Hotel Hallways

Hotel Hallways          


         Peter was a young man I met in Belgrade, a grey city with wet streets and old buildings. Almost like a movie set for a very sad movie. I was there with a filmmaker who was working on a project. I met Peter in the hotel, which was old and small, like most old European buildings. He had blue eyes and straight brown hair. He was from Russia. I was walking to my room and I heard crying from one of the rooms.The walls were thin. I knocked quietly until he answered me, annoyed. His eyes were red and puffy and he was alone. I didn't speak, but took his hand and sat on the floor of the small carpeted and wall-papered hall. He must have thought I was crazy, but he was upset so he sat next to me, hunched over and hung his head.

         There was something that drew me to him. Like I knew him.  I put my arm over his shoulders and his crying was softer. After a while of hearing the cars whooshing by, and the rain spitting on the window I asked him what was wrong.

         "I lost my girls."  I will never forget him saying that. The way he said it, his accent, his shaky voice. "My girl baby dies."

         His hand were big, and strong. I wondered about him as we sat there in silence. I took his hand and put my head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry." Like that mattered to him. My heart hurt. My loss was still relatively new, but there was something about his tears that struck me. He was a big man, tall and intimidating, and his sparkling tears looked just like anybody's as they dripped down his cheek.

         I sat in the hallway with him for a very long time. It was dim and dusty. He didn't speak english very well, but he didn't need to. When he was ready to talk, he did. In russian. I didn't understand him, but I held his hand. I asked if he was married, pointing to the ring finger. He said "She dead too. Together." This surprised me. "Fire."

         Peter's story, from what I gathered, was his wife or girlfriend lived in Belgrade, and he worked in Sofia. A few other people died in the apartment fire. He was so affected by this, he wasn't a man out of love with his girlfriend or daughter. His daughter's name was Elena and she was three. I couldn't quite ask my questions, so I think about him often.

         His lanky arms gave me a hug after he showed me photos in early morning. I liked his hug. It made me feel safe.  They were little, ripped pictures of a blonde woman with a big smile holding a precious young girl with light blonde hair and smiling eyes. Peter smiled as he showed me. His tears were blinking down his face, I knew he was remembering them. He left for the funeral with a backpack and an ill-fitting suit. He was alone. There was no family. I wanted to cry.

         "Goodbye," He nodded, trying to smile. I wish I could have said something poetic and lovely, but I said nothing. I smiled, nodded and rubbed his shoulder. He was so interesting, and hardworking I could just tell. He wasn't well off, but he was young and weathered already. I think about him sometimes, if I see a man wearing a shirt and tie trying his hardest to look presentable. Or if I see a man who looks like there is pain behind his eyes.

         I don't know if he would remember me, or if I helped ease his pain for even a moment. But I sometimes get a weird feeling and I miss him.  I wonder how he is living, and who he has turned into. I remember him and the hallway and the smell of must and the photo that seemed to light up the dull colours of the rundown hotel.  I hope he has found a way to be happy.