“His ex-wife! She was also a well-known singer. Look at him now. Johnny Hallyday. Stealing the cradle!”
“You mean, robbing the cradle?”
“Yes, and I am not interested in French men! I am not even interested in Italian men. Give me a good, juicy Americain. A big, tall muscle hunk! Like the one in cigarette commercials, but who doesn’t smoke! A coy-boy.”
“A cowboy? You’d have to find him in America, and I don’t mean New York,” Noora said with a deep sigh. She was tired and wished she had some of Um Faheema’s special potion to soothe her sunburned back, which still ached and started to itch.
Beyond the promenade, on the sidewalk, Noora saw a familiar figure. She rose from her chair for a better look.
Uncle Khayat’s doctor, Alain Demiel, was following the leashed shaggy, huge ball of fur. “Baldo?” Noora said. With his eyes concealed by a curtain of matted fur, the Bouvier des Flandres led the way, while the doctor stumbled around people, barely able to keep up.
“Who eez that?” Annette asked.
“It’s him. The doctor I told you about.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Ce n’est pas possible. He eez handsome!” Annette exclaimed, surprised. She rose to get a better look above a crowd of lively patrons. A tall, heavyset man with a fat cigar, sporting a Stetson and a pot belly, tried to take Annette’s seat right from under her.
“Non mais dis-donc, c’est ma chaise!” she growled, defending her chair. “Espèce de con… crazy producteur Hollywoodien de merde,” she cursed under her breath, snatching the chair back.
Docteur Demiel disappeared in the crowd.
“Where did he go? Oh no! Do you still have his card?”
“I think so.”
“You must find an excuse to fall sick and call him. We must invite him to dinner. We must not lose him.”
“I thought you were through with men. He is not American, you know,” Noora teased.
“Yes, but something eez boiling inside. A good sign.”
Noora remembered the cemetery. She plopped herself back down on the wicker chair. Baldo’s fur brushed against her leg and the big dog flopped down next to her feet. Surprised, Noora laughed with delight.
An hour later, Noora, Annette, the doctor, and his dog sat together in Annette’s apartment. Annette had opened a new bottle of red wine. An old Dalida song played on the radio—“Bambino.”
“Dalida … That was my mother’s favorite song when I was growing up in Egypt,” the doctor said.
“My mother loved that song also. Dalida could sing in every language. Did you know her?” Annette asked.
“Yes. My mother used to buy all her records. I don’t know why Dalida wanted to end her life so soon. Sad. Very sad. ”
“I read she believed that life had nothing further to offer her,” Annette said.
“She was wrong. Life is always filled with new beginnings,” Alain Demiel said.
“And new hopes.” Annette’s Bambi-brown eyes grew larger.
Though she was exhausted, Noora did not want the evening to end. It appeared that her new friends had a lot in common. They liked the same music, the same artists, the same food. Baldo was now curled up cozily next to Annette’s feet, as if he approved of her.
Doctor Demiel’s pager beeped just after midnight. Excusing himself, he pressed the buttons from his mobile phone. A moment later, the doctor closed the flap of his phone and rose.
“Sorry, I must leave right away. I’m being called at the hospital in Nice. I need to call a taxi.”
Noora suggested that Annette drive the doctor. She watched Annette’s eyes light up when the doctor readily accepted.
“Baldo can stay here if you like,” Noora said to the doctor, but the dog was by the door, anxiously wagging its tail.
“I don’t mind taking care of Baldo while you are at the hospital,” Annette offered. I am sure Baldo will like my Micheline.”
As soon as the doctor, Annette, and Baldo left the apartment, Noora curled up on the old, soft loveseat and pulled the blanket to her eyes, because she was too tired to get up again to turn off the lights. She prayed that Annette and Alain would realize they were meant for each other. It seemed Baldo already did. The moment she rested her head on the small pillow, she fell asleep.
Annette was evidently trying to be quiet as she unlocked the door and entered her apartment at four in the morning, but Noora was a light sleeper. She opened her eyes and smiled. “You had a nice evening. I can tell.”
