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nebroadweTitle: Hotel 13: The Adventure Begins
Chapter: 1 (of 20)
Original Author: Claudia Weber, based on the scripts for the television series "Hotel 13" by Dennis Bots, Koen Tambuyzer, Jasper Beerthuis, Elke De Gezelle, Bjorn Van den Eynde, Catherine Baeyens, Hans Bourlon and Gert Verhulst
Rating: G
Word Count: ~2085
Warnings: This translation is not authorized by the copyright holders in any way. Copyright for the original work remains with Studio 100 Media GmbH and credit for the text with the original author. This translation is solely for personal language practice and enjoyment. It may not be copied or redistributed in any form. (If you're reading this and aren't me, keep it quiet so we can continue to Have Nice Things!)
A/N: Welcome to my newest fandom! Hotel 13 is a European children's SF television series by the people who produced Het Huis Anubis/Das Haus Anubis. This is my translation of the junior novelization, which I decided to produce as a challenge to my language skills and a sneaky way of getting non-German/Dutch/Norwegian/Swedish/Finnish-speakers of my acquaintance interested in this property. (I lay good odds that it gets an English recension eventually, but we'll see ...)
Dedication: This is for Luci, whom I hope to turn into a fan.
Chapter One: The Mysterious Postcard
Tom sat in the passenger seat and stretched his hand out the window. After the long car trip the fresh sea air felt good. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply.
"I think I can smell the ocean already," said his mother and smiled at him.
"Eyes on the road!" announced the GPS device in Tom's voice. He'd built it himself and programmed it with all kinds of "special features" just for his mother.
Marion Kepler rolled her eyes and couldn't suppress a grin. She was used to her son's "inventions." And his technical know-how had proved itself uncommonly useful often enough -- not only when she needed a nail hammered into the wall or the DVD player hooked up, but also when the lawnmower died or the floor lamp in the living room had a loose connection. So she put up with the fact that every time she left the refrigerator door open too long, Tom's voice rang out from the butter compartment and admonished her, "Shut the door! Or do you want to cool the entire kitchen?"
Marion Kepler ruffled her son's hair lovingly. She wouldn't see him for the next four weeks. She'd never yet been parted from him for so long. But Tom wasn't a little boy any longer; he was fifteen. She would have to get used to the idea of letting him go -- every day a bit more. Sighing, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Not another car as far as the eye could see: only trees, bushes and meadows. It seemed as if the narrow road led straight to the end of the world.
"Turn left!" The GPS dragged Marion Kepler back to reality again. She slowed down, turned on the blinker, and watched for the intersection. But she saw nothing.
"Turn left, Mom!" Tom's voice repeated out of the GPS. "But not for two hundred meters -- hahaha!"
"You devil!" Marion Kepler exclaimed and gave her son an affectionate smack. Then she stroked his cheek and said wistfully, "I'll miss you, dear."
Tom tried to escape her caress, which wasn't at all easy in the car. He loved his mother more than anyone, but not her fussing. He wasn't a toddler anymore! And not a lapdog who enjoyed being petted, either. "Time is relative!" he said, trying to cheer his mother up a bit. "Einstein says that, not me. I'll be back quicker than you'll like."
They reached the intersection and turned left.
"Twelve kilometers to go," buzzed the GPS as the car traveled through a landscape of dunes toward the coast. The wind swept across the grasses and now and then the sea was visible between the sandy hills.
We must almost be there now, thought Tom and shifted impatiently in his seat. What's in store for me? He let his gaze skim over the coast. In the distance he made out a pair of seagulls. Somehow it's just crazy that I actually got here.
Tom leaned his head out the window and let the wind whip through his dark hair. He shut his eyes and thought about how it had all begun. It had been eight years ago ...
*
Edison had just died and young Tom was inconsolable. Edison was a goldfish -- not just any goldfish, but the best goldfish in the world! Tom had received him as a present after he'd changed his first lightbulb. And in memory of Thomas Alva Edison, the inventor of the lightbulb, Tom had given his goldfish the name Edison.
During the day the goldfish bowl sat in the family room, so that Edison wasn't alone, and at night Tom placed it on the end table next to his bed. He fed the goldfish regularly, changed his water when necessary, and even took him along on vacation. Edison was surely the happiest goldfish in the world -- until the morning when he no longer swam cheerfully through the water.
"He had a good life with you, dear," said his mother when Tom, sobbing, told her that Edison had died.
