Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  He lifted his wine glass. “Drink, drink. Eez good wine.”

  She had taken a couple of sips a few minutes before. The wine tasted like sweetened vinegar.

  “Good, yes? I buy by the case,” he said proudly, and swallowed his entire glassful, which he replenished immediately, and poured more for Noora. “Good for blood circulation,” he said, watching her. “You don’t like?”

  She took a sip and nodded politely. “Yes. It’s good.”

  He was talking faster now, shifting in his chair, and not making much sense.

  Obleevia entered, bringing a tray of fresh-baked macaroons. She said something in Greek to Yorgho, removed her stained apron, and then left the cabin.

  “What did she say?” Noora asked, putting down her wine glass.

  “She is going out dancing.” He frowned. “You don’t like wine?”

  She picked up her glass, put the wine to her lips, but didn’t drink.

  “Drink! Eez good.”

  “I am drinking. Very good indeed.”

  Dinner was actually quite good. Obleevia had made pot roast and potatoes. Yorgho talked wildly while gobbling down his food. Now and then, he stopped talking, laughed, and stared at her oddly, his eyes seeming to bulge. Was he drunk? She caught him a couple of times staring at her breasts. After he ate the last bite, he tore a chunk of bread and wiped his plate clean. Oil glistening down his chin, he smiled. “Eat, eat,” he said. He put both hands under the table and shifted rhythmically in his chair.

  “Feenish wine. Eez too expensive to waste,” he said. He seemed out of breath—almost panting now, his hands still under the table.

  “You enjoy food?” he asked, leaning toward the table. “Good, yes?”

  She began to feel threatened but tried to appear at ease. “I’m enjoying the food,” she responded, taking a bite of the potatoes.

  “I like to see you with mouth full. Aakh,” he said, his eyes rolling. He shifted in his chair again. He poured another glass of wine for himself, drank it like water, then rose abruptly and left, barely saying good night.

  What was that about? Noora wondered. She heard music coming from above. She took the plates to the kitchen. When she returned to finish clearing the table, she felt faint. A bit tipsy, perhaps. She grabbed a macaroon and ate it quickly. She wondered what kind of wine could have such a strong effect. She needed fresh air. She ventured up on deck. The wind cooled her flushed cheeks. She saw Yanni and Obleevia’s silhouettes as they danced to the music of Edith Piaf from a small tape recorder nearby. Obleevia and Yanni were graceful on their feet, he so light, and she following his every step as if weightless.

  Noora leaned on the rail and watched the waves slapping against the hull. She felt revived. She did not want to think about Yorgho and his odd behavior. Luckily, he was not on deck. He always seemed to stay out of Obleevia’s way. The song changed to a slower beat. Noora did not want to disturb the couple’s private moment, so she sat in a hidden corner. Yanni and Obleevia danced so close, they were almost one. She thought of Michel, and their first dance. She remembered every moment of the first time they met, at the beautiful wedding in Alexandria—and the next time when they danced at San Stefano beach terrace during a summer vacation in Alexandria. She closed her eyes and relived the moments when he held her in his arms. She, snuggling in the curve of his neck; he, loving her. Tears began to flow. She ran down to her little cubbyhole cabin.

  When Noora awoke the next morning, she heard pots clanking outside her porthole and men’s voices shouting in singsong French. Distant horns and the call of seagulls sang in her ears.

  Noora rolled up her blanket and stuffed it in her Bedouin bag and groggily made her way up into the bright sunlight of the old port of Marseilles.

  An elegant cruise ship, large as a city, glowed under the Mediterranean sky. Le Cristal Turquoise looked out of place in the old, dilapidated port of Marseilles. Noora stood mesmerized by the enormous ship that floated jewel-like in the blue water, making the Lydia and other fishing boats look like rusty bathtubs. She noticed a dozen or more French coast guard boats patrolling the harbor waters.

  When she disembarked, Noora found the port swarming with policemen. Were they checking passports?

  “They say maybe there is bomb in fancy boat,” Yorgho said, standing on the dock right behind her. “Vat a mess.”

  “I need to make a quick phone call. I have someone who can pick me up. I just misplaced my passport. That’s all.”

