“You called me at the right time when I have great news! My beautiful Orly, she is three months pregnant! Don’t tell anyone. We haven’t announced it yet. I am the happiest husband!” Shlomo sang out on the phone.
“Congratulations. Mazel tov!”
“Thank you, habib.”
“Listen, Shlomo, we are here incognito because, well, I know this sounds crazy, but my girlfriend just had her nose fixed. She’s got her face bandaged and her eyes, well, you know how women are; she feels kind of self-conscious … she doesn’t want anyone to see her …”
Shlomo laughed loudly on the phone. “Agh, ya, ya, you keeds just want to be alone. Nakhon. Habib! I understand,” he chuckled.
“Maybe tomorrow night we can get together …”
“Tomorrow we are busy. My mother-in-law invited us to dinner. This I couldn’t cancel. Even if I am completely seek and dying in the hospital, aii, I would steel have to eat her cooking!”
Nageeb was relieved.
“How about the night after?” Shlomo asked.
“Dinner on me.”
“No way, slackhlee. You crazy? You are our guests!”
“You’re letting us stay in one of the most spectacular condos and you expect me to let you pay for dinner? I wouldn’t think of it.”
“We’ll fight over l’addition another time, ya doctoor,” he laughed with his delightful Israeli accent. “You keeds enjoy yourr-selves! It is an order! Nakhon?”
“Understood.”
Nageeb opened his eyes, realizing he had fallen asleep on the couch. He tiptoed to Noora’s room and found her asleep. Leaving the bathroom door slightly ajar, he took a quick shower. After dressing, he walked to the balcony. Classical music wafted from the café below. In the distance, a magnificent yacht was moored before an ornate white villa.
He heard a shuffle and turned. Noora stood, wearing a peignoir provided by the resort. Her voluminous hair was in disarray. Her eyes were swollen.
“Look out there, Noora,” he said as he put an arm around her and led her to the balcony. “Isn’t it beautiful here?”
“Yes,” she said, watching the radiant colors of the day’s end.
“How would you like to live here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean stay in Eilat. For … a little while?”
She seemed puzzled by his question. She looked deep into her brother’s eyes. “I … can’t go home?”
He had to look away. How could he possibly answer such a question? It was too soon to make her face the truth, a truth too painful to hear.
CHAPTER 14
THE AGREEMENT
In the Fendil mansion, Michel Amir studied the intricate designs of the antique handmade Egyptian brass table. Plates of dried fruits and nuts had been placed before him. Absently, he picked up a hazelnut, cracked it with the heavy silver nutcracker, and popped the shelled nut in his mouth. He chewed rhythmically without tasting, his mind on Mr. Fendil. Why did his father want them to meet there today?
He felt very uncomfortable. All he really wanted to do was run away from this home and these people. He wanted to be left alone and cry without anyone judging his weakness. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath. He had a difficult time breathing. He needed fresh air.
On the opposite side of Mr. Fendil’s lavish living room, the fathers were talking. He could not hear what they were saying. He knew this time they were not discussing business matters. What more could be said?
Noora was gone.
He thought of his mother, who had died of cancer when he was twelve. A beautiful, modern, and aristocratic woman of French and Egyptian descent, she had been educated in the best schools in Switzerland, and spoke seven languages with ease and grace. She never revealed her disease, and his father blamed himself for not noticing his wife’s illness. Michel was aware that his father still mourned her loss. He never remarried. A respected Egyptian citizen and renowned real-estate developer, Alexander Amir built private villas in Egypt, France, and Italy. Together, Michel and his father had begun plans to build a modern mansion at Al-Balladi, where Michel and Noora were to have lived. Where he and his fiancée had planned to raise a family. Now all was in vain and his life was over.
He chewed on an apricot. It tasted sour. Earlier, he had asked if he could see where Noora was buried. Michel’s father said the family had already buried her out in the barren desert where her grandmother had been put to rest. But he could not rest until he at least placed flowers on her grave. It appeared the Fendil family had gone back to the old Muslim tradition of burying the dead within twenty-four hours. Mr. Fendil apparently prayed five times a day. Perhaps he had returned to ancient ways after having lost his daughter.
Alexander asked Michel a question, most of which did not even register with him. “You …” he heard his father begin, and the question ended with “do you agree?”
Michel nodded out of habit and respect. “Oui, c’est d’accord.” He was beginning to feel more comfortable speaking French. It was easier to just say yes to whatever his father wanted, so that no further questions could be asked of him.
He saw the two men rise and shake hands. He realized the meeting was over when his father touched his shoulder. Finally, it was time to leave. Mr. Fendil extended his hand. Michel shook it numbly.
When they left the mansion and sat in his father’s Lincoln Town Car, driven by their longtime chauffeur, Monsieur Amir turned to Michel.
“I am proud of you, my son.”
Proud of what? Michel wanted to ask, but stared ahead at the road and remained silent.
CHAPTER 15
A PLACE FOR NOORA
Against a balmy royal blue night sky, disco music floated up to the balcony where Nageeb and Noora sat. There was some kind of a hot calypso dance contest going on. They could hear vacationers clapping and cheering.
