Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Noora was pleased to notice a large sign in Arabic and in English stating that they buy and sell estate jewelry. “Hello, sir. I … see that your store buys jewelry. I should like to sell my watch …”

  “You’ll have to show it to me first,” he interrupted, scrutinizing her with disdain, above his bifocals.

  She reached beneath her sleeve and removed the watch from her wrist. But something wasn’t right. She hesitated. The diamonds around her Rolex sparkled brilliantly beneath the store’s recessed lighting, and Noora found herself unsure about letting go of the last thing that linked her to her father. Overcoming her doubt, she handed the jeweler her watch.

  Pushing his glasses closer to his eyes, he checked the watch carefully for what seemed like an endless moment. Noora wished more customers were in the store. An unconscious shiver ran through her body.

  “I’ll have to go in the back and test if it’s authentic,” he finally said without looking at Noora.

  “Never mind. I changed my mind … You see, it was a gift.”

  “Oh, yes. And I’m King Farouk reincarnated, and they’re giving me back my throne.”

  Noora was shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you have a receipt or proof of purchase?”

  “Proof of purchase? It was a gift!”

  “You stole it, didn’t you?” he sneered, checking her out, from top to bottom with disgust. “You stole that watch!”

  “I most certainly did not! My father bought it for me.” She was suddenly unable to say another word. The mention of her father made her feel weak—and defenseless.

  “I’m giving you a chance to leave right now. Or I’ll call the police!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Please, give me back my watch.”

  “Out! Or I’ll have you in jail.” He put her watch in his pocket and moved around the counter toward her. “You know what they do to people like you?”

  “That watch is mine.”

  His eyes flashed. “They cut off the hands that steal.”

  “It’s mine!” The watch was rightfully hers. But she was starting to collapse inside. Her father gave her that watch. Since he didn’t love her anymore, since he denounced her …

  “There is no mercy for thieves. If you don’t want to lose your hands, you’d better get on your feet.”

  Noora retreated as fast as she could and pulled the door open. The bell jingled wildly. Across the street, Noora spotted Dweezoul, who was busy enjoying an enormous mango, juice all over his face, licking all fingers. He didn’t see her. While the store’s bell continued to jingle, sounding more like an alarm, something snapped in her brain. Feeling more anger than fear, Noora stepped back inside.

  “Get out! THIEF!”

  “I am not leaving without my watch.”

  “I am calling the police.”

  “The serial number matches a famous jeweler in Switzerland, with my family’s name!”

  She was the one now moving closer to the storekeeper. He began retreating.

  “Give me back my watch now!”

  He ran behind the counter, lifted the phone, and began dialing furiously.

  “Go ahead.” Her eyes glared, turning icy. The jeweler saw their color and gasped.

  “Who are you?” He dropped the receiver back in its cradle. He was about to press a red alarm button by the phone when the doorbell jingled again and Dweezoul bounced in.

  “Queen Noor … ah …Your Highness! The limousine’s waiting for you,” he shouted.

  While the jeweler was distracted by Dweezoul, Noora dug in his pocket and took out her watch.

  She pulled away the veil that concealed her mouth. “Insulting a queen is a costly offense!”

  She marched out, followed by Dweezoul. Once outside, they flew down the winding streets, mazes, and narrow alleyways. Finally, with hearts pounding, they stopped in a deserted alleyway and fell on each other, laughing.

  “You should … have seen … oh, you should have seen … his face when you put your hand inside his pocket!”

  Noora had not laughed so hard in a long time. It actually felt good. So good. Especially because she had stood up to that jeweler. She wouldn’t allow herself to be a victim. Never again—this she had to promise herself.

  Twenty minutes later, Noora and Dweezoul walked away from the train station. This time, they were serious.

  “There is always a reason,” Dweezoul said, holding Noora’s bag.

  “Yes, the reason is that it is my fault we missed the train.”

  “It is not your fault. In life, there is no coincidence, and also in life, there are no accidents.”

  “Well then, if this incident is no accident, perhaps you can sell my watch.”