  “Oh, that eez all? Come.”

  She followed him. Her heart began to pound when he marched right up to a police officer. They seemed to know each other. After exchanging small talk, Yorgho turned to Noora and guided her just before Customs to an area with rows of public telephones. Noora was impressed.

  “I have, shall we say, a few friends in right places,” he grinned, clicking his heels and lifting his dusty cap to Noora.

  He moved a few feet away to allow her privacy and waited; but he was not far enough. She checked the piece of paper with Uncle Khayat’s number. She had memorized it in Alexandria, and now she could not remember anything. While dialing, she made a mental note never to forget his phone number, in case she lost the paper. Her heart skipped a beat when she heard his voice.

  “Nous regrettons d’avoir manqué votre communication. Prière de nous laisser un message.»

  Uncle Khayat! His voice on the electronic answering machine brought tears to her eyes. Except for his slight melodious Middle Eastern accent, his French was impeccable. He sounded a bit like Omar Sharif, the actor. But even more, he sounded like her father.

  She had to hang up and take a deep breath. Her hands were trembling. Trying to keep her index finger steady, she redialed but quickly hung up again. What a fool. She had always dialed long distance without a second thought, using her father’s credit card number. She knew the long numbers by heart. She still remembered them. But she could never use the privilege again.

  Yorgho curiously inched a few feet closer.

  “I need some more change,” she said, trying to sound calm. She was perspiring, and the palms of her hands were clammy.

  “No problem, I have lots of French coins. Ah, les sous, les sous, j’en ai plein de sous! Mais une Maume pour m’ chauffer les couilles, ça c’est une autre histoire!” Yorgho rambled on in southern French slang. He pulled out a handful of French francs. “Vatever you need, I have, Bebba.”

  Noora understood the first French words Yorgho said: “Money, money, I have plenty of money.” But what else did he say? she wondered uneasily. Soon she would not have to worry about figuring out what he was constantly mumbling in French or Greek or whatever other language he knew she didn’t understand.

  She counted the francs needed to make her call. As she dialed, she prayed her uncle would finally answer in person. The answering machine clicked in. She heard his voice again. She almost spoke but realized she could not leave a message, since he could not return her call. She would have to wait until he answered in person.

  Yorgho stood right behind Noora now, breathing garlic in her ear. “I invite you to best sandwich of smoke fish and moutarde de Dijon, with deeh-luscious cornichons. Shoor-lee, you cannot say non, n’est-ce-pas?”

  “Thank you. I’m fine,” Noora said, wishing she could just wait by the phone. She had to keep trying until he answered.

  “I in-seest,” Yorgho said. Without waiting for an argument, he guided her to a nearby greasy-spoon restaurant built on the water.

  Sitting across from Noora on a sticky wooden bench, Yorgho dug into a huge fish sandwich that dripped mustard and oil onto his tin plate. “Okay, Bebba. I take you vere you vant to go,” he mumbled, his mouth full.

  Yorgho took her across the sea and never asked her for a passport or ID or anything. All he asked her for was what he claimed was the going rate for the journey, in Egyptian pounds—the equivalent of two hundred dollars. All that was fine, but she saw how he looked at Yanni and Obleevia with envious eyes. Now she noticed t
he way he watched her as she nibbled on a pickled baby cucumber. She looked away.

  She thought of escaping—hopping in a cab and going to Nice. How difficult could that be? But she had no papers. “Since you’re so well-known here, maybe you can help me get through Customs without all the formalities,” she ventured. “I have some money left.” She gulped down her Coke and nervously played with the bottle.

  “Formalities,” he said, watching her toy with the bottle of Coke. He wiped his mouth, dug in his pocket, and pulled out a thick wad of money. He rose and shuffled over to pay the cashier.

  “Please let me pay for my drink,” Noora said.

  “No, no. Eez my pleasure,” he grinned. “Too bad you did not eat.”

  “I wasn’t hungry. But thank you. You see, I lost my passport. If I could just get in the country without formalities,” she tried to explain as they were leaving the restaurant.

  “I can do anyting, Bebba.”

