“Have you seen my husband this morning?”
For a second Joao doesn’t know what to say, then decides on “I am sorry” with an indulgent smile, the sort that anyone would give in this pitiable situation, to this pitiable creature. “Not today, senhora.”
“Oh he must have left for work already,” Ariel sputters quietly, nearly a mumble, as if to minimize her commitment to this patent falsehood.
“I can ask my colleagues?” Joao seems genuinely concerned, which adds to the humiliation. At this moment, she’d prefer the American style of ersatz caring, the sort that’s more customer service than personal interaction. The sort that’s completely insincere.
“In the mornings we have two—how do you say?—quarto maids—”
“Oh no, that’s nice of you, but please …”
“—and Duarte at reception, and—”
“Oh God no, please don’t bother.” Ariel shakes her head vigorously. “Really.”
“It is no bother—”
“My husband needed to work early today.” She’s digging a deeper hole in this conversation. “And I overslept.” Shoveling nonsense over her shoulder, convincing no one of anything.
“You are sure?”
“Quite.” She wants to crawl under the table. “You’re very nice to offer.”
“If you change your mind?”
“I will let you know immediately.” She will do no such thing. “Thank you so much.”
It has been only twenty-four minutes since Ariel awoke.
*
“What was that about?” Rodrigo asks.
Joao doesn’t want to spread rumors; he doesn’t gossip about hotel guests, nor about anything else. But there’s something worrying about the American woman, the way she keeps cutting her eyes to her phone, her barely contained distress. She looked so happy, just yesterday.
“Do you know that woman’s husband?”
“Yes of course.”
The hotel is only half-occupied. It’s easy to keep track of the guests, especially those who linger over long breakfasts, making eyes at each other.
“Have you seen him this morning?” Joao asks.
“No. Why?”
“Neither has she.”
*
Ariel looks around the suite more thoroughly. John’s phone charger is here, but not his phone. She opens his work-issued laptop, and is immediately prompted for a password; she doesn’t bother guessing. John has brought no papers on this trip, no files, no binder filled with charts and graphs. Nothing except his clothes, his phone, this inaccessible computer, and … what else … ?
She returns to the bedroom, the armoire, the safe inside it, a keypad that she unlocks—
Yes, there’s his passport, hers too. Along with their house and car keys and American currency, all the important but unnecessary things.
*
How long has it been? Fourteen minutes since Ariel sent that text. Time enough for him to respond, if he could. John makes it a rule to return calls and messages as quickly as possible. This is one of the things she knows about him. She knows that his favorite wines are hearty reds from the South of France, she knows his birthdate and shoe size, lots of little things. He knows the same sorts of things about her. Mostly meaningless crap.
She has waited long enough. It’s time to escalate to a phone call, which goes straight through to voicemail without a single ring. It’s not that her husband is declining to answer; it’s that he can’t. He doesn’t even know she’s calling.
*
“Bom dia,” Ariel says, looking around the well-appointed reception room, the antiques and artwork, the leather and silk, all the signifiers of luxury.
“Good morning,” the desk clerk answers in English.
“I’m staying with my husband John Wright in the Ambassador’s Suite.”
“Yes Senhora Wright. My name is Duarte. How can I help you?”
Ariel thinks about correcting him about her last name, but why bother. “When I awoke this morning, my husband was not in our room, and I cannot reach him on the telephone.”
Duarte looks uneasy, probably wondering what he’s going to be asked to do. This is the type of hotel where guests can complain about anything. Some people practically make a sport of this—the water is too hot, the electricity is too loud, the towels too plush, there’s no Splenda. Duarte is prepared for any insanity.
“Joao mentioned there might be other employees we could ask. So maybe you could?”
“Could what, please?”
“Ask them. If they saw my husband.”
“Yes, it is possible. I am taking care of it.” Duarte, not understanding the urgency, expects Ariel to leave now. She crosses her legs, making it clear that she’s settling in to wait.
“Ah,” the young man says. “I see.” He picks up his handset, has a quick conversation, turns back to Ariel. “Maria and Leonor are coming. One minute, please.”
Ariel nods.
“Is everything good with your room, Senhora Wright?”
“My name—” she begins, but cuts herself off.
By the time she married John, Ariel had already changed her name twice in her life. There was no way she’d ever relinquish her new, meticulously constructed identity. John hadn’t disagreed; it wasn’t even a question.
“Yes,” she says, “thank you. The room is fine.”
Maria and Leonor enter together; Maria is the one Ariel saw in the hallway a few minutes ago. The three colleagues speak quickly in Portuguese, which sounds to Ariel like Russian crossed with Spanish. She doesn’t grasp a single word. The only thing Ariel can detect in this language is tone—good or bad, yes or no. This must be what it’s like to be a dog. What she’s sensing is no. Bad. If she had a tail, it would be down between her legs.
“Maria, she knows who your husband is, but she did not see him this morning. And Leonor, she does not know who your husband is.”
Ariel scrolls through her phone’s photos—castle, cathedral, cobblestones, and yes here: a couples selfie with a scenic backdrop, the sort of image that Ariel would post on social media if that were a thing she did.
“Here, this is my husband.”
The chambermaid looks at the image, then at Ariel, then back at the screen, as if confirming that the woman in front of her really is the same woman as in the photo. Ariel wants to scream But that’s not the point! but restrains herself, listens to more unintelligible Portuguese.
“I am sorry,” Duarte says, “Leonor did not see this man today.”
Now three generations of Portuguese hotel workers are staring at Ariel, all wondering if they can move on with their day, away from this American woman.
“Obrigada,” Ariel says, and they all give restrained smiles of relief, released from the discomfort of a stranger’s marital problem.
*
The absence of clues is, itself, a clue.
CHAPTER 3