The Archives

by Dylah Ray

Original artwork by Lauren Felvus

Every guest left something behind at the Palau de les Perles. As the hotel’s butler for forty years, Miguel had quietly devoted his life to preserving what others forgot. Check-in time was at 16:00, but that didn’t stop guests from arriving early. Most of them landed at the Barcelona airport on red-eye flights, jetlagged but happy to have left their lives on the other side of the ocean.

Miguel took his position at the front entrance of the hotel and dabbed his forehead with a freshly ironed handkerchief. As embarrassing as the gesture was, it would be far worse if the sweat glistened on his forehead, an unsightly first impression. He needed to be indispensable and invisible; the sheen of perspiration was a failure. The heatwave had come at a bad time. Miguel maintained meticulous standards at the Palacio for forty years, and he would not taint his record in the final week of his career.

Alvaro joined Miguel in the doorway. His presence was a nuisance, an insult. Miguel did not want to spend his remaining days with the boy who would replace him. Alvaro had the poor taste to lean against the doorframe rather than stand tall, and looked as though he dressed on a moving bus without the assistance of a mirror. The boy desperately needed training in decorum. Unfortunately, it was Miguel’s responsibility to provide it.

“Straighten your tie.”

Alvaro smirked with mock respect.

A black sedan pulled up to the entrance of the hotel and Miguel diverted his attention from the insolence. A woman wearing bright pink slacks and a tastefully coordinated silk button-up blouse stepped out of the car in elegant but age-appropriate heels. Oversized gemstone rings adorned her hands, a striking contrast with the white stripe on her left ring finger which was seeing the sun for the first time in years. The driver raced to the trunk, but she beat him there. The woman handed him a generous tip and rolled her bag to the front entrance.

“Buenas tardes, señora. Welcome to the Palau de les Perles. We are honored to welcome you,” Miguel said as he opened the door for her with practiced elegance. Alvaro followed behind them contributing nothing.

“Alvaro, please bring Ms. Davis a glass of cava.”

The boy responded dutifully. Once the woman was engaged at the check-in desk, Miguel led Alvaro back to their post. Insight into each guest was essential. A deeper rapport would develop over time, but a guest’s impression of the hotel depended on the butler’s ability to recognize and quietly fulfill their unspoken expectations.

“What did you notice about her?”

“She must like pink,” Alvaro guessed.

“That is a surface level observation and largely irrelevant, although do ensure she has a pink floral bouquet placed by her bed in the morning.”

“This is your last week. Do you think you could enjoy yourself a little?”

Miguel proceeded with his lesson. “What you needed to observe was that Ms. Davis is newly divorced—the recently removed wedding band tells us that—and is traveling alone. She beat the driver to her luggage because she is accustomed to taking care of herself, yet she tipped him generously because she values good service. This trip is a vacation, but more importantly, it’s a reclamation of her independence. Our job isn’t simply to meet her requests. It’s to understand who she is and anticipate what she needs before she asks.”

“If we could all be so lucky.”

“Exactly,” said Miguel. “I’m going to take my rounds. Mind the door.”

Miguel was not hopeful for Alvaro’s potential.

Though he already made his rounds in the morning, Miguel made another loop around the hotel as a matter of comfort. He adjusted a few golden knives in the formal dining room, but otherwise, it was prepared to his satisfaction. Each room offered the gentle reassurance of order and intention.

Miguel descended the red velvet carpeted stairs back down to the lobby to a rush of guests. Alvaro had already handed them their complementary glasses of cava. At least he had done something right without direction. Alvaro was talking with two guests who he understood to be the honeymooners. Miguel let Alvaro present him, resisting the instinct to take control of the exchange.

“Mr. and Mr. Whalen, I’d like to introduce you to Miguel, the butler here at the Palau de les Perles, and the beating heart of the hotel.”

The boy was mocking him. Unbelievable. In front of the Canadians, too. Miguel had always liked Canadians. He scratched a reminder on his notepad to add some delicacies to their suite.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. My congratulations. Alvaro, may I speak to you, please?” Alvaro followed Miguel who was already on his way to the kitchen. “I do not appreciate sarcasm.”

“What sarcasm?”

“The beating heart of the hotel?”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” the boy replied with the good sense to tread lightly. “You are the lifeblood of this place.”

Miguel deflected the compliment. “We need to begin your training.”

“What have we been doing here?”

“Rudimentary lessons in basic decency and observation. Let’s go down to the archives.”

