One Night in Dubai

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On the run from her conservative father in the City of Gold.
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This story is submitted as part of the "One Night in XXX" story event—a collection of stories that all take place in a single night in a specific place.


"You're going to kill us both, Zhang," I told the cabbie in his native Mandarin as he whipped across two lanes to pass a Maserati on Al Asayel Street.

"You don't want to die all alone, do you?" Zhang asked, taking his eyes off the road to grin at me in the rearview mirror.

I shook my head with a smile and held my parcel steady in the seat next to me. Zhang was the best cabbie I knew in Dubai, and I called him whenever I needed to get around town fast. Not safe—fast.

I checked my wristwatch and knew I needed speed more than safety. Madame Martin and her daughter were departing this morning and I had to be back in time to see them off. They'd wait for me if I asked, but I hate making guests wait.

To complicate things, I'd gotten a text message that Mr. Varghese's guests were already en route from the airport. I needed to greet them as they arrived, but I couldn't do that if I was still tending to the Martins. The window between them was closing rapidly, and I needed Zhang to thread that needle.

My phone buzzed, and I braced myself for bad news, but the name that popped onto the screen was just my friend Nick from the Embassy. I declined the call. No time to socialize with the ex-pat crowd right now.

We roared past a trio of limousines, and squealed around a corner as I kept my parcel upright in the lurching taxi. My phone buzzed again with a text message that the Martins' car had arrived.

"Zhang, you're going to have to drop me off in front this time. Put me right under the Porte-cochère."

"Are you sure you're not Chinese?" he asked, looking at me skeptically in the rearview mirror again. "You speak better Mandarin than I do."

"Three of my grandparents were born in California," I assured him, dialing the front gate to tell the guard to let us right through. "Eyes on the road, please."

"Oh yeah, you're American," he decided with a smirk in his tone. Zhang accelerated up an exit ramp, squealing around a left turn through a red light. Now he was just showing off. I sent a text to the head of housekeeping asking to have Nylah waiting outside.

We pulled up in front of The Emerald of Dubai hotel and Zhang stood on the brake.

In front of us, a bellhop had finished loading suitcases into the trunk of a Mercedes S-Class sedan. I passed a five-hundred dirham note up to Zhang to cover the two-hundred thirty-seven dirham fare. It was a generous tip, but that's why Zhang always answers when I call. Jumping out of the cab, I waved him away before Mr. Varghese's guests arrived.

Nylah approached me tentatively in her black uniform. Management doesn't like the housekeeping staff to be seen. They usually stayed in their own back corridors, so she was plainly nervous to be so visible at the front entrance.

"These are the flowers Mr. Varghese requested for his suite," I explained in Arabic, pushing my parcel into her hands. "Put a large bunch in the foyer and spread the rest through the other rooms. They'll be here any moment. Hurry."

French lavender won't bloom for another month and a half. I had to call a dozen florists before I found one who had a supplier that could have it flown in fresh-cut from I-don't-care-where. The one who came through for me earned himself a place in my contact list as my new go-to florist.

Nylah nodded curtly with a flirty smile. She knows her job and has a good eye for decor. I'm not just saying that because we hook up occasionally. Nylah is too bright to be a housekeeper forever; she'll go far in the hospitality industry if she chooses to. I had every confidence she'd manage on time and made a mental note to make sure she was rewarded.

As Nylah raced in, Mme. Martin and her daughter sauntered out. My phone buzzed again, but it was only an incoming text from Nick. I ignored it.

Crossing under the carriage porch, shaded from the heat of the late-morning sun, I palmed the small pill vial I had in my pocket. Making a conscious effort to slow my breathing and relax my stride, I intercepted one of my favorite guests just in time to open the back door of the Mercedes.

"Mme. Martin, you're looking especially lovely this morning. I'm so sorry to see you go," I told her in French, pressing the vial of Xanax into her hand. "But I'm sure you will have a very restful flight." The sleeping pills are illegal in the United Arab Emirates, but I know a guy. He's Russian.

"Ah, Rowan dear boy, thank you so much!" she gushed as she kissed my cheeks. "We'll see you again when the heat is... less aggressive."

The heiress to a smallish cosmetics empire, Mme. Ginette Martin always stays with us whenever she has business in Dubai. Keeping her happy is a simple matter of flattery, having the spa staff on call at all hours, and keeping Mademoiselle Sophie entertained.

