Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “Good. Do you know when you’ll arrive?”

  “They’re picking us up at ten in the morning.”

  “Ten? But your father always arranges for you to travel earlier so you can arrive before sunset …”

  “Yes, but this time, I am glad they’re coming a little later, Mother, because Noora … well, Noora, I’ll have to wake her up. And help her pack.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because, she is not … home yet.”

  “Allah! Fen okhtek?”

  “Well, mmm …” She waited a moment, careful to deliver the next momentous line with seeming reluctance. Then, like a shot from a cannon, she said: “I don’t know where my sister is; she went out.”

  There was silence at the other end. Zaffeera checked her watch again. According to her careful calculations, she still had a little time before the doorbell rang.

  “What did you say? She went out?” her mother asked.

  “Yes. She … Noora went out for the evening.”

  “What do you mean, out for the evening? Where did she go?”

  “I’m not quite sure. She went to a party with some friends …”

  “But it’s too late there for a girl to be out!”

  “Yes, but I’m sure she’ll come home …” She pursed her lips tightly. It was best not to say too much. She waited for tension to mount. She could hear her little sister whining in the background.

  “Zaffeera, wait a minute, please.”

  The receiver clanked noisily on her eardrum, piercing her sensitive nerves like an alarm. Endless minutes later, her mother returned to the phone. “I have to go. Shamsah needs me. She is itching all over. It’s even inside her ears now. Zaffeera, ya habibti,” her mother begged. “Please! If Noora does not return within the hour, you must call me!”

  “Yes, I will. But please don’t worry. I won’t disturb you … I am sure Noora will be home soon,” Zaffeera said rapidly. “I love you, ya ummy.” She hung up.

  A half hour later, Zaffeera was pacing nervously. She thought her heart would drum right out of her chest. The doorbell should have rung by now. What was taking them so long? With the drugs Noora had in her system, it should have been easy to seduce her, and it shouldn’t have taken so long. Zaffeera didn’t pay for those male prostitutes to enjoy themselves! Bastards.

  Their instructions could not have been simpler: Put Noora in the taxicab that would be waiting outside the club. The driver was to drop her off in front of the apartment building and ring the doorbell. They all came from a reputable professional “escort” agency that supposedly offered the ultimate in privacy, at a high price. Cash in advance. She had saved her money.

  At any rate, there would be photos—Moustafa had snapped pictures like some disgusting paparazzo. He could have been a little more discreet. But never mind about that, as long as there was proof enough to convince her parents that Noora was no angel.

  What could possibly be keeping them? What if Moustafa decided to intervene, got in a fight with the love boys, or called the police?

  Zaffeera planned to run down the stairs wearing her peignoir and house slippers. These guys weren’t supposed to rough Noora up in any way, and the cab driver was part of her plan.

  She almost forgot to change. She ran to her bedroom and grabbed her peignoir from the hook behind the bathroom door. She quickly rolled up a few pink sponge rollers in her hair. She put her glasses back on, but changed her mind and put them in her pocket. If Moustafa was to see her downstairs at the door, picking up her drunken sister, it had to be clear that Zaffeera had just gotten out of bed.

  Zaffeera was rolling up the last sponge roller when the doorbell rang, piercing her nerves. The bell rang a second time, longer, more persistent. She began to panic. Where did she put her keys? Finally she found them, right where she had left them, on the hallway console. Stop worrying, she told herself, locking the front door.

  Finally downstairs, she pulled open the main entrance door just as the taxi drove off, leaving Noora stumbling around like a drunken bimbo, balancing on one high-heeled shoe. Zaffeera glanced up while supposedly trying to help her sister inside. As far as she could see, the street was deserted.

  Where the hell was Moustafa? Why was he not there to take more pictures?

  “What happened to you, Noora?” Zaffeera purred, stalling for time.

