Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “I left my grandmother to realize the dream of my life. I met him in a summer camp. I was fifteen years old. Grand-mère did not approve, but she believed I needed to live my life. As long as we were free. With no war. I loved Bruno too much to think with my head. I thought we were going to be married as soon as we had a little money. Have a family. I wanted to prove to Grand-mère that she was wrong. But she was always correct. Bruno had big dreams. But too lazy to work. He wanted me to work and buy the food, make dinner, clean, everything. Food is expensive. And all the wine …”

  Noora felt embarrassed that she was eating Annette’s food. She showed such generosity and trust. How would she ever repay her? In the meantime, the aspirin Annette had given her was starting to take effect, and Noora was sleepy.

  “Bruno wanted sex all the time,” Annette went on talking. “Sex every day, every night. I went to work bow-legged,” she giggled. “Funny now. It wasn’t funny before.” She removed her dress, and wearing only transparent lacy underwear, she crossed the room to a little dresser drawer. She took out a long white nightgown and put it on.

  “I was pregnant one time, you know?” she said removing her makeup with a wet cloth. “He made an appointment for an abortion, but I lost the pregnancy. It was God’s will. But then, he made an appointment to tie my tubes so I would not get pregnant anymore,” she said. “Can you believe how cruel some men can be?”

  “Well, yes … perhaps,” Noora mumbled, thinking about her father. She would not go to that time, that painful past.

  “Oh my goodness! I am sorry. You must be exhausted. You are so polite. Tell me to stop talking. You are a good listener. I never tell about my secrets to anyone before,” she said, putting the dishes in the sink and closing the sliding doors of the kitchenette. “You can sleep on my bed if you like. My little couch is very comfortable for me,” she said, opening her armoire and pulling out a pillow and blanket.

  “I like your little loveseat,” Noora said. “It’s cozy. May I sleep here?”

  “Ah mais oui, and even when I become rich one day, I will always keep this loveseat,” she said, handing Noora the bedding.

  “I’m sorry,” Noora said, curling up on the sofa, covering herself.

  “About what?”

  “About your being forced to do that operation.”

  “Operation?”

  “Tie your tubes.”

  “Ah, non, non! I went to the clinique, yes. But nothing more. I waited a few hours across the street and then I took the bus home. I told him I had the operation, but I did not do it. I took birth control pills and I put them in my locker at work.”

  “Good for you. That was very smart.”

  “But I was still stupid, because Bruno was drinking more and more and I had to work to pay the hotel bar. Then I heard Bruno was seeing a girl who had a yacht. I left work in the middle of the day and I rented a … a how you say, barque à moteur.”

  “Speedboat?”

  “Yes, and I saw him with the girl. She was wearing nothing, only a ficelle, up her cul!”

  Noora didn’t recognize the words.

  “A G-string, you know, up her derriere. When I saw my Bruno caress that derriere, I became crazy. I climb on the stairs on the yacht. There was a party. All the rich people with perfect bodies and perfect tans eating fancy foods; I even saw a mountain of caviar on the buffet table, and … Bruno did not see me because he was busy kissing zat beetch! I screamed, ‘Stop! Bruno is mine!’ I was screaming so loud, Bruno ran to me and grabbed me by the hair. He slapped my face and said he was going to call the police. Like he didn’t know me. Arrest me for trespassing …”

  “What did you do?” Noora asked.

  “So I jump in the water and swam to the beach. Even I didn’t know I could swim so fast. It was because of the … how you say …”

  “Adrenaline?”

  “Yes.”

  Noora recalled how she also dove off the yacht, that night the actress nearly clawed her with her nails, and how she was able to swim to shore like she never thought possible.

  “I hated my life. Mostly, I hated me! I wanted to run back to Paris and hide. I believed I became a crazy person. But I did not want to worry my grandmother. She has … how shall I say, she has endured many, many horrible times in her life. She was a survivor of a concentration camp. It was not fair for me to worry her … you know?”

  “I am so sorry,” Noora said. So much suffering in this world, she thought, as Annette continued. But Noora’s eyelids were becoming heavier.

