A Perfect Waiter (5 page)

Erneste was in a position to help his new-found friend. He showed him everything a waiter had to know, and
while tutoring Jakob he could watch him, unobtrusively at first but later with somewhat fewer inhibitions. He felt as if he wanted to slip inside him, and before long he didn't care if Jakob noticed this. One thing was certain: he would make a perfect waiter of him.

Erneste taught him all the rules of etiquette and showed him what a perfect waiter must be able to do—a time-consuming process entailing correction and encouragement. It soon dawned on him that Jakob had absolutely no objection to being watched as he cleaned and polished shoes, folded napkins and tablecloths. Jakob didn't take offense at this. He soon seemed to grasp that Erneste had no wish to bully him, only to supervise and look at him: supervise him like a child, look at him like a picture. Although it was an illicit desire that drove Erneste to do this, Jakob didn't appear to find his scrutiny irksome or embarrassing, from which he inferred that the boy was used to being stared at by his fellow mortals. All that surprised him was that Jakob wasn't the cynosure of every eye. Erneste wasn't jealous. On the contrary, he didn't mind sharing the sight of his protégé with other people. Jakob, he felt, was entitled to be admired and loved and stared at. His way of moving, speaking, and daydreaming—to Erneste, everything about him seemed utterly superlative. There was nothing to prevent him from becoming a perfect waiter.

After only two weeks, during which Jakob—to cite only some of his numerous occupations—had acted as an errand boy, gardener's assistant, car washer, bootblack and porter, Erneste persuaded Monsieur Flamin, the
maître sommelier
, to permit him to make himself useful in the dining room—a job appropriate to his talents at last. This was an exceptional honor, for trainees weren't usually allowed anywhere near guests at mealtimes until they'd spent several months performing the humblest tasks. Jakob himself bore some responsibility for Erneste's successful intervention, having several times urged him at night, before they went to bed, to speak to Flamin on his behalf. He was getting bored outside, he said—he wanted to be near some guests, so Erneste had no choice but to tackle Flamin, who never regretted having given his assent. Jakob proved to be a quick learner.

He began by working in the background, immediately next to the serving table against the wall, where it was never very light. There he lent a helping hand whenever requested to do so by Monsieur Flamin, Erneste and the other waiters. Every one of his superiors was entitled to call on his services at any time and for the most trivial reason.

While carrying out his allotted tasks, Jakob never took his eyes off the others, neither Monsieur Flamin, the
maître sommelier
, nor the
garçons
, nor the
chefs de rang
. Their relative seniority was less apparent from their style of dress than from the speed at which they moved. The faster they bustled from table to table, the more junior
their status within the hierarchy. But every status was important in its own way. The more measured someone's tread, the more important he was, the more obvious his assimilation of the guests' ways, and the more familiar with them he could afford to be, though any form of familiarity had to remain within permissible bounds. Most familiar with them of all, of course, was the hotel manager, Herr Direktor Emil Wagner, who often failed to show his face for days on end. It was better to be prepared for him to reappear at any moment, however, because he came down like a ton of bricks on anyone he caught misbehaving. Herr Wagner stood no nonsense, nor could you expect him to pardon you in a hurry. He was a vindictive man with a violent temper, though he never displayed it in front of guests.

Jakob was filled with admiration for the elegance and facility with which the waiters avoided the obstacles in their path. He marveled at their deftness and poise as they made their way across the dining room with loaded trays on their shoulders, simultaneously keeping an eye on the tables in their care and watching out for signals from their superiors. According to Erneste, indecision was a characteristic mainly of female diners, who often revoked their choices in favor of others, only to revoke those a moment later. It was inappropriate to comment on this in any way, Erneste emphasized. Their right to freedom of choice and indecision had to be greeted with an air of understanding. That was as much a waiter's professional attribute as immaculate fingernails and clean socks.

Jakob started at the very bottom, as a
commis de rang
. He filled the heavy crystal carafes with Seltzer water, lighted the candles in the candelabra and plate warmers, and polished the knives, forks and spoons. Meantime, he had an opportunity to study the waiters both at close range and from afar, noting their every movement, every facial expression and flick of the wrist. After only a few days he felt capable of emulating them and itched to do so. He said as much to Erneste, but it was a while before he was allowed near an occupied table.

He spent three weeks performing his lowly tasks in the big dining room, which contained some twenty-five tables of various sizes. Not only did he perform them to Monsieur Flamin's entire satisfaction, but no complaints were heard from any other quarter. He silently disposed of anything deposited on the serving table, whether used napkins, brimming ashtrays, snapped toothpicks, or dirty plates and glasses.

One night he was privileged to be personally introduced to Herr Direktor Wagner. The manager gave him a benevolent smile, patted him on the shoulder, said, “Good work, my boy,” and walked on. Jakob didn't see him again for days, but he learned the same night why Wagner showed his face so seldom, unlike his wife: he suffered from violent bouts of depression. When overcome by one of these fits of melancholia he would closet himself in his darkened office for days on end, incommunicado to anyone but his wife. He slept in his clothes, didn't wash, and had to be coaxed to eat.

