“Okay. Telephone me. Don’t forget.” Annette reached in her bag. She scribbled her number on a piece of scrap paper.
“How could I ever forget you, Annette?”
CHAPTER 32
FINAL DISCOVERY
At six o’clock in the morning, the front door to the villa on the Rue de Charlemagne opened. Noora had fallen asleep on the narrow wooden bench on the front porch. Her eyes popped open. There stood a stylish woman in her early forties perhaps, wearing a marabou-trimmed white peignoir. She glared suspiciously at Noora.
“Is Uncle … I mean, is Monsieur Khayat Fendil home?” she managed to utter in English, smoothing out her dress and feeling awkward. “I mean, est-ce-que Monsieur Khayat…”
“Is this a joke?” the woman responded in British-accented English.
Noora was stunned. “Excuse me, Madame?”
“Who the hell are you?”
Noora glanced up at the number near the front door. This was indeed the right address. “I am Monsieur Khayat Fendil’s niece, and I am here to see him.”
“Monsieur Khayat did not have a niece.”
“What? Of course, he does. I was like … his daughter,” she said, on the verge of tears.
“Khayat is deceased! And you are trespassing.”
Noora had to steady herself against the brick wall next to where she stood. “What did you say?”
“Khayat is deceased,” the woman repeated coldly. She stood guarding the door, studying Noora with an air of superiority. “If you don’t mind, I am very busy. Where is my newspaper? Did you take my paper?”
Noora took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. “No, Madam,” she managed to say. “My Uncle Khayat cannot be dead!” She swallowed hard. “And who are YOU?”
“I am his widow.”
Noora gasped. “Oh my God. But he never said … Wait a minute. How long has my uncle been married?”
“That is none of your business.”
“But we used to visit him in Alexandria. Every summer. He had a villa there, and …”
“We had to sell it to pay his medical bills, if you must know,” the woman said, staring down at Noora. “Now go away.”
“Look. Please. I’ve come a long way … a very long way. You see, I know he came to Nice to be near his doctor…”
“I’m the one who took care of him.”
“For God’s sake, please, I beg of you … tell me where he is!”
“Honey? What’s going on?” a male voice drifted from the living room.
“Coming,” the woman replied, planted at the threshold, without removing her eyes from Noora.
“Honey?” the man’s voice persevered with a British accent. “That answering machine. We have a million hang-ups. The outgoing message won’t erase. Bloody piece of shit!”
“Be right there!” the woman said louder, her eyes still on Noora.
“Please tell me, when did it happen?” Tears were now pouring out of Noora’s cheeks and she could not stop them. “For the love of God …”
The woman softened briefly. “Over a month ago.”
“Where is he?”
“I told you, he’s deceased. Do you have identification showing me who you are?”
“Well, not with me, but …”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Please. Is he … buried in Alexandria? In Egypt?”
“He’s buried in Grasse,” she said and closed the door.
Noora walked, dazed along cobblestone streets lined with ancient buildings. Reaching the highway, exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, she decided to hitch a ride. She wasn’t sure if it was allowed. She figured if girls could sun themselves topless in this part of the world, surely they could hitch a ride. A red scooter driven by a young man sporting a white skull emblazoned on his black T-shirt slowed close to Noora. She turned away and continued her walk. The scooter followed her for a long moment. He said something in French, but she didn’t understand and headed up toward one of the stone villas. Finally, the young rider took off.
More than four hours must have passed since Noora left that dreadful woman at the villa, who claimed she was Uncle Khayat’s “widow.” It must have been early, because the tall gates where Noora stood and waited were locked. Surely someone would come soon and let her inside the cemetery.
Her mouth was pasty, and as dry as cotton. She had munched on rose petals along the way. Remembering her grandmother’s garden, she picked a few fragrant rosemary leaves she found growing along picket fences. They briefly helped moisten her dry mouth, but she was thirsty for something refreshing, like a large bottle of Annette’s cool Evian.
