His mother had thought there was something not quite right about walking on a bridge just for the sake of walking. “It is not a park,” she said.
“No, it is not a park,” Isaac had agreed. “But that is what is so wonderful. Only in America would people take a leisurely Sunday walk on a bridge.”
“And why is that wonderful?” his mother asked.
But Isaac could not explain. His father walked slowly, his hands deep in his pockets. They walked from the Manhattan end to the Brooklyn end, and then they turned around and walked back. Isaac pointed out the elaborate spiderweb mesh of the cables and various buildings of the Manhattan skyline. Then the three of them took the subway back to their dark apartment on 106th Street.
“What did you think?” Isaac asked his father on their way home.
His father had shrugged. “It’s just a bridge,” he said.
But it was not just a bridge, Isaac thought. It was a bridge about which poems had been written, a bridge that made history. Perhaps he had never dreamed of changing the course of history, but he still wanted to be part of it, to see what would happen, to live. He opened the window wide, breathed in the dry, hot air of Meknes. The driver accelerated and turned on the radio, loud. “C’est merveilleux, cette musique,” Isaac said, but the driver did not respond.
When they arrived at the Hotel Atlas, the driver wanted to go in himself to make sure there was a room available.
“There will be a room,” Isaac said again.
“But you don’t have a reservation.”
“How much do I owe you?” Isaac asked, opening the door as he spoke.
“Calm down, monsieur. There is no rush.”
“I will pay you now or not at all,” Isaac said, getting out of the car with his bag. He walked around to the driver’s side, and the driver rolled the window down halfway.
“Here,” Isaac said, holding out the money.
“As you like,” the driver said, grabbing the money and speeding off.
Isaac approached the hotel. He took several deep puffs from the inhaler and concentrated on breathing, making sure that the air was flowing smoothly to his lungs so that he would not be gasping for breath as he stepped inside. That was not the entrance he had imagined.
She was at the reception desk. “Ulli,” he said, and when he reached the desk, he was out of breath.
“Isaac,” Ulli said. “Come, sit down.” She led him to a sofa in the lobby. His breathing was deep and phlegmy.
“I’m fine,” he insisted. “It sounds worse than it is. Asthma.”
“It’s back?”
“Yes, for about twelve years. It happened right after I retired, but the medications are much better now. I hardly notice it, really.”
“It’s good to see you, Isaac,” she said, sitting down beside him and putting her hand on his shoulder, letting it rest there, asserting the gravity of the moment. “Welcome to the Hotel Atlas.”
He smiled, remained very still. Her hand felt as if it were touching his skin directly. He wanted to reach up and take her hand, but that would have been too much. After all, he had just shown up, and she had had no time to prepare for his arrival. Yet she seemed calm. He realized then that he had hoped she would not be. Had he expected her to cry, to embrace him—not just lay her hand on his shoulder as if she were comforting him, though he had not asked her for comfort? But he had not come all this way to be angry. He smiled, and she smiled back.
“The girls?” Ulli asked.
“Simone and Juliet are well,” he said without further elaboration.
“They are well,” Ulli repeated. She took a deep breath and let go of Isaac’s shoulder. “And to what, then, do I owe this honor?” she asked. He could still feel her hand on his shoulder, though he knew she had removed it. Like a phantom limb, he thought.
“It’s been almost forty years. It’s just too long,” Isaac said, turning toward Ulli. “You look the same,” he said, though this was neither true nor what he had wanted to say. She looked like Ulli, but she was old now. Her eyes were still that same husky blue, but they seemed as if they were covered with gauze. He wondered whether that was how the world looked to her now, as if she were seeing it through a fine curtain.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s been too long. Did you fly into Rabat?” she continued.
“Yes, and I took the train.”
“I could have sent a car, you know,” she said.
“But then it would not have been a surprise,” Isaac said. “And anyway, I like trains, especially now that flying is so unpleasant. Even now, two years after nine-eleven, it’s always code red.”
“The first few months after the attacks, people just stopped coming to Morocco. I thought I might have to close the hotel, but I guess people can’t live in fear forever, so now things are finally getting back to normal. Before the attacks, at this time of year I wouldn’t have had a room for you.”
“I’m sorry. I should have called, let you know I was coming. It was presumptuous of me to think there would be a room,” Isaac said.
“Nonsense. We would have figured something out. But you must be tired, exhausted.” She was in hospitality mode now, the hotelier, the keeper of clean rooms and comfortable beds.
“It would be nice to wash up.”
“Let me take you to your room, then. You can shower, rest. Would you prefer a room facing the courtyard or the street?” Ulli said this all in one breath, as if she were afraid he would disappear, walk out, find another hotel before she could finish.
He wanted a room looking out onto the street, facing the morning sun. He wanted to watch people come and go. He wanted the sun to burst in through the window in the morning.
“In the morning the sun is encouraging. By the afternoon we wish we could shoot it out of the sky,” Ulli said.
She showed Isaac to his quarters.
“I could never have imagined a more perfect room,” he said, pulling the curtains aside.
“All the rooms are painted a different color—tangerine, light blue, ochre, watermelon, avocado, terra-cotta,” she explained. “When you open the curtains and the sun floods in, it’s quite impressive.”
“The tile work is magnificent.” He pointed at the rug. “And this is beautiful.”
“It’s a Berber rug. I don’t know why they’re not more appreciated in the rest of the world. Do you know that some of the fancy hotels here have wall-to-wall carpeting in the rooms? Anyone who prefers that to tiles and rugs shouldn’t bother coming to Morocco.”
“I’ve never liked fancy hotels—all those columns and