Then Tom considered where he could bury his beloved pet. He went onto the patio and let his gaze wander over the garden.
"Under the butterfly bush, maybe?" suggested Mrs. Kepler. "Lots of butterflies come there in the summertime."
Tom shook his head. "There," he murmured and pointed to a gnarled old tree in a remote corner of the garden.
"That's a good place," his mother agreed. "It's quiet and shady there."
Tom laid his goldfish in a small red box which he had already affectionately filled with leaves and flowers. On the lid he wrote "Edison" and "R.I.P." -- he'd seen that on gravestones and his mother had told him that it meant, "Rest In Peace." That was just what young Tom wished for his goldfish. And under the old tree seemed the ideal place for it.
Tom set the box down carefully in the grass. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he pushed his glasses up a little to wipe his eyes. Then he took the small folding shovel from his camping gear and began to dig a grave in the shadow of the old tree into which he could lay the box. But after the fourth or fifth scoop, Tom heard a dull crunch of metal against wood.
What's that? he wondered. A chest? Maybe a treasure?
Tom knelt and dug on with his hands, at first carefully, then ever faster. Eventually a small old wooden chest came into view: black, with metal fittings, and covered with dirt. It must have been buried in this spot forever. Tom examined the latch and noticed with relief that the chest was unlocked. Excited, he lifted the lid. The inside was in surprisingly good condition. It was lined with heavy black silk on which a yellowed postcard lay. Carefully Tom took it out. It had perforated edges and on the front the remains of an old black-and-white photograph so faded there was almost nothing left to see. The back was covered with bold handwriting.
Dear Tom,
I'm sorry about Edison, he read. Bewildered, Tom shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. This message is my last hope. Only one person in the world can help me -- you!
Tom paused and looked around. Was someone playing a trick on him? If so, this was the worst imaginable moment. When a boy has to bury his goldfish, he's in no mood for jokes. But there was no one in the garden but Tom.
Tom turned back to the postcard and read on. Say nothing to anyone, especially not to Richard. It's a matter of life and death! In eight years make your way to Hotel 13. Search for the chest. Find room 13. Instead of a signature the message ended with a single letter: M.
Tom looked around again. Somehow he had the feeling that someone was watching him. But he saw nobody.
As he buried his goldfish under the old tree Tom wondered who could have written him this mysterious message -- a message that kept hold of his imagination for the next eight years ...
*
Tom opened his eyes and licked his lips. They tasted salty. The sea must be near enough to touch -- and not only the sea, but the ominous Hotel 13. Just in case, Tom checked the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.
It's still there, he observed, relieved.
The postcard lay in an envelope that crackled softly as Tom touched the orange material of his sweatshirt.
To this day Tom had no idea what the postcard meant -- never mind who "M" was. At first he'd thought that his mother had put the card in the chest and buried it. M for Mom, M for Marion. But he soon rejected this idea. First, it wasn't her handwriting; second, she didn't know anyone named Richard; and third, she wouldn't have held out five minutes, much less eight years, without making some reference to the postcard.
No, his mother hadn't written the message. But who then? It must have been someone who knew Tom -- and knew him so well that he'd known where Tom wanted to bury his beloved goldfish.
Whoever this someone was, he'd never been far from Tom's thoughts. In all the years that had passed, Tom had asked himself over and over again who had written him the mysterious letter. On that account he'd searched out Hotel 13 -- a beach hotel in the dunes, right on the Atlantic coast, in which guests had spent their vacations by the sea for over a hundred years.
On the hotel's website Tom had then discovered that they were looking for summer help. That was his opportunity! He had promptly applied for the position and been accepted. And now, six months later, he sat in the car next to his mother, who hadn't only agreed to let him take this summer job, but also wanted to bring him to Hotel 13 personally.
Tom could hardly wait to start his first summer job -- and to find out who this mysterious M was and why he needed Tom's help. Tom had taken it into his head to help this someone whose last hope had been the old postcard. And when Tom took something into his head, he always saw it through.
"Five kilometers to go," advised Tom's voice from the GPS.
"Can't you turn this voice off somehow?" Marion Kepler asked, pretending to be annoyed.
"Hey, soon it'll be all of me you have," countered Tom, crossing his arms on his chest and acting as if he were utterly insulted.