“God bless you, Annette Bonjour, for lending me your dress,” she mumbled to herself. She should be grateful; at least she had a nice dress to wear. She found bobby pins in the pockets and pinned her hair away from her face. And thank goodness Annette’s old leather sandals were comfortable, even on cobblestones. She wished she had a purse to carry. A woman carries a purse when she leaves her house, Noora thought. Beggars and runaways looked like she did. She stuck her hands in the dress pockets.
She tried to remember the French words for what she needed to say: “Je cherche la tombe d’un membre de ma famille. Pouvez-vous me diriger? S’il vous plait?” She had to remember to add “S’il vous plait.” Or she should say, “Pouvez-vous me donner la direction?” She wasn’t sure how she should phrase her request for directions to her family member’s grave, and practiced the sentences a few times, hoping she would not be misunderstood. She spotted an old man hobbling up the sidewalk, carrying a tattered attaché case in one hand and a set of dangling keys. He walked as if one leg was shorter than the other. Stopping in front of the huge wrought iron gates, he unlocked and pushed them open.
Noora peered inside. Stone and marble tombs were lined up ahead. The cemetery was small and peaceful, built on a hill surrounded by stone walls and tall, shady trees. Birds were chirping. The air was fragrant with a potpourri of flowers and herbs. She spotted a water fountain nearby.
“Je cherche la tombe d’un member de famille,” Noora said, feeling her heart racing faster.
“Par ici.” The old man beckoned her toward a small building. He unlocked a narrow door.
“Do you speak English?” Noora asked.
“Yes, mademoiselle. A little. Come. This way.”
He limped past a wall of floor-to-ceiling filing drawers. The place had a musty smell, like that of an old library. He turned on a small desk fan.
She stood just outside the door, and heard voices coming from behind her. She turned and saw a handful of people entering the open gate, some holding armfuls of flowers, climbing up the steep hill.
“What was the name of the deceased, Mademoiselle?” Without waiting for an answer, he handed her a small card and a pencil. “Print the name in large letters so I can read it. Sit. Sit down.”
Holding back tears, Noora sat at the edge of a chair and printed the name
Khayat Anwar Fendil.
As she wrote, she prayed that the woman at the villa had lied, and this man would tell her no one with such a name was buried there.
Wandering among the gravestones, Noora clutched the small brochure and map the old man gave her. Beneath an olive tree, she found a simple slab of dark gray marble inscribed with his name—Khayat Anwar Fendil—and the years of his birth and death. She recognized his birth date—July 8. They always celebrated his birthday when she and her family visited him in the summer. She could still see him blowing out the candles from a huge cake they ordered from his favorite bakery on the other side of the city near the Hotel Cecile … She sank to the ground and sobbed uncontrollably.
Why! Why was he buried here? Shouldn’t he have been in Alexandria—resting next to his parents? She remembered Nageeb had told her that their uncle’s mother had been Jewish, and that she had married Uncle Khayat’s father, who, like all their forefathers, were Egyptian Muslims. Perhaps because of his mother’s religion, it had been Uncle Khayat�
�s request? She would never know.
Nearby, she spotted another water fountain connected to a small hose and turned on the faucet. She drank the cool water and washed away her tears. She dried her face with the hem of Annette’s dress.
“I am so sorry, Uncle Khayat,” she said, clearing away dust and a few fallen leaves from the tombstone. Nageeb, you see? I kept my promise. Where did it get me? All for nothing. Nageeb, your death too, for nothing. Nothing, nothing! Oh God, what have I done?
Something warm and furry brushed against her. She gasped at the sight of a large sheepdog with woolly gray fur and patches of white. The animal was panting, sending his warm breath straight into her wet face. The huge dog settled comfortably next to her. Someone whistled.
“Baldo? Ou es-tu, Baldo?” a man’s voice called.
She heard footsteps crunching on the gravel and swept her tears away with the back of her hand. She heard the crinkling of cellophane and smelled the flowers before seeing them.
A young man kneeled and placed the bouquet at the foot of the tombstone in front of Noora.
“Bonjour,” he muttered, nodding a polite good morning. He was obviously surprised by Noora’s presence.
