=1 "Paradise Hyllton"
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Paradise Hyllton
Saint Peter opened the big pearl-studded gate.
“Ah, an American, obviously. Gray business suit, no luggage, horn-rimmed spectacles. Looks tired.”
“Come in,” he said affably, and then, knitting the bushy white eyebrows of an old fisherman, “Who are you?”
“I'm James Q. Hyllton. I have a reservation, I believe?”
“Let us see,” said Saint Peter, and opened the big book. American names always confused him. Names like Hildegarde of Bingen or Ottokar of Paderborn were easy to look up.
“Now let us see,” his voice fell to a mumble. “Ah, here, H- Hadubrand, Haroldus, He- Hi- Ho- Here it is. Hyllton, James Q. Q for Quasimodo. Nice name, Quasimodo. Why didn't the fellow simply call himself Quasimodo like a respectable saint?”
“Yes, Mr. Hyllton,” he said aloud. “Here you are. Very good. An almost saintly life. We can't be too particular. A few peccadillos, no murders.” Glancing through the list he noted with special satisfaction: “Never desired the goat or the maidservant of his neighbour.” A difficult thing, that, he recalled.
“Now, Mr. Hyllton,” he said, looking over the numbered keys hanging on a board, “you are a bachelor? Not expecting any family? Good. Bachelors' Court No. 257. Here you are.” And calling a little cherub who was loitering in the background, “Take Mr. Hyllton to his quarters.”
“Got any bubble gum, Mister?” asked the cherub of Mr. Hyllton as they started out through the little gardens, quiet courtyards, cloisters and patios. From time to time they crossed magnificent romanesque and gothic halls, but nowhere did they see another person.
“Not many guests, eh,” remarked Mr. Hyllton to the little cherub. Then, “What's your name?”
“No, they all drift off to that other place, and my name is Sigisbert.” His shirt seemed to be his only vestment, and barely reached the limits of a minishirt.
“Do I have to dress like that here?” asked the American visitor, suddenly suspicious.
“Well, you might get a toga, if you like, from St. Gertrudis,” he answered, “and an aureole of course.”
Finally they reached No. 257, Bachelors' Court. “My God, no plumbing!” was the first reaction.
“You hardly need any here,” said his guide, “but there's a well outside in the courtyard.”
Hyllton glanced around the room with a professional eye and then asked,
“When was this last done over?”
“In 1135,” answered the urchin.
For a day or two Mr. Hyllton wandered through the empty halls thinking things over, then he approached Saint Peter, who was dozing in a chair in the entrance hall.
“Look here,” he said, “your place is practically bankrupt. Let me build a new paradise for you.”
And so, as in all fairy stories, he did. And that is how Paradise Hyllton came to be built.
Inauguration day came around. The invited V.I.P.'s were punctual, and each was met, the moment he stepped on to the red carpet in the magnificent foyer, by a flourish of trumpets (electronic, of course). A spotlight fell on the visitor and accompanied him into the interior of the hall, where he was handed an aureole and presented with a gorgeous nylon toga in the most splendid colours. Then, escorted by fourteen angels, he was shown to his seat in the great air-conditioned projection room. A huge wurlitzer played some muzak, and then the latest Hollywood feature film was shown. But here, of course, it was appropriately called “Eternal Glory”, and was a feature without end.
Right from the beginning, Paradise Hyllton was a great success. In a short time new wings had to be added to the first building, already of skyscraper dimensions, until it resembled the skyline of New York. Not only did newcomers remain as permanent residents, but the news filtered down to earth and people there became pious again. They abstained from murder and fornication and were careful not to say anything against the dignity of the church. Everybody wanted a reservation in Paradise Hyllton.
See also