The Anya indicated its departure, and where the bill was to be sent.
"Was there anything else, sir?"
"Have the car ready, if you please."
"Very good, sir."
Proceeding to the cafe, which was slowly creeping to life, the Anya took its seat by a table marked RESERVED, hardback placed aside just as the tea arrived, wisp rising from a deep china cup and a round teapot, both from the same set, adorned by the motif of a black-tipped heron. A plate of three chocolate coated digestive biscuits was also served. The waiter managed a "Good morning, sir," before repeating in an unintrusive tone the name of the selected beverage when he finally left the customer to breakfast. Nibbling at a biscuit the Anya opened its book to a page marked by a postcard divided in half, the top showing a photograph of a young girl dressed in an elaborate kimono, smiling beautifully into the unseen camera, the bottom a detailed New Year's greeting from the Japan Post. Eyes scanning the text it turned a page, its own face forming into a smile before it remembered itself. Closing the book, postcard back as before, the Anya left the table after it had drank its tea, acknowledging the waiter but making no mention of the choice of leaves before proceeding towards the main entrance where a Benz SL-210 was parked and waiting, its engine already turned on.
The valet was nowhere to be seen. Taking the driver's seat the Anya let the engine purr, accelerator giving way invitingly under the heel of a patent leather boot. It was a wonderful car, and the Anya felt itself fill in the mood of the moment. Back in the hotel cafe, heads had begun to turn.
Satisfied, it selected a Johan Johansen record, released the handle-brake and, carved wooden knob under a pale hand, shifted the gear to Drive. Gliding the car onto the main road where traffic was scant, the faint sound of violins sang in to fill the silence. Having choosen the shortest route to the highway. the Anya noticed only the roar of the engine.
The sky, eager to return to its earlier itinerary, had started again to rain.