Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Now in her senior year at the “LLC,” the London Ladies’ College, Noora sat in the last row of the empty classroom. She was embarrassed by the loud rumbling of her stomach. When the alarm rang at six o’clock that morning, she made the mistake of pressing the “off” button instead of the “snooze,” and letting her head fall back on her pillow. She could not be tardy today. If it hadn’t been for her sister, who came to her rescue by pulling her out of bed and starting her shower, Noora would definitely have missed the first-period exam. There had been no time for breakfast, and now, hours later, she was weak from hunger.

  Her classmates finished their compositions and hurried out of the room the instant the bell rang. Noora kept finding weaknesses in the story she had written, and hesitated to turn it in. She found at least three misspelled words, and she knew Dr. Pennington did not tolerate errors. How many more misspelled words did she overlook? She could not take the time to proofread her work and check the dictionary. How archaic, Noora thought, especially now that computers had spell-check. Nevertheless, the school insisted on perfect spelling, perfect grammar, and perfect punctuation. It was hopeless.

  To think, she had once fancied herself a writer, and had even dreamed of publishing a book of short stories in English. How pathetic. She sighed resignedly.

  Her midterm assignment was to write a dramatic story, set during an important period in history. Noora chose to write a love story about a young couple separated during World War II, who found each other years later in Paris. Writing it had been a struggle. It was hard to focus on schoolwork—she couldn’t stop thinking about her handsome Michel, their upcoming wedding, and most of all, their honeymoon.

  She glanced at her watch and gasped. She remembered that her sister was waiting for her. Noora grabbed her overstuffed black leather backpack and hurried to the professor’s desk, handing over her pages.

  Dr. Pennington looked up from her pile of student manuscripts and put Noora’s pages on top. A small, mousy woman in her sixties, she pushed her bifocals against her nose.

  “I am looking forward to reading your composition, Miss Fendil,” Dr. Pennington said, rising from her century-old desk.

  She’ll be disappointed, Noora thought.

  “You have such a refreshing way with words,” her professor said. She walked up to Noora and put an arm around her shoulder. “Always trust your imagination. You are a good storyteller.”

  “Thank you,” Noora said, blushing. She was as surprised by the unexpected gesture of affection as by the fragrance of Je Reviens perfume, mixed with musty old wool, that emanated from her teacher.

  “Miss Fendil?” Dr. Pennington called as Noora hurried to the door.

  She turned, anxious to be on her way. Her sister was waiting out in the cold. “Yes, Dr. Pennington?”

  “Have a nice vacation, and good luck!”

  Why did she have to say good luck? Noora wondered as she rushed through the deserted, bleach-smelling hallway. Didn’t she know it was bad luck to say good luck?

  Tucked away amid a row of brownstones, the dark and dreary gray façade of the international school screamed for a facelift, but no modernization was contemplated. The unpretentious building was the perfect mask to discourage unwanted visitors, and one of the many reasons the school had remained a favorite among the very wealthy and the very private since it was founded in 1935.

  The atmosphere seemed eerie now, without the usual resounding footsteps and the echo of female voices trailing through the halls.

  As Noora exited through the heavy steel double doors, the wind slapped her flushed cheeks. Overhead, pink buds were beginning to burst open on the branches of the cherry trees lining the street. When she returned from her vacation, those trees would probably be covered with pink blossoms that would fill the air with their fragrance—some consolation, she supposed, for having to finish the term. Graduation was two and a half months away, and her marriage to Michel still an interminable three months and twenty-one days away! Noora could not stop dreaming of that moment when she would finally be in Michel’s arms. Honeymoon in Venice. Her entire body tingled at the thought.

  She had wanted to attend the college mostly because she would be near her brother, Nageeb, who had been studying medicine at the university just around the corner from the LLC. Nageeb always managed to take time from his busy schedule and dine with her on weekends. He also helped her with her studies.

