Alberto Moravia
IMAGES OF AFRICA
Accra, March
From the terrace of my room, I have a panoramic view of
Accra, capital of Ghana. Under a sky of veiled blue, full of mists and
ragged yellow and gray clouds, the city resembles an enormous cabbage
soup in which numerous bits of white pasta are boiling. The cabbages
are the tropical trees with their thick, cascading foliage of dark green
speckled with black shadows; the bits of pasta, the buildings of reinforced
cement, brand new, which by now are rising up in large numbers
throughout the city. One of these buildings is my hotel, which is located
in the middle of a large park all aflame with red flowers. It is
an
enormous construction, very new, in that sparkling, colorful, decorative
and ultra-modern style called neo-liberty. In this hotel, there are high
arcades with groups of chairs and tables where you can sit and sip
good iced drinks; there is a vast high-ceilinged dining room with large
windows, everything harmonizing in periwinkle blue and creamy yellow,
immaculately clean, every table sparkling with polished silver and gleam–
ing crystal, with African waiters dressed as though for an eighteenth–
century ballet; there is a large cocktail lounge with a bar that is high
and massive like an altar; there is a spacious and comfortable lobby;
there is an elevator made entirely of metal that brings you to the wide,
ventilated, well-lit corridors of the upper floors; there are rooms all
fitted out with great luxury, from the baths with highest quality
porcelain to the plastic floors, to the curtains of a tropical fabric, and
to the light modern furniture.
When was this hotel built? A short while ago, since Gunther, in his
