“Why do you always bring us gifts, when you know you are our gift?! Ya ibn, you are our angel!” Uncle Fellous sniffled. “Yes, how is the family?”
“Hamdallah,” was all Nageeb managed to mutter.
“And tell me. How are the children?”
“Hamdallah.” Nageeb nodded.
“Let me see. I know their names all in their proper order! I don’t forget,” he said proudly. “First of course, there is you,” he chuckled. “And, after you, there is Noora, ah, the beautiful Noora … with those eyes. Mashallah! Then the next daughter, Zaffeera.” He tapped his temple with two fingers. “Smart one, she is. She will be a teacher. You will see. I know. And then, there is Kettayef. A son we must bless …”
“Yes,” Aunt Zouzou said, raising both hands up. “May Allah bless him and protect him.”
“Someday he will speak. You mark my words. And then there’s our little Shamsah. The little arusah. Little doll! She is sweet like honey, right?”
“That’s right.” Nageeb nodded, trying to keep a steady smile.
“You see, I know all the children like they were my own. Allah bless them.”
“Each and every one of them,” Aunt Zouzou added.
“I expect everyone is happy and in good health. Right?” Uncle Fellous said, apparently forgetting his surgery for a moment. He smiled broadly.
“Yes,” Nageeb said, watching the two of them—the frail man and his anxious little wife. No. This would definitely not be a hiding place for Noora.
*
Night had fallen on Al-Balladi.
Farid Fendil did not bother to turn on the lights in his office. He had not moved from his leather “throne.” He leaned back and rocked himself as he studied the new handmade pipe the MOFHAJ men had given him. He was using the cardboard matchbook Sheik Abdullah Kharoub had left for him. To hell with the fancy lighters, Farid Fendil thought. From now on, he was going to use only matchbooks. The old ways were better. He would make sure from now on, traditional laws would be enforced.
The phone on his desk broke the silence. It was Nageeb calling from the car, informing him about Uncle Fellous and the state of his recovery.
“Stay at the hotel tonight. It’s too late for you to drive.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Come back tomorrow. I have meetings scheduled all day. I will see you tomorrow night. Ma’al salaama.”
Relieved by his father’s decision, Nageeb pressed the gas pedal, impatient to get back to the dingy hotel.
In the middle of an unpaved one-lane road, his car died without warning. Angrily, he pressed on the gas pedal. Nothing happened. He was out of gas. He pounded on his steering wheel, furious for not taking a moment to notice the gauge. He jumped out of his car and looked up and down the street. In a city filled with gas stations, why was there no station in sight? Luckily, no car was behind him and he was at the edge of a brightly lit, store-lined street. He shifted into neutral, jumped out, and began pushing his car to the nearest parking space. At that moment, even though he was indeed a Muslim, somehow, he could not help but think of a movie he saw that touched him as he watched Jesus Christ bearing the heavy, wooden cross through the street. It felt as if he too had a weighty burden to bear. As he glanced up, a few onlookers were actually watching him from the sidewalk, while the wheels of his car moved forward, the tires crackling upon the gravel. No one made any attempt to give him a hand. Once he got the car rolling, it was not difficult to maneuver it into a parking space. He had no choice but to leave it there overnight.
Up ahead, he saw a small clothing store. He locked his car and went inside, where he found a black sack dress and sandals for his sister. As he was about to leave the store, a long black shawl on a mannequin caught his eye. It would work well to help conceal his sister’s wounded face.
With the clothing he just purchased, Nageeb rushed back to the hotel. He prayed Noora hadn’t awakened to find herself alone.
Thank God, Nageeb thought when he was finally back in the room. He found Noora resting in the same position he had left her. No doubt by dawn, she would awaken in pain, especially from her broken nose. He would have to augment the pain medicine.
He took the telephone to the bathroom and dialed the five-star hotel where his father stayed when he visited Aqaba. Using his father’s platinum credit card, he reserved a room for one night. When the bill arrived in his father’s office, he and perhaps even those fanatics would surely believe that Nageeb had spent the night there while in Aqaba. He hated having to go out again, leaving Noora alone, to check into that hotel. He would figure out what to do later. He felt like a criminal trying to cover his tracks.
