“What nerve,” a man at the table murmured, “taking a hit on seventeen.” Ali smiled. The card he’d taken was a three of spades; it gave him a winning hand. Yet to him, winning seemed the same as losing, and Amira had no sense at all of what he wanted to accomplish before they could leave. She had been prepared to wait, but now she was tired, so very tired. Finally, at about three in the morning, she said very tentatively, “Perhaps we should go now, Ali. It’s very late.”

A look of molten anger was his reply, so intense yet so fleeting that Amira wondered if she’d seen it at all. A few minutes later, he said, not unkindly, “If you’re tired, my dear, perhaps you’d like to retire. I’ll be here for a while.”

She stood her ground for a while. Was her place here—or would Ali prefer her to go? Fatigue finally made her go.

In their honeymoon suite, the bed had been turned down, her nightgown artfully arranged alongside Ali’s silk pajamas. It seemed like a reproach. Why was the appeal of the gambling tables greater than her own? She had no answer; yet one thing she did know: the story of the hammam that Bahia had told. In the days before all the fine houses had private bathrooms, women used the communal bath to perform their grand ablutions, the ritual total immersion that was required after sex. Bahia laughingly said you could always tell a new bride because she would come to the hammam every day—until her first child was born, then less and less often as the marriage grew older and the husband’s passion waned.

But on a honeymoon—Amira had been told that the appetite of a new husband was insatiable, that she could expect to make love until her body ached from his demands. While she was pondering this against the reality she’d experienced so far, she fell asleep.

When she awakened, Ali was there beside her, fully clothed, his silk pajamas swept to the floor. In spite of her insecurity about what to do next, she was hungry enough to get up. Walking barefoot so as not to make any noise, she went into the living room and called room service, as she had seen Ali do when they’d arrived.

She ordered fresh fruit, pots of tea and coffee, and a variety of toasts and breakfast cakes. She dressed quickly and, when the waiter arrived, had her meal served on the terrace, where she could enjoy the parklike grounds below. Later, when she thought she heard a sound from the bedroom, she tip- toed inside. Ali was stirring. Softly, she called his name. His eyes opened, but they seemed dull and unfocused. “Shall I bring you some coffee?” “Whiskey,” he said.