  Noora gazed at Zaffeera lovingly, then belched out a copious amount of vomit all over her sister’s peignoir. Zaffeera shrieked, forcing herself to control the urge to slap the bitch’s face, but the neighbors might have been watching from behind curtains. And still no sign of that homar? She heard a car drive up. Tires screeched to a halt around the corner. She prayed it was Moustafa’s cab. It had to be. She held her sister up, at the same time trying to pick up Noora’s shoe, which had fallen to the ground and down a couple of steps. It was full of vomit. She lifted it anyway, nearly retching. With her adrenaline pumping, Zaffeera lifted the dead weight of her sister’s body without much trouble, though she couldn’t help gagging from the stench.

  She heard Moustafa running up the street. She also heard the click of his camera. Only one picture? She lingered a bit longer, displaying the difficult time she had. She put Noora down for a moment. Then, holding her by the waist, pretending to struggle, Zaffeera slowly pulled her sister inside. She would have preferred to remain out there a little longer, for Moustafa’s sake, but she was satisfied that he had seen enough. As far as she was concerned, his job was done.

  *

  Moustafa’s job had just begun. By five o’clock in the morning, he had returned from the all-night photo lab. The enlarged prints of Noora at the Velvet Cave were strewn over his bedcovers. He had less than five hours before the Fendil limousine would come to take the girls to the airport. He was scheduled to leave later on a commercial flight that would arrive at Al-Balladi in the middle of the night—a bad time to disturb the sheik. But this was an urgent case. He should bring the originals personally, and as soon as possible. He picked up the phone. He had a difficult time tearing his attention from the provocative photographs, but he had to focus on punching in the right numbers to the main office. Surely they would have to put him through directly to the honorable Sheik Abdullah Kharoub.

  CHAPTER 5

  THE HOMECOMING

  The flight from London’s Heathrow to Cairo was turbulent. Zaffeera fell asleep minutes after takeoff and did not stir from the soft, kid-leather reclining chair. Noora had spent the last half hour of the flight vomiting in the lavatory. She did not understand why she felt so sick. Bumpy flights never bothered her before.

  When they landed in Cairo, the Fendil private jet was delayed at the airport due to a khamseen, a sandstorm in the direction they were to take.

  While the pilot waited for clearance, Zaffeera finished a lavish lunch of roasted lamb and soft-cooked vegetables on a bed of couscous that the hostess had ordered in advance and prepared for the girls.

  Noora, who usually loved Egyptian cuisine, could not stand the smell of food, and the air in the jet was getting stuffy. She made another trip to the bathroom. When she returned, Zaffeera was savoring a small piece of honey-drenched baklava.

  “I don’t understand why I feel so … squeamish,” Noora said.

  “Squeamish?”

  “I’ve been throwing up. Sorry, I shouldn’t talk like that while you’re eating,” Noora said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I feel like I caught something. Are you feeling okay?” Noora asked in Arabic.

  “Yes. I should think you’d be feeling good about going home,” Zaffeera replied in English, licking the sweet honey from her manicured fingers.

  “Yes, of course I’m very happy about that, but … what happened last night? You disappeared all of a sudden.”

  “I disappeared?” Zaffeera asked, her eyes wide with surprise. “You’re the one who disappeared. I searched all over for you, all over that noisy place.”

  “Remind me what happened exactly.�
��

  “You don’t remember?”

  Noora had to stop and think. Oh my God, was that what alcohol did to people’s brain? Made them temporarily lose their memory? Especially if one never had a drink before. God, forgive me …

  “I had to run to the bathroom,” Zaffeera explained.

  “Yes, I remember that.”

  “It was mobbed with all these weird-looking girls, but I had to go, and when I ran back out to find you, you were gone,” Zaffeera said. “I was sick with worry.”

  “You were?”

  “Of course I was.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I was thirsty and I thought you went to get us something to drink from the bar. But after that, you went to the bathroom?” Noora asked, confused.

  “Yes, didn’t I just say that?”

  “Please, Zee, just remind me again.”

  “Before waiting to get drinks, I went to the bathroom. As I said before. Then I went to get us a lemonade, but the line was too long at the bar, and when I came back to find you, you were gone. What happened? Don’t you remember?” Zaffeera asked, pushing her tray aside.

