The Grand Budapest Hotel

It is an extremely common mistake:

people think the writer's imagination is always at work,

that he's constantly inventing an endless supply

of incidents and episodes,

that he simply dreams up his stories out of thin air.

In point of fact, the opposite is true.

Once the public knows you're a writer,

they bring the characters and events to you,

and as long as you maintain your ability to look -

...and to carefully listen,

these stories will continue to -

Stop it. Stop it! Don't! Don't do it!

...uh, will continue to seek you out, uh, over your lifetime.

To him who has often told the tales of others,

many tales will be told.

- Sorry. - It's all right.

The incidents that follow were described to me

exactly as I present them here

and in a wholly unexpected way.

A number of years ago,

while suffering from a mild case of "scribe's fever, "

a form of neurasthenia common among the intelligentsia of that time,

I decided to spend the month of August

in the spa town of Nebelsbad below the Alpine Sudetenwaltz,

and had taken up rooms in the Grand Budapest,

a picturesque, elaborate and once widely celebrated establishment.

I expect some of you will know it.

It was off-season and, by that time, decidedly out of fashion,

and it had already begun its descent into shabbiness and eventual demolition.

What few guests we were

had quickly come to recognize one another by sight

as the only living souls residing in the vast establishment,

although I do not believe any acquaintance among our number had proceeded

beyond the polite nods we exchanged as we passed in the Palm Court,

in the Arabian baths and onboard the Colonnade Funicular.

We were a very reserved group, it seemed,

and, without exception... solitary.

Perhaps as a result of this general silence,

I had established a casual and bantering familiarity with the hotel's concierge,

a West-continental known only as Monsieur Jean,

who struck one as being, at once, both lazy and,

really, quite accommodating.

I expect he was not well paid.

In any case, one evening, as I stood conferring elbow to elbow

with Monsieur Jean, as had become my habit,

I noticed a new presence in our company.

A small, elderly man, smartly dressed,

with an exceptionally lively, intelligent face

and an immediately perceptible air of sadness.

He was, like the rest of us, alone, but also, I must say,

he was the first that struck one as being deeply and truly lonely.

A symptom of my own medical condition as well.

- Who's this interesting old fellow? - I inquired of Monsieur Jean.

To my surprise, he was distinctly taken aback.

- Don't you know? - He asked.

- Don't you recognize him? - He did look familiar.

That's Mr. Moustafa himself. He arrived earlier this morning.

This name will no doubt be familiar to the more seasoned persons among you.

Mr. Zero Moustafa was at one time the richest man in Zubrowka...

and was still indeed the owner of the Grand Budapest.

He often comes and stays a week or more,

three times a year at least, but never in the season.

Monsieur Jean signaled to me and I leaned closer.

I'll tell you a secret.

He takes a single-bed room without a bath in the rear corner of the top floor,

and it's smaller than the service elevator.

It was well known,

Zero Moustafa had purchased and famously inhabited

some of the most lavish castles and palazzos on the continent,

yet here, in his own nearly empty hotel,

he occupied a servant's quarters?

At that moment, the curtain rose on a parenthetical, domestic drama -

Shit.

... which required the immediate and complete attention of Monsieur Jean -

...but, frankly, did not hold mine for long.

However, this premature intermission in the story of the curious old man,

had left me, as the expression goes, "gespannt wie ein Flitzebogen "-

That is, on the edge of my seat,

where I remained throughout the next morning until -

in what I have found to be its mysterious and utterly reliable fashion -

fate, once again, intervened on my behalf.

I admire your work.

I beg your pardon?

I said, I know and admire your wonderful work.

Thank you most kindly, sir.

Did Monsieur Jean have a word or two to share with you

about the aged proprietor of this establishment?

I must confess, I did myself inquire about you.

He's perfectly capable, of course, Monsieur Jean,

but we can't claim he's a first -

or, in earnest, even second-rate concierge.

But there it is.

Times have changed.

The thermal baths are very beautiful.

They were in their first condition. It couldn't be maintained, of course.

Too decadent for current tastes.

But I love it all just the same, this enchanting old ruin.

How did you come to buy it, if I may ask? The Grand Budapest.

I didn't.

If you're not merely being polite - and you must tell me if that's the case -

but if it genuinely does interest you,

may I invite you to dine with me tonight,

and it will be my pleasure and, indeed, my privilege to tell you

my story... such as it is.