Whom could he trust? he wondered, stretching on the bed next to his sister. Where would she be safe? Abroad? Perhaps somewhere like Greece? Noora loved the Mediterranean. He could rent her a small villa somewhere in a village by the sea. How could he smuggle her out without a passport? With money, he could buy a passport. It would mean searching around town and probably dealing with sleazy people. What else could he do?
Feeling restless, he walked to the window. He wished for a cigarette, even though he had stopped smoking more than a year ago. He longed for the soothing effect that would spread from his lungs to his brain, dulling his pain. He had noticed there was a cigarette machine downstairs, but again, he would have to leave Noora.
He opened the gaudy taffeta maroon drapes of the small window and realized the room actually had a nice view. He gazed out at the twinkling lights that danced off toward the hazy horizon. Wasn’t that …? It had to be. Shimmering there, across the Red Sea. Eilat? He had promised himself he would visit Eilat someday, one of the most beautiful resort towns in the world, where people from all over the globe came to vacation. Eilat. A resort haven for honeymooners, pleasure-seekers, leisure-lovers, and maybe … a place where Noora could be safe?
Nageeb thought of Shlomo Moghrabi, who had quit medical school to get married. As far as he remembered, Shlomo had taken a job managing a timeshare resort in Eilat.
“Shlomo… ” Nageeb whispered his friend’s name while staring out at the lights on the horizon.
An ex-classmate and good friend who always seemed to carry that certain joie de vivre, Shlomo always knew how to brighten the gloomiest situation when he attended med school in London.
Nageeb closed the drapes and shuffled wearily to the opposite side of the bed, where Noora lay motionless. As soon as his head hit the flat pillow, he fell into a disturbed slumber.
A few hours later, a shaft of sunlight cut through the open crack of the curtain and shone into Nageeb’s eyes.
“The Crystal Resort … Coral Beach!” That was the name of the resort where Shlomo worked. He had sent Nageeb a postcard the year before, inviting him to visit. Now he regretted that he had never taken a moment to reply to his friend.
He glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping Noora. Soon he would have to change the IV bag. He rose and walked groggily to the bathroom, while wondering if Shlomo was still working at that same resort in Eilat. He opened a bottle of aspirin and popped three pills. I must call Abdo, he thought, swallowing the aspirins all at once. He searched in his wallet for his international credit card. The bills were sent straight to his med school address in Cairo.
*
Abdo had spent the day in the garage, polishing Farid’s Mercedes four-by-four, the one he named the Popemobile. With each stroke of polish Abdo applied on the new paint job of the twelve-year-old metallic-green Benz, he prayed: “In the name of Allah, most gracious, most merciful… I beg of you, I am pleading with you, ya Allah, please, send me good news from Nageeb. Inshallah. INSHALLAH.”
An endless hour later, as Abdo stared at the polished car that gleamed under the sun, the phone rang.
“I’m in Aqaba,” Nageeb said. “I’ll need that document to travel. Pass’ Passing through, you know. It’s in my attaché case. I’ll be traveling.”
Abdo looked to the sky and murmured a grateful hamdallah.
/> While Nageeb was on the phone with Abdo, he did not see that Noora opened her eyes again. She could hear her brother’s voice now. She watched him as he ran his hands through his hair and paced on the wooden floor that creaked with every step he took.
She tried to shift her weight but couldn’t. Her back was itching. Her body ached, her face hurt. She couldn’t bear the needle sticking in her hand. She tried to yank it out.
Nageeb hung up and turned to check on Noora. When he saw she was awake, he ran to her bedside, kneeled, and gazed at her as if witnessing the rise of a prophet. “Hamdallah, hamdallah,” he whispered. “We are going to make it …”
CHAPTER 12
BY THE GRACE OF ABDO
Abdo made his way through his grandmother’s rose garden toward the little limestone house that served as a utility shed. He went in, and a few moments later emerged carrying a plunger and a metal toolbox.