  “Oh, you clever one. This incident is different. I mean, this instance is different. Ah, you’re making me all confused, and I don’t think I can sell your watch. I’m not good at that sort of thing.”

  “Maybe you would be more successful. They don’t seem to have much respect for women around here.”

  “I’m still a kid in the eyes of man, and men here don’t respect kids.”

  “Still easier than being a woman. Please try, Dweezoul, please.”

  Noora waited on the bench of a small square with a large fountain in the middle where women washed clothes. At the edge of the stone wall, women pounded their laundry, while children played nearby. However dirty the water was, Noora still wished she could jump in the fountain to cool off.

  When Dweezoul finally returned, she barely recognized him. He wore a sultan’s outfit, with a bright red fez, a tad too large for his head.

  “You look so … handsome.” She didn’t have the heart to ask where he could possibly have found such an ancient Ottoman costume. He did look handsome, actually, as if he had jumped out of some exotic fairy tale novel. But what about the watch?

  He guided her away from the crowd. In an alleyway, safe from dangerous eyes, he pulled out a wad of money.

  “You sold it? You did!”

  “You won’t believe how much I got for it,” he whispered, barely able to contain his pride. “The owner of the pawn shop even gave me this suit,” Dweezoul said, modeling it for her. He spun around. “Free.” He rearranged his fez, which tipped a bit too far down to one side.

  “Fancy threads,” she said, anxious to see how much he got for the watch. She looked down at the money and quickly counted it. “A … thousand pounds?” she whispered, while her eyes drooped.

  “Pretty good, even I didn’t think I could. Wait a minute. You have changed your mind.”

  Silence.

  “I knew you would regret it. I’ll get it back, I will. I don’t care about the ‘fancy threads,’” Dweezoul said, removing his fez and his bright red jacket with golden fringes all around.

  “No! No, Dweezoul, you are wonderful. We … we can go back to that restaurant. And we can order all the food we want! Dessert, too. And you can buy batteries for a year. For two years! You can even get a cassette player! And earplugs. I mean … earphones. For you. Earplugs for Um Faheema, and … and you can listen to your music all night, as loud as you want! And tonight, we can stay in that nice little inn so that we can bathe and be close to the station.” She was searching for all sorts of positive reasons why she was glad he sold it, because she did not have the heart to tell Dweezoul the watch he pawned for a thousand was worth more than twenty thousand pounds.

  CHAPTER 25

  JOURNEY TO ALEXANDRIA

  At the edge of the expansive oasis, Dweezoul rushed along the tattered boardwalk of the Zaggah-zig railroad station, which was brimming with a colorful crowd of people and families en route to the city.

  The train known as the Masbout, “punctual,” earned its name by having always been on time for more than fifty years, Dweezoul told Noora.

  Dust combined with the Masbout’s fumes created a hazy film that reminded her of old-time sepia photographs she had seen in library books, and for a mo
ment, she felt transported into a bygone era. The train had five cars with wooden banquettes for passengers who would soon rush to fill every seat. Security guards in dusty uniforms were everywhere. Noora could not help but wonder if the train would make it all the way to Alexandria. The ancient machine seemed more appropriate for a museum display.

  The stench of incense, livestock, and body odor sickened her.

  “As soon as you get your seat, open your bag. You’ll find a small bottle of rose water with lavender,” he said. He was still wearing his red ottoman jacket and fez. “Put a couple of drops on one of the herb sacks we gave you and inhale. After that,” he said, with a wink, “even if someone puts camel poop in front of you, you won’t smell it!”

  He led Noora to the Masbout’s third railroad car. She climbed the high steel steps. In a moment of hesitation, Noora turned to Dweezoul. She wasn’t ready to let go of him. Suddenly, she felt unsure.

  “Hurry, Noora. Get to a seat, or you’ll have to stand for hours,” he said, handing her the heavy bag.

  It was too late. Too late to change her mind …

  Dweezoul yelled something else. She could barely hear him over the crowd that pushed into the car, searching to find empty seats. A security guard blew a whistle to restore order.