  “I was ready to commit suicide. But I could never, because I could never hurt my Grand-mère anymore. Then, par chance, I found a wonderful store with incense and there I read a book called Take Charge of Your Life. And so I did.”

  “Take charge of your life …” Noora murmured, trying to stay awake.

  “Yes,” Annette answered, yawning. “I am sorry. I should stop talking. We should sleep now. Bonne nuit. Beaux rêves.”

  The small cuckoo clock by the front door chimed twice. Noora was thrust out of a deep sleep, wondering where she was. Two o’clock in the afternoon? Realizing she was in Annette’s apartment, she groggily stumbled for the bathroom, and discovered a note tacked to the bathroom door.

  “I went to work. Back at six. I left un croissant au chocolat et une bouteille d’aspirine. Annette”

  Another note on the table gave instructions on how to use the coffeepot. Annette had also left two chamomile tea bags on a plate. Next to it was a small bottle of aspirin and a tube of after-sun lotion. Noora was amazed. God must have sent Annette, an angel.

  It was almost too good to be true.

  CHAPTER 33

  LIGHT OF THE DESERT MEETS ICE OF THE JUNGLE

  Noora pushed the heavy cart through the hotel hallway.

  “Housekeeping,” she said timidly, after tapping on the fourth door.

  She had gratefully accepted the job. How could she refuse? They did not ask for any “formalities.” No need for any of that here, thanks to her friend Annette. The pay was miserable, but she could never think that way anymore. She would be able to help Annette pay for groceries and perhaps, eventually, she could help pay the rent—if Annette would allow her to stay.

  One day at a time, she reminded herself. One moment at a time. You have a new name; you are a new person. No one ever has to know who you once were.

  She tapped on the door to room 224. No answer. She ventured inside and found the door to the bathroom wide open and a man sitting on the toilet.

  “Oh, so sorry,” Noora blurted out, blushing. “Je m’excuse…” She hustled out of the room, and as she closed the door, she heard the man’s thunderous voice.

  “Come in, come in. I’m done!” he said, over the sounds of flushing toilet. “COME IN!” he yelled louder. He sounded like an American.

  “Pardon, Monsieur! Housekeeping. I … I shall return later.”

  “NO! Now. Clean room right now.”

  Noora hurried through the small vestibule and straight to the large, sunny suite. She heard the man run the faucet in the bathroom. She grabbed the two trash baskets that were overflowing with discarded mail and crushed-up balls of paper. That was the first thing you did, Annette had instructed: remove the trash. Noora had to pass through the bathroom again, where that man was. Never mind. She was to do her job and think of nothing more. She nearly bumped into him as she tried to make her way out to her cart in the hall.

  “So sorry, sir,” she said in English, getting a good look at him for the first time. He had gray hair, gray-blue eyes, like ice, and a stocky build. He appeared to be her height or about an inch shorter.

  The head of housekeeping had warned her in advance about the guests at this time of the year. “Most of the British in the film business speak French. The Germans also. But the Americans from Hollywood, aiii, Cary Grant and Grace Kelly, they are not!”

  “Do toilets first. Bathroom. Capisce?” the belligerent man demanded as he brushed past her.

  “Yes.
I understand. I can come back, sir …”

  “Hallelujah, Hollywood! Someone speaks English. I’m gonna do cartwheels.”

  “Yes, sir,” she managed to mutter, as she moved toward the door. “I shall return at a more convenient time.”

  “This is the only convenient time. Bathroom first. And bring more towels. Don’t forget. More towels!” The phone rang. He rushed to a desk piled with magazines, books, fat binders, mail, and a huge basket of fruit. “Get rid of this,” he said, indicating the basket.

  Noora dumped the trash in the cart’s trash bin, and rushed back inside to return it to its proper place. She took the pretty basket out to the hallway and made her way to the bathroom to resume her task.

  He snatched up the phone and barked, “Ian Cohen!” Pressing the phone to his ear, he moved around the desk and sat. “Where the hell have you been, Arnie? I left a million messages, and God forbid you return one of my fucking phone calls!” He listened for a moment, then yelled louder, “Hey, Arn. Don’t bullshit me!”