"I really don't know how you stand the summer's here, Rowan," Mlle. Sophie mused, taking the hand I offered and kissing my cheek. "You must have grown up in Arizona."

Keeping her amused is more of a challenge. Sophie enjoys exclusive discotheques, cocaine, and gang-bangs with swarthy men. I provide all three, but I only tell her mother about the discos.

"San Francisco, actually," I replied. "But attending to you two beautiful ladies is a breath of fresh air that keeps me cool all summer," I smiled as Mlle. Sophie slid into the back seat.

"You're a shameless flirt and a charmer, Rowan," Mme. Martin teased and handed me an envelope before sliding into the car next to her daughter. "Don't ever change."

"Adieu Madame, Mademoiselle. Au revoir." I bid them farewell, closing the car door, and gesturing the driver on his way. I gave them a final wave as they rounded the corner before tucking the envelope into my jacket pocket.

There was no need to open it. I had every reason to believe it held the ten-thousand dirham in cash that Mme. Martin typically left as my tip.

Normally, I'd have a day off after catering to a VIP like Mme. Martin, but Mr. Varghese had asked for me personally, and Mr. Varghese's tips are legendary. Don't get me wrong—I get a thrill from fulfilling a seemingly impossible request for a guest and basking in their gratitude. But I do this for the money.

My parents weren't too happy when I dropped out of college to work a concierge desk in Las Vegas. The first time a Chinese guest tipped me a thousand dollar poker chip convinced me I'd made the right move and that the years I spent learning Mandarin and Canto were well worth the effort. Vegas lead me to Monaco, which is where I met Mr. Varghese.

Salim Bin Nasser Al-Varghese is a distant relative to the Qatari royal family. His place in the line of succession is somewhere close to three digits. While he'll never sit on the throne, he has parlayed his influence into a multi-billion dollar real estate company. He owns this hotel, and is not someone I ever say 'no' to.

In a city of global superlatives—the tallest building, the largest man-made island, the longest mass transit system—The Emerald of Dubai is the most exclusive hotel. You can't book us through your favorite travel app; you have to be invited by a previous guest. And if you have to ask how much it costs, well...

There was only a moment to catch my breath before the front gates parted and a limousine pulled through. I glanced over my shoulder to be sure the bellhops were waiting, but I needn't have bothered. Mohammed, the bell captain, has his team drilled with military precision.

Giving the passengers a moment to unload and straighten themselves out, I quickly deduced that the man in the long kandourah robe and bisht cloak was Mr. Farhad Jamshidi, an Iranian government official of the sort not accustomed to this level of luxury.

He was accompanied by another younger man in a kandourah and a heavy-set man in an ill-fitting American-cut suit. The former was most likely an aid or secretary; the later, obviously a bodyguard.

All three men wore keffiyehs and sunglasses.

They were joined by two women in dark niqabs with only their eyes visible. The elder woman appeared deferential to the younger, a chaperone perhaps. Mr. Jamshidi helped the younger woman out of the car, suggesting she was related, perhaps a wife or daughter.

Once everyone was out of the car, it was time to introduce myself.

"Mr. Jamshidi, hello," I called in my best Farsi, approaching the party. "Welcome to Dubai. My name is Rowan Lee. I'll be your personal concierge for your stay."

"Your Farsi is terrible," Jamshidi frowned shaking my offered hand. He looked to the woman he'd helped from the car. "Jaleh, ask the something if he speaks English."

My Farsi is passable. I know I have an accent, but apparently Jamshidi wasn't in a mood to tolerate foreigners. Normally the Persians have a reputation for humility; clearly there are exceptions.

"Forgive my father," the younger woman apologized in English. "He wishes to know if you speak English."

Her brown eyes were pale, almost golden, and stood out in stark contrast to the dark silk that covered her face.

"Yes, I do." For a moment I considered answering in Farsi again, but Jamshidi had made it quite clear that he found it unacceptable. "If Mr. Jamshidi wishes, I can find him a native Persian concierge."

She relayed the offer to Jamshidi, but he shook his head and declined. "No, I like the Chinese," he told her. "They know their place. He can stay and you can talk English with him."

In this part of the world, not everyone is a fan of Americans. If people make assumptions based on my great-grandparents' DNA, I let them assume.

"My father says that you suit him, but he'd prefer to have me translate in English," she told me from behind the concealing niqab.

