There was a vintage elevator at the Hotel Hortensie Berliner that no one ever seemed to use. Not because it was inoperable, but because pressing it into service seemed an affront to its longevity and servitude. It had done its time and earned its well-deserved rest. 

It was one of those elegant cage affairs, all filigreed brass and buttons whose numbers had worn away with the years. The hotel’s staircase wrapped round and round the birdcage elevator, accompanying its steadfast journey from the lobby to the top floor. Upon Lena’s arrival, luggage in hand, she was advised by the hotel’s manager, Frau Kellner, that she could take the elevator to her 4th floor room. She put her gloves into the pockets of her coat, feeling that now, at last, she’d really arrived. Marvelous, she thought to herself. 

Lena admired beautiful things; intricate time pieces, gilded wall sconces. She found them romantic in the historical sense of the word. She was enchanted by the elevator, a wondrous relic of a bygone era whose beauty seemed to exist for no practical reason than aesthetics alone. She took the tremorous elevator up to the 4th floor—and there she stayed. Because despite her best efforts, the pulling and twisting of various handles and knobs, she could not open the cage door. 

After a short time, someone in the lobby rang for the elevator and she was rescued, none too soon. A moment longer and panic may have ensued. She wouldn’t like that. Lena would hate to have to cry out for help, regrettably disturbing the serenity and dignity of the hotel’s carefully curated atmosphere. She’d feel like a rube and would have to sheepishly avoid Frau Kellner, a rigorous woman, for the rest of her stay.

If the take-out deliveryman was surprised to see Lena reach the lobby floor, luggage still in hand, and not exit the elevator, he made no show of it. Lena gripped her suitcase and pulled her coat closer to her body as he entered the elevator. She observed the man’s olive skin and dark eyes. Not a German, certainly. Persian? Turkish, she decided, embarrassed that she could not distinguish between the two. 

Lena had no idea what the man was thinking as they rode together in silence; he, with his bag full of falafel and she, with her open midwestern smile and luggage that took up too much space for a Turk and a tourist. They rode together to the 5th floor—because that’s where he was going. The man easily opened the elevator door and held it for Lena as she exited. She was left to carry her luggage back down to 4. 

To Lena, her room at the Hotel Hortensie Berliner, while by no means extravagant, was charming. The shuttered windows had been opened to let in the crisp late autumn air. A delicately carved wooden table and lovely damask patterned chair had been thoughtfully placed beneath the window. Lena imagined herself sipping tea—no, not tea, a crystal glass of champagne— as she idly looked out the window and paged through a book. From the street below, the crying of a baby would interrupt her reading. She wouldn’t mind. She’d hear the sounds of car horns and clacking heels as people went about their ordinary lives. Lena would be witness to the entirety of human drama from her 4th floor pension. How thrilling, she thought. 

The question was what to do first. Should she unpack? Lie down for a nap to ward off the jet lag she’d been warned was inevitable? She did feel a bit drained. Lena consulted her guide book and decided she’d take the short walk to the Tiergarten. After a stroll she would return to her room to freshen up before dinner. She had peered into the hotel’s dining room upon check-in and had already picked out her table. She would request the one under the painting of the hydrangeas. With her back against the walnut paneling the lighting would be most advantageous to her complexion. She may even enjoy an aperitif before dinner on the second floor terrace overlooking the lobby. She’d pose with her bare arms resting on the iron balustrade. 

Berlin demanded a certain latitude.

Two days later found Lena nursing a cold; the walk, the restaurant, and many of her plans, abandoned. She was moping in her room when she heard a knock at the door. It was a 

serious-looking woman, the kind that Lena suspected always laid her sweaters out flat to dry and remembered to set a second alarm just in case. Polish, she thought. Or maybe Czech. The woman was attended by a mop and bucket that, frankly, had seen better days. Her hands were slightly pink. 

Beyond the niceties of a civil society—a few phrases, really—Kaffee, Tee, and Zimmer were the extent of Lena’s German vocabulary. Yet she felt a duty to seek common ground in addressing the woman.

“Guten Tag. Kann ich dir—” she began. Her head was pounding. “Kann ich dir…help you?” Lena trailed off as the words escaped her. 

“Housekeeping, ma’am. Would you like your room cleaned?”

Irish. Lena could not have guessed. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s not a good time right now.”

“That’s fine then. Just ring if you change your mind.” The woman handed her a fresh roll of toilet paper and looked past Lena to the stockings lying haphazardly in the middle of the floor, the used tissues and hastily discarded banana peel. Lena was mortified. After closing the door behind the woman, Lena wrapped the banana peel in a section of newspaper. She buried it in the bottom of the waste basket. 

Since her arrival, Lena had avoided the elevator, wary of finding herself in another awkward situation like the one with the deliveryman who stood so close to her she could smell his aftershave. In fact, she hadn’t seen anyone other than the Turk take a ride. Walking the few flights to and from breakfast each day, however, had led Lena to an astonishing discovery. Whether ascending or descending, somewhere around Floor 3 the elevator began to sing. 