  Soiled towels were piled high next to the tub in the luxurious marble and mirrored bathroom. Several towels were smudged with red lipstick, as if a woman had deliberately wiped her lips on them instead of using tissue. Noora had forgotten to put on her rubber gloves. “You must wear them or you will catch AIDS,” Annette had warned as if talking about catching the common cold. In the other room, the man was still yelling on the phone. She had heard he was a prominent producer. She wondered if all wealthy American men were so loud and undignified. She wished she could find an excuse to leave. There were two more rooms she could clean. Noora slipped on her gloves. She would have to remove them when she made the bed, even though Annette insisted she should wear gloves at all times. But she found it too difficult to work wearing rubber gloves.

  “… So FIRE him!” came the man’s growl from his suite. “I … don’t … care! No sound man’s gonna FUCK UP MY MOVIE!”

  He was yelling so loud, Noora’s heart fluttered.

  “I AM calm! Get Shawn O’Shaunessy. I told you to get Shawn in the first place … I told ya!”

  There was silence finally. But not for long.

  “WHAAAT?” He sounded fully capable of crunching the receiver in half with his teeth. “I never said that! I never, NEVER said that! Goddamn it, Arnie. The hairdresser’s sister sucks your dick, you screw the standin, you fuck with the DP’s wife, and-don’t-tell-me-you-don’t, and now you’re fucking up my picture! You’ve got your head up your ass! Don’t you think I know what’s goin’ on out there on location? Just ‘cause I’m in friggin’ Frogsville doesn’t mean …”

  In the corridor, Noora dropped the soiled towels into the portable laundry bin and brought in clean ones. Didn’t that man care that with the windows open, he was probably being heard all the way down the Croisette Boulevard?

  Back inside, Noora felt sickened as she stared into the tub she had to clean. There was so much hair stuck in the drain that hardly any water could run—gray soap scum, mixed with coarse dark, curly hair. Pubic hair? Her stomach churned. But she was to clean, not think. She had a job. She had a place to live. She was a maid. But in a very luxurious, world-renowned hotel. As long as she did not allow herself to think about her past, she was fine. As long as there were no people from her homeland, she was safe. The man continued to yell.

  “I saw the dailies! THEY SUCK! They’re out of fuckin’ focus. What’s with all these extras?”

  A short-lived silence, then: “Yeah? No. NO, I don’t think we need all that atmosphere!”

  She tried to avoid looking at her reflection, but every wall presented mirrors. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail and twisted it to form a doughnut, secured by a hairnet. Her scar seemed more pronounced and her nose bent to the right. She had lost so much weight, she looked scrawny. But never mind about her appearance.

  At last, she was done with the bathroom. Maybe she could have done a better job. There was no time. She had two more rooms to clean before break time. She had mastered the way to fold towels, just as Annette had taught her. She had stayed up late practicing until she finally got the hang of it. Down to every detail, no matter how silly it seemed. Did these Hollywood people really notice? Weren’t they too busy partying, being interviewed, and having their pictures taken? Annette had laughed. “These movie people don’t notice anything until you do not do it exactly right,” she’d said. Folding the toilet paper into a crisp design seemed the most ridiculous thing to have to do, but the finished effect showed this was no ordinary hotel.

  When she tiptoed into the suite to make the bed, the man was fuming.

  Noora’s heart began to race.

  “I’d like my room done ta-day. Not ta-morrow!”

  “Yes, sir.” She removed the old pillowcases. One was stained with lipstick smudges. The producer must have had a wild night. She came around the bed to finish the other side. Aside from the lipstick stains and hair strands here and there, nothing showed a missus was sharing the man’s suite.

  What business was it of hers? Make the bed, dust, vacuum, do your job, leave.

  She removed all the soiled sheets and dashed out of the room with her load, returning instantly with fresh, folded bed linens. The first guest she personally encountered had to be this uncouth American. She felt degraded. If he tossed one more sarcastic remark, she would have to walk out of the room—but then he would certainly complain about her.