I understood him just fine, but this was clearly some sort of power play. He didn't want to speak to a servant directly. What's more, he was forcing me to speak through a woman. I wasn't quite sure what that meant in Persian culture. I'd have to ask Benyamin in accounting later.

The rich and truly powerful never play such games. Clearly, Mr. Jamshidi was new to his authority and still enjoyed exerting it. But if making an underling feel small pleased him, I was there to please.

"As your father wishes," I nodded to the daughter with my hand over my breast. "Please ask if he'd like me to show you to your suite now. I'm sure you're all tired after your journey."

By this time, the bellhops had their luggage cart loaded. I led Jamshidi's party through the foyer towards their suite pointing out the hotel's amenities and offering to reserve any of them for their personal use—my usual spiel.

I was interrupted briefly when my phone buzzed in my pocket, but I discreetly silenced it and moved on.

"This is Mr. Varghese's favorite suite," I explained, holding the door to the spacious open-air courtyard for them, pausing for Miss Jamshidi to translate. "He hopes that you will make yourselves at home and avail yourselves of every luxury."

Miss Jamshidi spotted the lavender bouquet immediately and crossed the foyer to inhale the fragrance.

"Father!" she exclaimed in Farsi, "did you tell him it was my favorite?"

"He asked, my darling," Jamshidi beamed at his daughter. "Salim wants everything to be exactly to your liking."

The bellhops followed us in, and as I guided the party through all of the suite's rooms, I caught just the briefest glimpse of Nylah darting out quickly through the servant's door in the kitchen. There was lavender in every room to Miss Jamshidi's delight.

The tour concluded in the opulent great room with its intricate tile mosaics and vaulted ceilings. Everyone in the group seemed awe struck by the magnificence of the neo-Islamic design and decor. None of them was accustomed to this level of luxury.

"Here are your keys," I handed a stack of five cards to Mr. Jamshidi to distribute. "My direct phone number is written on each. Please feel free to dial me at any time of the day or night with your slightest whim. I am at your beck and call."

"Jaleh, please thank the something for his kindness," Mr. Jamshidi instructed his daughter after she translated. "Tell him our accommodations are satisfactory."

"My father thanks you for your kindness, Mr. Lee," she relayed. "These rooms are beyond our dreams. This whole hotel is so beautiful."

"Mr. Varghese will be pleased. Now I'm sure you'd like some time to yourselves, but may I offer you some refreshment before I go? There's chai tea brewing in your kitchen and a menu of the chef's recommendations. Please don't feel restricted to it. Anything you desire can be prepared for you here by a private chef."

After I assured Jamshidi that the suite's kitchen was certified Halal, I took their orders to our head chef myself. While I don't have any actual authority over the hotel staff, they all know to treat my requests with the highest priority.

Then I had a moment to myself.

I hadn't had breakfast yet, so I got myself a smoothie from the staff room. I filed my petty-cash receipts with accounting for the Martin's prescription, the Jamshidi's flowers, and the cab fare. I wrote a commendation letter to the head of housekeeping and CC'd Nayla recommending a bonus. And I checked my messages.

The Martin's driver reported that they had made it to the airport, so they were no longer my concern. And I had three messages from Nick.

{Hey, you busy tonight?}

{Call me when you get a chance}

{Hope we can get together tonight}

Nick is a geologist working at the U.S. Embassy doing something with mineral reports, which probably means oil. He's a nice enough guy. Always hosting events and get-togethers for the local ex-pats. Good listener. Always buys the first round.

I try to hang out when I can. It's nice to hear an American accent every once in a while and maybe watch an American football game—especially if the 'Niners are playing.

I called to decline the invitation and was surprised when he picked up on the first ring.

"Hey Row! What's up, man?" he greeted me enthusiastically.

"Hey Nick. Sorry man, I can't make it tonight. I gotta be on-call."

"Ah, ya got some big-wig in town, huh? Anyone I would'a heard of?"

"I doubt it," I laughed.

"Try me. I read a lot."

"Sorry man. You know I can't talk about work."

"Hey, no problem, I get it. How 'bout we get together the next time you've got a night off?"

"Sure, how's Wednesday?"

"Wednesday's perfect!" he exclaimed. "The Giants are playing the Blue Jays Tuesday. The Claw should have it on tape delay."

"Sounds good, I'll see you then," I agreed.

It had been a very long night making sure Sophie got home safely, and then an early morning to run my errands, so I was looking forward to a nap in the staff dorm.

