Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford

Day. Since then it had been abandoned.
    ‘Is Mr Pettison here?’ Henry yelled the question over the screaming sounds of power saws and sandblasters to the construction worker closest to him. The man looked up and pried back his ear protection.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘I’m looking for Palmer Pettison.’
    The worker pointed to an old coatroom that appeared to have been transformed into a temporary office while the building was undergoing its rehab. From the various blueprints and construction documents pinned to a corkboard just outside the room, it looked like the hotel was on its way back to its former glory.
    Henry took his hat off and stuck his head in. ‘Hello, I’m looking for Mr Pettison.’
    ‘I’m Ms Pettison – Palmyra Pettison. I’m the owner, if that’s who you’re looking for. Who am I talking to?’
    Henry nervously introduced himself, talking faster than he normally would. His heart was racing just being in the old hotel – the place frightened and excited him. It was a forbidden place, according to his father’s rules, a place deeply mysterious and beautiful. Even with all the neglect and water damage, the hotel was still stunning inside.
    ‘I’m interested in the personal belongings that were found in the basement – the stored belongings.’
    ‘Really? It was an amazing discovery. I bought the building five years ago, but it took me five whole years to get the financing and approvals for the renovation. Before we started doing some of the interior demolition, I wandered down to the basement to inspect the furnace – and there it all was. Steamer trunks and suitcases, row after row, piled to the ceiling in some places. Are you looking to buy something?’
    ‘No, I’m …’
    ‘Are you from some museum?’
    ‘No …’
    ‘Then what can I do for you, Mr Lee?’
    Henry rubbed his forehead, a little flustered. He wasn’t used to dealing with fast-talking business folk. ‘I don’t know how to say this – I’m just looking for something , I don’t really know what it is, but I’ll know it when I see it.’
    Ms. Pettison closed the ledger at her desk. The look on her face somehow told Henry that she understood. ‘Then you must be a relative?’
    Henry was surprised that after forty-some-odd years, people still on occasion thought he was Japanese. He thought aboutthe button his father had made him wear each and every day – all those months at school, even during the summer. How he was taught by his parents to be ultra-Chinese, that his family’s well-being depended on that ethnic distinction. How he had hated being called a Jap at school. But life is nothing if not ironic.
    ‘Yes! I’m Japanese.’ Henry bobbed his head. ‘Of course I am. And I’d really like to look around if I could.’ If that’s what it takes to get in the basement, I’ll be Japanese. I’ll be a blue-blooded half-Martian Canadian immigrant if that’s what it takes, he thought.
    ‘Just write your family’s name on the list,’ she said and handed Henry a clipboard. ‘You can go on down and take a look. I’d just ask that you don’t remove anything, not right now. We’re still holding out hope of tracking down more of the relatives of the families that left their belongings here.’
    Henry was surprised. There were only three other names on the sheet. The big discovery had made the local news, but few people had come forward to lay claim to what had been left behind.
    ‘No one’s come to retrieve their belongings?’
    ‘That was a long time ago. A lot can happen in forty-plus years. People move on.’ Henry watched her choose her words. There was a reverent tone that belied her hard-driving business nature. ‘Sometimes people pass on as well. In all likelihood, many of the owners are deceased.’
    ‘What about their relatives? Someone must have heard, wouldn’t they have called …’
    ‘I thought that too at first, but I think a lot of people justdon’t want to go back. Sometimes that’s the best