The Brook Penthouse at The Claridge, London

 "Suzanne!" Trevor the sous chef's yell barely overcame the racket of The Claridge's kitchen. “You bloody cow. Pick up the fucking phone." Suzanne dropped her knife on the wood board crowded with carrots and reached for the phone. "Wait, let me get a pen." She grabbed a clipboard. "Ready." Suzanne scribbled as she listened. "Hummus, Mazza Bishurba, Salatat Al Fawakih, Daja Mashwy, Al Salooq, for six, serve at 7:30. Got it. Yeah, yeah, I know, seedless tangerines."

"You got the order from those sandy arseholes in the penthouse?" Roger took the clipboard, read it and snorted. "You'd think they'd get tired of eating that shite."

Suzanne went back to trimming the vegetables. "It's far healthier than the steak-and-mayonnaise-all-the-time diet favored by our Texans in the Royal Suite."

"Well then, thank all fucking mighty we're Cordon Bleu trained," Trevor said.

Claridge's Hotel in London catered to every whim of the world's elite, no matter what corner of the planet they happened to come from. Each suite was staffed with a butler; lady's handmaid optional. High-rolling guests were fetched from Heathrow by limousine. In-suite dining options were unlimited. Russians ordered borscht as fresh and hearty as anywhere in Moscow. Spaniards were served tapas that matched the best they could have found in Seville. As Trevor liked to say, "An Eskimo come in here, we'll get him fresh seal meat, allowing a day for air freight."

Suzanne paused her slicing to return a stray length of blonde hair to her head scarf. The beanies worn by the rest of the staff didn't suit her non-conformist self image. Only the head chef, Steve Allen wore a traditional toque. Suzanne was relatively new to Claridge's, having spent the previous year at The Ritz. She'd heard the kitchen here was more professional, which she assumed, wrongly, to mean less profane and rude. Now, she'd settled in and accepted the continuous fast pace accompanied by endless ribaldry. Not only was the atmosphere unchanged from The Ritz's kitchen, the nightly order for Arabian food was the same.

For Suzanne, the one new benefit of taking the job at Claridge's turned out to be romance. Richard Baker, one of the young professional butlers on staff had the deepest blue eyes ever. At first, Suzanne thought he was gay; an impression based on his slim build, beardless pale skin, glossy black hair, impeccable grooming and formal mannerisms. She realized it was all an act when he started cracking jokes and asking her what she had planned for the evening after he called in the penthouse food orders. Suzanne was relieved to exit the hot, steamy kitchen at the end of her shift, anticipating an evening with Richard.

* * *

"So, will it be the cinema," Richard paused dramatically, "or just a wild shag at my flat tonight?"

Suzanne made a pouty face and took her time before answering, "I'm thinking dinner, that new Swedish film, a stop at the pub, and then a bit of naughtiness at your place."

Over a spicy curry at Vindalu, Richard filled Suzanne in on the latest news from the penthouse suite. "You know, I think the old man is embarrassed to let me see him use his walker. Whenever he rings, I find him sitting down. Then, the next time he rings, he's sitting down somewhere else. It's like he teleports himself among the rooms."

"Maybe he wants you to think he has a flying carpet."

"For what those antique rugs are worth, they should fly. I saw one in the window of a High Street shop, priced at 25,000 Euros. But, you know I think it's that he doesn't want to be seen as feeble."

"Funny, I cook for him almost every day and I've never seen him. I mean, I know you've told me that he's elegant, tall, and has two wives—probably beyond mere wealthy. Be nice to put a face on him."

"Yeah, he's royalty level rich—been here for months and the Brook Penthouse rents for 2,000 Euros a night. As for seeing the man—that's not going to happen."

"You said he goes out every day. I could see him in the lobby if you call when he leaves."

"No. The penthouse lift is key operated, non-stop to the garage. I'm sure his limo waits right there."

"That's the problem with being rich isn't it? —always afraid of being robbed or kidnapped."

"One of these days we can open our own restaurant, be tremendously successful and find out for ourselves. Right?"

"Right." Suzanne sighed. "We can dream."

* * *

In Claridge's miniscule security room, Officer Serge Tarkoffski sipped tea from a glass and tried to ignore the musty smell of the old laundry sink under the shelving. He randomly divided his attention between the pornography on his laptop computer and the huge screen of the video surveillance system. Each of the nine windows on the big screen flipped to a different view every three seconds. Serge couldn't remember how many cameras were scattered around the hotel. It seemed like dozens. A motion sensor triggered one of the cameras to take priority, abruptly changing the rhythm of the visuals. Serge noticed. He paused the movie on his laptop and scrutinized the highlighted surveillance video. The image was from the garage level, at the penthouse lift.

A long black Mercedes was coming to a stop at the walkway next to the lift. The lift door opened. A large man's back obscured another person bent over a walker. The walker meant it was Ibrahim Khalil and one of his sons. Serge had done the passport verification with the Khalil family in their suite—god forbid these rich Arabs should have to visit the front desk. Ibrahim and his sons were dark, rugged men with great looking wives. The father reminded Serge of somebody: an old-time movie star? The driver opened the car door for the men, then folded the walker and put it in the boot. It was the exact scene Serge had watched every day for months. It reminded him of all the big shots with their bodyguards he'd watched for decades at his old job in Russia. The car pulled away. Serge resumed watching the laptop video of two entangled couples.

* * *

At 5 AM, the timer attached to the television set brought it to life. The news reader was saying something about how nobody had any idea where Osama Bin Laden was. The best guess among intelligence experts was that Osama could be anywhere in Waziristan, an area far larger than the United Kingdom. The follow-up story began with the detonation of a roadside bomb. That woke Suzanne up. She opened one eye and saw that Richard was already in the bathroom. Suzanne picked up the remote and turned off the telly.

Suzanne poured the last of the tea into Richard's cup. "Something about those Arabs in the penthouse has been bothering me for weeks, Rich."

"What's that, love?"

"The food they eat—it's identical to what I was making over at The Ritz, and in the same amounts, like it's for the same six people."

"So, maybe they are. So what? You came over to Claridge's, too." Richard smiled. "I know, they're following you for your cooking."

"Oh, shut up." Suzanne laughed. "I mean, it makes me curious."

"Makes me think we should open a Middle Eastern bistro. I'm ready to graduate from butler to maitre d.' "

"And the money will come from...?"

"Your fans in the Brook Penthouse, of course."

Suzanne balled up her napkin and threw it at Richard. "Come on, you. It's time for work."

* * *

A few days later, Richard and Suzanne met for a few minutes in the staff break room.

"I talked to Tarkoffski in security." Richard said. "He said The Khalil family has Lebanese passports and that their previous residence address was The Ritz."

"Aha! I was right. Mission accomplished—curiosity satisfied. Thanks."

"You're welcome. My turn to wonder what's up."

"Because..."

"Because if the two younger guys are the old man's sons, why do they call him Sheik? They'd say, Abu, meaning father. And, I don’t think there’re many sheiks in Lebanon."

"You speak Arabic?"

"No. But I've had enough Arab guests to pick up a few words, being the perfect butler, you know."

"Are they doing anything unusual?"

"Not really. The women shop. The men have teleconferences. The sons are on their laptops a lot. The old man may be getting some kind of medical treatments. They have the occasional visitor. That's it."

"And there you have it; the fabulous lives of the rich and not-so-famous." Suzanne shook her head. "You'd better report their excessive consumption and ambiguous family relationships to the authorities, immediately."

"Very funny. Well, break's over. Back to work." Suzanne gave Richard a brief kiss. "See you at 6:30, then."

 

© 2010 D.M. Schwartz