Hotel World by Ali Smith

Author:Ali Smith [Smith, Ali]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-80197-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-07-19T16:00:00+00:00

With one finger of one hand Penny typed words. With the other hand she pressed numbers on the hotel TV remote control.

Classic, she typed. Ideal.

A country and western star on the TV screen told the camera how much God loved Nashville. He loves it, she said. It’s a place in America, a part of America, that’s especially loved by God.

Fawless, Penny typed. She deleted the F and replaced it with an l. Then she put the F back on the front again.

Classic Ideal Flawless, the computer screen said.

She flicked channels. This hotel TV had a decrypted porn channel, maybe left over from the last guest. Two girls with waggling apparatuses strapped to them were taking turns at each other while a man in leather underpants encouraged them by slapping their bottoms and grunting. Penny watched. Her mouth fell slowly open. She screwed up her eyes. As if it knew she was watching it, as if it had been waiting for her to, the channel crypted over.

Damn, Penny said.

F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​F​lawless, the computer screen said.

Penny laughed. She deleted the extra Fs. Words appeared on the TV screen telling Penny to type in some numbers on the remote control to buy the channel back. Penny got up off the bed and looked at the piece of card that hotels put round their remote control sets, but she couldn’t find the pay-per-view digits written on it. She looked under the television, which was silent now, its screen blank. She looked all round the desk and in the drawers. She thumbed through the information booklets about the local restaurants and the local theatre. She climbed back on to the bed, sat crosslegged again in front of the laptop and tried punching random numbers into the remote. 3554. 8971. 1234. 4321. She leaned over and picked up the phone and dialled 1 for Reception. But there was no answer, and when she turned to put the receiver back in its cradle she pressed the channel-forward button on the remote with one of her knees by mistake.

A sharp-suited man in a TV studio was telling something to a man in a sweater, who was standing up in an audience of what looked like old and out-of-work people.

But she’s there, right there, the man in the suit said. I’m telling you, there, yes, there, he said into the microphone. She’s slightly to the left of you, at your shoulder. Who is she? Is she your mother?

Penny lit a cigarette. She blew smoke out; it disappeared above her head.

My mother’s not dead, the other man said. This is my mother here. He gestured to someone sitting beside him in the audience and the camera found her face; it was lined and befuddled, lit up by the sudden camera light so that it looked visited, divine.

Immaculate, Penny thought. Immaculate, she typed.

The audience on the TV was laughing. The man in the suit had suddenly put his hands up over his ears. Whoever she is, she’s really yelling now, he said. Who is she? She’s yelling loud enough to wake the living.

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