Jakob knew that a
commis de rang
could speak above a murmur only when directly addressed by guests and in the absence of any senior waiter who could have hurried to their aid, for instance when they inquired the way to the cloakroom—by which, of course, they meant not the cloakroom but the facility situated beyond it, namely, the
toilettes
. For a waiter to indicate the way to the
toilettes
by pointing, let alone jerking his chin in their direction, would warrant his dismissal if the manager spotted him. Consequently, everyone strove to observe the correct etiquette. None of the Grand Hotel's employees found this difficult, for uncouth individuals did not apply for jobs as waiters; they became butchers or bricklayers.

Jakob also learned that it was extremely impolite for waiters of any rank to converse together in the presence of guests. Such conversations were permissible only when one waiter's inability to answer a guest's inquiry rendered it essential for him to consult another. Jakob acquired many tips of this kind during the next few weeks, not only thanks to Erneste but from personal experience, by closely observing various situations of a similar nature. As Erneste had grasped the very first day, Jakob was alert, adaptable and coolheaded. He got everything right the first time and appeared to see and hear all that mattered without ever giving the impression that he was watching and listening from curiosity alone. He never seemed indiscreet, absorbed and assimilated all he saw, and did not forget a thing once he had learned it. Like any efficient waiter, he soon conveyed the feeling that he had no personal interest
in what was going on around him but was solely intent on doing right by the guests, which also meant treating them with complete impartiality.

On the morning of Jakob's second day at work, Erneste accompanied him to the tailoring department, which was housed in the former spa hotel that had closed around the turn of the century. This rather dilapidated building, which was situated a few hundred yards from the hotel and could not be seen from there, also accommodated the short-term seasonal workers, the linen store, and the clothing store. The latter contained all the various garments which, having been unpicked and restitched again and again, had clothed and would continue to clothe generations of waiters and chambermaids. While they came and went in quick succession, the aprons and blouses, trousers and jackets on the shelves and hangers calmly awaited their resuscitation by the lithe young bodies that would replenish them with flesh and life for varying periods.

The person in charge of the clothing store was Frau Adamowicz from Geneva, who also ran the hotel's tailoring department. Polish by birth, brought up in Switzerland, and trained as a
couturière
in Paris, she presided over her realm of slumbering garments as prudently and incorruptibly as she did over the three needlewomen who, with bowed heads and nimble fingers, toiled
in her service from early in the morning until late at night. She never took her eyes off them, and despite her cool manner, which might have been only a veneer, she loved them like an elder sister immune from all criticism. They were delighted when words of praise escaped her lips but didn't expect them, and they humbly accepted her reproofs but weren't surprised by them, knowing that they were constantly in her thoughts because she disliked thinking of herself—if she ever did so. Her only child was said to have died in infancy, but she never alluded to it. Rumors were all that was known.

That Frau Adamowicz's minions did a good job was plain to see. The three women, of whom the eldest had been employed at Giessbach for nineteen years, repaired napkins and tablecloths, bedspreads and sheets day after day. They also tailored garments for new employees in accordance with Frau Adamowicz's instructions. If she was out the new employees would be sent away and told to come back later, because she alone was entitled to take their measurements. She also submitted every napkin and tablecloth, sheet and bedspread to personal inspection before handing it over to be repaired, or, if it was no longer fit for guests, weeded it out and tossed it onto the cleaning-rag pile after tearing it into strips with her own hands.

Erneste and Jakob entered the tailoring department at a quarter past ten, after a late breakfast. Frau Adamowicz's minions were seated at their work, one of the four sewing machines was in use, and the room smelled of glowing
coals and dried flowers. The three women looked up and smiled without speaking. Frau Adamowicz, who was bound to have heard the men come in, would appear before long.

She emerged from the clothing store, almost simultaneously removing her glasses and putting them in her apron pocket. The ends of the tape measure around her neck reposed on her bosom, and a pincushion worn like a bracelet jutted menacingly from her left wrist. Her appearance in the sewing room was preceded by an unaccountable stir, as if she were propelling the air along in front of her.

Erneste introduced Jakob to the four women. He had scarcely uttered Jakob's name when Frau Adamowicz repeated it: “Jakob? Meier?” She replaced her glasses, went over to her cutting table and proceeded to leaf through a bulky ledger, starting at the back. Having found a blank page, she wrote something on it, then looked up and surveyed Jakob from head to foot. “Now we'll take your measurements,” she said, pulling the tape measure from around her neck. “Kindly remove your jacket. Stand up straight, please don't shuffle from foot to foot, and keep your head up.” Her French was so clearly enunciated that even Jakob could understand it in spite of her Polish accent.