  Noora sighed. “Good.”

  “Anyting, I can do. Ask ME! I do.” He walked ahead of her.

  “Okay. Thank you,” Noora said.

  “But this thing, this formality,” he said, obviously liking the word, “this formality, I can-NOT do.”

  “No?!”

  He stopped and stared at Noora. “My Lydia is waiting. But take it teasy. I figure someting. Later on.”

  Noora quickly glanced around the port.

  “Come, Bebba,” he said, patting her on the arm.

  She could do it. She could just act as if she needed to make a phone call again, then simply go around the area, passing Customs. Yorgho was marching ahead of her. She could still make a fast dash, she thought, but froze, realizing the dock was swarming with gendarmes and armed military personnel.

  When she was back on board, she noticed Marius the dwarf giving Yorgho a disapproving stare.

  Noora sat forlornly in her cabin and waited for the crew to unload their fish and go about their regular routine as they did at the Port of Athens. There seemed to be more commotion here, probably because of the bomb scare.

  What did Yorgho mean when he said he’d figure something out later? When was later going to be? She remembered the needlepoint pillow Uncle Khayat used to keep on his favorite wing chair in his drawing room in Alexandria.

  “Don’t Wait For Your Ship To Come In. Swim Out To It.”

  CHAPTER 29

  THE STONE AND THE SEA

  Yorgho could not contain himself any longer. It must be tonight. During the past few months, he had not had the need for a woman, thanks to the cheap brothels where he had contracted herpes. The painful sores took a long time to heal. As soon as the herpes became dormant and Yorgho believed he was finally cured, he found himself craving a woman again.

  His pretty young passenger was the ideal girl of all his sexual fantasies. He did not care who she was or where she came from. He was sure she was a virgin. That thought alone made him quiver.

  She had appeared at the Alexandria quay at Ras El Tin—an angel—there to fulfill his needs.

  While navigating his Lydia, Yorgho gently caressed his crotch. Soon, he would find relief and finally satisfaction with real, young flesh. He unbuttoned his fly but spotted a shadow moving below. What the hell was Marius doing down there?. Get lost, shrimp, Yorgho thought as he quickly rebuttoned his fly. But Marius was already standing nearby, and Yorgho hoped the dwarf didn’t notice what he was doing.

  Marius noticed. Nothing passed by him. But he said nothing. He watched the world go by; he watched people make fools of themselves, and he said nothing. At the entrance to the dimly lit navigating cubicle, Marius motioned to Yorgho that he was being relieved from his shift. Yorgho nodded without looking at him and faded into darkness.

  Marius, who originally frowned at the idea of stopping at Nice, was glad now about the change of course. A feast for his eyes lay out there, where the most beautiful yachts appeared at this time of the year, in their luminous glory.

  Marius loved yachts. Especially the ones owned by Greek magnates and Saudi kings and princes. He watched through the darkness as twinkling lights began to form on the horizon. A yacht glided smoothly and luminously over the water.

  Noora heard a knock but thought she was dreaming. After all, there were many knocking noises coming from the old Lydia. There was another knock. This time, she was certain someone was at her cabin door. She had difficulty pulling herself out of her cot. Sleepy-eyed, she slowly cracked the cabin door open.

  Yorgho was standing at the door, smiling.

  “Are we getting close?”

  “Not yet. But soon.” He removed his cap and tucked it under his arm. “I invite you to talk to me in my living room. Over good tea and cake.”

  Noora hesitated.

  “Very good cake,” he smiled. “You will like.”

  “Well, okay … I guess. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “I will wait,” he said with a broader smile. He bowed and turned on his heels.

  Noora sat in the small dining room as Yorgho poured tea into a demitasse. There was a plate of almond butter cookies. Noora did not have the desire to eat. She was waiting anxiously for their arrival in Nice.

  “Yorgho,” she started, stirring her tea in her chipped teacup, “you said you would be able to help me.”

  “Yes. I can do anyting,” he said, sitting across from her and slurping coffee from a tin mug.

  “I do have a passport; it’s just that it’s not with me right now.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  She wasn’t looking at him. She was thinking about how to approach the subject of her problem. An idea flashed.

