In the alcove, a group of Egyptian businessmen was gathered around a table, smoking their pipes and engaged in an intense discussion, the tassels from their fez hats brushing against their cheeks. As I walked past, snippets of their conversation regarding cotton prices reached my ears. My mother often returned to Buenos Aires with brand new bedding, the fabric thick and looking nearly like silk. The plant grew along the Nile, and the production of it was a highly lucrative endeavor for Egyptian landowners.
I spun around, looking for the main desk, as a foppish American with his stalwart briefcase and booming voice bumbled into others, marveling at the decor. Someone yelled, “Burton! Over here!” and the American gave a great start and joined the rest of his party, where he was received with claps on the back. I watched the reunion wistfully.
The number of people who would welcome me home from a long journey had dwindled.
The employees at the front desk eyed me. One of the attendants paused mid-motion at my approach. His dark eyes widened, and he slowly lowered his arm. He was in the middle of stamping a booklet.
“Salaam aleikum,” I said uncertainly. His stare was unnerving. “I’d like to book a room, please. Well, actually, I suppose I should confirm that Ricardo Marqués is staying in this hotel?”
“You look so much like your mother.”
Everything in me stilled.
The attendant pushed the stamp and booklet out of the way with a soft smile. “I am Sallam,” he said, smoothing down his dark green kaftan. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about the loss of your parents. They were decent people, and we enjoyed having them here.”
Even after months, I wasn’t used to hearing them spoken about in past tense. “Gracias. Shokran,” I hastily corrected.
“De nada,” he said, and I smiled in surprise.
“Your parents taught me a few phrases.” He looked over my shoulder, and I followed the line of his gaze. “I’d have expected to see young Whit with you,” he said.
“Who?”
“Mr. Whitford Hayes,” Sallam explained. “He works for your uncle, who indeed is staying at this hotel for the night. But he’s not here at the moment. I believe he had business at the museum.”
So that was his name, the stranger I’d ditched at the dock. I made a mental note to avoid him at all costs. “Do you know when my uncle will be returning?”
“He has reservations for dinner in our dining room. Did you just arrive?”
“This morning in Alexandria. The train unfortunately broke down halfway to Cairo, otherwise I’d have arrived sooner.”
Sallam’s thick, graying brows climbed to his hairline. “You came to Cairo by train? I would have thought Whit had better sense than that. Always behind and breaking down. You would have had a better time by carriage.”
I decided to refrain from telling Sallam the full story. Instead, I brought up my purse and dropped it onto the counter. “Well, I’d like to book a room, please.”
“There’s no need for payment,” he said. “You’ll take your parents’ suite. It’s paid in full until—” he glanced down to check his notes “—the tenth of January. The room has been left undisturbed in accordance with your uncle’s wishes.” Sallam hesitated. “He said he’d deal with their things in the new year.”
My mind spun. I never dreamed I’d sleep in their own bedroom, the one overlooking the Ezbekieh Gardens. Papá talked at length about their usual suite, the lavish rooms and pretty view. Even my mother had approved of it. Neither realized how badly I had wished to see it for myself. Now it seemed I would. This trip would mark many such firsts, things I thought I would have experienced with them. My heart snagged, as if caught on splinter.
My voice was barely above a whisper. “That will be fine.”
Sallam studied me for a moment and then leaned forward to write a quick note on crisp hotel stationery. Then he whistled to a young boy wearing a tarboosh and dressed in forest-green trousers and a soft yellow button-down. “Please deliver this.”
The boy glanced at the folded note, saw the name, and grinned. Then he strode away, nimbly weaving through the throng of hotel guests.
“Come, I’ll personally show you to suite three hundred and two.” Another attendant, dressed in the same green and yellow hotel livery, took over the desk and Sallam extended a hand, motioning for me to walk alongside him.
“I remember when your parents first came to Egypt,” Sallam said. “Your father fell in love the moment he arrived in Cairo. It took your mother a little longer, but after that first season, she was never the same. I knew they’d be back. And look! I was right. Seventeen years I think it’s been since that first visit.”
It was impossible for me to reply. Their trips coincided with some of my more terrible memories. I remembered one winter all too well. My parents had stayed a whole month longer in Egypt, and I’d fallen ill. The flu had spread all over Buenos Aires and yet my parents didn’t make it back in time to see the danger I was in. They came when I was well into my recovery, the worst of it over. I was eight years old. Of course my aunt had words with my mother—several of them. Afterward, Mamá and Papá spent every day with me. Eating every meal together, exploring the city, delighting in concerts and frequent outings to the park.
We were together until we weren’t.
Sallam led me up a grand staircase with a blue rug running down the center. I was familiar with the design, my parents having brought all manner of decor back to Argentina. They favored Turkish tile, Moroccan lighting, and Persian rugs.
We climbed up to the third floor and Sallam handed me a brass key with a coin-sized disc stamped with the words Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo and the room number. I inserted the key and the door swung open, revealing a sitting area that opened up to two additional rooms on either end. I walked inside, admiring the charmingly grouped green velvet sofa and leather chairs sitting in front of balcony windows. Silk-paneled walls trimmed in gold, and a small wooden desk with a high-back leather chair underscored the stately elegance. As for the decor, there were several beautiful paintings, a gilded mirror, three large rugs in a blue and mint color scheme adding sophisticated touches throughout.
“This is where your parents slept.” Sallam gestured to the room on the right. “The left is an extra space for guests.”
But never for me. Their only child.
“Egypt isn’t as warm as you might think during the winter. I suggest a wrap over your jacket,” Sallam said from behind me. “If you’re hungry, come down to dine at the restaurant. Delicious food in the French style. Your uncle might be there.”
I couldn’t help the resentful note in my voice. “I highly doubt it.”
Sallam retreated to the entrance. “Is there anything I can get for you?”
I shook my head. “La shokran.”
“Nice accent,” he said approvingly and then he dipped his chin and shut the door behind him.
I was alone.
Alone in the room my parents had lived in for nearly half of the year. The last place they’d slept in, some of the last things they’d touched. Every surface drew my notice, begged a question. Had my mother used this desk? Had she sat in the leather wingback chair? Did she last write with this quill? I rummaged through drawers and found a stack of blank sheets of paper, all except one. The top sheet had two words written in a delicate hand.