Miguel became disgracefully imbalanced in the past few years, and yet he sped down the stairs, only nominally using the assistance of the golden handrail. Alvaro followed him with less enthusiasm but more stability. He slipped his hands from his pockets, ready to catch the old butler if necessary. When they reached the cellar, Miguel didn’t pause to inspect the glasses and charcuterie laid out among the wine barrels. He withdrew the oldest key from his pocket and passed beneath the stone arch, the only untouched remnant of the palace before it became a hotel. The splintering door accepted the key even though it no longer needed one. A flashlight rested on a table beside the entrance, necessary to illuminate the room where electricity never reached. Miguel made a note to remind Alvaro to replace the batteries every six months.

The beam of light illuminated thousands of objects on shelves carefully labeled and chronologically organized. In Alvaro’s interview, Señor Montclar described the archives like a glorified lost and found, but the cobweb-strewn tomb was meticulously curated, filled with items that seemed impossible to leave behind.

Miguel straightened his hunched back to the extent that he could, his pride blooming up his spine. “I’ve been the keeper of these archives for forty years,” he said while scanning the room, as if seeing it for the first time. Alvaro recognized that the moment called for respect, but out of everything Miguel carefully tended, it was surprising that this was the room that mattered most.

“Forty years?” Alvaro said softly. “I can’t imagine walking away after that.”

Miguel smiled. “Come.” He reached for the nearest box. “There’s something I want to show you. We can start with a good memory, or a sad one. Which do you prefer?”

Alvaro had learned that Miguel rarely told a story without hiding a lesson inside it. Hoping to avoid the heavier of the two, he chose the good memory. Miguel picked up a Baccarat egg cup, just like the ones he set on the breakfast dining table each morning, and handed it to Alvaro. As the cool crystal touched his hands, his eyes softly closed, and he found himself upstairs. A man in a tobacco-colored three-piece suit with a neatly tied cravat sat across from a woman in a drop-waist silk dress with dark hair pinned back in Marcel waves. She was heavily pregnant. The man put a hand lovingly on the woman’s, and with his other, drew a beautiful box from his lapel. She opened it and smiled through grateful tears as she delicately pulled a string of pearls from the golden box, a gift commemorating a beautiful trip to Spain before their first child was born. Years later, she gave it to her daughter when she became pregnant, along with a letter about their magical stay at the Palau de les Perles.

Alvaro opened his eyes and handed the egg cup back to Miguel, relieved to find them both still in the cellar, and in the present day.

“These are relics,” said Miguel. “Each holds a single memory, preserved exactly as it was lived. Touch one, and for a moment, it becomes yours.”

Miguel was always the first to enter guests’ empty rooms, their scent still clinging to the wallpaper and sheets, to collect and archive the materialized memories. After decades, he was never frightened by picking up a memory; he looked forward to the moment the guests left, and he could explore their mind and preserve the moment. If he did his job right, the memory would be a good one. That was not always the case.

“Let’s try a painful memory now,” Miguel said, handing Alvaro a tube of crimson lipstick.

“I’d rather not.”

“That’s precisely why we should. You need practice.”

A woman’s face came into focus. She was beautiful, unmistakably famous—an American actress from the old films his parents used to watch. The silk scarf around her neck drew tight. Alvaro felt it cinch around his own throat. His lungs strained for air. The cellar vanished beneath the crushing panic. Fists pounded against a locked door. Miguel burst into the room, decades younger, and cut through the scarf with a pocketknife. She collapsed into his arms, blue-faced, crimson lips parted in a final gasp. He cradled her head in his lap, refusing to let go until the medics arrived.

The memory released him. Alvaro flung the lipstick to the floor. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I really am.” He swallowed. “But I don’t want to spend my life reliving other people’s worst days.”

“This is your job,” Miguel said in disbelief that this obligation, this honor, would mean so little to him.

“It really isn’t. I didn’t want to get into this with you, but they are clearing it out. The Montclars are going to close the archives once you leave.”

Miguel fell silent. In forty years at the Palau de les Perles, he never allowed himself the luxury of tears. He had known sorrow within its walls, but those were the moments that demanded the most of him. What mattered was a measured response and careful consideration. “Please go back upstairs and make sure the guests are being well taken care of. And bring me twenty-five large boxes.”

Alvaro left Miguel alone in the room of memories, heavyhearted that he had been the one to deliver the news, and returned to his work. Miguel would not let the objects be taken away, but packing the housed memories in boxes and getting them inside his small apartment would be a challenge. The mental tax of absorbing a memory every time he picked up one of the hundreds of items was significant.

