I didn’t find Luna in New Orleans, so I decided to go up North, finally making my way back to Louisiana. I eventually searched the whole of North America before I branched out of the United States to travel the world searching for Luna. But I found nothing, not even a trace of her.
Years passed, as Lina had predicted, and Luna had still not returned. I drifted through those years, each one a page turned to ash by the black hole of my anguish. And there were still many more of these pages ahead. The only time I was not searching for her was whenever I saw to the wellbeing of either my family back in England or Luna’s descendants. Lina died a few months after I left Louisiana for New Orleans, so once more, I was completely alone, and as we left one century and entered a new one, I began to believe Luna was dead. She was incredibly weak the night she left the mansion, and perhaps she did not recover her strength.
1922 found me in France. It was the second time I had been to France in search of Luna, and, as before, I found no trace of her whatever. The nights found me wandering the city streets, or drinking alone either in my room or the hotel bar. I had lost hope, but I could not give up on Luna. I would continue to search until I knew without a doubt she was no longer on this Earth. But the nights were cold and empty, and the days, alone in whatever hotel room I was sequestered in, sheer agony.
Where was she? How could she leave me like this and for so long?
I was asking myself that question, one which I asked myself repeatedly over those years, when I returned to my hotel room one bleak winter morning. Dressed in a dark grey three-piece suit, I moved down the corridor under the jaundiced glare of the electric lights that had recently replaced the warm radiance of lamps and candles. This hotel was one of the best, its dark, opulent furnishings of the highest quality, the service impeccable, but it still had the anonymity inherent in every hotel I stayed in and my loneliness bloomed like a fungus that thrived in places devoid of light.
I knew there was someone in my room even before I reached the door. There was a flurry of movement when they heard the sound of the key in the lock and I entered to find one of the maids replenishing the mini bar. It was the smallest one, the one I most often found lingering in my suite whenever I returned in the mornings. She was tiny, like a little mouse, and the only thing that distinguished her from the rest, was the surge of hot emotion that poured from her whenever she was in my presence.
“Good evening, monsieur.” Her English was halting and heavily accented. “I come to change towels...”
I nodded, reached into my pocket and placed some notes in her hand as I moved past her and to the mini bar before I realised she was still standing there, her thoughts awhirl. I saw in her mind snatches of the careful sentences she had learned in English, hoping to draw me into conversation.
I let her thoughts pass over me, remembering briefly a time of such hot crushes as the one she clearly had on me, and how the entire world seemed to revolve around the object of such affection.
Then I remembered the time. The evening chambermaids finished at eleven p.m. and the day maids did not start for at least two more hours. She had come here hours before her shift began so she could catch a glimpse of me before the “Do not disturb” sign appeared on my door for the day.
I put down the decanter of whisky I had picked up and faced her. She froze. What little English she had learned completely left her. Suddenly she was very aware of how she must look to my eyes—a drab, dreary little maid.
I saw more than that. I also saw that she was nothing like a mouse, more like a bird. She was a pretty, fragile little thing with large forlorn brown eyes and long dark hair that was pulled away from her pale face. In that moment, something about her struck me, and I remembered the first time I saw Luna kneeling by the stream, how fragile she appeared to be, and worn down by so much suffering. This one was the same. Her suffering was nowhere near what Luna had endured, but it was wearing her down nonetheless.
I was so weary. So worn down by my loneliness and my fruitless search for Luna. I was also too old to really remember what it was like to be so young, and far too unhappy and jaded to even bother pandering to her little crush. Even then, my tone was a lot harsher than I intended it to be when I spoke, in French.
“Is there anything else?”
She blanched visibly. “N-no, monsieur. Good night.”
She scurried out, closing the door quietly behind her. She stood with her back to the door for a few moments, her heart racing, her emotions an equal measure of excitement and mortification.
I listened to her berate herself mentally for her stupidity as she moved away from the door and down the corridor. She was soon gone and I was alone with my anguish. I sank to my knees. Today was exactly seventy-five years to the day from when I came back to the mansion to find Luna waiting for me in the snow. I wept on my knees before the drinks cabinet, my head in my hands.
***
A few nights later I was alone in the hotel bar, the bar staff long gone, when I became aware of the maid. She was standing by the door observing me as I sat by a small table with a drink in my hand, staring into the fire.
I caught the drift of her thoughts. Her shift ended hours ago and she had gone home, spent a few hours with her mother, and then returned to the hotel when her mother fell asleep. I saw her preparations in her mind. She was wearing her best dress, a blue calf-length dress in the shapeless shift style that was common in the twenties. But she had been frustrated by her appearance in the mirror because the dress was two years old and already slightly faded. But it was the best she had.
I looked away from the fire and glared at her as she moved into the room toward where I sat. My gaze was deliberately intrusive as I looked over her tiny frame.
