However, he was very polite and when he explained who he was I still wasn’t quite sure he was the person he claimed to be.
He said he was Mr. So-and-So, the manager of the Whatsit Hotel at Thingummy-on-the-Aegean where I had stayed for two weeks last summer. And his voice was so polite that at first I found it impossible to connect it with the supercilious, abrupt and generally boorish character I had seen at the hotel who had reserved a thin smile and a nod for only the wealthiest of his German clients.
“Look,” I said, “I think you’re making a mistake. I’m the poor Greek who had a hell of a time making a reservation last year and when I got there your desk clerk told me the only room they could give me was a maid’s room overlooking the kitchen courtyard and when I said I didn’t mind and asked how old the maid was you came out of your office and made it quite clear to me that if I didn’t want the maid’s room — sans maid — I could go somewhere else.”
“I know, I know, Mr. Kitroeff, and I’m terribly sorry if I was a little abrupt with you but you must under-stand that I was working under a terrible strain. We had back-to-back contracts with two of the largest tour operators in Germany and one in France and we were overbooked by at least forty percent. Believe me, that maid’s room was worth its weight in gold for me at that time, but because we had made a reservation for you, we just couldn’t turn you away. I do hope you were comfortable and that you enjoyed your stay with us.”
“Well, aside from having all the bell boys and assistant cooks knocking on my door at all hours of the night and being wakened at six o’clock in the morning by a beer truck driving into the kitchen court-yard and unloading twenty-four crates — I counted them — every day, I suppose I didn’t have too bad a time. Tell me, what is a back-to-back contract?”
“Oh, that’s when a tour operator undertakes to send you groups to fill a certain number of rooms that are occupied by the next group on the same day that the previous group leaves.”
“I see,” I said, “but if you have contracts of that type why do you have to overbook?”
“Because we have to expect a certain number of cancelations in one group or the other and if we don’t overbook we may well find ourselves with empty rooms at peak season.”
“Doesn’t the tour operator compensate you for no-shows? I asked.
“It depends on the terms of the contract. Normally, they don’t, even though the National Tourist Organization had tried to enforce rules in this respect to protect us.”
“And what happens if everybody turns up and you’re overbooked and you have no more maids’ rooms to spare?”
“That, Mr. Kitroeff, is a predicament that is too horrible even to contemplate. We try to find accommodation in other hotels or make other arrangements. But some people get very angry.”
“I know, I watched you last year when a fat German was giving you hell in three languages: Low German, High German and the lingua franca of Hamburg’s Reepersbahn.”
“Ah, that must have been Groupsfuehrer Adolf Schweinkotelett of Gutfahrtreisen Gmbh. We didn’t have rooms for two couples in his group — loyal clients of Gutfahrtreisen for the past ten years.”
“And what happened?”
“The assistant manager and I had to give up our rooms and we slept on the beach for two weeks.”
“No wonder you were in a bad temper most of the time. But tell me, why are you calling me now, a year later to apologize – if that is the purpose of your call?”
“Well, you may not believe this, but Whatsit Hotel lays great store by its tradition of impeccable hospitality with a little something added. And because we feel we may have been very slightly remiss in lavishing it upon you last year, we would like to make amends and beg you to give us an opportunity to be your hosts again this year.”
“Are you offering me a free stay at your hotel?”
There was a short silence at the other end of the line.
“Er, not exactly, Mr. Kitroeff, but we shall be very glad to offer you a twenty percent discount on your room rate.”
“How much would that work out at?” I asked.
He mentioned a figure.
“But that’s exactly what I paid last year,” I protested, “and you didn’t charge me any less for sleeping in the maid’s room.”
“Oh, well you see, our rates have gone up by that much this year. Anyway, you can be sure it won’t be the maid’s room this time. I shall reserve our best room for you, over-looking the sea and with a verandah where you can sit and enjoy your breakfast and the sea breeze at the same time.”
“And no rancid butter?”
“I shall personally make sure that your pats of butter are the freshest we have.”
“And proper toast, not those stupid rusks?”
“I shall make the toast myself.”
I stopped to think for a little while. Then I said:
“Boy, oh boy. I heard there was a drop in tourism this year but I didn’t realize it was that bad. If I am not being too indiscreet, what is your occupancy rate at the present moment?
It was his turn to be silent for a few moments.
“Fifty percent,” he almost whispered and I could swear he stifled a sob as he said it. In spite of all his faults I felt sorry for him.
“Okay,” I said, “book me for two weeks on the fifteenth of August.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kitroeff, thank you, thank you so much. I am m-most grate – ” his voice broke down. This time the sobs were coming over loud and clear. That’s what half-occupancy can do to a grown
man!