Before Alvaro returned, Miguel had already organized the items by size and fragility, losing all chronology as he did. Shoes from the 1980s were placed with a rolling pin from the 1940s, and perfume bottles and jewelry were mixed together as though they had a singular owner. Miguel startled when the wooden door cracked open and Alvaro stepped in with the boxes.

“Thank you for being quick about it,” Miguel said, trying to recover his composure.

“Four hours isn’t exactly quick.” Alvaro smiled faintly. “I’ve barely stopped moving up there. I’m done for the day. Go home and get some rest.”

In his absorption, Miguel missed polishing the silver before dinner, laying out the champagne flutes on the entry way table, wiping each key of the grand piano, admiring the strong ivory, still resilient after a century of use. He missed greeting the piano player and instructing him on the tenor for the evening’s entertainment. He had not rung the dinner bell. This was his last evening and he had missed it. The only other time that happened was in 1988 when he succumbed to a stomach bug before cocktail hour and spent the evening vomiting in the bathroom of the suite the honeymooning Canadians now occupied.

Miguel walked the thirty five minutes back to his apartment, and as always, drew looks from his fellow night wanderers. An aging butler in formal attire was a novelty. Beneath a moonless sky, Miguel’s mind finally cleared of memories that were not his. He noticed each star as if for the first time.

At home, Miguel settled onto the stool in the entryway and slowly removed his shoes, aligning them neatly against the wall. Exhausted, he prepared for bed at the bathroom sink, then wiped down the counter before replacing the towel with a fresh one. He pulled back the starched sheets and smoothed the pillow before falling into a dreamless sleep. In the morning, he began a new day that was wholly his. He would savor it.

Alvaro was already upstairs in the kitchen folding the freshly ironed napkins when Miguel arrived. A ray of early morning light streaked through the kitchen window and warmed the soft wood floor. Miguel could smell the polish lingering from the night before and heard dishes gently clinking as they were being set in the adjacent breakfast room.

“Good morning, Miguel,” said Alvaro.

Still immersed in careful attention to the sounds and smells of the kitchen, he nodded. “Bon día. Everything looks wonderful.”

Miguel started his morning rotation by replacing the water in five floral arrangements throughout the hotel lobby, living room, and dining rooms. He lingered over the carnations, trimming a bruised petal that would have gone unnoticed. He centered a chair in the library sitting half an inch out of place. Replenishing the sweets in the lobby, he made sure the golden embossed side of the wrapper faced outward. Afternoon arrived quickly, and Miguel paused to admire the changing light spilling across the marble floor. By the time the sun began to sink behind the western terrace, there was nothing left to do but go downstairs.

He passed Ms. Davis on the stairwell. She was radiant in her carefully selected vacation attire, her skin already kissed by the Spanish sun. The tan line that forced her past into her present would be gone by the end of her stay.

“Bona tarde, Señor Miguel.”

Miguel always appreciated the guests that tried, but it was hard not to smile at the Americans’ attempt at speaking Catalan. “Good evening, Ms. Davis. How was your night last night?”

“Fantastic! I thought dining alone would feel lonely, but it didn’t. It felt peaceful. I couldn’t tell you what I ate the last hundred times I went out with my husband, but I remember every bite from last night.”

“I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“Well, my deepest appreciation. I will let you get on with your evening.”

“Thank you, Ms. Davis. I hope tonight is just as good as last.”

Miguel continued down the stairs and, on the way to the old wooden door, straightened the wine glasses and wiped a drip of red wine with a napkin. For the last time, he pulled the key from his pocket. He opened the door. The shelves stood just as they always had, silent beneath their coat of dust. His hand drifted toward the nearest box, then came to rest at his side. He closed the door and locked it behind him.

Upstairs, Miguel placed the key in Alvaro’s hand. The young butler turned the ancient metal over once before slipping it into his pocket. Together they walked to the front entrance. Alvaro opened the door with the quiet grace Miguel had taught him. A child laughed from the plaza, and a woman watered the jasmine in front of her shop. The two butlers shook hands. Miguel stepped into the evening and walked home beneath the fading sun, content to feel the warmth on his skin.

About the Author

Dylah Ray is a writer and bookseller living in Denver, Colorado. She is a fellow with the Martha’s Vineyard Institute for Creative Writing and a recipient of the Diderot Grant. Dylah stays busy working on her debut novel and teaching her five-year-old how to read. You can find her on Instagram – @heyitsdylahray.