“Pretty dress,” I said when she was before me.
She beamed, but then the smile wavered, and she couldn’t be sure whether the compliment was genuine, or sarcasm. She seemed to shrink under that uncertainty.
“It is a pretty dress,” I said.
A half-smile lifted her lips, but her hands shook as she placed a bottle of wine and a glass on the table before me.
“Chef says this is a good vintage. I thought you might like it.” She opened it and poured me a glass.
“Thank you,” I said, watching her carefully as she tried to affect the air of a worldly, sophisticated woman.
It was almost comical because she was such a child from the perspective of my one hundred and ninety-two years on this Earth. At the same time, knowing this tugged at my heartstrings, which made me angrier as I stared at her.
“But of course, you have to share it with me,” I added.
She glanced up sharply, no doubt taking in my derisive smile and the hint of meanness in my gaze.
“Ah, no, monsieur, I—”
“Oh, but I insist.”
I reached out and grasped her wrist, pulling her into the seat opposite. She started at the unexpected touch, but remained seated. I got up and retrieved a glass from the bar. I placed it before her, leaning over her and registered the quick intake of breath. I was making her uneasy. Good.
“Are maids supposed to be so familiar with the hotel’s guests?” I asked as I seated myself opposite her and brought the glass to my lips. She picked up her glass but did not drink.
“No. But sometimes you have to take a risk because there are some people who are so special you could spend your whole life searching and never find another like them.”
I was silent for a few moments, caught off guard by her frankness, but also the truth of the words. I could spend a millennium searching, but I could never hope to find another like Luna. I was so absorbed with my misery that I almost missed the surface thoughts beneath her words. The combination of the two brought a mean streak to the fore, and when my gaze met hers again, I felt her consternation at how hard it was.
“Really?” I said. “And what is it about me that is so special you would risk losing your job in order to spend a few moments talking to me?”
“You are not like other people,” she said in the same frank tone. “I have seen you drink and drink, yet you do not suffer the effects. A normal man would be dead, or at least very sick, if they drank like you. But you are untouched by it. And you do not seem to eat or sleep.”
I was silent.
“You do not have to worry. I am the only one who notices these things,” she continued. “The rest do not care to as much as I do.”
“So you risk your job to sit here and speak with me. Tell me something, if you lost your job and you were thrown out of your home, along with your poor sick mother, would it be worth the risk then?”
Her eyes were two large saucers in the dimly lit room.
“The manager is not here, and the others, they would not tell him, so I do not have to worry.”
“But what about me? Can you be sure I will not tell?”
“You wouldn’t do that,” she said calmly, her thoughts reflecting the certainty in her tone. “You are unhappy, but I still see much kindness in your face. You are not a cruel man.”
“Stupid child. You see this angelic face and build little fantasies around it about the sort of man I am. You may have guessed a little, but you know nothing about what I am, or what I am capable of doing. In that way we are similar.”
I reached over and grasped her chin in a hard grip. Although she was shocked, she didn’t try to move away.
“The staff here, they see the way you work hard in order to provide for your sick mother. How they admire you. But they do not know that you wished she was dead so you would be free of her.”
Her eyes filled with tears as I let go of her chin and sat back, taking another swallow of my wine. She gazed at me for a few moments, not bothering to stop the tears that coursed down her cheeks. The silence lengthened, punctuated only by her sniffles, the fire crackling in the grate and the occasional sound of footsteps in the hotel lobby. Finally she spoke.
“You are right. It was an evil thought. But I have only ever thought it that once. Since you know as much as you do, you must know I could never mean it.” She struggled with her tears. “I love my mother. She is all I have. In a few months she will be dead and I will be alone in the world.”
She got to her feet, wiping away the tears that continued to flow. “I am sorry to bother you. I understand you are unhappy and only want to be left alone. I am sorry.”
She turned and left the room, leaving me staring at the doorway, guilt settling over me like the heavy silence she left in her wake. I picked up the bottle of wine she had brought me. It suddenly felt too heavy in the darkened room. In a fit of rage and despair, I threw it into the fire. It smashed and the flames surged and roared as they lapped up the alcohol, a miniature of the furious rage burning within me at Luna’s disappearance.
I sat staring at the fire until it burned to nothing. I remained in the chair until the one within me dwindled to ashes of despair. Then I returned to my room. I noticed the mini bar was stocked with more than usual. There were plenty of little extras I had not noticed in all the months I had been here, little loving touches left by the little maid. It made me feel much worse for my cruelty and all the more alone. Her words resonated with me.
I will be alone in the world.
There was still a chance of happiness for her, whereas mine appeared to be lost forever.
As the sun began to rise, I packed my things, paid the bill, and left the hotel for the last time, leaving the little maid and the dreams she had built around me behind.