  “Can I phone Nice from the boat? Do you have that kind of equipment?”

  “Equeepment,” he said, rising. “Equeepment, I have, Bebba. I can do anyting.”

  “Well then, if I may use …”

  “First, let me show you thees equeepment! Eez wonderful. And then, I can buy you a passport!”

  Noora searched in her pockets for the piece of paper with Uncle Khayat’s phone number. How could she have forgotten it again? She must have left it on the bed in her cabin. Did he say, “BUY ME A PASSPORT”? She looked up.

  “Bebba, look at this!” he said.

  He had pulled out his erect penis, and he was flaunting it for her view.

  He licked his lips and his eyes were bulging. “How fantastic you will feel when I put inside of you, Bebba. Oh, ah, Dio mio, DIO MIO!”

  Noora jumped from her chair and let it crash on the floor in the narrow space behind her. She tried to open the same door she had entered—he had locked it!

  “Oh, Bebba. Pleeezz. I will make you feel goo-hood. Look at it!”

  She couldn’t help but stare. She felt herself drift away strangely, as if she were in a movie, watching something that was happening to someone else.

  “Come on, boobby Bebba. Lift up dress. Pull down panties slowlee … Den show me. Montre-moi ta jolie chatte, ma … oh mamma mia ma petite,” he panted, stroking himself rhythmically. “Show me your pretty little pussy!” he shouted. Shoving his other hand in his pocket, he displayed a thick wad of money. “I give you anyting you want.”

  “I just wanted a passport, you bastard,” she said, her eyes darting around in search of a way out.

  “Fuck de passport. I buy you dresses. I buy you dress store. You must let me …”

  She frantically tried another doorknob behind her, but it was a narrow closet.

  “No bother to run. Ship not very beeg! I can always find you!” he said with a hideous laugh. “Oh, my sweet little pussy, my little beetch. Oh, ah!” he heaved as he stroked himself faster and faster, like a locomotive. “I luh-v you, Bebba.”

  She pushed the last door and made a fast dash out through the kitchen. Don’t wait for your ship to come in. … She flew up on deck.

  Noora climbed over the ramp and dove into the blackness of the sea.

  The water was icy, but she did not feel it at first. She could have been che
wed up by the Lydia’s churning propellers, but with her adrenaline pumping, she swam furiously away from the Lydia’s hull. The dwarf’s silhouette appeared on deck, standing erect like a short mast. He tossed a life preserver in Noora’s direction. Noora swam toward it as the Lydia faded into the night.

  She thought the huge swells would surely engulf her before she could grab the floating white life preserver. Sucked beneath swell after massive swell, Noora didn’t know how long she could hold on. Somebody help me! she cried and pleaded in her heart. Help me— I will never make it. The salt water was burning her throat, and her lungs were about to give in and breathe in the sea.

  Ride with the waves, a voice urged. The life preserver bobbed up and down, seeming far out of reach, floating on huge dark swells. A towering swell loomed over her, rising higher and higher. It crashed down, dragging her under—too dark to see the surface. Which way should she go? She had to get air now!

  “I denounce you!” Her father’s words echoed through her soul while the sound of water filled her ears. She would no longer fight to survive. He wanted her dead. She felt herself being pulled up, but the surface was too far and her lungs could no longer sustain the pain. There was nothing left but despair. I will die now Father… God! Let me die!

  Her dress had ridden up against her face. She pushed the material away from her, suddenly feeling Dweezoul’s pebble that had been lodged in the pocket. She held it in a tight fist—her last link to Dweezoul. If she let go of that pebble, it would sink down to the depths of the sea, where she would soon be. But she realized she had reached the surface! There was air. She gulped a lungful.

  A cloud passed, revealing the moon, which offered enough light for Noora to see the life preserver floating a few feet away. If she made one last effort to reach for it, she might be able to grab it. But she had no strength left. A wave floated her closer, and Noora was able to grab it while violently coughing up the salt water she had swallowed. She held on to the life preserver until her hand cramped. Shivering uncontrollably, she managed to slip it over her head and shoulders.