A Stroke of Luck Read online

  I don’t think I close my mouth at any point. Not when the car stops or when Mario offers his hand to help me out. Not when various servants welcome us, forming an aisle we walk down to enter this dreamy place. They each bow their heads as we pass; some put their hands together as if praying and raise hands to mouth in a gesture that is clearly one of respect and admiration. It’s as if they’re telling us wordlessly that they are there to serve us, to cater to our every whim.

  As soon as I pass under an Arabic arch, I hear the tinkle of the different fountains that cool the air in the entrance hall, which is easily the size of a football field. White marble floors, towering columns that finish in arches with exquisite filigree and, in the center, a magnificent cupola. I feel suddenly as if I’ve shrunk down and am inside a meringue. Yes, this is exactly the feeling, like looking at a meringue from inside. The cupola is majestic. The water from the fountains spills into fine channels that run throughout the hall. The Vitti brothers have continued walking, something I don’t notice for a second because I’m so absorbed in my surroundings.

  “You coming?” It’s Mario, whose voice sounds distant, muffled by the echo of the palacial room.

  I hurry to catch up with them. My steps sound small among such grandeur. This is no hotel, but a palace, and it apparently belongs to my husband or he’s rented it.

  “Ma’am,” says a woman, with gorgeous almond eyes. “I’m Zulema.”

  At the men’s prompting, I follow her down various hallways, until we reach a pair of impressive golden doors. The woman rests a brown hand on them and opens them for me.

  It’s as if Paradise, or the treasure from some fairy tale, was opened to me. We’re in a room of exceptional size. If the entrance hall of the palace was already large, this, which I presume is the master bedroom, is at least double the size.

  A canopy bed sits at the far end. I blush slightly thinking of my honeymoon with Rodolfo. He’ll be filming; it’s not exactly the honeymoon most dream of. Of course this palace and this room aren’t typical either. I’m willing to share my husband with the film people during if the day as long as I have him here at night, with me, in this paradise.

  There are two areas with sofas, a great round table with chairs, a desk and various folding screens. I follow the woman, who takes me to a bathroom that could be a spa. The filigree on the windows here is much tighter, so less light enters. The rays filter in perfectly, creating a relaxing and serene atmosphere. There are three spaces like small pools. All three are filled with water.

  “May I bathe now?” I ask. “I’m dying for a shower after the trip.”

  “Shower?” the woman asks, with a soft accent. “You may bathe whenever you wish. Zulema is here to assist you.”

  She explains to me that the baths have different temperatures and she instructs me on how to use them. It is, she explains, a typical Arabic bath. On one side is the door to the steam room, which the woman who will be my lady-in-waiting while we’re here tells me I should use.

  “Warm bath, hot bath, cold bath, and steam. Then repeat. If you desire tea before you repeat again, sit over there.” She gestures to an area with stone benches and a fountain. “Then call Zulema for a massage.”

  It strikes me as strange that Zulema talks about herself in the third person.

  “When you wish to use the baths, say the word and Zulema puts rose petals in the water.”

  The woman exits walking backward, without turning her back to me at any moment and continuously bowing her head respectfully. I sit on the bed and look around. The place is beautiful but so large that it’s imposing. I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep well in such an open space, although with Rodolfo at my side I’m sure I will sleep in his arms. I know I’ll sleep like a baby.

  A few minutes go by but Rodolfo doesn’t appear. I suppose he’s with that bore, Mario (yes, my brother-in-law is already getting on my nerves). They’re probably talking about work. I stand up and I walk to the glass doors that open to a balcony. I open them and the scorching heat greets me harshly. The sun is going down and even then it must be about a hundred degrees. Below my balcony, there’s a garden with a maze of rose bushes. Various gardeners are hard at work. Beyond that, there’s a cluster of palm trees like an oasis and, in the distance, I can make out the desert. An endless extension that disappears into the horizon.

