The Elegant Lie

…

In the grand foyer of the Orlovsky hotel, early morning sun glinted on the giant ferns that formed the archway on either side of the main entrance. As the doors swung open, the waxy leaves rustled with a sound like gentle rain.

The concierge, with his red tunic and stiff grey moustache, glanced up from the paper that he had spread upon the counter. As the couple appeared in the doorway, passing through the dazzle of light as if emerging from a different dimension, he recognised them at once.

But he did not greet them with a smile. Instead, without averting the gaze of his sled-dog eyes even for a second, he raised one arm above his head and snapped his fingers, summoning the drowsy porter from the back room. Only then did the concierge speak. ‘The Orlovsky welcomes you again,’ he told the couple, with such gravity and reverence it was as if the stones within the walls had been expecting them.