Luminous yachts rocked in the distance. For most people in this region, it was a magical night, where time flowed gently with the warm breeze.
Nageeb had gone out earlier to stock up on food. Noora promised she would not harm herself. She seemed calm and content, engrossed in watching The Sound of Music on television. But he worried about what was going on in her mind—how much did she remember? When he hurried back, he was relieved to find Noora sitting on the floor in front of the television, humming along with the movie’s score as the end credits rolled.
Nageeb broke the crusty French bread he bought from a nearby delicatessen, and slapped mustard on top of imported cheese. But Noora had a difficult time chewing the sandwich because of her sore jaw. Nageeb watched her from the corner of his eyes and chided himself for not buying something soft like mashed potatoes or better yet, cream of chicken noodle soup.
Noora’s eyes seemed to have found a new gleam. “You see, I kept my promise,” she said.
“Your promise?”
“I was a good girl and waited for your return when you went to fetch us some food.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m the one who should thank you, for everything you are doing for me.”
The lump in his throat kept him from replying.
Nageeb found a selection of tea bags on the counter, and made hot chamomile tea for his sister. He tried to talk about happy times—their trips to Europe when they were younger, funny incidents, and the unforgettable vacations in Alexandria, Egypt.
“Remember the French ball game we used to play? What was it called?”
“Ballon Prisonnier?”
“Yes. It was fun.”
“Uncle Khayat taught us what he called the Middle Eastern version of Prison Ball,” Nageeb said, remembering how Noora and Zaffeera—and even their grandmother—had teamed up against the boys, proving that they could play the game even better than their male opponents.
Remembering Montaza—the magnificent promontory where they used to picnic near the former royal gardens of King Farouk’s summer palace, Nageeb sighed. Those were beautiful days—times when he w
ould never have believed their lives could take such a drastic turn.
“Someone threw the ball too far, and it rolled all the way down the ravine, remember?” Noora said.
Nageeb nodded, reliving that happy day. “I think it was Zaffeera who threw the ball real hard because she was angry at the boys,” he said. “Uncle Khayat’s houseboy nearly killed himself trying to fetch the ball. And when he climbed back up without the ball, his gallabeya had those little things stuck all over.”
“Hitchhikers. Poor guy. Remember how we tried to pull them out one by one?”
“Yes, and then Uncle Khayat drove away in his new convertible Jaguar and came back with treats for the children and a new ball. Those balls were leather, handmade. They weren’t cheap. He always came to our rescue,” Nageeb added thoughtfully.
“Remember the play we put on?”
“Hmm … I don’t. But I do recall we wanted to become movie stars … as big as Omar Sharif.”
Noora chuckled. “Yes.”
Nageeb smiled at the memory. “He moved back to Cairo. I saw him less than a month ago at Justine’s restaurant.”
“You saw Omar Sharif?”
“I did. He still looks pretty good.”
“Does he really look like Father?”
Nageeb nodded. Why did he have to mention Omar Sharif? The film star actually did look like an older version of their father.
There was an unsettling silence.
“You know what?” Nageeb said. “I forgot to bring chocolate.”
“You can’t forget chocolate.”
“What was it that Grandmother used to say?”
“We must always sweeten our mouth with something sweet after supper,” they sang in unison, and they both laughed.
It was good to see his sister laugh. The sparkle in her eyes returned, but not for long.
“Tonight, I’m taking you somewhere special,” Nageeb said.
“Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“How can I go out looking like this?” She brought her hands up to hide her bruised face.
“They’ll think you just got nose surgery. Believe me. It’s quite dark in there, and no one knows us.”
Elegantly dressed couples, mostly European tourists, crowded the trendy French café. As they were guided to a table in the corner, Nageeb realized Noora must feel out of place in their grandmother’s black shawl and the oversized black dress he bought for her. To his surprise, he saw a few men in traditional Arabic garb along with others in business suits seated near the entrance of the restaurant.
“I didn’t know Arabs came to Israel,” Noora said.
“Not all Arabs are at war with the Israelis.” He forced a smile. “Business is still business.”
“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if everyone lived without wars?” Noora said. She scraped off the twirled chocolate design of her pastry. “Without boundaries … without enemies.”
If there is no peace in the family, how could there be peace in the world? Nageeb thought sourly as he lifted his demitasse to sip his cappuccino.
That’s when he saw two of the men from MOFHAJ. He recognized them. What the hell were they doing there? If they spotted Noora, they would take her to their father … there would be no mercy.
Had they examined the body and realized later it was not Noora’s? He should have taken Noora’s bloody veil on that horrific day and wrapped it tightly around the poor dead girl’s face.
“What’s the matter?”
“Matter? Nothing. Too much caffeine,” Nageeb said, trying to keep a steady smile.
“It’s probably the smell of those cigars. They stink like, if you’ll pardon the expression, khara,” Noora said.
“Yes, real shit.”