“After I drove the doctor to the hospital, I walked Baldo,” Annette said, starting to undress. “Docteur Alain came out of the hospital one hour and a half later and invited me for brioches and café-au-lait in the all-night bistro across the street. And he paid! He opened my door, even. He is a true gentleman. He comes from another era. My kind of time.”
Annette left for work just before eight in the morning. She sang a Dalida song in the shower and was bouncing with energy, even though she had had less than three hours’ sleep. As soon as Annette left her apartment, however, Noora began to feel morose. She stood in the tiny bathroom. A sharp-pointed pair of scissors was on a nearby shelf. She picked them up and studied them. These scissors had powers. They could alter her existence. They could do her a great favor and take away her life, or they could do something as small and as simple as change her appearance. She began to cut her bangs. She cut them in a straight line but when she combed them, they looked crooked. The more she tried to straighten her bangs, the worse they looked. And now they were too short. What was so difficult about cutting hair in a straight line?
She grabbed a chunk of her voluminous locks that fell down her back, and chopped them off above the shoulder.
With every strand of hair that fell to the floor, Noora separated herself from memories of the past. The hair Michel had touched and stroked once upon a lifetime ago, the hair that had lived with her and still carried her past was now going to be flushed away.
Noora made her way through the service access and punched in her time card five minutes before 12:00 PM. She ran a hand through her very short hair. She hoped her new, badly chopped hairdo wouldn’t attract too much attention.
When she entered to clean Mr. Ian Cohen’s suite, he was at his desk, barking on the phone.
“Basis the above, I expect an immediate reply … Sincerely, et cetera. Enclose two copies of the script … Wait a minute, Roz.” He snapped his fingers for the chambermaid, indicating that he wanted her to clean his suite.
Noora nodded and headed straight for the bathroom. She had no desire to face that belligerent man again. She noted that today, only one towel had been used.
“Enclose another copy of that letter. With the script!” Noora heard him shout. “Yes, yes!” he continued, louder. “The same copy we sent last week. That asshole said he never got it. Messenger it immediately, back it up by registered mail, return-receipt-requested! From now on, Roz, everything gets messengered first thing in the morning. They have martini lunches at Le Dome, screw their brains out in the afternoon with their assistants, and they wonder why they forget the head between their shoulders … Whaaat? Roz, damn it, I’ll relax soon as I hear they got the stuff. You’ve been with me too long to let those morons bullshit you.”
Noora returned to her cart in the hallway to toss out the trash. There was even more rubbish than the day before—trade papers, copies of scripts, crumpled papers, as well as unopened gold-and-silver-trimmed invitation envelopes addressed to Mr. Ian Cohen in handwritten calligraphy.
Returning to his room, Noora pulled the sheets off the bed. The covers were barely used. Her task should be easier today. Suddenly, she could feel him staring at her. She tried to focus on her work by moving around the bed to tuck in the sheets. She felt herself blush. Was he really staring at her or was she imagining it? She glanced up. Sure enough, he was glaring at her.
“You! Aren’t you the maid from yesta-day?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?�
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“No English?”
“No, sir! I mean yes, sir. I was here yesterday,” she managed to say.
“Jeez, Loo-eez. What’d you do to your hair?!”
Noora self-consciously ran a hand over her hair and took a deep breath. His rudeness was unbearable. She wanted to scream—it is my hair! I have the right to do any bloody thing I want with it! Instead, she took a breath and said in a small tight voice, “I cut it.”
“What?”
“I cut it. Would you like more towels, sir?”
“No.” He started to leaf through his thick stack of messages. “Listen, uh … what you did yesterday was smart,” he said without looking up. “Quick and clever,” he muttered low. He picked up the receiver and punched in numbers.
“Pleasure, sir,” Noora replied. What a stupid thing to say. It wasn’t her pleasure! She finished tucking the sheets under the mattress. She still had to clean the bathtub. She had to do that stupid fan detail on the toilet paper and mop the bathroom floor. And she had to vacuum.
