Hotel World

Lise, the receptionist of the Global Hotel, lies in bed, unable to fill out a government form asking her to explain her illness. The form’s first question asks her to describe herself. At first, she plans to write that she is “a nice person,” but she mentally crosses that out and replaces it with “a sick person.” She feels this correction in her body as much as in her thoughts. Her awareness of time has fractured; she cannot recall how many minutes are in an hour, or how many months are in a year. Days blur together. She clings to fragments from her past, like the jingle for Mazola corn oil, which plays in her head with eerie clarity. The voice from the commercial comforts her more than anything in her current life.

From her bed, Lise listens to the daily sounds of life in the tenement building around her—neighbors moving furniture, televisions switching on and off, voices calling through walls. She remembers what it felt like to go shopping, to exist among crowds and brightly colored products, and how that now feels impossible. The simplest things are out of reach. Her thoughts move slowly, buried deep in her mind. She understands she is unwell, not just physically but existentially. She feels that time stretches out endlessly, like each second is an eternity.

Lise tries to focus on something specific. She is supposed to be filling out a form for incapacity benefits. She holds it in her hand, though she does not remember picking it up. She is unsure how long she has been holding it. The form insists that she describe how her illness affects her ability to function. It asks her to provide physical details about her body—what she can do, what she cannot. She considers writing a list of her symptoms: pain in her skin, face, arms, shoulders, back, and feet. Her hands feel like stones. Walking even short distances exhausts her. A small room can feel as large and daunting as a desert. Her heart races with panic over trivial exertions. She has not left the flat in weeks.

Once, Lise was polite, generous, and helpful. She recalls how she used to let people go ahead of her in queues, help strangers carry bags, and care for animals. She reflects on these small kindnesses not to boast, but to reassure herself that she was once capable of existing in the world as a functional, considerate human being. In contrast, she now feels invisible and vastly reduced. The comparison between her past and present self is overwhelming.

Lise remembers how her doctor could not find a specific cause for her condition. Her blood results were inconclusive. The doctor had said it might be something undiagnosable. However, her mother, Deirdre, sees it differently. Deirdre believes her daughter’s illness is poetic, even mystical—a gift. She romanticizes Lise’s collapse as a kind of spiritual journey. For Deirdre, this illness has reignited her own creative energies, and she begins writing an epic poem inspired by her daughter’s condition, titled “Hotel World.” Deirdre visits every afternoon, eager to collect fragments of Lise’s experience for the poem.

Deirdre was once a minor celebrity, writing kitschy poetry and pop songs. However, now her star has largely faded. Her enthusiasm for Lise’s suffering feels uncomfortably performative, as if her daughter’s illness has become a new platform. She recites awkward rhymes and requests anecdotes from Lise about her time working at the Global Hotel. Lise, mostly silent, lets her mother speak. However, when pushed, she cannot remember the details her mother wants.

The form asks about Lise’s ability to sit, stand, see, and hear. Lise stares at the box labeled “Other information.” She considers what she might write for Deirdre. She thinks about the things her fellow employees used to do at the hotel. For instance, she recalls how maids would wipe toilet seats with guests’ face cloths, or how they would try on guests’ clothes, drain camera batteries, and spit into food. These acts, motivated by boredom or quiet rebellion, are vivid but hard to explain. She cannot organize these memories well enough to articulate them for the form or for her mother’s poem.

Eventually, Lise’s memory opens up. It happens suddenly, like a switch. She is back at work at the hotel. She sees herself at the reception desk. The time on the computer clock changes from 6:51 to 6:52 p.m., and the simple precision of that moment pleases her. She plays with her name badge, pricks her finger with a pin, and watches her blood bead up. She considers making a phone call but hesitates. Instead, she lets herself out through the hotel’s revolving doors into the cold night air, hoping to see someone—a girl she has noticed sitting across the street on the steps of the World of Carpets (Clare). But the girl is gone. Lise returns inside, still feeling energized by something she has done.

Earlier that evening, Lise gave a room in the hotel to a homeless woman (Else). This action, spontaneous and against the rules, made Lise feel powerful and kind. She tries to share this moment with Duncan, but he has been withdrawn since witnessing Sara’s death. When she tries to talk to Duncan, he does not respond. She once had a crush on him, but now she only feels pity.

As Lise continues her shift, she imagines what it must be like to be one of the hotel’s rich guests. She fantasizes about switching places with a confident woman (Penny) staying on the top floor, then lets that fantasy sour. She imagines assigning Penny a worse room or sneaking into her room later just to watch her sleep. Lise’s resentment of the rich guests has grown sharper since her bank stripped her of her financial autonomy, issuing her a card meant for teenagers. Her small rebellion—letting Else stay for the night—feels like a stand against a system that has gradually reduced her.

Back in the present, Lise is unable to recall much of what she experienced at the hotel. The narrative she remembered so clearly has now slipped away again, submerged under layers of sleep and forgetfulness. Deirdre arrives quietly at four o’clock, bringing groceries. Deirdre finds the government form on the bed and notices two faintly penciled words written in the last box: “bath singing.” Deirdre does not know what it means. She sits by the wall and watches her daughter, who sleeps on, unknowable and out of reach.