The Iinglish of Dynya: Part 2
Breakfast was disappointing. For starters, Mygel was nowhere to be seen. The flat faced Gabri, a staff member who maintained dull, dead eyes even when she smiled and laughed, was dishearteningly present and commanding at the check-in desk for the continental service in the dining room. Mr. Bunch hastily waved away her welcome of “Bónasio Dí”, as though it was a sudden fart, and called out his room number in loud and obnoxiously pronounced words.
“One! One! Nine!”
Gabri placatingly smiled and switched to Iinglish, thanking him, against her better judgement and sense of self respect, and told him to enjoy the meal. A difficult and futile feat, as Mr. Bunch saw not so much as a promising strand of mygel’s spikey, short, black hair. Today the dining room was disgustingly filled with beautiful young women.
On a normal morning, Mr. Bunch would be determined to make at least three rounds for breakfast, leaving his hat on the two seated table to keep his place. First he would go for the old reliables; cheeses and hams, breads, toasted on a conveyer rack, guacamole, olive oil, and a single slice of tomato, along with a cup of black coffee, reminding himself to select “zin lacheq”, a couple of sugar packets, and then a glass of orange juice. Returning to the table, these ingredients would be assembled into a decently pleasing sandwich.
Next, if he had gotten a chance to take a look upon his first go, Mr. Bunch would go tot the fry table, which differed depending upon the day, but would usually include potato omelettes, beans, meats, and the occasional Spanglesian cuisine. It barely counted as real food to Mr. Bunch. The meats weren’t proper meat, the kind you’d get from a real hearty cow, born and bred back in Iinglatera. No. They weren’t real meat.
Finally, on his third round, Mr. Bunch would go around opposite the meats and fries and help himself to a sweet treat of watermelon slices, yoghurt, jams, a banana, and a croissant. The croissants were the only pastry that didn’t prove to be rock hard or strangely filled with some kind of cream Spanglesians swore by, insisting to tourists to try.
That would be Mr. Bunch’s usual morning routine, making sure to call over Mygel or else ask him questions about what everything was whenever he was up from the table. But without the entertainment, Mr. Bunch found the dining room drab and stale; the hotel air conditioning struggled against the insistent heat. In a hurry to leave, Mr. Bunch created his breakfast sandwich, gulped down his black coffee and juices, and left, lazily lifting his hand to Grabri and the others, who politely thanked him for nothing.
Mr. Bunch’s slip-ons flimped, flomped, and flumped all the way down the immaculately polished and mopped tiled hallway as he continued into the lobby, which opened into a beautifully airy done with raised floors ascending above the lounge chairs, table, magazines, and rug in the lobby. High above them, a light fixture of circular segments hooked upwards, bouncing light off the cream ceiling. Over in the far left was an in-built desk running the width of a nook, manned by three receptionists. One, a young man of around twenty-five, Filli, caught Mr. Bunch’s eyes. Though upset, Mr. Bunch tucked in his lips and nodded, lifting his hat, which was in his hand. Mr. Bunch turned his attention to the automatic glass doors, not noticing the look of concern on Filli’s face as he, quickly closing down his reception computer, ran around the desk after Mr. Bunch.
“Mr. Bunch! Mr. Bunch, sir!”
Mr. Bunch had paused but only because the automatic doors were slow to sense his presence and open. Filli had reached his side.
“Ah. Bono di-dum to you, young sir.”
Filli forced a laugh, speaking weakly as he tried to catch his breath.
“Yes. Very good. Sir, where are you going?”
“Oh, nowhere. Just to see a friend?”
“Can I ask where in Dynya?”
“Oh… along the… what do you call it? You know? The road along the beaches and piers.”
“Lez Mariez?”
“Yes, I think that’s how you say it. Where the bars are. Do you know Pabbi? He owns The Iinglishman pub there.”
“No. Mr. Bunch, I think you should wait a little to see your friend. The weather forecast is giving a heat warning today.”
“And?”
“… And, it’s to be forty-eight degrees.”
“And?”
“… Sir. That’s Celsius.”
“I should hope so. I can’t understand what those Americanos mean when they talk about ninety-nine degrees. Is that the weather or the oven settings, ha!”
Filli didn’t entertain Mr. Bunch’s nonchalance this time.
“Sir… there’s a weather warning saying we’re to stay inside as much as possible. The ehat could easily kill you if you’re out for too long. It’ll cool down around five or six this evening.”
“I can’t wait until then! Pabbi stops the breakfast menu around one!”
“Mr. Bunch, did you not have breakfast? It’s being served.”
“No, I did. It’s not really about the breakfast. I just enjoy the company. A nice drink and a good hearty meal is the second best friend to any man. The first being good ol’ Pabbi.”
“Si, would you like me to call you a hotel car or a taxi?”
“No, no. The hotel cars are for the old ones, like that, what’s her name, the Gael on the second floor. The drunk one. Even for a Gael she’s a drunk, eh? Eh?”
Filli’s silence didn’t linger long before Mr. Bunch continued.
“And those cabs take forever and cost an arm and a leg. No. A good walk will do, thank you… I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
Filli straightened. Though he worked in the hotel and was on speaking terms with Mr. Bunch for well over a year now, this slight had the opposite effect; instead of insulting him, it reminded him to be courteous to all guests… even Mr. Bunch.
“Filli, sir. F. I. L. L. I.”
“Well, thank you anyway. You stay in today. We wouldn’t want you fainting in this heat. I’m too busy to carry you to the hospital if anything were to happen, eh!”
Mr. Bunch chuckled as he continued out of the lobby, approaching the steps, grasping the metallic railing to descend them. Filli, annoyed, was about to turn back when Mr. Bunch stopped, spinning on the spot.
“Fillipé?”
Filli stopped as well, meeting Mr. Bunch’s eyes, which seemed to have a pleadingly dower expression to them now, no longer cavalier and crinkled in jest.
“Do you know where Mygel is today?”
“Mygel?”
“Mygel.”
“… Mygel?”
“Yes.”
“… I’m sorry sir, who is Mygel?”
“Mygel. Mygel, the boy. The young man. The Spangle boy. The one with the… never mind.”
Embarrassed, Mr. Bunch turned back to the steps and hurried down them, plopping his hat lightly upon his head, and shuffled down and out of the hotel driveway, taking a left.
#HI
