“Yes, she would be. She’s been up for several nights, taking care of Shamsah.”
“Poor Shamsah,” Noora said quietly. “I feel so guilty. I didn’t even call her when we were in London.”
“I know. I did.”
“I hope she is better.”
“Me too. Let’s not disturb anyone.”
“Right. We’ll see them in the morning. Aren’t you going to your room?” Noora whispered.
“I need some chamomile tea.”
“I need some water. I’ll just get it in my room.” Noora waved a weary hand, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and entered another corridor. At last we’re home!
As Noora headed to her room at the end of another long hallway, a shadow passed.
“Hello?” Noora called, trying to keep her voice low. No one answered. “Hello, hello?” she said a slight tone louder.
It was perhaps a new maid working the late shift and too shy to respond, Noora thought, or probably Gamelia, Zaffeera’s little maid, who was always painfully timid.
Yes, it was very late—but something didn’t feel right, Noora thought, wishing they could have arrived earlier to enjoy their usual warm welcome. Finally in her wonderful bedroom, Noora turned on all the lights and locked her door.
She dove into her sumptuous bed amid mounds of fluffed-up pillows. “Ah, so good to be home, my own room. I missed you so much,” she said, looking up at the pale pink chiffon and lace that draped around her four-poster bed. She found a crystal carafe filled with water on her nightstand. The ice had melted long before, dampening the embroidered linen napkin under the carafe. The maids must have prepared everything hours ago, knowing she would need water for the night. How nice to be pampered again, she thought, gulping down more than half the carafe. She dropped her sneakers on the floor. With her toes, she peeled off each sock. She sank her head into one of the billowy pillow shams and luxuriated beneath the cool down comforter. Sliding a cheek against the silk pillowcase, she fantasized about Michel kissing her. She felt blessed. Blessed to be home and blessed for the chance to live in such luxury, which she especially appreciated after the gloomy apartment in London. Above all, she felt especially blessed because soon she would be married, and she would never have to sleep alone; and with that, she fell into a blissful sleep.
Bright sunlight flooded the bedroom through the sheer drapes, waking Noora. Moaning with delight, she relished the thought that she was not dreaming. She was indeed home. But the seams of her tight jeans were cutting painfully at her skin. She had fallen asleep before she could undress. And her body ached all over. God, I hope I’m not catching some kind of a flu, she prayed, stumbling stiffly out of bed. To her surprise, she found her luggage inside her room, near her closed door. She thought she had locked it the night before.
Under massaging shower sprays that came from all directions inside the wide pink tub of her marble bathroom, Noora’s aching muscles began to relax.
Wearing her soft, thick peignoir, she pushed into her cushiony slippers and padded across her shaggy lamb’s-wool rug. She dropped her luggage on top of her bed and began to unpack. She lifted some kind of sheer undergarment and examined it with surprise. Where did that come from? She checked the luggage tag to make sure it was hers. Indeed it was, but she certainly didn’t remember owning such a sexy-looking négligée.
A loud pounding on her door startled her.
“Who is it?”
“Your father needs to see you in the living room,” came a harsh female voice from the opposite side of her bedroom door.
Noora did not recognize the woman. It must have been a new housekeeper. But the new ones usually used more discretion. Maybe they tried to get her attention when she was in the shower for almost an hour, Noora thought, dropping the négligée in her open luggage. She tightened the belt of her peignoir. Brushing wet hair strands away from her face, she ran to the door and opened it wide.
No one was there. She stepped out on the corridor and heard footsteps. “Sabbah El Noor, good morning!” Noora called happily. No one answered. Why didn’t her father buzz her on the intercom? she wondered, closing the door behind her.
Searching through her huge walk-in closet, Noora wondered what she should wear after such a formal request. She couldn’t make up her mind. She was too excited. Could it be that Michel was there waiting? No, he was spending the spring holiday with his father in Switzerland. She had to rush and not make her father wait. Her heart tingled with excitement.
