Page 44 of The Devil Wears Orange
The tiled floor has the glossy smoothness of an ice rink, the vastness of its impeccable architecture reflected in its surface. I look up at the triangular formation of the ceiling, the exposed glass elevator, and my head swirls, wondering if it’s possible to suffer from vertigo from the ground looking up.
We are led down a corridor, through a few doorways opened only by keycards, and out a back way to the racetrack. The thunder of the crowd smacks me. The chaos of it all – men in whitethobes, others in western business attire, the women in a multitude of colors and, yes, hats – is like looking into a kaleidoscope. Some of the outfits are literally hot off the Paris runway. It seems everyone in the city is at the track tonight – Emirati, ex-pats, laborers.
Cameras flash. When the white flash disappears from my sight, I note we are now in a diamond formation of bodyguards who lead us through the crowd, down a set of stairs, and, finally, into a private area overlooking the race track. From this vantage point, I can see all below us and across the track. I turn down offers of food and refreshments, afraid I’m too nervous to keep anything down.
“This is totally fire,” I shout over the crowd to Rashid and wonder when I began to use the vernacular of a sixteen-year-old girl circa 2015.
“Members of the Royal family own the racehorses,” Rashid explains, “and while gambling isn’t allowed, there is a prize given to the owner of the winning horse.”
“But, won’t that always be a member of the Royal family?” I ask.
“Yes,” he responds, seemingly unaware of the absurdity of the question and the situation – the Royal family, it seems, will never lose a race because they are the only owners.
A camel race entertains the audience before the official start of the horse race. Rashid points out to me twice that the jockeys are adults, and I understand his concern. The UAE has been known to bring children from places like India and Pakistan to jockey the camels. The animals and jockeys are released from the lineup. A handler gets bustled in-between the camels but appears to be okay.
“This is hilarious,” I say as I watch the camels move at a slower pace than racehorses. Looking about, I spot quite a bit of commotion below; a crowd surrounds an older man and a beautiful young woman, whom I suspect is his daughter.
“Who are they?” I say, pointing.
Rashid’s face stiffens. “My father.”
Shit.Why didn’t he mention his father would be in attendance? I swallow hard, trying to contain my nerves. “Is that your sister?”
“My father’s fourth wife.”
It’s not the answer that stuns me; it’s the untroubled manner in which Rashid says it.
“Oh.”
For a moment, Rashid seems unsure of himself. He steps towards me and then hesitates, looks down, and twists a ring on his finger. I realize he, too, gets nervous, which surprises me.
His eyes turn to me. “Charlotte,” he says in a quiet voice, “my father is from a different era, a different place. I am not my father. I will never be like him.”
I can’t bring myself to turn away. Nor can I come up with anything to say. An announcement breaks the moment.
Appearing dismayed by the interruption, Rashid says, “My horse is in this race.”
“Which one?” I say and eye the starting plate.
Rashid leans in close. “Third from the right.The Girl.”
“Couldn’t come up with a name?”
Rashid smiles. “It’s the name of the role Marilyn Monroe played inThe Seven Year Itch.”
“My first apartment in New York had a set of stairs that led nowhere. At the time, I thought it was funky but now I see it as a metaphor of my life.”
“They led you here.”
I lean into him and, with a small smile on my lips, I say in a sultry voice, “Quite true.The Girlit is, then.”
“I’m afraid you may be the only one cheering her on. She’s not very fast.”
“It’s very American to root for the underdog.”
The race underway, I scream forThe Girl, who gets off to a good start but falters as the race progresses. A horse comes up from behind, passesThe Girl, falls back some, then sprints. Up ahead, a tight race takes place between the two favorites, but my thoughts are onThe Girl. She gains a little, bypasses the horse that overtook her.
“Our horse is gaining,” says Rashid.
