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The owner of an hotel I know near Merano in the Alto-Adige of Northern Italy sleeps in his own hotel rooms, a different one every night. One room or another is always kept free for this purpose.
I think it is a habit he got into as a child and has kept it up. He has a sumptuous room of his own, where he watches sword-and-sandal epics on his video late into the night, lying on a bed in which he never actually sleeps. When he feels like dropping off he goes to Reception, picks a key from a hook, and lets himself into one of his hotel's rooms. I shall call him Gambini here.
His hotel also belongs to his dogs, of a huge grey breed I have seen nowhere else. How many dogs I know not, for they all look the same and are all equally devoted to Gambini. Wherever three or four dogs are gathered together others can be heard howling elsewhere. They are confused by Gambini's bedroom-swapping habits and tend to growl in packs outside guests' rooms in the middle of the night. When this happens to me I am amused, even comforted by the noise. But some guests are scared and make a fuss.
They must have terrible noses these dogs, because Gambini I would guess is the sort of man who would smell strongly to a dog.
When I was there in May of this year there was a morning when Gambini was not to be found. His staff, who he always called 'his women' - a Romanian factotum and a grizzled breakfast-server - were in a tizzy over his disappearance and ruined everyone's breakfast. Last season, I knew, had been bad, and this season showed signs of being worse - the biggest sign being Gambini's own monotonous complaints. Perhaps a despairing Gambini had done something to himself?
All the rooms were tried, including my own, though I assured the Romanian that I had slept there, not Gambini. But perhaps she suspected me of killing her employer, because she looked inside all the wardrobes and tested a creaky floorboard with her slippered feet.
At last a drained Gambini appeared in his vest and shorts at Reception. He had seen the Madonna in room 34, he said.
Amazingly enough, he was believed. The Romanian put on a show to outdo any Italian. She tore open her shirt, scattering the buttons everywhere, including two into the face of the grizzled breakfast-server - who, I'd not known till that morning, was Gambini's own grandmother. Amazing that she was still with us, because Gambini was way past 60 himself!
I was taken upstairs to room 34, bustled in the middle of a procession whose other members could not stop crossing themselves. The local postman also came, and brought his bike - as if to have it blessed. About six of the dogs were with us. Others howled elsewhere.
Sitting on the bed, both sides of which had been slept in, was a long girl of about 14, goggle eyed, staring at her feet, which stuck out at the end of the duvet.
Gambini was too awe-struck to enter. He breathed heavily in the corridor.
"Is she still there?" he asked.
"She's here," I said. "We can all see her."
Gambini stepped nervously in, biting both thumbs.
One of the dogs began to bark, just one not the others, which I thought strange. Meanwhile, among the humans there was a general celebration, during which Gambini lifted up his vest and slapped his belly a lot. Then he hugged me and whispered what a magnificent business opportunity this would be. His hotel: a shrine!
I did not abandon myself to the celebrations and was about to step over the dogs to resume my day, which I had planned the night before in great detail, when the Madonna looked at me, at me alone, and I was so stuck at the heart that I began to cry.
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