“Sir, shall I return later for the vacuuming?” she asked, hoping he planned to leave the room.
“No. You can do it now,” he replied, slamming down the phone. As soon as the phone hit the cradle, it rang. He snatched up the receiver and growled into it.
Noora cleaned the bathroom. She was glad that at least today there was less soap scum, and hardly any hair around the bathtub drain. Cleaning dirty bathtubs made her want to vomit. Annette did not seem bothered by that type of mess. Perhaps Noora would also get used to cleaning other people’s dirt. She made her way out into the hallway as she peeled off her rubber gloves. She dreaded the idea of having to vacuum in his presence. He was still yelling on the phone. Something the caller was saying must have irritated him enormously.
When she returned to the suite, pulling the vacuum cleaner behind her, Noora found Mr. Cohen banging his fist on the desk and breathing heavily. She thought it was a good thing the person on the opposite end of the phone call was not standing in front of him, because he looked enraged enough to kill.
She decided to drag the vacuum cleaner out of that room and start cleaning the next room—before the man turned his anger on her.
She heard him wheezing, and she turned. He was desperately motioning to her, waving a hand frantically, trying to get her attention.
Was he asking her to close his door? Try another tactic, she thought.
The cart out in the hallway was barring the entrance. When cleaning rooms, doors were to remain open.
Mr. Cohen was crouched over the desk, his face turning an odd greenish shade. He clutched his chest. Gasping for air, he motioned frantically to his jacket on the chair across the room.
Something was terribly wrong with this man—it did not seem to be an act. Noora grabbed the jacket and handed it to him. He thrust a shaky hand into the breast pocket and produced a small bottle, then began to panic when he couldn’t open the childproof lid. He looked at Noora with beseeching eyes.
She took the bottle, opened it, and thrust it back to him.
With trembling hands, he pulled out a pill and put it under his tongue.
Was he all right? No, he was still wheezing. She loosened his shirt and helped him into bed.
“Sir, I shall call for a doctor.”
He shook his head. “No!”
“You need a doctor, sir.”
“No!” he whispered, struggling to breathe. “No friggin’ doctor!”
She noticed the receiver on the desk was still off the hook.
“Close my door, put your cart away… next room or something. Just don’t let anyone see me,” he said as she dashed over to his desk to hang up the phone, when she heard someone still on the line. “Ian! What’s going on!?” a male voice shouted.
Placing the receiver to her ear, Noora put on a professional voice. “This is the hotel operator,” she announced in her best British accent. “We are experiencing minor technical difficulties due to overloads … Yes, that’s right … No, I cannot say when the lines will be cleared,” she found herself saying. “We apologize for the inconvenience. Please try your call later. Merci, Monsieur.” She hung up.
“Be right back. One minute,” she said and ran out and pushed the cart to the next room in the corridor. “Housekeeping,” she announced a few times while gently knocking on the door. There was no answer. She left the cart in front of that door, as if ready to clean the next room, and rushed back to Mr. Cohen’s suite. She dashed over to the desk and, replacing the cap on the medicine bottle, she checked the label.
He watched her in action. Lying back weakly, he asked Noora if he could hold her hand. Noora hesitated. She walked over to his bedside and propped up a couple of pillows for his comfort.
“Don’t tell anyone … about this,” he whispered, squeezing her hand a bit too hard.
His face was a deathly hue and his skin felt clammy. He was indeed sick, and was not faking it. It was possible he was seriously ill. A thought came to mind. The doctor! Where was his business card? Had she left it at Annette’s apartment? No, she had taken it with her because Annette had begged her to call the docteur and invite him to dinner. With her free hand, she dug in her pocket, found the card, and checked the private number the doctor had scribbled on the back.
The phone rang.
“Don’t answer, don’t …” Mr. Cohen begged, squeezing her hand.
“I pressed the private button, so that your calls would be referred to your voice mail, sir,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind.” She wished she could free her hand from his tight grip.
“You’re s-smart, kid… Why isn’t this nitro shit working?”