Something was definitely going on. What was the surprise? She chose a classy, round-necked black dress with a delicate silk shawl to match. Black was always fashionable, especially lately, and smart when one didn’t know what, or whom, to expect.
CHAPTER 6
THE SILENT BOY
“Take off your shirt!” the elementary school nurse told Mr. Fendil’s youngest son.
Not waiting for him to refuse, the nurse removed it. Kettayef had never been more embarrassed. The male nurse lowered the waistband of his pants and examined to see if there were any lesions of chicken pox that might have flared up on his stomach.
That morning, Kettayef felt ill the moment he arrived at school. He prayed that by lunchtime he would feel better, but he felt worse. His schoolmaster suspected it could be the start of chicken pox and sent him to the infirmary. The headmaster said Kettayef had a fever and could be contagious. He was just flushed from being ridiculed, standing with his bare chest where other classmates could see him. For the first time, he wished he could speak. But he said nothing; Kettayef never said anything. The nurse called his mother. One of the maids must have answered; Mrs. Fendil could not come to the phone.
“His little sister has a bad case of the chicken pox,” Kettayef heard the nurse say to his headmaster. Quickly, Kettayef buttoned his shirt. He saw the two adults give each other a worried glance. “We need to send him home,” the nurse said, scribbling something on a pink release form.
A heavy hand gripped Kettayef’s shoulder. “I’m taking you home,” a lanky young man announced with authority. He was the principal’s son.
Kettayef’s clothes stuck to his sweaty skin. He knew he wasn’t all that sick, but he was glad to be going home.
He sat in the back seat of the school’s silver Mercedes van. The mobile phone rang.
“Another one with chicken pox? This is terrible,” the driver said, stopping in front of a mansion. He opened the door for the boy.
Blistering desert air engulfed Kettayef as he stepped off the van.
The driver turned to Kettayef. “I have to drive another sick kid home. Are you able to walk to your front door by yourself?” he said, enunciating each word carefully as if speaking to an imbecile. Kettayef hated it when adults did that to him. But he just nodded, showing his pink release slip.
The van drove off, creating a cloud of dust, leaving Kettayef standing alone, in front of a wrought iron gate. The golden sign on the gate read:
27 Aswan Street
Kettayef’s house was at 27 Anwar Street, the next block over.
He began to walk home, telling himself he wouldn’t get sick. His older brother Nageeb was home from Cairo. Nothing could please him more than seeing him. Even if Nageeb was there for only a few days, his brother was sure to spend time with him. The last thing Kettayef needed was to be sick with chicken pox.
His older sisters might have arrived in the middle of the night. He wasn’t sure. His mother said they had been delayed in Cairo. The girls were surely going to bring him more T-shirts that he didn’t need. At school, he was only allowed to wear a uniform, and at home, he preferred to lounge around in cotton pajamas. Why did they always bother him with T-shirts?
Someone was mowing the lawn beyond a tall filigree fence. The fragrance of fresh-cut grass reminded him of his grandmother, who often preferred to mow the lawn herself. She didn’t think gardeners did a good enough job. She looked pretty funny, his little grandmother, roaring around on that big mowing machine. Kettayef alw
ays admired her strength. When he was smaller, she used to let him ride on her lap, and together, they mowed every inch of grass. He could feel her presence as never before. Like the rest of his family, he missed her terribly. But he was sure he missed her more. She never tried to make him talk. She just accepted him the way he was. If he had a fever, his grandmother would have taken care of him, giving him one of her miracle cures.
He stopped in front of his father’s mansion. A navy blue car was parked on the horseshoe driveway. Those horrible men were at Father’s house again? They were always there these days. They were supposed to be doing business with his father, but they looked suspicious in their dark gray suits. Like sharks. The man who was their leader wore the gallabeya and headdress. Kettayef did not like him either. They probably wanted money, and he thought they were taking advantage of his father. He loosened his shirt and blew onto his feverish chest.
