‘Twenty-two years,’ answered Daniela, winking at her lover.
‘Wow!’ Frankie clapped his hands. ‘Lesbians are so committed. We fags are hopeless at it.’
Keira snorted. ‘Speak for yourself. Dad’s been with Michael for fifteen years. Maybe you’re the one hopeless at commitment.’
‘It’s been twenty-two terrific years,’ said Daniela. ‘But we’ve never had the opportunity to come to this part of the world before and I’m so glad we did.’ She smiled at Hassan. ‘Jordanians are very generous.’
Thank you, sweetheart, thank you, thought Amanda. For changing the conversation, for saying exactly the right thing.
‘We should get another drink?’
Amanda shook her head. ‘We’re off to the dining room for dinner.’
‘Oh, but why?’ said Frankie. ‘We’ve just met — how about one champagne to celebrate twenty-two years?’
She didn’t want anything more to drink, she didn’t want to have to look at his stupid T-shirt that he had no right to wear, she didn’t want to spend another moment in their idiotic company. ‘No, we really must be off.’
‘How about you, Hassan? You’ll stay for a drink, won’t you?’
Hassan nodded, not at Frankie but at Keira.
Amanda was suddenly furious, the force of it hitting her like a wave. She turned to Hassan and said sharply, ‘I hope you understand that any further drinks you have you must pay for yourself.’
The silence was dreadful. Frankie and Keira were looking down at their drinks; Daniela, who had been getting up to follow Amanda, froze in mid-motion. And Hassan. Hassan looked as if he had been struck. As he probably had, thought Amanda, the red flame rising from her chest, burning her throat, her neck, her cheeks. There was such dismay in the man’s deep-set eyes, but it only lasted an instant. He composed himself, a genial smile returned to his lips and he lifted his head, tapping the roof of his mouth with his tongue.
‘Of course, I would not have done otherwise.’
Daniela took the man’s hand. Surprised, he looked down at where she was touching him, as if he could not quite believe it was true.
The burden of Amanda’s mortification was unbearable, as if she could not breathe from the immensity of it. Insensibly, almost tripping over herself, she fled the verandah. She could hear Daniela’s heels hurriedly clicking along the tiles, following her; she heard the scrape of Hassan’s chair as he must have sat back down. The last thing she heard was Frankie saying, ‘It’s alright, Hassan, don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of money.’
It wasn’t until she had crossed the lobby, past the long front desk, and was about to enter the dining room that Daniela finally caught up with her.
‘How dare you?’ she exploded.
Amanda couldn’t answer. Daniela was waiting impatiently for some kind of response and she did not have one to give her. She didn’t know where she could begin, how to explain the shame she had experienced at the table, the jealousy she felt towards Keira. But worst of all was her shaming of that wonderful, gentle man who had won her heart that day; by his gravity and subsequent equilibrium, by his unforced instinctual civility. These were the traits she so wished she could find in Eric; it was that kind of man she wanted her son to be.
That wasn’t all, though. How could she explain that Hassan’s gentleness had exhausted her? As had Daniela’s constant anxiety to respect cultural niceties, to not offend anyone, to always do the right thing. She did not only envy Keira her youth, but also her and Frankie’s exuberant arrogance, their bolshiness, the fuck-you audacity she herself had once had as a militant student feminist. Amanda couldn’t bear her lover’s stony opprobrium a minute longer. She tried to find the words.
Daniela surprised her by listening without interruption except for gentle urgings to continue when Amanda stumbled over words as she tried to shape sense and order out of the panic of thoughts in her head.
When she had finally exhausted herself through talking, and started to cry, Daniela, oblivious to the waiters, to the other guests, had taken her hand and held it, squeezing it tight.
Amanda took a sip of her wine, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I’m fine,’ she whispered. ‘I’m fine.’
‘My love,’ said Daniela, ‘you’re absolutely right. We are fools to think we can just walk into a different country and a different culture with some facts and figures taken from the opinion pieces in the Sunday papers and think we can fit in and remain unobserved.’ She let go of Amanda’s hand and signalled the waiter for another two glasses of wine. ‘At the very least, to even begin to be able to do that, we would need to know the language. Shukrun and Salaam Alaikum will only get you so far.’
She cupped her hands around her mouth and blew a secret kiss to Amanda. It made them both laugh. It had started years ago, when they were just getting together, their secret, something they would do at weddings and christenings, at family barbecues and family birthdays.
‘That’s better,’ said Daniela. ‘Now go and fix your make-up, it’s all smeared.’
In the toilets the attendant was a scarfed young woman. She watched as Amanda carefully reapplied her pink lipstick, as she carefully wiped the inky smudges from under her eyes. The girl’s curiosity was unabashedly forthright. The spark in her honey-coloured eyes reminded Amanda of Hassan’s implacable intensity.
She slipped her lipstick back in her bag and smiled at the girl. She wanted to say, Yes, my clothes look like a man should wear them but I also like lipstick. Yes, the reason I do not have a wedding ring is because I love women and they love me. Yes, I am fifty-five, the age of grandmothers, but my son is still only sixteen. And the girl might reply, I know all of that or have guessed most of that and still all I want to know is where you got that lipstick. But because she knew no Arabic, Amanda said nothing and instead just handed the young woman a large tip.
She asked for Hassan at the front desk, having to check the surname on the card given to her by Archie and Colm. She was directed to a room on the top floor.
As soon as she stepped out of the lift, she almost keeled over from the force of the heat. There was no air-conditioning on the sixth floor, not even overhead fans. The air was heavy, and she had to stay herself a moment. She took a deep breath; already a sheen of perspiration was glistening on her arms, her face and neck. Apart from the syrupy heat, the smell of cigarettes and chemical cleaning agents was overpowering. The corridor looked as though it had not been painted for generations; the walls were peeling, with enormous patches of damp and mildew. The thin acrylic carpet was threadbare. A maid’s trolley, laden with cleaning equipment and detergents, blocked her way and she had to hug the wall to pass it. She could hear the tinkle of music from somewhere; also shouts and male laughter. She found Hassan’s room and knocked.
There was the sound of scraping on floorboards, a questioning shout in Arabic, and the door opened a fraction. Hassan appeared, dressed in a singlet, his belt buckle loosened. On seeing her, his face registered disbelief and for a moment she thought he was going to close the door on her. He raised his arm, as if blocking her view, and she caught a whiff of his robust odour. He was drenched in sweat. She could see little behind him and did not want to look, but could tell that the room was tiny, and it had to be insufferably hot. So these were the shitboxes where the drivers slept, where the menials who catered to the wealthy tourists like herself in the air-conditioned lower floors came for rest. This thought strengthened her resolve.