He wonders if his parents have arrived in Valencia.
“We’ll only be a few days, cariño. You can reach us at the Hotel Alhambra,” said his mother, kissing him goodbye.
“I arranged the car rental you asked for,” said his father gruffly.
Daniel’s stomach complains, reminding him that he missed dinner. He pulls on his jeans and boots. He’ll make his way downstairs and find something to eat.
The hotel lobby buzzes with music and guests.
“Still quite a party here,” he says to the lobby clerk.
“Sí, señor. The quiet time is early morning. The city comes alive at night.”
Near the elevators, a narrow opening in the sidewall catches Daniel’s eye. He peers down and sees a stairway. Perhaps it leads to one of the restaurants?
Ben’s words return to him. I’ve gotten lost in here and I’ve never even made it to the labyrinth beneath. . . . There are several levels belowground in this place.
Labyrinth. The description is too intriguing. Daniel heads down the stairs.
He arrives at the first basement and, sensing a lack of activity, continues down farther. The second basement is darker. The air thicker. Unlike the sparkling upper floors of the hotel, this lower level is not glamorous. Stretches of weathered gray stone line the walls and floors. Gaslight flickers in the primitive fixtures, not yet converted to electricity. It’s more interesting than the fancy lobby. He contemplates turning back for his camera.
After passing several stockrooms, a uniform supply closet, and a large laundry facility, he arrives at a classroom. Rows of chairs face a long chalkboard. A world map, wrinkled with age, is taped to the wall. As he continues down the stone corridor, he passes a bathroom and janitorial facilities.
At the corridor’s end, a light glows behind a square of glass set within a door. Daniel walks toward it and peeks inside. Staff members, clearly off duty, smoke and play cards at a table. In the far corner, a girl sits alone. Her wet, dark curls hang down over her face. She is reading a magazine. The square of glass in the door is a perfect frame. Why didn’t he bring his camera? The girl loops her hair behind her ear and that’s when he realizes. The girl is Ana.
“¿Qué hay, amigo?” A pair of hands grabs Daniel.
22
Daniel stumbles through the swinging door into the room.
“Two more for the card game.”
Ana jumps from her chair. “Señor Matheson.” She looks from Daniel to the men playing cards. “This gentleman is a hotel guest.”
The men drop their cards and stand at attention.
“My apologies, señor,” pleads the man who drove him into the room. His eyes, taking in Daniel’s clothes, expand with fear. “We have hundreds of employees at the hotel. The corridor is very dark. I assumed you were staff, longing to join the game, but too shy to ask. I did not mean any offense.”
“None taken,” says Daniel.
Everyone stands in awkward silence. Ana looks to the clock on the wall and then to Daniel. “Can we help you with something, señor?”
Daniel shifts his feet, searching for an answer. “Sorry, I think I’m lost.”
The men’s shoulders, up near their ears, slowly retreat. They look to Ana.
“Sí, I’ll take him back.” She instructs Daniel to follow her into the hallway. “Wait here a moment.”
Ana disappears behind a door. When she reappears, her wet hair is pinned back and she is wearing a green apron with the hotel’s golden C crest.
“I’m sorry. I’m putting you back to work. Did you just return from a swim?”
Ana looks at him and laughs, the small gold of her tooth visible. “A swim? Of course not. You are so funny.”
“I am?”
Still smiling, Ana lowers her voice. “Employees are not allowed in the hotel pool, Señor Matheson. Those facilities are reserved for guests.”
“Oh, I thought . . . then why is your hair wet?”
Ana swallows hard. She looks to him and changes the subject. “You arrived very recently. You’re not quite adjusted to the time difference. Why don’t I take you back up to the lobby?”
Ana leads Daniel through the double basements. It’s an underground village with countless hallways and alcoves, like Ben described. The late-night pace of the downstairs world is a production all its own. They pass two bustling kitchens, a dedicated pastry workshop, and an entire room housing an enormous machine that makes ice.
Daniel eyes the food in the kitchens.
“Are you hungry, señor? Shall we send dinner up to your suite?” asks Ana.
“I can eat here.” He shrugs.
“I’m sorry, guests may not eat in the kitchen. They’ll bring a proper meal service to your room. It’s no trouble.”
Daniel hesitates. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
Ana’s eyes widen. She takes a small step back.
“Oh, I don’t mean to put you in an awkward position,” says Daniel quickly. “It’s just, my parents are gone. I don’t know anyone here yet.”
Ana nods slowly. She speaks to the kitchen staff and upon receiving permission, begins to fill a plate. “Follow me,” she says, carrying a loaded tray. She directs him into the empty staff cafeteria and chooses a small table near the door.
“Maybe we can sit over there?” He points to a larger table in the corner. “Quieter.”
Ana looks to the secluded corner, hesitating. “Well . . . I guess that’s okay. I am assigned to your family.”
Daniel stares at the tray Ana has prepared. Galician bread rubbed with garlic and topped with grated tomatoes and olive oil. Iberian ham and fire-roasted piquillo peppers.
He grins. “How did you know?”
“Your mother is Spanish. Traditional favorites. What are some traditional favorites in Dallas?”
“Chicken-fried steak, barbecue, pecan pie.” Daniel looks at her. “Why are you smiling?”
“Your Texas accent is really heavy when you say, ‘chicken-fried steak.’”
“Is it?” says Daniel. “What does it sound like?”
Ana’s attempt at a Texas accent results in a fit of laughter between them.
“If that’s what I sound like, no wonder people are looking at me,” laughs Daniel. “That’s terrible!”
While Daniel eats, Ana’s questions drive the conversation. “And why photography?”