Noora looked up. She wanted to run, far away, but her legs would not budge.
“Excusez-moi mademoiselle…” the young man said.
Noora ventured another glance.
“Vous connaissiez le décédé?”
She wrapped her arms around the huge dog and caressed its fur in long strokes.
The man spoke in French, but she couldn’t find the words to respond to him.
“What a beautiful dog,” she muttered in English, almost to herself, thinking the man must have placed the flowers on the wrong grave.
“Thank you,” he said in English.
“What’s his name? Bardot?” she continued in English. “After… Brigitte Bardot? She likes dogs … too …”
“Actually, it’s Baldo.”
“Oh. What kind is he?”
“Bouvier des Flandres.” He pronounced it beautifully in French.
“A sheepdog?”
“Yes. He needs to be groomed,” he said, studying her.
She noticed his large hazel eyes. They looked sad. She looked away.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Did you know Monsieur Khayat?” he asked.
“What?” she responded, looking up at the stranger.
“Monsieur Khayat Fendil … The deceased …”
Deceased? That terrible word again. “Yes. You … you knew him?”
“I was his doctor.”
“You were?”
“Yes. Are you … were you perhaps a relative?”
Noora nodded. “Yes, yes, I was.” She looked away. He bent closer to Noora and extended his hand. “I am Alain Demiel. Enchanté. Pleased to meet you.”
The weather had changed to cloudy and windy. Noora sat on the cold, wet sand by the receding tide. She began to write in the sand.
Uncle Khayat is gone.
I ran along French shores
I ran till I could run no more.
She needed a pen and paper, but couldn’t even afford that. She owned nothing. “Writing is an extension of the soul,” she remembered Dr. Pennington say. What soul?
She cleared another area in the sand and continued to write.
What have I done?
What dreadful thing?
Uncle Khayat is gone …
She read the words again. With a stroke of her hand, she wiped away what she had written.
She hugged her knees, rocked herself, thinking, wondering. She rocked faster, faster, jumped to her feet, and ran to shore. She glared at the sky. “Why?” she asked defiantly. She kicked the sand and screamed. “Why?! What have I done?! Answer me! “ANSWER MEEE!” she shouted, attracting people on the beach, some shaking their heads at the madwoman. Noora did not care anymore. She was speaking to her father—as if he were standing right above her.
“Kelley?”
Noora heard the call but ignored it because she really wanted to tear her dress off. It wasn’t even hers! She wanted to remove it. Yes, that’s what she had to do. She had to dive in the water and swim far out until she would finally drown. “You wanted me dead. DEAD! Okay! I’m gone. Finished! Whatever the reason, I’M DEAD! See? Watch me! Watch me, Father! KHALLAASS!”
“Kelley! KELLEY!” Annette reached Noora just as she was about to remove her dress. “Kelley! It’s all right. It is okay …”
Noora wanted to scream, My name is not Kelley, it’s Noora! “Can’t you understand?” she shouted at Annette.
“Yes, please, come with me. Everything will be all right. I promise,” Annette said, gently pulling Noora away from the water.
“I’m sorry. Oh my God, I am so, so sorry!” Noora sobbed, her entire body shaking.
“Let us sit for a moment,” Annette said, taking Noora’s hands and guiding her further away from the shore.
She let her cry, gently pulling Noora with her to sit on the sand. When Noora finally regained some control of her sobs, Annette said, “I telephoned you at your uncle’s house and a woman answered. I had the feeling you were here.”
“Oh, Annette, I am sorry.” I am destroyed was what she really wanted to say. Détruite! All hope was gone. And now she had nothing.
“What happened? Your uncle?”
Noora nodded.
“Please say to me what happened.”
Noora managed to tell her story through her tears.
“Mon Dieu. This, I did not predict,” she said, looking out to sea. “Everything has a reason … You know? A … a purpose. We must believe. We must have faith, you understand?”
Faith? Noora touched her blue bead. Um Faheema, she cried in her heart, what’s my journey now?