  Her fiancé was studying architecture in Paris. Though she was not allowed to see her future husband alone during the school term, Michel was able to fly to London for brief visits on weekends, always accompanied by his father. However, during his last year of architectural school, Michel had been too busy to travel. Still, it was consoling to know that Paris was not far from London.

  Rushing up the sidewalk on her way to meet Zaffeera in the park, Noora passed a quaint bakery specializing in French pastries. Her mouth watered at the sight of huge, gooey Napoleons; but the shop was crowded, and she was really late. Something else in the window caught her eye: a crystal dish overflowing with white candied almonds—a sweet treat that she had loved since childhood. It reminded her of a wedding that was never far from her thoughts.

  She was fifteen years old at the time. She remembered at least three hundred guests mingled at the lavish reception, near King Farouk’s former summer palace, in the lush gardens of Montaza, in Alexandria. Noora would never forget the young bride who stood like a princess in a radiant white silk brocade gown. A violinist wandered through the crowd, playing Jacques Brel’s classic, “If You Go Away …” A big-band orchestra curtain suddenly lifted, surprising and delighting all the guests. Couples began to dance.

  Noora stood next to her father by the huge atrium. Bridesmaids in pink tulle dresses handed each guest an elegant little crystal dish filled with white candied almonds wrapped in white tulle that puffed out like a fan—a gift from the bride and her groom. At that moment, a distinguished man about her father’s age walked up to her father, and the two began to converse. Noora was admiring the heart-shaped crystal candy dish when she looked up and saw him. Dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, he stood beside the man—obviously his father. When her eyes met the boy’s deep-set green eyes, something so powerful passed between them, it seemed supernatural. To Noora’s surprise, their fathers invited the young pair to dance together. The moment Michel put his arm around her waist, an electrical current ran through her body …

  “Careful!” someone yelled behind her as a black London cab made a sharp turn, brushing Noora’s coat and jolting her out of her daydream, slamming her back to the present.

  You almost got yourself killed! You have to live in the moment and stop being distracted! Noora reminded herself.

  There was no traffic light at the intersection, and cars were not giving her the right of way. She managed to dart across the street, nearly getting hit. The rain had stopped.

  In the distance, she spotted her sister. Standing alone in the park, Zaffeera seemed so small and frail, with that floppy black hat that reached down to her too-large-for-her-face sunglasses. Why did she want to meet her out there in the cold, when they would also have to wait outside the busy Hard Rock Café? Noora wondered. They could have met in that warm and cozy country French restaurant, with the little windows covered by lacy curtains, on Bayswater Road.

  “Forgive me for being late,” Noora huffed in Arabic, trying to catch her breath.

  “You forgot all about me!” Zaffeera snapped in English.

  “Please, Zee,” Noora said in English. “I’m really sorry. I would never forget you…”

  Zaffeera turned away to fold her Burberry umbrella and shake off the droplets of rain.

  “I hope you didn’t get here exactly at eleven o’clock!” Noora said, feeling guilty.

  “I did.”

  “Oh, goodness, I apologize! Profusely.”

  “Let’s go before the line gets longer.”

  Hurrying to the end of the park, they left through th
e black wrought iron gates and crossed the street.

  Luckily, only a handful of people were standing outside the Hard Rock Café.

  “Look, there’s hardly a line,” Noora said.

  Zaffeera hated to be proven wrong, but masked her annoyance. She worried that someone would take that particular booth by the window. It was crucial that Moustafa saw them from outside, so he could easily follow them when they left the restaurant.

  That morning, Zaffeera finished her exams effortlessly. The year before, she had requested—in a handwritten letter addressed to her father and mother—“the honor” of following her older sister’s example and attending the LLC. Zaffeera knew her parents had been pleased with her decision.

  Zaffeera prided herself on the knowledge that she was much smarter than her sister. But while she was blessed with brains, Noora was blessed with an unusual and beautiful color of eyes—pale turquoise—a rare phenomenon, especially in their Middle Eastern world. She was also blessed with a great, lean body. But worst of all, Noora had Michel.