“This place has an interesting history,” she said, leafing through the restaurant’s brochure. “Look here, it says it’s a sad story of medieval times. One sister betrayed the other over a man they both loved …”
“Medieval times?” he asked, keeping a watchful eye on the men with gray suits and red ties—the members of the so-called Men of Faith Honor and Justice. “I think it’s more of a myth,” Nageeb said. But he went cold all over as he saw the two MOFHAJ men being guided to a table close—way too close—to theirs. One of them was the guy he had met at the airport. They must have followed him.
The men appeared preoccupied with themselves, but Nageeb feared it was all an act—while they were watching Noora and Nageeb’s every move. They didn’t like the table that was offered to them by the silver-haired maitre d’. They seemed to know the host. One of them said something close to the maitre d’s ear and slipped some bills in his hand. The maitre d’ took a quick glance at the bills and smiled. He led the men to a table near another group of Arabs in headdresses and traditional garb.
Nageeb threw a generous amount of Israeli currency on the table, thankful that Abdo had thought of exchanging money on the ferry. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and wrapped an arm around Noora. He led her outside.
“What’s wrong, Nageeb?”
“Nothing.”
He took her down shadowy cobblestone streets and finally led her back to the resort.
They climbed the three flights of stairs and stood in the breezy open-air hallway of the resort, while Nageeb nervously fumbled with his key. What if someone was inside the condo, waiting to arrest them? Cautiously, he unlocked the door.
They had left the lights on. Inside, everything seemed normal and in place. Once satisfied that all was well—at least as far as he could see—Nageeb locked the door. Noora was tired from the climb—Nageeb didn’t feel safe taking the elevator. He sat with her on the couch for a moment, then propped up her feet and let her head rest on a few throw pillows. He dashed to the bathroom.
Studying his reflection in the mirror, he saw that his face must have paled several shades, and he was even trembling. He hoped Noora didn’t notice his concern. He wondered if those monsters had been watching them, laughing at him while they waited for the right moment to throw out the net. Wasn’t Eilat known as a trade hub between different countries because of its key location? He turned on the faucet and splashed cold water on his face. Didn’t the ad in the Travelers’ magazine state that the Grotte des Deux Soeurs—“Grotto of Two Sisters” restaurant—was world-renowned? He grabbed the last clean towel from the rack and dried his face. It was merely a coincidence—it had to be—that these men were at the same café; nothing more than simple coincidence!
He should never have taken Noora out. He switched off the faucet and heard a sound. Voices! He ran out and found Noora talking to someone out in the hallway. Why did she open the door?!
Noora stepped away from the front door as two women entered.
“Housekeeping. They want to turn down the bed,” Noora explained.
Did they turn down beds at night in timeshare resorts? He thought that service was only done in luxury hotels. “No! We’re fine.”
One of the housekeepers said, “Okay,” but she did not move away, and stood in the middle of the living room, making no attempt to leave.
The other maid went out to the cart. Nageeb saw her reaching under a pile of towels.
He grabbed Noora’s arm and stepped in front of her to shield her. This was a setup. What if they had a gun? They were trapped.
“We don’t need anything!” Nageeb shouted. Why didn’t I think to buy a gun?!
“More towels?” the housekeeper asked in Hebrew. “Towels?” she repeated in English, pointing to the bathroom.
“No!” he said in Hebrew. “Go! We are fine.”
The maid was still standing in the living room, looking curiously at the two of them.
Nageeb didn’t know how to get them to leave without alarming Noora. He quickly grabbed a wad of bills and gave them to the housekeeper. “Please go!”
The maid looked at the money and smiled. She said something in Hebrew to the other maid, who dropped a pile of towels on the table by the door. Nageeb close
d it quickly and turned the lock.
Noora looked puzzled. “They just wanted to bring us towels, Nageeb. We hardly had clean ones left.”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize …” Nageeb said.
While Noora slept in the bedroom, Nageeb sat on the couch, keeping a watchful eye. What if those men really knew what was going on? Would they kick in the door, with guns in their hands? Would he really kill if he had to? To protect his sister, he would not think twice. He had to get back to Cairo. Noora should go with him. For now.
Their father traveled to Cairo a few times a year and always stayed at the Mena House. Noora could live at the opposite end of the city. He would never run into Noora in such a dense city. Perhaps Nageeb could get her an apartment near the Bazaar, where he knew his father never went. But Farid frequented most of the popular restaurants, and many people knew him, Nageeb thought, watching the front door. What if those housekeepers mentioned seeing an injured Arab woman? Did they know the pair were not Israelis?
As dawn neared, Nageeb fell asleep on the couch.
As if from a great distance, he heard Noora’s voice. When he opened his eyes, she was looking down at him and smiling.
“What time is it?” he asked.
She glanced at her watch. “After nine.”
“Already?”
“I didn’t want to wake you. You were mumbling. I wasn’t sure if you were sleeping,” she said, walking to the window. She opened the drapes, and bright sunshine flooded the room.
“I was really awake,” he said, rising painfully and squinting. He wished she had not opened the drapes.
“I wanted to know if I could do some shopping … I’ll need sunglasses. Can I use yours for now?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll also need some personal things …”
“Of course, of course.” He couldn’t believe he had slept so long. He experienced weird dreams—celestial dreams. He saw beautiful, brilliant pastels that turned into crimson, shiny red like blood …
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