Noora managed to release herself from Ian Cohen, and picked up the phone on the nightstand next to her. As she began to dial, Ian Cohen took her hand again and squeezed harder.
“Don’t call anyone. I just need a coupla minutes’ rest. I’ll be fine …”
“Doctor Demiel is a personal friend. He might give you a new prescription. Yours has expired, sir. And it says ‘no refills.’”
“Oh, shit.”
Docteur Alain Demiel had barely knocked on the door to Monsieur Cohen’s suite before Noora opened it. “Thank you so much for coming so quickly,” she said, realizing he had not recognized her at first glance under the dim light of the hallway. She unconsciously ran a hand through her chopped-up hair.
“I wasn’t far when they paged me,” he said, following Noora to Mr. Cohen’s bedside.
“I’m sorry,” Noora said. “I have to clean the next room. I can’t stay …”
“Fine, I’ll let you know …” the doctor said.
Doctor Demiel checked the producer’s blood pressure. It was sky-high. “We will need to run some tests. Can you make it to the hospital?”
“What? There’s no way I can go to any hospital at this time.”
“Okay. Tomorrow morning. I would advise we schedule you for an angiogram …”
“Can’t you just give me something until I get back to the States?”
The doctor read the label on the nitroglycerine bottle. “Your prescription has expired several months ago.”
“I know.”
Doctor Demiel handed Mr. Cohen a few samples from his case and recommended that he remain in bed for the rest of the day.
“I’ll be back to see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Cohen,” Doctor Demiel said. “I’m going to write you a new prescription,” he said, pulling out a pen and scribbling on a pad. “You may call me on my personal line or at home,” he added.
Doctor Demiel caught Noora in the hallway as she was picking up clean folds of towels for the next room. Quietly, he briefed her on Mr. Cohen’s situation. “He should not be left alone,” he concluded.
Noora didn’t know what to say. She could not leave her position and stay with the guest in his room. She would have to contact Annette. “Yes, I … By the way, Annette wanted to invite you to dinner at her apartment,” she said, realizing she had probably chose
n an inappropriate time. But Annette had asked Noora several times to please call Le Docteur.
To Noora’s surprise, the doctor actually seemed pleased. “Thank you. When?”
“When? Well, if you’re not too busy, how about … tonight?”
“Please tell Mademoiselle Annette I would be honored.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“All right then… Good. Oh, and Baldo too, of course.”
“Thank you. In the meantime, I would suggest you keep an eye on Mr. Cohen,” he said, extending his hand to Noora. Then he gently gave her a kiss on each cheek. He headed for the stairs, instead of waiting for the elevator.
Later that evening, Ian gave Noora several names and numbers and asked her to cancel all his meetings. He also canceled a tennis game for the next morning with other producers at the Mont Fleury Hotel.
“I never missed a tennis match since I started coming to the Cannes Film Festival in 1971.” He changed his mind several times about the excuse he would need to use. “Leave a message with the concierge and say I had some emergency. No, say I had to attend an urgent meeting. No, just tell them I am canceling due to emergency rewrites.”
Later, Noora sat on a chair by Ian’s bedside and watched over him with concern.
“I’d like you to come to Los Angeles with me and be my personal assistant,” Mr. Cohen said.
Noora was speechless.
“How about it? I see you’re quick on the phone.”
Silence.
“I’m offering you a job, kid.”
“Thank you.”
“Good.”
“But I am sorry, sir; that will not be possible. However, I am grateful and honored for the offer,” Noora uttered, thunderstruck.
“If you need a part, I may be able to help you. Later on.”
“A part?” Noora did not understand.
“In my upcoming picture … Christ, you deserve it,” he murmured as he slowly lifted himself from the bed and sat at the edge, his hair messed up, his eyes glazed and half-open.
“I am not an actress, sir,” Noora said, standing a couple of feet away from the bed now.
“All girls are actresses.” Cohen rose and headed groggily to the vestibule. “Not an actress? I’ve never heard that line before,” he muttered, wobbling to the bathroom.
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