  “No … I … I think I was foolish enough to accept someone’s drink.”

  “Then what happened to you?”

  “I drank something that had a strawberry in it. I remember the strawberry.”

  “You remember the strawberry, but you don’t remember the rest?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it was champagne that I drank, because it was in one of those champagne glasses.”

  “You mean … like a flute?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid it was champagne that I drank. I think they offered me another one … But that wouldn’t make me … What did happen?”

  “You’re asking me? You left me. When I finally found you, I called a cab.”

  “Wait. Let’s backtrack a bit.”

  “Backtrack? Noora, forget about it. It’s in the past. We’re going home.”

  “Okay, but wait. Just a moment. Just tell me … Where was I when you found me?”

  “What do you mean? You were … sitting in a booth near the dance floor. You said you were hot, and that you wanted a breath of fresh air. I wanted to get out of there, but you wanted to stay.”

  “I did not. I wanted to go to that other place—the restaurant where the girls from school were meeting to celebrate … you know, by the carousel. We were there once before. Before the winter break. I can never remember the name of that restaurant. A little college hangout. We told the cab driver … Wait a minute. I remember now. The driver said he knew where it was, and you said something about a cave, and we wound up somewhere else.”

  Zaffeera looked deep into her sister’s eyes. “What cave, Noora?”

  “I don’t know,” Noora said. She shouldn’t be blaming Zaffeera when she herself was the one at fault. “When we arrived at that place, somebody offered me a drink. I was so thirsty. I think I drank two of them. And …” Noora sighed and let herself fall onto the seat next to Zaffeera.

  “Maybe you drank alcohol,” Zaffeera said. “Made you sick. Okay. You should’ve waited for me. It’s over now. Forget it.”

  “Zaffeera, something went wrong. I feel terrible.”

  “Relax. I’ll give you some Tums. You like Tums. You’ll feel better soon.”

  “I feel terrible because I drank alcohol. How could I have done such a stupid thing? Oh my God!”

  “Shh,” Zaffeera said, leaning closer to her sister. “The flight attendant doesn’t need to hear us.”

  “Sorry,” Noora whispered. “I thought it was water.” She breathed a deep, guilty sigh. “No wonder I feel so sick.”

  “If you keep talking about it, you’ll make yourself sicker. Forget it, Noora. Let’s never talk about it anymore. It’s our secret,” Zaffeera whispered. “Maybe they’ll let you deplane and get some fresh air. I’ll go with you, if you like. I’ll ask the pilot.” Zaffeera unbuckled her seat belt.

  “Zaffeera … thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  Moments later, Zaffeera returned from the cockpit.

  “The pilots said we can’t deplane at this time because of some political commotion on the outskirts of Cairo.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing to worry about, they assured me.” Zaffeera sat down and buckled herself in. “They’re just taking extra precautions. But good news, they said the khamseen is blowing in another direction. We should leave in a half hour or so. Don’t worry anymore, Noora. Soon we’ll be home.”

  Noora tried to relax on a reclining seat in the rear of the plane—close to the lavatory. Wearily, she gazed out through the porthole. A thick, golden haze veiled the city. She watched as the sun sank lazily behind a horizon of old buildings and minarets. She had visited Cairo on many occasions, but she never spent enough time to appreciate the city.

  Before moving to the rented flat she occupied with Zaffeera, Noora had lived with a stern older couple. They had originally attended the LLC when it first opened and were now both part-time math teachers. Nageeb used to rescue Noora every Friday night and take her to dine in Middle Eastern restaurants, with the valid excuse that they both missed their mother’s cooking.

  It just wasn’t the same with Zaffeera, though she liked having her sister with her—and she was pleased that their father had given them the trust and liberty to live in their own flat without a chaperone. But Zaffeera was always so prim and proper, so mature and organized. Noora sometimes thought her sister took life too seriously, especially when it came to her schoolwork.

