The Travel Writer by Jeff Soloway

in Bolivia, the clerks rarely get huffy—perhaps all American journalists exude the same sense of entitlement, and therefore theclerks assume it’s perfectly appropriate. Or perhaps they think I’m a graceless lunk. I’m sure I embarrass myself a million times a day in other ways when I visit Bolivia, so I’ve decided not to sweat this one.
    The clerk’s nostrils swelled, flared, and then deflated slowly. He was a young man, and though his red-and-green uniform made him resemble a Christmas elf at a shopping mall, he bore himself nobly. He smiled, and held up both his hands, as if to show he was unarmed.
    “Of course. We often accommodate journalists such as yourself. Are you writing an article about La Paz?”
    “Yes. After, I’m going to visit the Hotel Matamoros in Los Yungas.”
    “Ah!” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The greatest hotel in Bolivia! My cousin works in its restaurant. He says it is paradise—for the employees as well as the guests.”
    His eyes glowed. The Matamoros was said to employ only the superstars of the national hotel industry, and to pay them accordingly. Of course, the salary of the average Bolivian desk clerk could be matched by many American paperboys.
    “I hope so,” I said. “I am going to write an article for the hotel. Also, I want to write about the missing American journalist, Hilary Pearson.”
    Kenny was right; why not spread the word? Anything might be a lead, or at least lighten my ignorance a little.
    “Hilary Pearson?”
    “You are familiar with the case?” I asked.
    “No, no, very little. You are not … not a policeman or an agent of the government. True?”
    “I already told you. I’m a journalist.”
    “Yes, yes, of course. And you are writing an article about the case? For a large American magazine?”
    “Maybe. Perhaps I could interview you, Antonio, later on?”
    “Of course, of course,” he mumbled. “I have a note here from the manager. She would like to speak with you at your convenience. Just dial 9 once you’ve settled in.”
    The doorman, who apparently doubled as bellhop, scooped up my bag and led me down a hallway, at the end of which he tugged open a useless pseudo-Parisian metal grate that guarded a perfectly ordinary modern elevator. There was hardly room for both of us inside.
    “Mr. Esmalls!”
    The desk clerk was hustling down the hall as fast as he could without running; the bellhop blocked the closing door with his foot.
    “Do you want your mate de coca now, in your room?” he asked. “Or later in the café?”
    He stood before me, his face flushed with some unidentifiable emotion. He was six inches shorter than me; he must have been standing on a platform behind his desk.
    “Now. Yes. Thanks.”
    “I will bring it up myself.”
    He flung shut the gate, which the bellhop hadn’t bothered with, and we ascended.
    * * *
    The Gran Hotel París tried to achieve the air of a two-star hotel on the Left Bank. The room, like the lobby, the café, and the elevator, did its best. The walls were the faded yellow of old newsprint; the carpeting was a meadow of rose petals. The two twin-size beds were not quite touching. Overhead, beside the ceiling fan, a lightbulb nested in a plastic rose-shaped fixture. The air stank of cigarette smoke. The bellhop flipped a switch on a mahogany-colored space heater, and the red bars in its underbelly glowed; he flipped another switch, and a fake smoldering log burst into view.
    “The hot water works all night,” he announced, holding his hands together and assuming his doorman’s stance.
    I tipped him five bolivianos, almost a dollar, a fortune in Bolivia. I like feeling rich, and he’d put the money to better use than I would. He left.
    But before I could shut the door behind him, Antonio appeared.
    “Your mate de coca, sir,” he said, speaking English for the first time, as I took the cup and saucer from him. The handle of the cup was chipped on the underside; the staff either