Kettayef sneaked through the rear entrance and ran through the garden. He jiggled the old handle and it opened. He made his way through long corridors, and reached the huge atrium, where the Olympic-sized pool sparkled beneath a glass-domed ceiling. He knew no one swam at that hour, and he couldn’t wait to remove his sweaty clothes and finally enjoy a cool swim. When he heard footsteps echoing throughout the area, he quickly hid under the diving board. A man dressed in a dark gray business suit was opening the double glass doors. He stood erect at the entrance, as if waiting for someone. Now these terrible men were invading his father’s pool, too? Kettayef worried that he wouldn’t be able to get out of there without being noticed.
CHAPTER 7
IN THE NAME OF HONOR
Noora rushed through the corridors. Meeting her father in the family’s living room was odd, but he always surprised her with something new, something special from abroad, including boxes of chocolate.
At first, she felt a burst of excitement, but when she arrived in the grand living room, she stopped. She had almost forgotten how gaudy it was, with gold-leafed marble pillars, Louis XIV-style furniture, and high, painted ceilings. Crystal chandeliers hung heavily, illuminating an unusual scene.
Her father wore the traditional white gallabeya, which he usually reserved for religious occasions. He was pacing upon one of his prized antique Turkish rugs like a caged cougar. His hair was unusually unkempt.
At least five men in shark-gray suits stood behind her father. They all wore the same attire the chauffeur had worn the night before. An older, leathery-faced man in a gallabeya hovered in the background. The moment Farid Fendil caught sight of his daughter, his kind brown eyes flashed fiery daggers. He groaned something in Nahaoui, a literary Arabic the younger generation did not bother to learn.
The words were familiar to Noora, but she did not comprehend them. First they sounded like words from a prayer, and then vile insults.
He ran up to her…
“I denounce you!”
He grabbed her by the hair, forced her to her knees, and kicked her in the face. He kicked her again. Blood squirted into her eyes, and before she could bring a hand up to protect herself, he kicked her a third time. She heard a cracking sound in her head and her vision blurred.
It had to be a nightmare. She must wake up now! But the horrific experience persisted. She was suffocating.
She tried to get away from him, but he caught her and dragged her down the long corridor by her feet. She heard screams and barely recognized them as her own. Blood from her fingers streaked the marble tiles. Men in gray suits stood like steel posts. She saw the man with the mustache.
The man from London.
She reached out a hand. Help me! But he stood glaring at her, as her father dragged her down the pool steps and rammed her head beneath the water’s surface.
The loving hands that once taught her how to swim were drowning her.
The twenty-one years of her life flashed before her. The same pool sparkled beneath the sun-drenched crystal dome. Her father’s arms were piled with presents. Ten illuminated candles were ready to be blown from her huge pink birthday cake …
Her sister Zaffeera, eight years old, stood at the edge of the pool in her red bathing suit, fists on her hips. “It’s my turn to swim now, Father,” her voice echoed from the past. “It’s my turn!”
Please, God, keep her safe, Noora cried in her heart. For a brief moment, she could see the gold letters of her parents’ initials etched in the marble, on the deep end of the pool. The undulating water turned murky with blood.
Her chest burned as her lungs filled with water. She needed to breathe, she had to breathe now! She had to beg for his mercy, for whatever the cause, she didn’t know.
He pushed her down and would not let go!
If she could just reach the surface—and ask, WHY?
Too weak to struggle, Noora was pulled into a dark vortex.
Moustafa thought he deserved a medal. Was it not all thanks to him, as faithful member and employee, that the sharmouta was finally getting what she deserved? He stood at the edge of the deep end of the pool, guarding the area in case the whore should try to get away. Not that she ever could. It was exciting to watch her father, the honorable Mr. Farid Fendil—the one they also called Abu Nageeb Fendil—kick her and drag her down the pool. In case she did attempt to escape, he would catch her. Actually, he wished he could. He would strangle her—watch her beg for her last breath. He was the one she had belittled. He glanced across the opposite side of the pool, toward the shallow end. Four of the other men, also in dark gray suits and red ties, were watching. Like himself, they were members of the MOFHAJ, the newly formed association named after the street in a rural town outside Cairo where the sheik was born. The letters also stood for Men of Faith, Honor, and Justice in English, words Farid Fendil and the sheik strongly believed in and followed. Their committee now had more than thirty men, and Mr. Fendil proved that he was a morally ethical and religious man when he allowed the chosen ones to assist in the execution.