Most employers in the UAE provide housing for their migrant workers. Affordable housing is hard to come by. Technically, I'm an "ex-pat", not a "migrant worker"; my visa isn't conditional on my employment. But I don't have much of a social life anyway, and all I really need is someplace to hang my suits and rest my head.

The dorm suits me, and living here lets me squirrel my tips away into a nice little investment account. I don't plan to do this forever.

Unfortunately the nap I'd been looking forward to was short-lived. I was awoken after only about an hour by a phone call from Miss Jamshidi.

"My Aunt and I would like to see the indoor ski slope. Is that something that you can arrange for us?" she asked.

"Absolutely, Miss Jamshidi. When would you like to go?"

"Is this afternoon possible? It's just that we're going to be rather busy soon, you see."

"It's no problem at all. I'll have a car waiting for you in half an hour." Ski Dubai is a popular destination for tourists. Even the most jaded are impressed by the scale of it. "Will you be skiing? Or just watching?"

"Oh, um... Can we? Actually ski I mean?"

"If you'd like."

"I... I don't know." She seemed a bit flustered at the idea. "Maybe... Can we just watch first?"

"Of course. Do you have cold weather clothing with you?"

"Oh... No, I'm afraid we don't. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all. Winter clothing can be rented on site, or you can do some shopping before-hand. And I should also ask if you'd like to see the penguins while you're there. You'll need tickets."

"This... um, this is all starting to sound a trifle more involved than I was expecting." There was a pause on her end. "Do you suppose... I'm sorry to ask, Mr. Lee, but do you suppose you could come along and sort of guide us through it all?"

Well, so much for my nap. I just hope the Jamshidi's aren't night-owls like Mlle. Sophie.

"If the rest of your party won't be needing me here, I'd be delighted to."

"Oh! Oh, that's brilliant." Her tone brightened considerably. "In half an hour you said?"

"Yes ma'am. I'll come by your suite when the car is ready."

Arranging a limo is easy enough. We have drivers on stand-by at all hours. Arranging VIP access to Ski Dubai on short notice is only slightly more complicated. I had two of the assistant managers in my contact list, and as luck would have it, one of them was working today. After the obligatory haggling, we settled on a thousand dirhams plus expenses—money I'd be charging to Mr. Varghese's account.

A half-hour later, I knocked on the front door and was met by the bodyguard in the bad suit.

"Miss Jamshidi is expecting me," I told him, trying out my Farsi again.

His bulk filled the doorway, barring my entrance while he glared at me. I've seen enough private security—good and bad—to recognize ex-military when I see it.

It's his job to be suspicious, just like it's my job to be obsequious. I didn't take it personally.

Unbuttoning my jacket, I removed it and turned for his inspection, then held my arms apart inviting him to pat me down. He seemed satisfied with my submissiveness and stepped aside.

I could hear Mr. Jamshidi and his aide talking in the great room, but they stopped and looked up as soon as we entered. I nodded my acknowledgment and stood a respectful distance back.

"Ah, the something is here to take Jaleh something," Jamshidi told his aide in Farsi. He used two words I didn't know. The first I'd heard him use before and I knew it referred to me. The second I could guess from context.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, sir?" the aide asked.

"What harm could it do? Her Aunt will be with her. Let the child have some fun. Esan," he turned to the bodyguard, "Let Jaleh know her something is here."

Esan the bodyguard frowned at being treated like a gopher, but gave a curt nod, and a crisp "Bale agha" and left the room.

"Hey, why don't you ask him something something a driver?" Jamshidi suggested with a nod in my direction. "It's his job after all."

They were talking as if I wasn't there. Perhaps they'd forgotten that I understood Farsi—mostly. The aide stood and approached me.

"Excuse me, Mr., um..." he began in halting Mandarin.

"Lee, sir. Rowan Lee," I reminded him.

"Yes, Mr. Lee. I am called Ramin Paria. My Chinese not so good, but I try, yes? Mr. Jamshidi has, um... guest come tomorrow... Is, um... secret. Will you make a car to drive her?"

"I'd be happy to, Mr. Paria," and then in Farsi I continued quietly "If you would like to give me the guest's contact information and when they are to arrive, I can make all the arrangements—discreetly, of course."

Bringing women to the hotel for undisclosed reasons is practically the first line of my job description. Some guests take longer to trust my discretion than others.

"Yes," the aide exclaimed happily in Mandarin. "That is very nice. I send to you." He turned back and sat down across from Mr. Jamshidi again.