Inside the Fendil home, as he walked through the corridors of the men’s wing, a chilly feeling loomed.
A man dressed in a tailored gray suit and red tie appeared from behind one of the white pillars.
“Where are you going, Abdo?” the man asked, looking at him disdainfully.
Abdo froze. How did the stranger know his name? He thought of his uncle in Cairo who used that same tone of voice prior to sliding out his leather belt; the scars from his ruthless whippings still marked Abdo’s back.
I am Abdo Fendil, legally adopted son of Sultana’s family. And you, sir, are an ibn el kalb! Son of a dog! Abdo thought.
“I asked you a question. Where do you think you’re going?”
Abdo replied as if he were mentally slow. “Sabbah el noor, ya Fendi. Good morning, sir. I have come … to fix … Nageeb’s plumbing. If you’ll excuse me for saying the word, I have to unplug the toilet.”
“What’s inside the box?”
“Tools. A toolbox, and a special gift from my legally adoptive father, Mister Farid Fendil.” He accentuated “legally adoptive” and opened the metal case. He held it up, showing an organized array of shiny tools.
“You may go.” The intruder motioned Abdo away, as if he were nothing more than a smelly dishrag.
As he headed to Nageeb’s room, Abdo listened for footsteps in the hall behind him. He knew he was being watched. How many more of them were there? He never imagined that he would feel threatened in what had once been a loving and secure home.
Inside Nageeb’s room, clothes were scattered. It appeared the young doctor must have begun to unpack his suitcase when he arrived from Cairo. It was still open on top of his bed. A few gift-wrapped boxes were on a chair. At least these MOFHAJ men respected Nageeb’s privacy—they did not seem to have entered the room.
Nageeb’s open attaché case was on the floor, next to his desk. Inside a brown folder, he found Nageeb’s passport. He hid the document in the deep pocket of his gallabeya.
Abdo returned to the kitchen. Two maids were busy at work. One was plucking feathers from a just-slaughtered chicken; another was kneading dough. The usual happy hubbub in the Fendil kitchen was gone. Word had leaked of Noora’s terrible “accident,” but no one knew anything more. Even Bijou, the fluffy family cat, seemed to know something had gone dreadfully wrong. Under the kitchen table, the Persian feline sat up like the Sphinx, its ears perked at attention, watching everyone’s movements.
Abdo casually whistled his way through the courtyard and out to his orange Mercedes 300 Diesel. If Nageeb needed his passport, then what about Noora? She had to be alive. Otherwise, Nageeb would not have so readily said Hamdallah, giving thanks to the Almighty.
Abdo had to find a way to get to Noora’s room and locate her passport. But he feared someone would question him, and he had no idea where to look first. Sweat poured out of him as he rushed through the garden door and another side entrance behind the kitchen. He opened another door and ran up his grandmother’s private stairs. He checked both doors—the one that led to the stairway where he had come up and the regular door that opened to the corridor of the women’s wing, near Sultana’s private suite. Silently, he turned the locks. Once he was sure no one followed, he opened the antique armoire, where a stale fragrance of Joy perfume still lingered. Vivid recollections of happy days returned.
He realized how much he was missing the woman who had saved him from his uncle, the woman he called “Ummy.” He often wondered why her daughter Yasmina had insisted on keeping the room intact after Ummy passed away. Now he could not have been more grateful.
He opened the fourth little drawer inside the armoire. He found everything just the way she had left it. Her passport was still there, beneath sepia-toned pictures. He remembered the day he drove her for her passport picture. Several years before, the family had persuaded her to take a trip to Europe. She didn’t like to travel by plane and never went on any trips, but she kept her passport in her drawer.
