Oscar Coop-Phane - Zenith Hotel

When I wake up, my teeth feel furry. Theres a foul taste in my mouth a nasty sort of animal taste. Still, its better than at night, when I have the aftertaste of other people and their filth. My body is a hindrance. It spreads out on my sheets like a poorly inflated old sack. I try not to touch this sick body too much, too many hands have pawed it. It needs to rest a little longer in my grubby sheets.

I smoke in bed. Sometimes the ash drops on to the sheets making little grey smudges which I dont bother to rub away. I sleep with my ashes, like in a casket.

In the mornings, my nails ache. The tips of my fingers are cold, slightly numb. Apparently its the alcohol. Whatever.

My hairs greasy and it sticks to the back of my neck.

I sit up a little. Feathers escape from my pillow when I move it, fluttering gently down on to the white-tiled floor. I lean back against the wall, scratch my head then light a cigarette. To wash it down, I drink a little water from the old plastic bottle lying at the foot of my bed, which I fill every night from the little sink on the landing.

I dont have a proper bed. I sleep on a sofa bed. I dont bother to fold it away any more.

Then, I have to go and pee. The toilets on the landing, and I have to put on my shoes because the floors wet. Its not a proper toilet, just a hole in the ground with two little white ceramic footrests. People say that in Turkey, you always have to shit crouching down. You have to squat in a ridiculous position over those toilets, too. My pee makes a loud tinkling sound as it hits the water, and that makes me laugh. I pull the little chain hanging from the huge cistern. You have to watch out sometimes the water splashes your ankles.

I go back to my room, dragging my feet on the hexagonal red tiles. The doors open I never close it when I go to the toilet. If someone came in, Id hear them.

I splash my face at the sink on the landing and then wipe it with the hem of my nightie. Its a bit torn, but I like to feel its roughness against my skin. Theres something sort of pure about it. The men dont see it.

I never start the day without a coffee. At night, when I run out, I walk to the store on Place Clichy to buy some more. Coffees expensive there and I have to go up Rue dAmsterdam. Thats how badly I need caffeine in the morning.

Before, I used to have it sitting at the bar at Jeannots. Always cheerful is Jeannot always cracking jokes. He lost his wife in an accident. He smiles when he talks about her, remembering the good times, her little feminine ways. And there are the guys small-time delinquents, lost souls, the old men from the neighbourhood. All on Pernod or white wine. But you cant smoke at Jeannots any more, and I need a fag with my coffee, so Ive stopped going there. I did tell Jeannot why, but he doesnt believe me. He thinks Im going to another joint, the competition he calls it. He says Im too stuck-up for his place, that Im being a princess. When I walk past, he acts like he doesnt see me. Its really sad, this business, these anti-smoking laws. Lulu, my neighbour, she still goes there. Shes the one who told me Jeannot thinks Im being a princess.

I drink my coffee all alone in my room, smoking my fags. To cheer myself up, I tell myself Im saving money.

Ive got an Italian coffee pot, a metal cafetire. You put in the water, the coffee, and then you screw on the top part. When it boils, you have to take the cafetire off the cooker. Ive got an electric hotplate. Its covered in grease and stinks a bit when you turn it on, but it still works. Maybe one day Ill buy a new one.

I drink my coffee and smoke a cigarette. No TV, no radio. I listen to the sound of the tobacco sizzling when I take a drag. Its relaxing. I try not to think. Ive moved the table next to my bed. I sit there, puffing away and drinking coffee.

I get up, take a towel from the chest of drawers and go to my neighbour Lulus. I havent got a shower. She lets me use hers, and its nicer. Before, I had to use the shared bathroom. No lock on the door, just a dribble of water and filthy floor tiles. Weve asked the landlord to replace them hundreds of times, but he doesnt want to know. He says, Isnt it enough that I rent out rooms to people like you? So get off my case. He never wants us on his case, except when its to pay the rent. He wants to know about that all right, the bastard. I know, everyone has to make a living but thats still no reason to be such a shit.

His eyes are wide-set, like a fish, and hes bald. He taps his pudgy fingers on his counter and says hes a hotel-keeper. He talks of his establishment with pride. Hes mixed up in all sorts of dodgy deals.

When he kicked Valente out, we all refused to pay our daily rent. He said hed call the police. We told him the cops would be more than happy to stick their noses in his business and inspect the showers and his books. Then he turned the heating off. It was January. After three days, we started paying again. We never saw Valente again. He wanted to go back to Brazil.

I wash with a mini soap. I like feeling the roughness of my skin, the way it goes taut and chapped after washing. Shower gels too gentle. It leaves your skin slightly greasy, like when you oil it. I prefer it when my skins dry. I feel cleansed disinfected. I soap my face too. I frown. My skin feels tight I like that sensation.

Ive got little zits on my neck, apparently its the rubbing because I always wear a scarf. Not acne or blackheads, but dry little zits. I scratch them and scrape them off with my nails. Sometimes, theres one that wont come off, so I save it until the next day. When I go back to my room after my shower, thats my little task.

After that, Im hungry. I boil an egg or heat up a tin of food. I breakfast in front of the TV. Its a load of rubbish, but I like watching it.

Im a streetwalker. Not a call girl or anything like that, no, a common streetwalker with high heels and menthol cigarettes.

This morning, Im going somewhere to do someone a big favour. I dont intend to go into detail and tell you about my childhood, my love life and all my woes. Im not going to tell you how I ended up like this youd get too much of a kick out of it. All youre going to get is my day. If you were expecting me to talk about rape, being abandoned, HIV and heroin, you can fuck off, pervert. Youll get nothing more than my day, which is just like all the other days of my life and just like all the days to come until I die. Therell be no family tragedy, front-page news or armchair psychology.

Its a nice day not that it makes any difference to me. I walk in the shade. Im wearing a trenchcoat, and I look like a typist, even though Im not going to the office. Under my trenchcoat, latex. I like that word. Latex. It smacks in your mouth.

I wait for the bus, smoking a fag. The 21 to Glacire Arago.

I listen to the sounds of the city as if its music. A folk song with people walking and children playing.

I like jailbirds. Theyre sweet! They want to marry me. They dont have any other options. I refuse to play the tart with a heart who likes giving pleasure, but for the guys in Sant prison, its different. Its less sad. Its less sad because its sadder.

I write in the bus. Schoolkids are on their way to lunch. The old people go about their old peoples business. They know all the stops, they know all the streets. Id like to know what theyre thinking about inside their little old peoples heads. They chew over their memories, they gnaw at them inside their tired brains. They clutch their tickets in their trembling hands. Theyre afraid you can see it in their glassy little eyes. They play their part of old people.