She laughed, as if to appease me. “Not me, Ludzio. But everyone else.” The tip of her middle finger traced the brim of her glass. Then she looked around the room, low and mysterious with the dim light and the palm trees. Her eyes shimmered. “It’s beautiful here. And there are no queues for Scotch whisky.” She clinked her glass to mine and took another deep sip.

“You’re drunk,” I said, feeling the drink turn bitter in my mouth. The music played on. The couples danced carelessly. “I need the bathroom,” I said, and stumbled off. Someone pointed me to a door at the end of the long corridor, and I slipped inside. My head was spinning. I went to the sink and splashed water over my face. The only light came from silver bulbs arranged around the wide mirror, like in a Hollywood boudoir. It made me look tired—somehow older, like Karolina had earlier. My eyes fell on a large square machine in the corner. I believe this was the first time I’d seen a washing machine with my own eyes. It glistened in the light of the room, solid and reassuring, its little round door like the entrance to a spacecraft. I thought of Granny, kneeling over a metal basin, pouring scalding water from a kettle, dipping each shirt, each sock, each handkerchief into the water, all her life, with a block of brown soap in her sore hands—rubbing, scouring, fingers burning.