His heart hammering nearly out of his chest, Abdo leafed through the passport. He was relieved to see it had not yet expired. He studied Sultana’s picture. Looking serious, her face framed in black by the traditional headdress, she appeared more like a washed-out nun than the cheerful, fun-loving lady she had always been. He pocketed the passport and quickly searched for anything else Noora might need. He grabbed a long black dress and a black shawl with golden fringes he remembered Mr. Fendil had brought back from Italy. No, he’d better not take that shawl; too ornate. He took the old, soft afghan she used to wear when she had to leave at night to deliver babies. She called it her good-luck shawl. He smelled it deeply and tears immediately welled in his eyes. He rolled it up tight, tucked it under his arm, and rushed out.
*
Nageeb stood by the bank counter against the window and pretended to be busy doing his business. Abdo was late. The huge wall clock indicated the bank would close in just minutes. The knot in his stomach tightened. A security guard jiggled his keys annoyingly. Abdo, please hurry. Did he misunderstand where they were to meet? Without money, Nageeb was finished.
Noora had been alone for too long. Nageeb wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead.
The security guard was now holding the glass door open to let the last customers out. Abdo bounced in past the guard, with a cheerful grin. He tapped his watch with his finger. “We have two more minutes!” he declared.
Oh, thank you, God, Nageeb thought.
“Why didn’t you take the four-by-four?” Nageeb asked when they walked out of the bank.
“Some people might recognize your father’s Popemobile. But he knows I never drive my old Benz too far. He won’t suspect I drove it all the way to Aqaba.”
“What if he’s looking for you?”
“If he can’t find me, he’ll think I went to the movies. The Academy Awards are going to be on television Monday. Your father will assume I’ve gone to the Odeon. They’re having a marathon of all the nominated films. He knows my routine. If I’m not working on his cars, I’m at the movies.”
“Good thinking,” Nageeb said.
But as soon as they were inside the old Mercedes, Abdo burst into tears.
“Abdo …” Nageeb had never seen him cry before and realized the terrible pressure Abdo had been under—the horror, the danger—the grief. “Ya akhouya … she’s alive. She is alive, and she will be all right. You’ll see.”
Abdo nodded and started the car. He remained speechless, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I’m sorry … I don’t understand why this had to happen.”
“I am sorry too,” Nageeb said, taking a deep breath and fighting back his own tears. “Let’s hurry.”
When they reached the side street where Nageeb had parked, the black Mercedes Benz S600, loaded with everything, was gone.
“Are you sure that’s where you parked it?”
Nageeb nodded. He was sickened by the realization that someone had actually stolen his car.
“It’s only a piece of machinery.” It was Abdo’s turn to console Nageeb.
“I know,” Nageeb manage
d to utter through a deep, painful sigh. “I feel… violated.”
“Do you remember if you left anything important in the car?”
“I don’t think so. Except the mobile phone.”
“Now you have a valid excuse. Your father can’t reach you.”
Nageeb cracked a bitter smile.
Abdo had to park at the end of the long block, and around the corner because there were no parking spots near the Hotel de Mer.
“What name should I use?”
“They’ll be more interested in your money than your name,” Nageeb said.
At the checkin counter, Abdo registered for a room. Nageeb, who had waited outside for a few minutes, anxiously entered the lobby and headed for the stairs. The hotel’s owner stood at the landing, barring his way.
“When is the bride going to remove that Do Not Disturb sign so we can clean the room?” the man asked, his chunky hands resting on his wide hips.
Nageeb was too weary to think of a clever lie. “After we leave tomorrow morning. But if you prefer, we can check out today. Then you can clean the room. Only I’ll need a refund because I paid you in advance.”
“Take it easy. Just making sure you and your wife are comfortable. That is all, monsieur.”
The man’s nephew was busy counting the cash Abdo laid out on the counter, when everyone’s attention turned to the television set that was prominently displayed in the small lobby. They could see the television from the stairway as the newscaster announced that a 7.1 earthquake had just hit Cairo. The concierge gasped and forgot about Nageeb. He brushed past him and rushed down the stairs to get a closer look at the television.
Soon after Abdo checked into his room at the opposite end of the hall, he rushed back to Nageeb’s room.
“I hope the owner didn’t see you come in our room,” Nageeb said, locking the door. “He’ll think we’re doing something kinky.”
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