  Noora remembered how sad she had been when Nageeb announced that their father wanted him to take his residency in Cairo. She had missed him during the eight long months without him in London. She couldn’t wait to see him, and he most likely had many new noktas to tell her. Those clever and funny Arabic jokes always made her laugh out loud. And he would probably know the right medicine to give her for her weak stomach.

  The family’s white stretch limousine was parked in its usual spot when the private jet landed at the Al-Balladi airstrip.

  The sisters stepped out onto the portable stairway. Noora looked around for Abdo but he was not there. She had looked forward to his warm welcome. He always ran up the jet’s steel steps, practically trampling all over his floor-length traditional white garb, and after bone-jarring hugs, he would carry their luggage to the car.

  This time, there was a straight-faced chauffeur.

  “We should have dressed up,” Noora remarked. She wore form-fitting designer jeans and a snug T-shirt with the Hard Rock Café logo.

  Behind her tinted, gold-framed Christian Dior prescription lenses, Zaffeera studied the new situation. The driver was dressed in a dark gray business suit and stood in front of the limousine. Her gaze fastened on the man’s crimson necktie with a golden emblem in the middle. She recognized the insignia: “MOFHAJ.” Her heart began to race. Quickly, she reached in her Louis Vuitton travel bag and extracted a large black silk scarf. She was glad she had had the good sense to change into a long skirt and black long-sleeved blouse just prior to landing. She draped her scarf around her head and covered her mouth. She cast her eyes downward and walked to the limo.

  Noora filled her lungs with the familiar warm air. She felt instantly revived, and tossed her long brown hair, letting its waves dance around her shoulders, as she breezed her way to the car.

  The chauffeur grudgingly held the door open for Noora. When she climbed in, he slammed it so hard, he barely missed hitting her from behind.

  She was shocked by his disrespectful behavior.

  One of the airport assistants handed the chauffeur the girls’ luggage, and he carelessly dumped the pieces in the trunk.

  As soon as he sat behind the wheel, he closed the glass partition and switched on the ignition. Noora thought the new chauffeur had the personality of a camel. He did not even say welcome, did not speak to them at all. Actually, he did remind her of a camel, because a few times, he grunted loudly as if he had some
thing stuck in his throat. As long as he didn’t spit, she thought, opening the small refrigerator; to her surprise, it was empty. That driver did not think to put spring water in the limousine. Not even a soda? Abdo always made sure the limousine’s little built-in fridge was stacked with bottled water and soft drinks.

  She was feeling sick again. Perhaps she should have some ginger ale. If she told the chauffeur she had been dreadfully ill on the plane ride since they left London, and that she was about to throw up all over the limo, perhaps he would speed up a bit.

  She leaned over and tapped on the glass. “Min fadlak?” she asked respectfully in Arabic to get his attention.

  The man gave no reply.

  She turned to Zaffeera who was curled up against the door, her shawl wrapped tightly around her head and mouth. She had fallen asleep. She seemed unusually exhausted and preoccupied about something. Perhaps she didn’t do well on her exams. Zaffeera was a very bright student, and if she ever did have any difficulty with her studies, she never complained. She would never burden anyone with her problems, Noora thought. That’s how Zaffeera was.

  Beneath a moonless sky, the Fendil limousine slowly made its way through the gleaming white iron gates. The royal palms lining the wide circular driveway did not stir in the faint night breeze. The exterior lighting barely illuminated the steps that led to the large Tiffany front doors. Noora hopped out of the car while the chauffeur put the luggage next to the doors. Zaffeera stumbled out of the limousine groggily and covered her head and mouth with her veil as she climbed the front steps.

  The chauffeur returned behind the wheel and quietly rolled the car out of the driveway. Noora turned and watched the limousine as it drove out toward the service entrance behind the house, where their father had his sixteen-car garage.

  Inside their parents’ home, Noora felt strangely uncomfortable. “Where is everybody?” she asked, shivering with the chill of the air conditioning.

  “Asleep, I’m sure. It’s very late,” Zaffeera whispered.

  “Mother must be exhausted.”