The door across the hall was open, but beyond it was only silence. Mr. N cautiously approached and entered the room. He found a woman there, standing. Familiar. The same woman who invited him to dinner every time she saw him, despite knowing nothing about Mr. N. This was her apartment, he must have known that already, but he rarely saw her, afraid as he was to leave his own space. Or, if not afraid—he preferred not to. Miss Zahra brought him whatever he needed, and the manager, Andrew, visited often enough, chatting for hours, to keep loneliness at bay. Besides, he also had his papers to occupy him. They wore him out, and didn’t leave much time for socializing.

Still, the woman didn’t acknowledge Mr. N’s presence. As though she were trying to remember something she’d been about to do but forgot, and which was now taking an exceptional degree of concentration to recall. Perhaps she was going out, thought Mr. N. The elegant clothes, lipstick, and hair pinned atop her head all seemed to indicate as much. Mr. N figured he would withdraw, and he turned to go, but that’s when she finally noticed him and said, as usual, “Please, come in!” As she spoke, she took two steps back and invited him to advance further with a sweep of her right hand.

Mr. N found himself sitting in front of a slab of wood much like his own, but which, unlike his own, had found its true identity as a dining table, he felt, set with bowls and white plastic spoons wrapped in paper napkins. Well, after all, they did live in a hotel; there was nothing strange in all that. The lady parted her red-painted lips, and, holding one hand aloft with her fingers pressed to her thumb, said, “Al dente! That’s how my children like it. And you, Mr… .?”

Mr. N nodded and said, “Of course. Spaghetti must be cooked until there is only a hint of softness, no more. That’s how Thurayya insisted on making it, and it was the only dish she would make herself. She would grab a noodle and throw it against the side of the sink. If it stuck, she would say it was done and turn off the stove, pick up the saucepan, and pour it into a colander. Then she would pour cold water over it to get rid of all the starch.”

The lady was smiling and showing her interest in what Mr. N had to say. But his well quickly ran dry. He bowed his head over his hands, folded in his lap, as he remembered Thurayya, who refused to cook anything except pasta on account of her preoccupation with her own strained nerves, her excessive sensitivity to the tragedy of her own life—a life that hadn’t treated her fairly at all, marrying her to a decent and humble doctor when she deserved so much better, she who was a queen among commoners: the queen of beauty, the queen of good taste, the queen of high emotion, the queen of the salons—