Internet had spoiled me! What a way to do research!
"Who built you?" I asked it as it lay on the couch. It was odd how we kept calling it a flying carpet. It had not really flown. So far, it had only bolted across the room and calmly withstood a withering flame. Before closing my files, I scanned for information on "how to fly a magic carpet."
It was then I found out about "ley lines."
I memorized as much as I could so I could tell Amesh about them.
The food came while he was still in the bathroom. From the sound of it, he was taking a bath, not a shower. Signing the bill, I scooted the waiter out the door, preferring to set up the dishes myself.
"Amesh, the food's here!" I called. "Hurry, the steak will get cold." Which was not exactly true. Like at many fine hotels, the hot meal came with its own miniature heater.
"Coming!" he called back.
"There are bathrobes in the closet. Grab one and let your clothes soak in the sink with a little soap. After dinner, we can rinse them out and spread them over the balcony."
Amesh sounded uneasy. "It would be an insult to your father to use his robes."
"They're not his robes. They belong to the hotel."
"Why do you want me to wear one?"
"They're super comfortable. They come in a variety of sizes. There are big ones, baggy ones."
I was trying to tell him—without saying so—that he could wear a robe and still cover his stump. He seemed to get the message.
"They're nice," he called through the door.
Minutes later he appeared. I was not surprised to see he had chosen a large robe. The end of his right arm was completely covered. He spread his shirt and trousers on the chairs on the balcony.
I had already put the carpet in my bedroom so its mystery would not haunt us while we ate. Amesh appeared to appreciate the gesture. His eyes were riveted by the amount of food. I let him have the bulk of our steak and gave him the baked potato. I was content with the fries. He laughed as I drowned them in ketchup.
"You won't be able to taste them," he said.
"Fries are just vehicles for ketchup and salt. Didn't you know?"
"We prefer to put vinegar on them."
"Ah. You take after the British."
"They take after us." He took a bite of steak. "Oh Allah," he blurted out before he could stop himself. We both laughed.
"You like it?" I asked.
He cut off another bite. He used his stump to keep his fork steady, then sliced the meat with his left hand. He was surprisingly smooth. If I hadn't known he was missing a hand, I would never have noticed his handicap from watching him eat.
"I've never eaten food that tastes this good," he said. "Do the hotels in America cook such delicious meals?"
I did not have the heart to tell him that the Hilton was an American hotel.
"Our food's almost as good," I said.
While we ate, the inevitable happened. Even though his bathrobe was large, the material was bulky, and it had probably not been easy for him to tie the end of the right arm. I don't think he had even tried, and at one point the sleeve slid up and his stump was exposed. Even though I averted my eyes, I was not quick enough. He saw that I saw, and he lowered his head in shame.
I didn't know what to say, but felt I should say something.
"I'm sorry," I said.
He was a long time responding. "Why are you sorry?"
"I'm sorry for ... prying."
A note of bitterness entered his voice. It was not aimed at me, I knew, but it made me sad nevertheless. "I'm not ashamed of it," he said.
"Why should you be?" I gushed.
"I was not born this way, you know. I lost the hand in an accident."
"I know," I said.
He looked up. "How do you know?"
"I mean, I assumed you did," I said. "It's hardly noticeable."
"It was the first thing you noticed about me."
"Not true. The first thing I noticed about you was that you liked knocking me to the floor."
"You were trying to steal my package."
"I was trying to get to know you."
He blinked, startled. "Why?"
"Because you looked interesting."
He shook his head. "You just