"These silly phrases?" said his mother. She bent forward and made as if she wanted to shut off the GPS. But even if she had actually planned to do so, she would never have known which of the many switches and knobs she would have had to push. Tom's GPS, mark "self-built," looked almost dangerous with its wires and cables. To lend the technical uniqueness a personal note, he had pasted a row of snapshots of himself on the left-hand side. Marion Kepler had to laugh every time she saw his grimaces.
"Look out!" yelled Tom suddenly.
Marion Kepler knew immediately that he wasn't joking this time. Instinctively she stepped on the brake and saw, just before the car came screeching to a stop, something green scurrying across the road. Without thinking she released her seatbelt, threw the door open and ran to see what had crossed their path. It couldn't be a frog -- it was more the size of a dog. But the color ...
Astonished, she realized that it was a tree-frog-green suitcase that seemed to have developed a mind of its own and rolled into the street. Meanwhile Tom had also jumped out of the car and knelt to see what lay underneath it.
"Oh, my God," gasped Marion Kepler as Tom carefully drew out something brown. She earnestly hoped that the animal was still alive and not badly hurt.
In that moment she heard feet running toward the car and turned. A girl about Tom's age carrying several bags, a sleeping pad and hammock stopped before her and seemed unable to speak for shock. "I'm sorry!" Marion Kepler apologized, instinctively wanting to give the girl a hug. "Are you all right?"
"Yes -- um -- no," stammered the girl. "I should apologize. My suitcase ... I'm sorry!"
Marion Kepler breathed a sigh of relief. But her breath caught again immediately when she heard Tom's voice behind her.
"I think someone's hurt!" he said.
Marion Kepler turned around and saw to her relief that the brown thing in Tom's hand wasn't an animal that had been run over, or at least, not one of flesh and blood, but a stuffed monkey.
"But," Tom continued, "he can still laugh." Tom held up the stuffed animal so that its grinning face was visible and handed it to its owner.
"Thanks." The girl had to laugh herself. She took the plushie and hugged it.
Meanwhile Marion Kepler had heaved the suitcase out of a pothole. "Will it still roll?" she asked skeptically as she pulled the green thing over the asphalt. The suitcase wobbled and rattled.
"Obviously not," Tom observed.
"What a pain," murmured the girl, taking the suitcase. "How do I get to Hotel 13 now?"
"Hotel 13?" repeated Tom. Then he winked at his mother. "That's a coincidence ..."
To be continued ...
Chapter: 1 (of 20)
Original Author: Claudia Weber, based on the scripts for the television series "Hotel 13" by Dennis Bots, Koen Tambuyzer, Jasper Beerthuis, Elke De Gezelle, Bjorn Van den Eynde, Catherine Baeyens, Hans Bourlon and Gert Verhulst
Rating: G
Word Count: ~2085
Warnings: This translation is not authorized by the copyright holders in any way. Copyright for the original work remains with Studio 100 Media GmbH and credit for the text with the original author. This translation is solely for personal language practice and enjoyment. It may not be copied or redistributed in any form. (If you're reading this and aren't me, keep it quiet so we can continue to Have Nice Things!)
A/N: Welcome to my newest fandom! Hotel 13 is a European children's SF television series by the people who produced Het Huis Anubis/Das Haus Anubis. This is my translation of the junior novelization, which I decided to produce as a challenge to my language skills and a sneaky way of getting non-German/Dutch/Norwegian/Swedish/Finnish-speakers of my acquaintance interested in this property. (I lay good odds that it gets an English recension eventually, but we'll see ...)
Dedication: This is for Luci, whom I hope to turn into a fan.
Chapter One: The Mysterious Postcard
Tom sat in the passenger seat and stretched his hand out the window. After the long car trip the fresh sea air felt good. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply.
"I think I can smell the ocean already," said his mother and smiled at him.
"Eyes on the road!" announced the GPS device in Tom's voice. He'd built it himself and programmed it with all kinds of "special features" just for his mother.
Marion Kepler rolled her eyes and couldn't suppress a grin. She was used to her son's "inventions." And his technical know-how had proved itself uncommonly useful often enough -- not only when she needed a nail hammered into the wall or the DVD player hooked up, but also when the lawnmower died or the floor lamp in the living room had a loose connection. So she put up with the fact that every time she left the refrigerator door open too long, Tom's voice rang out from the butter compartment and admonished her, "Shut the door! Or do you want to cool the entire kitchen?"