  He was now furiously scribbling something on a legal-sized yellow pad. He tore out some pages then got on the phone again.

  “Get me my secretary,” he huffed, out of breath. Then he slammed the phone back down.

  Noora could swear he was watching her. The blood rushed to her face and she could feel a cascade of perspiration flow down from under her arms. He marched to the hallway that housed the mini-bar, opened the small refrigerator, and extracted a bottle of Perrier. Then he went to the bathroom. She heard him run the water.

  She folded the sheets under the mattress exactly the way Annette had taught her. Fold one side this way, and then take the other, form a point, and tuck under the mattress. She had never bothered watching her maids make her bed.

  She noticed a small pair of lacy women’s underwear on the floor, next to the bedside table. She had almost stepped on it. She would have to remove the underwear and place it on the chair as she started to vacuum. Annette had warned her about soiled underwear—either men’s or women’s. “If you find used undies on the floor, use plastic gloves and put in the special plastic sack marked ‘for your convenience’ and leave on the chaise,” Annette’s words echoed in her ear. Okay, Annette, I shall. What chaise? The room had no chaise. Oh yes, now she remembered. Chaise meant “chair” in French, and not one of those lounge chairs.

  As Noora rushed silently out of the room to get the plastic bag and slip on her gloves, she again nearly bumped into Monsieur Ian Cohen.

  He did not excuse himself, and headed straight to the phone. He watched the receiver for a moment, then noticed the underpants on the floor. This seemed to displease him greatly. He was about to cross the room to pick up the underpants when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver. “Ian Cohen!” he barked. “What? No…NO! Absolutely not, do not send him in. I’m in a meeting. No. I’m NOT here, capisce? Compren-dey? I am NOT here!” He slammed down the phone. The phone rang again. Ian snatched it up. “I said, I’m not! … Oh … Roz. Glad it’s you. I got a coupla letters to dictate. They have to be sent A.S.A-mmediately …”

  Out in the hallway, Noora was searching for plastic bags. She was sure she had put some in her cart. She was going to have to talk to that man and say she could come back later to vacuum, because the noise would surely disturb his phone conversation. A-ha, there they were, the bags, hidden under shampoo bottles, she thought with a sigh of relief. She returned to the suite and noticed that the throw pillows on the bed were crooked, and that she had forgotten to flare out the quilted bedspread the way Annette had shown her. She fixed the pillows and be
dspread.

  The producer had rattled her—what else was she forgetting? After the final touches, and just as she was about to remove the underpants, a tall, handsome young man clad in casual Gucci pants and perfectly tailored silk shirt appeared.

  “You sonnomabeetch,” he growled, his eyes afire.

  Noora recognized him. He was the Italian movie star she had read about in magazines in London. Wasn’t he the one who just married … Oh my God! Noora gasped. This was the guy who just married that girl! The movie star who threw me out of the yacht!

  “I just arrive from location and I find out why my wife is not in penthouse because you screw her?” He pointed his finger like pointing a knife. “You… FUCK my wife? SONNAMABEETCH. I sue you! I should keel you!”

  Noora thought this could not be happening; but she could smell his strong cologne, and he was altogether too real, blocking the exit.

  Ian Cohen immediately glanced over at the underpants on the floor.

  Noora caught his glance as the young stud continued to wave his arms and threaten the producer. Noora picked up the underpants and thrust them in her pocket. She excused herself loudly, and nearly brushing her right shoulder against the Italian movie star, she rushed out of the suite.

  Trying to get far away from that wild episode in Mr. Cohen’s room, Noora pushed the cart down the corridor. She shoved it out of view in the housekeeping storage room and ducked in after it. She had to get rid of the underwear. If she were caught, they would think she was some kind of a pervert. What a stupid thing to do, run with a woman’s soiled underpants and put them in her pocket! But if the Italian movie star saw them … So what? What business was that of hers? She thought of the way Mr. Cohen looked at the underpants next to his bed—and the way he shot a quick glance toward her direction. “Get them out of here,” she could swear he wanted to tell her.