The one thing that bothered Moustafa, however, was that he had not yet been acknowledged—not even a word of praise by any of his peers for his deed.
Crouching under the diving board, Kettayef trembled so hard, his teeth were chattering. He prayed that the man who stood like a secret agent didn’t notice him. But he had to do something to save his sister. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. He held his knees tightly against his chin.
Was that really his father? Impossible. It had to be a nightmare, and soon he would wake up. But the nightmare persisted, and the boy couldn’t bear it anymore.
“Enough, Father!” Kettayef said in Arabic, breaking out of his silence and articulating each word clearly.
He realized a miracle just happened. He actually spoke.
No one heard him.
“Kefaya, Abuya!” the boy repeated louder.
Still no one heard. Nageeb! Do something. Why was his brother just standing there?
Nageeb had been briefed by two or three men he had met once before, in his father’s office. He didn’t remember how many there were, or who they were. He had assumed they were men from his father’s mosque. He was shocked when these strangers informed him that his sister, Noora, had committed an immoral crime.
“Immoral crime?” Nageeb asked.
“We have proof … pictures,” one of them said.
The other man put a heavy hand on Nageeb’s shoulder. “Unless action is taken to resolve and erase the shame immediately, what your sister did will dishonor your family name … Will defame your father… and you, forever …”
Their words punctured his heart like a knife.
Nageeb had worked around the clock at the hospital in Cairo so he could finally fly home and enjoy a few days off with his family. Now he felt dizzy, disoriented, and his mouth was dry. Like a sleepwalker, he’d found himself being escorted by those men from his father’s office to the indoor pool, at the opposite end of the mansion.
Standing at the edge of the pool, watching helplessly while Noora struggled for he
r life, Nageeb’s blood drained from his face.
“Kefaya, Abuya,” said Kettayef. Nageeb heard him. His little brother had never spoken before.
The pitiable plea galvanized him into action. Without removing his trousers and shirt, or even his shoes, Nageeb slipped into the pool before these men could stop him.
“Father, with all due respect, we can’t kill a dead body!” Nageeb declared loudly, standing waist-deep in the pool and carefully approaching his enraged father.
His father did not stir.
“She is already dead,” Nageeb said with authority. “Please allow me to confirm it.”
An endless moment of stillness followed.
As if coming out of a trance, Farid Fendil at last released Noora. He rubbed his hands on his clothing beneath the surface of the water, as if he had touched sin.
Noora’s limp body, wrapped in black cloth, slowly floated away toward the deep end.
“Mayetah,” he announced. “She is dead.”
Everyone heard it.
“MAYETAH,” Nageeb repeated louder.
Silence reigned. Everyone waited for Mr. Fendil’s next move.
“Take it away,” he said. Pale and trembling with fury, he waded up toward the side of the pool. He stumbled on the shallow steps. Sheik Abdullah Kharoub offered Farid a hand, which he accepted with a grateful “Shokran.”
Farid Fendil walked with the sheik through a long corridor that led to the men’s wing. His sandals squished with every heavy step he took, and left wet imprints on the marble floors. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blurring his view, but he had a mission and continued ahead. He made his way through another maze of tall arches and white pillars.
Like a procession, five men followed Farid, the sound of their expensive Italian footwear echoing through the halls of the west wing, where no woman ventured.
Noora’s father opened the tall double doors to his private office. The walls were paneled with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves and lined with leatherbound books written in Arabic, English, and French, which he was proud to own, but never took the time to read. A tall window opened to a huge verandah surrounded by potted palms and facing the mansion’s circular driveway below.
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