Marion Kepler ruffled her son's hair lovingly. She wouldn't see him for the next four weeks. She'd never yet been parted from him for so long. But Tom wasn't a little boy any longer; he was fifteen. She would have to get used to the idea of letting him go -- every day a bit more. Sighing, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Not another car as far as the eye could see: only trees, bushes and meadows. It seemed as if the narrow road led straight to the end of the world.
"Turn left!" The GPS dragged Marion Kepler back to reality again. She slowed down, turned on the blinker, and watched for the intersection. But she saw nothing.
"Turn left, Mom!" Tom's voice repeated out of the GPS. "But not for two hundred meters -- hahaha!"
"You devil!" Marion Kepler exclaimed and gave her son an affectionate smack. Then she stroked his cheek and said wistfully, "I'll miss you, dear."
Tom tried to escape her caress, which wasn't at all easy in the car. He loved his mother more than anyone, but not her fussing. He wasn't a toddler anymore! And not a lapdog who enjoyed being petted, either. "Time is relative!" he said, trying to cheer his mother up a bit. "Einstein says that, not me. I'll be back quicker than you'll like."
They reached the intersection and turned left.
"Twelve kilometers to go," buzzed the GPS as the car traveled through a landscape of dunes toward the coast. The wind swept across the grasses and now and then the sea was visible between the sandy hills.
We must almost be there now, thought Tom and shifted impatiently in his seat. What's in store for me? He let his gaze skim over the coast. In the distance he made out a pair of seagulls. Somehow it's just crazy that I actually got here.
Tom leaned his head out the window and let the wind whip through his dark hair. He shut his eyes and thought about how it had all begun. It had been eight years ago ...
Edison had just died and young Tom was inconsolable. Edison was a goldfish -- not just any goldfish, but the best goldfish in the world! Tom had received him as a present after he'd changed his first lightbulb. And in memory of Thomas Alva Edison, the inventor of the lightbulb, Tom had given his goldfish the name Edison.
During the day the goldfish bowl sat in the family room, so that Edison wasn't alone, and at night Tom placed it on the end table next to his bed. He fed the goldfish regularly, changed his water when necessary, and even took him along on vacation. Edison was surely the happiest goldfish in the world -- until the morning when he no longer swam cheerfully through the water.
"He had a good life with you, dear," said his mother when Tom, sobbing, told her that Edison had died.
Then Tom considered where he could bury his beloved pet. He went onto the patio and let his gaze wander over the garden.
"Under the butterfly bush, maybe?" suggested Mrs. Kepler. "Lots of butterflies come there in the summertime."
Tom shook his head. "There," he murmured and pointed to a gnarled old tree in a remote corner of the garden.
"That's a good place," his mother agreed. "It's quiet and shady there."
Tom laid his goldfish in a small red box which he had already affectionately filled with leaves and flowers. On the lid he wrote "Edison" and "R.I.P." -- he'd seen that on gravestones and his mother had told him that it meant, "Rest In Peace." That was just what young Tom wished for his goldfish. And under the old tree seemed the ideal place for it.
Tom set the box down carefully in the grass. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he pushed his glasses up a little to wipe his eyes. Then he took the small folding shovel from his camping gear and began to dig a grave in the shadow of the old tree into which he could lay the box. But after the fourth or fifth scoop, Tom heard a dull crunch of metal against wood.
What's that? he wondered. A chest? Maybe a treasure?
Tom knelt and dug on with his hands, at first carefully, then ever faster. Eventually a small old wooden chest came into view: black, with metal fittings, and covered with dirt. It must have been buried in this spot forever. Tom examined the latch and noticed with relief that the chest was unlocked. Excited, he lifted the lid. The inside was in surprisingly good condition. It was lined with heavy black silk on which a yellowed postcard lay. Carefully Tom took it out. It had perforated edges and on the front the remains of an old black-and-white photograph so faded there was almost nothing left to see. The back was covered with bold handwriting.
Dear Tom,
I'm sorry about Edison, he read. Bewildered, Tom shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. This message is my last hope. Only one person in the world can help me -- you!
Tom paused and looked around. Was someone playing a trick on him? If so, this was the worst imaginable moment. When a boy has to bury his goldfish, he's in no mood for jokes. But there was no one in the garden but Tom.
Tom turned back to the postcard and read on. Say nothing to anyone, especially not to Richard. It's a matter of life and death! In eight years make your way to Hotel 13. Search for the chest. Find room 13. Instead of a signature the message ended with a single letter: M.
Tom looked around again. Somehow he had the feeling that someone was watching him. But he saw nobody.