  Despite the heat, I can’t stop looking at the beautiful view. The sunset changes colors from minute to minute, turning the sand to a rich cinnamon color, then darkening, until it disappears into the night. I don’t know how long I’ve spent looking out from this balcony, but it must have been a while, as I notice my legs are getting tired.

  Someone knocks on the door and I go to open it. My smile evaporates; it’s Mario and, obviously, I expected my husband.

  “I came to see if everything is alright. Perhaps you want to go buy some clothes before dinner, although of course that’s not necessary for today. There are some dresses, shirts and robes in your closet. Perhaps you already saw them.”

  I look at him in silence. It hadn’t occurred to me to check the closets. Without a word, I leave Mario standing in the doorway and go to the closet. Just as he said, I have enough clothes for the night and at least two or three days more. The truth is, all these emotions start to take their toll. Suddenly I feel exhausted. It’s a mixture of tiredness, hunger, exhaustion and heat that’s not very conducive to going shopping.

  “We can go shopping tomorrow. I’d rather rest right now,” I say. “Where is Rodolfo?”

  “On set. They’ll be filming all night.”

  “Is it just you and me?” I ask, and Mario smiles bemusedly.

  “Yes, you could say that. You, me and thirty-some employees, between the cleaning staff, security, gardeners, cooks, and, well, you get my drift.”

  Mario looks down. I suddenly get the feeling that he’s shy. It’s as if he’s just realized that, basically, he’s alone with me and it makes him uncomfortable. He looks at his hands but otherwise doesn’t make a move for what feels like an eternity. Then his phone rings, he answers it, asks for a moment and speaks to me again.

  “If you want, we can have dinner together, so you’re not alone. Unless you prefer to dine alone...”

  “Together,” I interrupt him. The last thing I want is to be alone in this enormous palace, even if I know I’m surrounded by people. “Do you mind if I freshen up a bit first? The trip...”

  “No problem, I’ll see you in three hours.”

  I nod, although three hours seems excessive. But Mario is already walking away, talking on his phone. Beside, he and I just met. He seems like a strange guy and I’d rather not start our relationship by questioning his judgment. At least not for something as trivial as dinner. I’ll figure out what to do with three hours. It’s more than enough time to bathe and change for dinner.

  Chapter Six

  I peek into the bathroom, look at the three pools and approach to test the temperature of each with my hand. Honestly I’m used to hotter water. Not even the hottest one is close to the scalding that I like to use. But the Arabic baths are famous for being incredible, so I resolve to try the method that Zulema recommended.

  I look at the thick, gold cord hanging from one of the walls. Zulema said that if I needed her or I wanted her to put rose petals in the water, all I had to do was pull that cord. I don’t want to bother her, but on the other hand...

  I pull it and in a matter of seconds Zulema appears through a door I hadn’t even noticed. She carries a basket of rose petals in her arms. She looks at me as if asking if this was what I called her for.

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, feeling a bit awkward.

  She starts to scatter the petals gently, with the most elegant movement of her hand. Within seconds, the scent of roses fills the room.

  “Thank you, Zulema. That’s all,” I add, seeing that she doesn’t move to leave.

  “No,” she replies, looking down. “Zulema should stay here until you try the water
and say it is to your liking.”

  I watch her for a moment. She doesn’t seem willing to leave without fulfilling her duty. So I undress and get in the middle pool, the one with the warm water. The tepidness, combined with the perfume of roses, lull me immediately. Zulema approaches and offers me an hourglass of sand.

  “Temperature to your liking?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I reply.

  “Use this timer. When the sand runs out, switch pools.”

  “Alright, thank you.”

  How I wish she would leave me alone to my bath! Zulema repeats her instructions once more. I can’t forget a step, not the steam room or the order of the pools. I also can’t forget to pull the cord when I’m finished.