  Three inches shorter than her sister, Zaffeera had small breasts and large hips, and she always had to watch her weight. She liked her Egyptian brown eyes, especially when she accentuated them with makeup, but she needed prescription lenses. Her lips were actually her best feature—full and voluptuous. She especially enjoyed applying gleaming red lipstick, one of her evening rituals. She liked to stare at her lips in the mirror and she imagined being kissed. By him. Michel. My darling Michel. I ache for your body; I wish she’d go to hell.

  He was meant for her and Noora stole him away …

  Zaffeera would never forget the first time she saw Michel—at a wedding in Alexandria, where her family spent most of their summer vacations.

  Playing hopscotch in the garden with her little brother Kettayef, Zaffeera rapidly grew bored and went to the atrium, where the reception took place. As she stood by the entrance, praying that her father would finally signal the family that it was time to leave, she grabbed a glass of almond water from a passing serving tray. She nearly choked on the first sip when he walked in. The vision of Prince Charming just out of a fairy tale appeared right in front of her—in the flesh. Keeping a safe distance, she began to follow him around the reception area. A distinguished man, who had to be Prince Charming’s father, accompanied him. Suddenly, the young man looked over his shoulder and saw her. Quickly she turned away, and as she did, she clumsily knocked a tray full of champagne glasses out of the hands of a white-jacketed server. Everything went splashing onto the floor. Zaffeera never felt more humiliated. While servants rushed to clean up the mess, a very flustered Zaffeera ran from the scene and out of the glass french doors, into the garden. She tripped and fell, luckily landing on the grass.

  “Are you all right?” she heard someone say behind her, and a strong hand helped her up. To her horror, it was the young man. She thought she would surely faint, but he smiled at her. It was a warm, compassionate smile. He pulled out his white handkerchief and brushed away some dirt from her cheek.

  “I hope you are not hurt,” he said.

  “I’m all right,” she managed to utter. A whiff of his lemony, lightly sweet cologne mixed with fresh soap enveloped her.

  “Thank you, I am fine,” she said, never feeling more stupid.

  Gently, he rested his deep green eyes on her, and during that brief moment, her heart skipped a few beats, and for the first time, she understood what they meant in French books by the coup de foudre. Two people met, and something struck like lightning, transporting them into a captivating feeling called True Love.

  “That man with the tray was not careful …” Prince Charming said, and Zaffeera noticed he had a brilliant set of white teeth—like perfect porcelain.

  Blood rushed to the tips of her ears, and she prayed he did not notice her blushing. But he was a gentleman, and he had to be attracted to her as well. Why else would he go after her and follow her all the way to the garden?

  “May I bring you some water?” he asked.

  All she remembered saying was, “No, I’m fine, really …”

  He glanced over his shoulder, turned back to her, and said, “Excuse me, I’m being called.”

  She watched him walk away, and she nearly melted right there on the grass. She was only thirteen and a half years old. Even then, she felt the rush of desire to dance close to him. She even wished she could kiss him. She realized that she hadn’t even had the presence of mind to ask his name. And she did not tell him hers. She had to regain some composure before she could properly introduce herself. She ran to the ladies’ room. Her cheeks were burning hot. She splashed cool water, fluffed up her hair, and tightened the bow of her organza blue dress to give herself a thinner waistline. She locked herself in a stall and breathed deeply to regain control of herself.

  When she returned to the ballroom in search of the handsome lad, she could not find him in the crowd of guests. Twenty long, anxious minutes later, with her heart sinking at the thought that he had left and she might never see him again, she spotted him—on the crowded floor, dancing with Noora! His eyes were on her and his arm circled her waist. But worse, Michel’s father was conversing with her father while keeping a watchful eye on their children. The men smiled at one another, nodding with that awful, knowing look. Zaffeera understood the obvious: a future marriage—and a possible new business union for both fathers, as the result.