As he buried his goldfish under the old tree Tom wondered who could have written him this mysterious message -- a message that kept hold of his imagination for the next eight years ...
Tom opened his eyes and licked his lips. They tasted salty. The sea must be near enough to touch -- and not only the sea, but the ominous Hotel 13. Just in case, Tom checked the pocket of his hooded sweatshirt.
It's still there, he observed, relieved.
The postcard lay in an envelope that crackled softly as Tom touched the orange material of his sweatshirt.
To this day Tom had no idea what the postcard meant -- never mind who "M" was. At first he'd thought that his mother had put the card in the chest and buried it. M for Mom, M for Marion. But he soon rejected this idea. First, it wasn't her handwriting; second, she didn't know anyone named Richard; and third, she wouldn't have held out five minutes, much less eight years, without making some reference to the postcard.
No, his mother hadn't written the message. But who then? It must have been someone who knew Tom -- and knew him so well that he'd known where Tom wanted to bury his beloved goldfish.
Whoever this someone was, he'd never been far from Tom's thoughts. In all the years that had passed, Tom had asked himself over and over again who had written him the mysterious letter. On that account he'd searched out Hotel 13 -- a beach hotel in the dunes, right on the Atlantic coast, in which guests had spent their vacations by the sea for over a hundred years.
On the hotel's website Tom had then discovered that they were looking for summer help. That was his opportunity! He had promptly applied for the position and been accepted. And now, six months later, he sat in the car next to his mother, who hadn't only agreed to let him take this summer job, but also wanted to bring him to Hotel 13 personally.
Tom could hardly wait to start his first summer job -- and to find out who this mysterious M was and why he needed Tom's help. Tom had taken it into his head to help this someone whose last hope had been the old postcard. And when Tom took something into his head, he always saw it through.
"Five kilometers to go," advised Tom's voice from the GPS.
"Can't you turn this voice off somehow?" Marion Kepler asked, pretending to be annoyed.
"Hey, soon it'll be all of me you have," countered Tom, crossing his arms on his chest and acting as if he were utterly insulted.
"These silly phrases?" said his mother. She bent forward and made as if she wanted to shut off the GPS. But even if she had actually planned to do so, she would never have known which of the many switches and knobs she would have had to push. Tom's GPS, mark "self-built," looked almost dangerous with its wires and cables. To lend the technical uniqueness a personal note, he had pasted a row of snapshots of himself on the left-hand side. Marion Kepler had to laugh every time she saw his grimaces.
"Look out!" yelled Tom suddenly.
Marion Kepler knew immediately that he wasn't joking this time. Instinctively she stepped on the brake and saw, just before the car came screeching to a stop, something green scurrying across the road. Without thinking she released her seatbelt, threw the door open and ran to see what had crossed their path. It couldn't be a frog -- it was more the size of a dog. But the color ...
Astonished, she realized that it was a tree-frog-green suitcase that seemed to have developed a mind of its own and rolled into the street. Meanwhile Tom had also jumped out of the car and knelt to see what lay underneath it.
"Oh, my God," gasped Marion Kepler as Tom carefully drew out something brown. She earnestly hoped that the animal was still alive and not badly hurt.
In that moment she heard feet running toward the car and turned. A girl about Tom's age carrying several bags, a sleeping pad and hammock stopped before her and seemed unable to speak for shock. "I'm sorry!" Marion Kepler apologized, instinctively wanting to give the girl a hug. "Are you all right?"
"Yes -- um -- no," stammered the girl. "I should apologize. My suitcase ... I'm sorry!"
Marion Kepler breathed a sigh of relief. But her breath caught again immediately when she heard Tom's voice behind her.
"I think someone's hurt!" he said.
Marion Kepler turned around and saw to her relief that the brown thing in Tom's hand wasn't an animal that had been run over, or at least, not one of flesh and blood, but a stuffed monkey.
"But," Tom continued, "he can still laugh." Tom held up the stuffed animal so that its grinning face was visible and handed it to its owner.
"Thanks." The girl had to laugh herself. She took the plushie and hugged it.
Meanwhile Marion Kepler had heaved the suitcase out of a pothole. "Will it still roll?" she asked skeptically as she pulled the green thing over the asphalt. The suitcase wobbled and rattled.
"Obviously not," Tom observed.
"What a pain," murmured the girl, taking the suitcase. "How do I get to Hotel 13 now?"
"Hotel 13?" repeated Tom. Then he winked at his mother. "That's a coincidence ..."
