The hotel on the Paseo de la Reforma awoke with that cold sheen known only to freshly polished marble. Lucía always arrived before the traffic really picked up on her motorcycle. She changed in silence, tied her hair back in a tight ponytail, and put on her gloves with the concentration of someone preparing for a serious task.
On her cart, the blue and green liquids resembled small lagoons trapped in plastic. Lucía knew exactly which one to use for each task, as if she were reading a secret map on the floor. The receptionists greeted her with a distracted gesture, a mixture of habit and haste. It didn’t bother her. Anonymity allowed her to move more freely.
She had learned to hug the walls, to listen without anyone noticing her presence. Her routine was a precise choreography: corridors, doors, elevators; a world that smelled of overpriced coffee and perfume from elsewhere.
That Tuesday, a group of men in dark suits began to file in, their eyes darting around before their feet even moved. The Smeralda room had been reserved for a private meeting. Management had demanded even more sparkle, fresh flowers, and absolute silence.
— Lucía, you finish here and then you go into the main corridor. Not a single fingerprint, okay? And please, don’t linger around when they arrive, — Mr. Valdés, the supervisor, told her, without really looking at her.
She nodded. Patiently, she changed the water in the vases and polished the edge of a table. A little further on, two waiters were chatting near a half-open door.
— It seems a real sheikh is arriving, with bodyguards and everything, — one murmured.
— And he doesn’t trust anyone who doesn’t speak his language, — the other replied, lowering his voice.
Lucía continued to scrub. For a moment, her gaze slid towards the window: the sky was heavy, leaden-colored, as if the rain was waiting for a signal to fall.
In the main corridor, the silence was so profound that every footstep seemed an insult. In front of the large mirror, Lucía was wiping away a small dried stain. She thought of Daniel, her son, who must have been arriving at school in Iztacalco. She pictured the impromptu breakfast, the warm milk, the jacket with the crooked zipper.
« This time yes, » she promised herself, imagining the shop where she would buy a new closure on her way home from work.
A wave of crackling radios announced their arrival. Men in jackets, with nearly invisible earpieces, moved with measured precision. Behind them, a man with amber skin and a neatly trimmed beard, an impeccable tunic beneath a dark jacket that fell over him like a soft shadow. The sheikh walked unhurriedly, but with a presence that seemed to push back the air around him.
The manager walked alongside him, a tense smile fixed on her lips.
« Welcome, sir. The lounge is ready, » she said in perfect English.
He didn’t answer. His gaze seemed to take in each face, as if gauging its temperature. Lucía pressed herself a little closer to her cart and lowered her head, but she couldn’t help but glance up slightly as he passed by.
The sheikh stopped. Not in front of the headmistress, but in front of the cleaning cart. He observed the meticulous order, the bottles lined up, the cloth hanging like a weary whip. The silence lasted just long enough for Lucía’s heart to beat twice, strongly.
He said something in his language, a short sentence which, to the others, was only an incomprehensible murmur. Valdés rushed forward, nervous.
« Sir, the hall is this way. »
But the sheikh didn’t move. He repeated the sentence, this time more distinctly, staring at the folded cloth as if he were speaking to it. The headmistress quickly apologized in English, promising that an interpreter would arrive any minute. Someone was already tapping away on their phone, searching for an app.
Lucía tasted the old flavor of mint tea in her mouth. A sensory jolt transported her elsewhere: another time, another table, another country. She had no desire to raise her hand, no desire to exist more than necessary.
But those words had fallen into her like a key recognizing its lock. She gripped the cloth between her fingers, swallowed, and, without moving from her position, let out a word.
The sound, spoken with a surprisingly soft accent, hung in the air just as the door to the Smeralda lounge burst open from the inside. Someone, pale-faced, stepped out to whisper something in the headmistress’s ear, instantly wiping her smile away.
The headmistress looked at Lucía as if she were seeing her for the first time. The sheikh, without changing his expression, turned his head toward her. The corridor filled with a silence even heavier than marble.
Lucía felt the heat rising to her face. She gripped the cloth and, this time, let the words flow out completely, clearly, with that measured rhythm she had learned from her grandmother when she told stories of the old days:
— Welcome. May your journey here bring you peace, — she said in soft Arabic.
The echo of the phrase rippled through the corridor like a strange vibration. The bodyguards exchanged glances; one offered a half-smile of surprise. The sheikh did not smile, but a brief gleam lit up his eyes, the light of someone recovering a piece of the past he thought lost forever.
— You… understand it? — asked the director in English, incredulous.
The sheikh nodded slowly and replied in his own language, this time looking only at Lucía. He said something longer, something deeper. She listened, lowered her eyes for a moment, then replied in Arabic as well, with a short, intimate sentence, inaccessible to others.
A murmur rippled through the employees who were watching from a distance. Valdés frowned, uneasy, as if this invisible conversation violated a rule that no one had ever formulated, but that everyone respected.
Finally, the sheikh, accompanied by his guards, made his way to the living room. Before entering, he looked at her one last time. There was no forced courtesy, no judgment, only silent recognition.
Lucía took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling in her hands. The smell of freshly ground coffee drifted from the lobby, but she could still smell the incense and dry wood. As she changed the elevator carpet, she heard the waiters whispering:
« How can she talk like that?
» « Who knows? Maybe she worked somewhere weird… »
She didn’t turn her head. If there was one thing she didn’t want, it was having to explain the origin of those words. Not yet.
The rain began to fall in a light drizzle on the city. Lucía thought that this noise would help her to work without interruptions, but she had not yet finished drying the entrance when Valdés appeared, his face tense.