It was high-pitched with a tinnient quality. Not unpleasant, though, and it whistled and hummed in the strangest way. The music—and it was music, she decided—dipped and rose in imperceptible intervals. Lena tried to recreate the sound by placing her hands on the exterior of the cage and tapping the metal bars, but the elevator went silent as soon as she stopped to investigate. She was pleased to discover that it was her movement, the gentle air currents drifting through the cage as she walked by, that created the unearthly sound. 

In her blue dress and cherry brooch, Lena sat beneath the painted hydrangeas and perused the small menu. Should she order the veal or the trout? She was unsure what to do. Veal seemed a bit robust. She had concerns about the trout as well. She feared it may arrive at the table with its head still attached. Lena knew that many people enjoyed eating fish that way, but she couldn’t conceive of it for herself. She was too timid to ask about its preparation. She ordered the veal. 

A voice near the entrance of the restaurant caused Lena to glance up. It was the same 

deliveryman from the other day. He was loitering at the maitre’d’s stand, in casual conversation with the host, who seemed to know him. After a brief exchange, the man was led into the 

dining room and seated at the table right next to Lena. A guest of the hotel, then, not a deliveryman at all. 

Lena and the Turkish gentleman didn’t speak, though they sat a mere 24 inches from one another. Close enough to warrant acknowledgment at the very least. Lena was not disappointed. The gentleman gave a friendly nod as he was seated. She, likewise, returned his gesture, offering a welcoming smile. He didn’t appear to recognize her from their brief exchange in the elevator. 

Lena took note of his cuff links as he placed his napkin upon his lap. They were striking; Egyptian Revival in gold and green enamel. Exquisite, she thought, and almost remarked upon them. It wasn’t until the waiter arrived to take the gentleman’s order that she heard him speak for the first time. 

“Tell me about the trout. Will it be deboned at the table?”

American. Interesting. 

Lena considered her quasi-dinner companion. It seemed impossible now that she could ever have mistaken him for a deliveryman. His bearing was that of one who knew his way in the world. Self-assured and educated, clearly, but not arrogant or showy. The cuff links would have been gifted to him by a former professor. 

He was an engineer, she decided, speaking in Berlin at a conference on automotive 

design. No—not cars, nothing as prosaic as that. Quantum Mechanics. He would have an 

understanding of particles and waves, a natural ability to illuminate the deepest mysteries of the universe in such a way as to render his listeners spellbound. 

A man like that would know what to do with a whole fish.

Lena thought she may have a fever. She was tired; from her cold and from jet lag. She stood in the lobby near the elevator, contemplating the four flights of stairs ahead of her. 

“Do you need something, ma’am?”

It was the Irish housekeeper, this time without the bucket and mop.

“Hm?” Lena  

responded.

“It’s just—it’s only you’ve been standing there for quite awhile, ma’am. Did you want me to ring the elevator?” 

Lena had intended on spending her last evening at the Hotel Hortensie Berliner in the pretty little parlor at the end of the fourth floor hallway. She’d been saving it for tonight. The fireplace was inlaid with cobalt tile and there was usually a cheery fire after dinner.

“I think…I think I’ll take the stairs instead,” Lena said. “Thank you, though.” The Irish woman’s eyes were very blue, almost the exact color of a Delft vase Lena once owned.

The housekeeper’s eyes crinkled as she suddenly smiled. “You’re just like my Gran,” she chuckled lightly. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like Frau Kellner to give you a hand? It’s no trouble.” 

Lena thought it was very kind of her to take such care. I’d wager she was once a nurse, Lena thought. Could that be it? A nun, she decided. There was a man she had loved, a child tragically left behind. She can never go home again. How sad. 

Lena began to ascend the narrow staircase. 

“You be careful on those stairs now,” the sad woman called after her. 

Lena thought she may lie down a bit before making her way to the parlor. A small rest did sound appealing. After her rest, she’d order a glass of champagne in the parlor. She never ordered champagne. She would take it upon herself to open the heavy velvet drapes, allowing the moonlight to spill into the coziest corner of the room. 

Then, when all the guests had retired for the evening, Lena would walk the stairs. The elevator would whistle just for her as she passed by.

Her American dinner companion would undoubtedly be able to explain the precise physics behind the elevator’s phenomenon. He would call it that: a phenomenon. He’d recite the exact calculations of wind current and velocity, expound on the properties of vibration and transfer of matter. A man like that, a pragmatic man, would lack sentimentality.

Lena relished the quiet, and the night. In the silence, she’d become aware of her breathing, the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations. She would sway with her arms above her shoulders, turning this way and that, her graceful movements inviting the ghostly music to begin again. Round and round the old elevator she’d walk. She wouldn’t dare to stop moving.