They sat side-by-side on the sand, watching the yachts, some more luxurious and elaborate than others, bobbing in the expanse of gray to dark blue as the clouds slowly dissipated. Annette turned her attention to Noora. “Pauvre chérie. Tell me the rest. The doctor.”
Noora sighed. “He invited me to lunch.”
“The docteur invited you to lunch?”
“Yes. I was very grateful, because …”
“He paid?” Annette asked incredulously.
“Well, I had no money. I wasn’t hungry, but he insisted I eat. I ate everything he ordered. I didn’t think I could. But I did. He must have felt sorry for me.”
“He has a car?”
“Yes, a Citroen. His dog, Baldo, occupied the entire back seat. He panted in my ear all the way, but I didn’t mind.”
“Le docteur? The jerk!”
“No, silly, his dog,” Noora couldn’t help but chuckle at Annette’s comments. “It’s a Bouvier des Flandres.”
“What was his name?”
“Baldo.”
“The doctor’s name is Baldo?”
“No, Annette.” Noora said, chuckling again. “Non, le docteur.”
“Ah, le docteur. Et lui, comment s’appelle-t’il?”
“His name is Alain Demiel.” She returned to her serious mood. “He gave me his business card and said I can call him anytime.”
“Vraiment?”
“Yes, really. He probably felt sorry for me because I couldn’t stop crying. I cried before and after lunch, and in between.”
“I am sorry. I am glad you ate. That was good. Is the docteur married? He must be married.”
“His wife died two years ago. He told me he goes to the cemetery every week and puts yellow roses on her grave. Today he also put flowers on Uncle Khayat’s grave … he was not only his patient, he said they were friends.”
“How old is the docteur?”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“I mean, twenties, thirties, forties? Fifties?
“Maybe mid-thirties. Maybe almost forty. Not sure.”
“Aah. Did he say what happened to your uncle?”
“Prostate cancer; he said an advanced case. But he
said my uncle had responded well to treatments. He also talked about his wife. She had ovarian cancer.”
“Terrible disease. Very sad.”
“He said if it hadn’t been for Uncle Khayat, he would not have become the specialist that he is today. He was an old friend of his family.”
“Your uncle was an old friend of the doctor’s family?”
“Apparently. But I never heard of him before. The Demiel family … I asked him if my uncle died in the hospital. He said no, he died sitting on his rocking chair, in his verandah, facing the sea … Sounds like my uncle,” Noora said, her voice breaking as tears rolled down her cheeks. “He died with his pipe still clutched in his hand …”
The sun had set, leaving an array of purple and pink in the horizon. Annette and Noora remained sitting together in silence.
“The doctor drove me back to the beach where you and I met,” Noora finally said. “He had to go back to his clinic, so I told him to leave me here. I didn’t know what else to do. Thank you for coming to find me. You see, I was really not … being myself … Well, anyway. How did you find me?”
“I heard you.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make a scene and scream.”
“I heard you in my heart. We need some good hot shocola,” she said, rising and dusting off sand from her skirt.
Noora managed a bitter smile. How could one buy hot chocolate when there was no money for even a breadcrumb?
“Now zat I don’t have to buy expensive wine for Bruno, I can afford good shocola! I know exactly where to go!” Annette said, helping Noora up. “Come, ma chère amie.”
Inside Annette’s apartment, after consuming a box of chocolate-covered marzipan treats, luscious petits fours, and a chocolate éclair they had split in half, over a bowl of café au lait, Annette talked about her life. Sitting on Annette’s cozy loveseat, Noora held her second bowl of café au lait with both hands for warmth and comfort. She could see the rising moon from the window.
Annette had lost her mother when she was a teenager, and she lived with her grandmother in Paris. When she was nineteen, Annette left Paris to live with Bruno in Cannes. Her boyfriend had chosen the rooftop apartment behind the hotel because he could walk through the luxurious lobby, acting as if he were a guest. He frequented the bar nightly, and made everyone believe he was a wealthy bon vivant. Every night, when the evening was over and he ran out of money, Bruno stumbled drunk through the back door to the alley and the apartment he shared with Annette.
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