— Lucía, the sheikh wants to see you. Right away. Smeralda Room.
She left the rag in the bucket.
— What for?
— I don’t know. The headmistress says it’s a special request… and you can’t refuse.
The Smeralda lounge was bathed in a warm light that contrasted sharply with the gray of the street. On the main table, small cups and plates of dates awaited. The sheikh sat upright, his hands resting on the armrests of his chair. Beside him, the manager wore a calculated smile.
— This is Lucía, sir, — she announced, taking a step back.
He spoke in Arabic, slowly, savoring each word. Lucía listened attentively. It wasn’t a complicated question, but his tone was solemn. She answered calmly, as one would address an honored guest. An assistant took notes.
The sheikh nodded and gestured for her to sit opposite him. The headmistress tensed.
« Sir, perhaps we could call in the official interpreter… » she suggested in English.
« No, » he interrupted, without taking his eyes off Lucía.
She sat down. The scent of cardamom coffee enveloped her and, suddenly, she found herself transported to a place she had sworn never to return to, not even in thought.
He asked her brief questions: how long she had worked at the hotel, where she was from, where she had learned the language. Lucía answered without elaborating, keeping large parts of her story to herself. The curiosity that shone in the sheikh’s eyes did not diminish.
At one point, he said something that made her hands freeze on her knees. It wasn’t a threat, but a sign that he knew more than he was letting on. She swallowed and avoided his gaze.
The meeting ended with a simple:
— Thank you. I’ll call you back.
Lucía left, her heart pounding. Valdés was waiting for her in the hallway, but didn’t ask her any questions. Perhaps out of fear, or out of respect. She only wanted one thing: for it all to end there.
That was not the case.
The next day, the director was waiting for him at eight o’clock sharp in front of the salon. Inside, there were more people: men in suits, two elegant women, and an official interpreter with a briefcase under his arm.
The sheikh greeted her with a brief nod and spoke to her again in Arabic, completely ignoring the translator.
« Will you help me today? »
Lucía hesitated for a moment.
— If it’s within my means… yes.
He explained that he needed to give precise instructions to his hotel service team and that he trusted them more than any interpreter. The manager nodded, pretending to find this perfectly normal, but her lips betrayed a palpable tension.
For almost an hour, Lucía translated instructions, observing the discipline and precision with which the sheikh managed every detail. She had the impression that a door, which she had kept closed for years, was beginning to open.
Finally, he offered her a cup of tea.
« Your pronunciation, » he said in Arabic, « is not that of someone who learned it in a class. It is that of someone who has lived among us. »
Lucía’s heart leaped.
— That was a long time ago, — she replied, still in Arabic.
He did not insist, but his eyes clearly said that he would not be satisfied with that answer forever.
That afternoon, while cleaning the corridor on the executive floor, she heard two supervisors talking in hushed tones:
— They say they’re using her to impress the sheikh…
— And that when they no longer need her, they’ll throw her away.
Lucía continued mopping as if she hadn’t heard anything, even though those words were hitting her chest like shards.
On Friday, the hotel was busier than ever. An exclusive event organized by the sheikh was to bring together entrepreneurs and high-ranking officials in the Smeralda room. Early that morning, Lucía was asked to act as interpreter in front of everyone.
The director greeted her with a different, almost vain smile, as if she were showing off a new piece of jewelry. Lucía stood beside the sheikh, translating every greeting, every polite phrase. Some guests congratulated her in hushed tones.
— What talent, miss. Your accent is incredible.
For the first time in a long time, she felt as if her footsteps were making noise in a place where she had always been invisible. During a pause, the sheikh approached and, in Arabic, said to her:
— You are more valuable than they realize.
Lucía lowered her eyes, trying to hide the burning pride that heated her chest. She thought that, perhaps, she was regaining something she thought she had lost: respect.
At the end of the event, the manager approached with a few executives. One of them, a glass of wine in hand, spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear:
« Lucía, you were essential today. The hotel is grateful. »
She barely managed a smile when the director, still focused on others, handed her a white envelope.
« Here, this is a little bonus for your help. You can go home now. »
The envelope weighed very little. Inside, only a few banknotes, as if all his work had been just a favor done on the spur of the moment.
“But I thought…” she began.
“Don’t worry, Lucía,” the director interrupted, lowering her voice. “You’ve already done your part. Starting tomorrow, the official interpreter will take care of it.”
The ground seemed to shrink beneath her feet. All the splendor of the afternoon, the respectful glances, the sheikh’s words, crumbled in an instant. As she left the living room, she heard laughter behind her.
— You see? Even cleaning ladies allow themselves to dream.
Lucía went to the locker room without replying. She put the envelope away without counting its contents. That evening, on the bus to Iztacalco, she gazed out the window, letting the city lights mingle with the rain. She had just tasted a moment of recognition, only to have it snatched away from her immediately.
What she didn’t know was that someone, in that same hotel, was already starting to make plans to put her back in the spotlight… but in a different way.
Two days later, while she was cleaning the executive floor, the internal phone rang.
— The sheikh wants to see you. Smeralda Room. Right away, — said Valdés’s firm voice.
Lucía hesitated. After that humiliation, the last thing she wanted was to return to that living room. But she obeyed.
When she arrived, the door was open. Inside, nothing was happening: only the sheikh sitting at a long table, accompanied by two elderly men and a woman wearing a light veil. The headmistress was not there.
— Please sit down, — said the sheikh in Spanish, slowly but clearly.
Lucía sat down, her hands clasped in her lap. He gazed at her calmly. Then he switched to Arabic:
— I know who you are.
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