Two ducks roasted with olives.

- Rabbit, salad? - Hmm.

Pouilly-Jouvet '52, plus a split of the Brut.

That should provide us ample time... if I commence promptly.

By all means.

Well, it begins, as it must, with our mutual friend's predecessor.

The beloved, original concierge of The Grand Budapest.

It begins, of course, with...

- Bring the table to the window. - Yes, Monsieur Gustave.

- Bring the tray to the table. - Right away, Monsieur Gustave.

Right there. Have those been brushed and blocked?

- Of course, Monsieur Gustave. - Pack them in the hat boxes.

- Is that from Oberstdorf & Company? - I believe so.

- Second trunk. Who has the tickets? - I do.

Give them to me.

These are in order. Wait in the corner.

- I'm not leaving. - I beg your pardon?

- I'm not leaving. - Why not?

- I'm frightened. - Of what?

I fear this may be the last time we ever see each other.

Why on earth would that be the case?

Well, I can't put it into words, but I feel it.

For goodness sake, there's no reason for you to leave us if you'd rather -

- Come with me. - To fucking Lutz?

- Please. - Give me your hand.

You've nothing to fear. You're always anxious before you travel.

I admit, you appear to be suffering a more acute attack on this occasion,

but, truly and honestly - Dear God. What have you done to your fingernails?

- I beg your pardon? - This diabolical varnish.

- The color is completely wrong. - Don't you like it?

It's not that I don't like it. I am physically repulsed.

- Perhaps this will soothe you. - What? Don't recite.

- Just listen to the words. Hush. - Please. Not now.

"While questing once in noble wood of gray, medieval pine,

I came upon a tomb, rain-slick'd, rubbed-cool, ethereal;

its inscription long-vanished,

yet still within its melancholy fissures..."

Will you light a candle for me, please?

- In the sacristy of Santa Maria? - I'll see to it myself immediately.

Remember, I'm always with you.

- I love you. - I love you.

Abfahren!

It's quite a thing winning the loyalty of a woman like that

for 19 consecutive seasons.

- Uh, yes, sir. - She's very fond of me, you know?

Yes, sir.

- But I've never seen her like that before. - No, sir.

She was shaking like a shitting dog.

Truly.

Run to the cathedral of Santa Maria in Brucknerplatz.

Buy one of the plain, half-length candles and take back four Klubecks in change.

Light it in the sacristy, say a brief rosary,

then go to Mendl's and get me a courtesan au chocolat.

If there's any money left, give it to the crippled shoeshine boy.

- Right away, sir. - Hold it.

- Who are you? - I'm Zero, sir. The new lobby boy.

- Zero, you say? - Yes, sir.

I've never heard of you, never laid eyes on you. Who hired you?

- Mr. Mosher, sir. - Mr. Mosher!

Yes, Monsieur Gustave?

Am I to understand you've surreptitiously hired this young man

in the position of a lobby boy?

He's been engaged for a trial period, pending your approval, of course.

Oh...

Perhaps, yes. Thank you, Mr. Mosher.

You're most welcome, Monsieur Gustave.

You're now going to be officially interviewed.

Uh, should I go and light the candle first, sir?

What? No.

- Experience? - Hotel Kinski, kitchen boy, six months.

Hotel Berlitz, mop and broom boy, three months.

- Before that I was a skillet scrubber - - Experience: zero.

- Thank you again, Mr. Gustave. - Straighten that cap, Anatole.

- The pleasure's mine, Herr Schneider. - The strap's busted.

- These are not acceptable. - I fully agree.

- Education? - I studied reading and spelling.

I started my primary school. I almost -

- Education: zero. - Now it's exploded.

Good morning, Cicero. Call the goddamn plumber.

- This afternoon, Monsieur Gustave? - Without fail, Frau Leibling.

- What in hell is this? - Not now.

Family?

Zero.

Six, Igor.

Why do you want to be a lobby boy?

Well, who wouldn't at the Grand Budapest, sir?

It's an institution.

Very good.

- A thousand Klubecks. - My goodness.

Were you ever a lobby boy, sir?

What do you think?

Well, I suppose you'd have to start somewhere -

- Go and light the goddamn candle. - Yes, sir.

And so, my life began.

Junior lobby boy in training, Grand Budapest Hotel,

under the strict command of Monsieur Gustave H.