  A conductor grabbed Noora’s ticket and punched it. Someone tried to get ahead of her, but Noora managed to rush through the aisle of weathered old banquettes and found a window seat. She attempted to open the murky window for some air, but it was stuck. A woman came from behind and in a swift jerk, managed to open the window, then took a seat behind Noora in a banquette loaded with wooden cages full of chickens. Feathers were soon flying all around.

  The station master blew his whistle. Another shrill sound echoed from the next car. Noora peered out the window, desperately searching for a last glimpse of Dweezoul. If she could just see him one more time … But the Masbout jerked forward. She realized they had not exchanged addresses. Where would she write to Dweezoul? And Um Faheema! They certainly didn’t have mail delivered in their village, except maybe she could have arranged for her letters to be delivered to the oasis where Uncle Omar sold his goods. Why didn’t she think of such an important detail earlier? She bent out of the window as far as she could, searching for the boy, unable to control her tears, as a thick lump grew in her throat. Finally, she spotted his head. Springing up and down, he was waving his red fez.

  The train coughed and spit out black smoke as it jerked forward. As Dweezoul diminished in the hazy crowd on the boardwalk—the vision of a little prince from long ago—slowly at first, and faster now, the Masbout picked up speed, screeching over rusted rails.

  Dweezoul stood at the station and watched while the crowd around him began to dissipate. Amid a dense cloud of smoke, the Masbout shrank into the horizon, diminishing to the size of a toy. He remained there, still, until the train that carried his dear Noora slowly disappeared from view behind a thick gray and yellow dust. Looking at his fez now, Dweezoul slowly turned and made his way to the rear of the dilapidated railroad station. He held his fez to his heart and faced the hundred-year-old stone wall of the train station. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he could not stop them. “I will miss you, Bent el Noor,” he murmured. She wanted to stay … He wished she could remain with them, in their village, but they would not stand in the way of her fate. Like a bird with a broken wing, once healed, it must be set free and resume its destiny.

  *

  A young woman with two small children and an infant at her breast sat on the banquette that faced Noora. They were all staring at her.

  Noora forced a smile until she realized it was pointless. How could they see her mouth behind the veil?

  The woman was very young—a child herself. Her little girl, perhaps five years old, continued to gaze at Noora. While chickens clucked behind her, and people sneezed and coughed, Noora looked out the window and thought of the timeless Bedouin village she had left, as if it had all been a dream. She touched her chain with the blue bead. It gave her a sense of hope and the knowledge that she was not alone. She had people who loved her. And soon, she would be reunited with her uncle. She watched as the villages of mud huts, sad and decrepit, flashed past the window—donkey carts filled with garbage; peasant women balancing earthenware water jugs on their heads; endless rows of date palms flew by. Blindfolded water buffalo turned around and around water wheels in a pattern, unchanged for more than two thousand years.

  Noora’s eyes began to sting. She had stared out the window too long. She felt dizzy and groggy as the train raced along, passing villages, townspeople, and animals, all rolled into one image like a fast-paced movie. She had to close her eyes.

  She was startled awake by the weight of her head dropping toward her chest. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Her mind swirled with questions and confusion, and her body felt stiff.

  Suddenly feeling fearful and alone, she clutched her bag. She remembered Dweezoul’s words: “The watch that belonged on your wrist is now the money that belongs in your pocket,” Dweezoul told her when she tried to give him half his share of the money and he had refused. When he wasn’t paying attention, Noora managed to put the five hundred Egyptian pounds in the deep pocket of his gallabeya. It wasn’t easy, because he had his bright red ottoman jacket over the robe. The gallabeya pockets were a great invention that foiled pickpockets who found it difficult to pull valuables out.

  Again, she wished Dweezoul could have accompanied her on her journey to Alexandria. She had become attached to him, and relied on him—and his wise words. But he belonged in his wonderful world and uncomplicated life.

