Who Was That Lady?

Ich Bin zu Müde, um Schlafen zu Gehen

"We sleep in one room," Paul explained understandingly to Ringo as their road manager clambered up the rough stairs. Ringo gave his head a nod to Paul as a thank-you.

Neil made his presence evident by waving his hand about as though he hadn't seen them in days. "Good news, lads." Neil grinned.

The four boys gave him a questioning look and silently urged him to continue.

"Yer gettin' yer own rooms!" he apprised them blithely, with more effusiveness than he had even expected from the four of them combined. Neil awaited their successive outbursts of emotion, but none was to be found, much to his surprised chagrin. Tension filled his mouth with an acrid taste. 

Instead, silence ensued following this bit of information. Uneasiness clouded the stuffy air of the antiquated hallway. 

"Ye wha?" Paul asked somewhat disbelievingly, utterly bemused. He defiled the situation, which Neil had incorrectly predicted to be a positive one. 

"Really now, Neil, don't be playin' with us. It'd be proper devoed if ye were..." John said, bogging any ephemeral progress Neil had tried to make. He picked up his hard guitar case that contained his acoustic Gibson J-160E, ready to lay claim to the best sleeping arrangement. Little did he know that fifty-three years later that same guitar would be sold for over a million pounds.  

Neil shrugged, his blood pressure rising from their skepticism. In an effort to prove it to them at last, his hand dispelled into the back pocket of his trousers and removed five oblong keys. 

The four boys caught sight of this and their eyes simultaneously widened, suddenly coming to terms with the truth.

John was the first to grab a key. He held it up to his face quizzically and peered at the writing that had been mechanically scripted onto it: Der Schlüssel für Zimmer 203 (Zwei Hundert Drei). He raised an eyebrow dramatically, and his brain instantaneously assumed (correctly, though he knew it not) it was the room number. He took a short walk down the narrow hall and saw a prosaic white door that desperately needed paint. Three dented brass numbers read "203". Plunging the key into the lock, he wrangled with it to wedge the door ajar. After a huff of frustration, John succeeded and shoved his way in through the entrance. 

The others then hurriedly fussed to unlock their doors as well, though with much more exasperation than John. They each trundled their luggage across the bumpy floorboards into their respective rooms. Ringo ran to the windowsill and gazed out at the city street below; Paul flopped down onto the bed, fatigued; and George hastily put his things away before making his way back downstairs in search of the canteen. 

Knowing George had left, John took his acoustic guitar out of its case to start practicing for the first performance later that evening. He glanced at his worn wristwatch. The minute hand ticked its way to 4:58pm. Raising his head, he adamantly encouraged his bandmates to follow his lead in rehearsing on their own, shouting through the open entryway of his bedchamber: "'Ey, lads, ye better start practicin' for tonight!"

"Aye, aye, John, we know," Paul grumbled from his comfortable position on the bed. At that moment he desired sleep more than anything else. The flight, coupled with the walk from the aeroport, didn't set well with his regular sleep routine. He eyed his bass on the other end of the mattress. His musicianship was so ubiquitous and consuming, Paul occasionally resented it. 

Three hours passed uneventfully and Neil forcefully persuaded Paul to wake up, George to finish his clandestine meal, John to pack his guitar away, and Ringo to come away from his seat by the window frame. Paul, George, and John grabbed their instruments, and Ringo took two drumsticks from his ragged portmanteau. Neil's behest did not include his presence with the rest of the group at the Star-Club, but assured them that Brian would meet up with them before the commencement of the concert. 

With newfound energy, John theatrically jumped into the air and kicked his heels together before prodding down the stairs, cackling maniacally the entire way down. George shook his head at John's humorous antics, chuckling, and descended into the lobby, where the two of them awaited Paul and Ringo's appearance from upstairs. They came down the stairs momentarily, Paul looking extremely dazed and Ringo looking minimally enthused. 

"Oh, come 'ed, lad, you'll be fine," John said reassuringly to Paul, slapping him on the back. Paul simply glared at him.

"I think I need a cup o' water," Paul relayed to the group and walked off down the hall to find something to drink.

John nodded to the remaining members of his party and motioned towards the door. They strolled across the remainder of the foyer. John smirked deviously and led his troupe out of the Hotel Germania without Paul.