  Once I’ve assured her that I’ll follow her instructions, Zulema goes, leaving a full teapot on a small table in case I feel like I need to hydrate. Once I’m alone and enjoying the silence of the bath, the different temperatures and the mingling scents of the fragrant tea and the rose petals, I know that I could get used to this pampering. When night fell, Zulema had lit the copper lamps hung at strategic points around the room. From the scent and illumination they give off, I presume they’re oil lamps. It’s like I’ve dropped into another time period. I sigh and relax, waiting for the last of the sand to run out.

  Then I switch to the hot bath. I flip the timer, setting it on the edge of the pool. I close my eyes and relax. I’m almost drifting off when I’m startled by images that come to my mind in violent flashes. My friends and I. Shot glasses in a row. We drink, and we drink. Although I don’t like that the memories are coming to me in such a jumble, I’m glad. I hope I can finally remember what I said to Rodolfo, and that moment when I first saw him in that bar.

  It’s no use. I have all sorts of images in my head except the ones I want. The flashes abate at last, my body relaxes fully and with it, my mind also rests. This Turkish bath is a marvel; I had never tried it before. The sand runs out and I eye it for a moment, wondering if it would really be so bad to stay in the steam a little longer. But I decide to be disciplined and follow Zulema’s instructions. I leave the steam and sink into the cold bath. Worse than cold, it’s freezing. I let out a little shriek, a mix of cold and pleasure. My skin contracts at the change in temperature, but I feel like my body is refreshed from inside out. This must be fabulous for my circulation.

  “I don’t do anything,” I say, putting on an interview voice. “Maybe a little yoga, that’s all.”

  I laugh to myself. I always thought those glamorous famous women were lying, with their flawless bodies and faces. They’re lying when they say they don’t do anything special. They must have this type of treatment, among other things.

  “And I say goodbye to cellulite, let me tell you...”

  I can’t take the cold for the full measure of the sand timer. I get out and run back to the steam to warm up again. I know, I messed up the established order, but you can’t turn rich and famous over night. Or can you?

  “Yes, I can,” I say with a sigh, alone in my steam bath. I still can’t believe the luck I’ve had. Because this, my friends, is good luck. Anything less is nonsense.

  I return to the pools, I drink tea, I lay down on the stone benches and I admire the vaulted ceiling. I return to the steam room. When I finish the whole routine, I pull the cord and Zulema appears with a tray of little bottles.

  “Sandalwood, Cinnamon, Cardamom, Violet or Rose. You choose.”

  Those are the scents of the oils in the bottles. She explains the properties of each and I opt for the violet. I lay on the table she has prepared with hot towels. I feel a bit awkward; it’s the first time I’ve been completely naked in front of a woman. Zulema asks me to lie face down. Surely she’s picked up on my discomfort, because she covers my butt with a small towel. Her hands start to work on my back and it’s all I can do not to fall asleep, with how relaxing her massage is.

  She massages my whole body, slowly, with a mastery that is simply perfect. The session ends with volcanic stones, which Zulema had kept warm on a portable stove.

  As I said: I could get used to all this. In fact, I think I want Zulema with me always; I want her to travel with us wherever my husband and I go. Just as Rodolfo is always accompanied by his loyal Giovanni, I want my loyal Zulema.

  Wrapped in a lush robe of Egyptian cotton, I tell Zulema that she can leave and I head to bed. I’m just going to lay down for a moment. Just a second. Then I’ll get ready for dinner.

  ***

  I open my eyes two hours later. The pendulum clock beside the bed tells me that the three hours Mario proposed have passed too quickly. In fact, I’m now more than half an hour late. I jump up and throw on a typical, brightly colored tunic dress. I adjust the cinch around my waist and slip on a pair of sandals I find in the closet. I pull back my hair, not giving it much thought at first because, who cares what Mario thinks of me? But I catch a glimpse in the mirror, just before leaving, and I realize that Rodolfo might show up sooner than anticipated, in the middle of dinner. I do care what he thinks, a lot, and I would never let him see me with these out of control curls after the bath-massage-nap combo.