  She wanted to tear Noora to pieces. Even if Noora was a little older, Zaffeera had met him first. She knew he liked her, before her father pushed him onto Noora. Always Noora before her. She stood in the shadow of a pillar, desperately trying to control her pain.

  She kept her anger bottled up for almost six years. She was determined not to let that wedding take place. She would find a way, somehow, someday, to get Michel to fall in love with her. No matter what it took … No matter what.

  “… No matter what!” Noora’s voice barged into Zaffeera’s reverie, jolting her back to the present.

  “What?” Zaffeera asked.

  “Pardon?” Noora turned to Zaffeera.

  “No matter what, what?” Zaffeera asked, annoyed. “What were you saying just now?”

  “You didn’t hear me?”

  “I heard you,” Zaffeera sighed. She didn’t really want Noora to repeat whatever she was saying. Always the same, always about herself.

  “I said I don’t think I did well on my story.”

  “Oh, right. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m just not going to.”

  Behind Noora, Zaffeera caught a glimpse of Moustafa walking toward the restaurant on the opposite side of the street.

  “What does she expect?” Noora continued. “Two hours to write a story. It’s crazy. Insane. Impossible.”

  “I thought you said she gave you the assignment last week.”

  “Actually, she gave us a week to think about it. That still isn’t enough time to write a story … in three scenes. Life is not in three scenes!”

  “You mean three acts.”

  “Writers take years. It took Margaret Mitchell ten years to write Gone with the Wind. You know that?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m not talking about a novel here, but you’d think she’d give us more time …”

  Noora’s endless complaints grated on Zaffeera’s nerves. Only five more minutes, and that sexy American with the California surfer-boy blond hair would appear behind the double-glass entrance to unlock the doors. The line was now stretching around the bloody building.

  “How were your exams?” Noora asked.

  Moustafa had disappeared. Where the hell is that idiot?

  “Zee? How were your exams?”

  Zaffeera turned away from her sister and fiddled with her umbrella. She tucked it under her arm. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “I’m sorry. Was it grueling for you too?”

  “No, it was not grueling at all,” Zaffeera said, trying to keep calm. “We had a simple quiz. I didn’t mean to sound shor
t. I’m just hungry.”

  “Sorry … I’m famished. They should open the doors any minute now.”

  Zaffeera dug in her latest spring fashion Louis Vuitton bag and produced a box of Altoids. “Here. Have one.”

  “Not those mint bombs,” Noora said.

  “These are different. Take this one. They help ease starvation,” Zaffeera said, almost shoving the mint in her sister’s mouth.

  Noora chewed. “They taste weird.”

  “Weird?

  “Well, different. A little bitter …”

  “That’s because they’re new. And improved. This new brand also freshens and kills bacteria. And …” Zaffeera stopped. She shouldn’t sound too eager to sell the mints.

  Malibu Boy finally appeared behind the glass doors with his ring of jingling keys. Immediately, the line began to move inside. Zaffeera breathed in the warmth of the restaurant and looked forward to the mouthwatering whiff of charcoal-broiled burgers.

  She guided Noora to the booth by the window. Elvis Presley’s familiar thunderous voice boomed through the loudspeakers. “It’s now or never …”

  Noora tried to flag down a waitress. A bubbly, gum-chewing server with a fiery eighties hairdo bounced in. Minutes later, she returned. “Didn’t I just fill ‘em, girls?” she asked, pouring ice water into the already emptied Coca-Cola-shaped glasses. “Where’re you girls from? The Sahara?” She pronounced it “Sa-hair-ah.”

  Noora laughed. “Actually, we’re not that far from there.”

  The waitress sauntered off to the next booth while Zaffeera glared at her. She leaned across the table and whispered loud enough for Noora’s ears, “You don’t have to tell everyone our business.”

  “Sorry,” Noora said. “I think it went right over her Madonna hairdo,” she giggled, lifting her glass. “To your health. And good grades!” She gulped down her second glass of water.

  Zaffeera watched her sister and wondered how long it would be before the pill Noora thought was a mint took effect.