Mother-Machine

The Mother-Machine

"Where are your parents?", the receptionist asked, returning the coin to the pile of metallic currencies scattered around the counter.

The young man shrugged.

"Maximum age around here is 22 years old. May I see your ID?", Jason asked, happy for finally having found a reason to expel the newly-arrived.

"ID, maximum age", the boy thought, "who cares about such things nowadays?" Without saying a word, he pulled the coins nearby, putting them again inside a bag, and when he was about to turn his back and face the rain outside, a shrill voice of prepotent intensity cut through the scene:

"Why are you being so rude towards our guest, Jason? Please, it's raining cats and dogs outside and we still have a room available..."

"But, Mrs. Di Tonalle...", the receptionist tried to argue – but in vain. The inn's owner had made her decision.

A slender woman, akin to a pole, with her hair dyed purple in a bun, appeared from some hallway. Both of her eyes were red and stared at the guest with a forced, inexistent kindness. She outstretched her pale, wrinkled hands towards Jason and whispered something to the receptionist.

The young man dragged his aloof facial expression towards the counter and stared coldly at Jason's eyes. He grabbed a smaller number of coins and poured them in the counter. This time the music didn't pause, women and men had intercourse as if nothing had happened, but the inferior amount of coins in the counter made Mrs. Di Tonalle dart Jason furiously with her eyes, who tried to avoid her by shifting his attentions to the guest.

"I'll need your name and some personal data", he said, sitting on a padded chair and typing something into a black, dusty keyboard.

"Ivan", the boy replied.

It sounded odd he didn't having a surname, but under the aggressive stare of Mrs. Di Tonalle Jason thought it would be better to type in only "Ivan", and resume the register.

"Country of origin?", he asked.

There was a moment of silence, and when Jason thought to repeat the question, Mrs. Di Tonalle intervened, waving her long arms and making an effort to sound jolly:

"Ah, never mind about that, Jason Marshall. Let's take him to his room and leave him sleeping. Mr. Ivan must be tired. Please, take the keys for 712."

Jason stared at her sadly, and Mrs. Di Tonalle disguised a probable inconvenience with a false smile.

"Please, call me Marta", said Mrs. Di Tonalle as she dragged Ivan towards the inn's spiralled staircase.

The boy didn't pay any attention to the instructions regarding where was any thing at the inn, the pathways and rooms he should avoid as they were already reserved by troublesome customers, where to leave the dirty laundry and picking it up clean – and finally arrived at the interesting subject, responsible to all the fame given to the place.

Marta Di Tonalle didn't even realize she was talking by herself during the long minutes of the walk. Ivan seemed to be way more interested in the framed blots on the walls and the windows bombarded by the drops of the ceaseless storm than in her instructions.

"What a terrible rain", Marta commented, trying to capture at least an inkling of the attention of that strange guest, and realizing her lack of success finally blurted out: "Will you spend the night alone, Mr. Ivan?"

The boy could perceive the malice shaping in her red eyes. Ivan thought that maybe he would receive a completely different treatment if since the beginning he didn't demonstrate he was a rich foreigner intending to spend little time in the inn, and the first thought to appear on his mind after seeing Marta Di Tonalle for the first time echoed once again in his brain ("My first impression is that I don't like you") – but he didn't say anything.