  Exiting my room, I run into a man keeping guard in front of my door. It startles me for a second, then I assume he’s part of the security team. I wonder if this country is really so unsafe for this to be necessary. I ask where the dining room is and he responds that there are four of them.

  “Do you know where Mr. Mario is dining?”

  The man nods, says a few words in Arabic to a girl who was passing by with a pile of linens in her arms, and she accompanies me.

  Good thing she did! I would never have found my way through that maze of hallways and staircases. At last, we reached a luxurious dining room. All the walls are the color of burnished gold. The great windows are open, and at last a bit of breeze is coming in. The table is set: there are different salads and appetizers laid out, but Mario isn’t there. I approach the table to see if maybe he already finished eating, but nothing has been touched yet. Maybe he also lost track of time. Maybe he also took and bath and now...

  Mario comes in from the terrace and his unexpected appearance startles me.

  “You should come out here,” he says. “It’s a perfect night. Would you like me to ask them to move dinner out to the terrace?”

  I go outside and find myself facing a sky thick with stars. It’s as if the Egyptian night is much darker than the American nights, as if the sky in my part of the world was never dyed so black. I had never seen so many stars at once, not even as a little girl when I visited my grandmother in the country. I thought that seeing the stars just depended on the lack of electric lights. But in the countryside where my grandmother lived, there were no streetlights and still, it was nothing like the stars I could see now.

  Below us, a hearty chorus of crickets lends an air of tranquility. The must be a garden like the one I saw from my bedroom, or at least similar, although it’s impossible to be sure in the dark of the night.

  “Sorry I’m late, I fell asleep.”

  Mario turns to me with a cryptic look. I can’t figure out what he thinks of me. I also have no idea if he’s bothered by my lateness or he doesn’t care at all. He claps and various servants appear; he speaks to them in a language that I suppose is Arabic.

  “You speak Arabic?” I ask, surprised.

  “I speak eight languages. Yes, Arabic is one of them. I’ve asked them to move the dinner to the terrace. It’s not often you can enjoy such tranquility.”

  “This doesn’t seem like a party place,” I joke, insinuating that this place must always be this magical.

  Mario explains to me that sand storms are frequent. The desert is relatively far away, but there’s nothing blocking its path from the dunes to the palace. When there’s a storm, the windows have to be sealed.

  “Sealed?” I ask.

  “This sand is finer than you might think. You’d be surprised where it can get in. Of course, on those nights, there’s n
o dinner on the terrace. Unless you want to eat sand,” he jokes.

  I smile slightly as the staff lights some torches that illuminate the borders of the terrace. It’s then that I see there’s no garden beneath us, but rather a huge pool ringed by palm trees and flowers.

  They bring out the table with the places still set.

  “I knew you would fall asleep,” Mario says, after we eat the appetizers in uncomfortable silence. “You tried the Arab bath, didn’t you?”

  I nod, embarrassed by how predictable I am and for having fallen asleep.

  “And the massage?”

  I nod again.

  “No worries,” says Mario. “Honestly, I was a bit late too.” His smile throws me off. Sometimes Mario comes off as a nice guy and sometimes like a spy, someone deeply suspicious of me, although I don’t know what it is that makes him doubt me so much. I don’t think I look like a dangerous person. I don’t know why he’s afraid of me. Because I guess that’s it, he’s afraid I’ll do something to him or his brother.

  The rest of the dinner passes more or less in a relaxed manner. As relaxed as it can be when someone is asking you a million questions about your past. I end up telling him everything. About my alcoholic father, the bad relationship with my mother. About my brother, who I haven’t seen for fifteen years. The love I have for my friends.

  “We’ve known each other since we were kids. Since elementary school. We’ve always been together,” I explain.

  I manage to keep my lack of education to myself. I never finished high school. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my family situation meant I had to work. When I see that everything I’ve told him hasn’t made him trust me more, but the opposite, I change the subject.