  What a sneaky little guy, she smiled, pulling from her bag the pita bread and falafel he had wrapped in handmade wax paper. She dug deeper and found the delicious goat cheese she had grown to love, plus the succulent dried apricots, the sweet dates, and so many almonds. Dweezoul even included a small pocketknife! She couldn’t wait for him to find his own surprise. What would he say when he found the money she’d left for him? He would probably be upset. But it would certainly help. He will be able to buy more batteries and enjoy the music of his little radio for … maybe even up to two years, driving Um Faheema crazy! Thinking of her dear friends, her newfound family of the Bedouin village, made her smile and brought her a warm sense of joy. Before she knew it, the train had reached the fourth stop. She noticed here that the women boarding the train seemed more westernized in their appearance. Some even wore colorful dresses. Noora was finally able to remove her veil. Freedom. What a wonderful feeling, she thought, as she busied herself cutting the goat cheese in small pieces.

  Three pairs of brown eyes bore down on her. She drank the cool water from her earthenware jug. As she swallowed, her eyes met the young mother’s, who by now had also removed her veil. The woman quickly darted her gaze out the window.

  Noora prepared another sandwich and extended it to the little girl.

  The child immediately looked up at her mother, who refused Noora’s generosity. The little boy, who was not more than four, grabbed Noora’s offering, quickly stuffing in a large chunk way too big for his hungry little mouth. The mother gasped in shock at her son’s bold behavior. She immediately removed the rest of the sandwich from his hand and returned it to Noora.

  “Forgive my son; he did not mean to take your food,” she said in Arabic.

  The child held his hand to his mouth so he could finish chewing.

  “Please, please, let him eat. I have plenty,” Noora said, afraid the boy would swallow too quickly and choke.

  “Ummeee?” the little girl looked up to her mother with pleading eyes.

  It was obvious the children were hungry.

  The woman nodded to her little girl, venturing a shy, grateful smile.

  “Thank you…” the young mother said. She looked away for a moment. Noora saw she was fighting back tears.

  In time, Noora and the young mother began to converse, while the children consumed Noora’s sandwiches
with great gusto.

  As the night quickly fell, the train cars were barely lit—most of the light bulbs had burned out. While the passengers slept, Noora took advantage of the darkened railroad car and slipped on her yellow dress, beneath her Bedouin garb.

  As the Masbout forged on through the starry night, Noora tore off pieces of her Bedouin dress to use as diapers for the young mother’s baby.

  By the time the train arrived in Alexandria in the early morning, Noora had learned all about her young traveling companion.

  Her name was Yasmina. Yasmina? Like my mother’s name, Noora thought, immediately feeling the need to cry. But she listened intently to the young woman’s story so she would forget her own.

  Two years younger than Noora, Yasmina was the only daughter of a woman whose husband had left her. When she was fifteen, Noora’s traveling companion married the son of a doorman, who was a handsome eighteen-year-old Prince Charming. He promised Yasmina a house in the country, and once they were settled, he assured her that he would pay for her mother’s train fare and she could live with them. The house in the country turned out to be a filthy cardboard hut, and Yasmina had to work twelve hours a day in the cotton fields. After the children were born, and with the demanding work in the fields, Yasmina was too tired to cook anything but the simplest meals. Her husband began to beat her. He took on another wife, a village girl with a fat dowry.

  “He abandoned us,” Yasmina said. With babes in arms, begging on the streets, she managed to scrape up enough money for train fare home to Alexandria.

  Alexandria was more crowded than Noora remembered. There were cars everywhere, honking incessantly, driving daringly. At Noora’s insistence, Yasmina and her children climbed into the chill of an air-conditioned taxicab.

  Yasmina’s mother lived thirty-five minutes from the train station, in a section called Camp Caesar.

  “Less than thirty years ago, Camp Caesar was a beautiful, modern district, my mother told me.”

  “Yes,” Noora sighed, “I know.” Her grandfather had been involved in the architecture and planning of the once-beautiful apartment homes with large balconies and marble interiors. Now the buildings were old and shabby.