Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  She heard men speaking Arabic behind her. Instantly her heart skipped a beat and she replaced the magazine on the rack. Two men were discussing the difference between one brand of cigars and another. Their accent was all too familiar—they were definitely from Jordan! She ventured a look. The men, one of them with a bushy mustache, stood almost barring her way as they sniffed cigars and made idle conversation. She managed to squeeze through a narrow aisle between two bookshelves and made her way out of the store. What were those men doing there? Well, why not, she reminded herself. Didn’t a prominent Arab recently buy the hotel? Could her father be there as well? That was possible. He had made numerous business trips to New York. Oh my God! He used to stay in this hotel! If he wasn’t there, someone she knew—or worse yet, someone her father knew—could easily have recognized her. Like that man who chased after her in Alexandria. Shuddering, she ran up the stairwell, two steps at a time. She could have sworn someone was rushing up the stairs behind her. Horrified, she ran faster. Those men! Could they be chasing after her? As soon as she reached Mr. Cohen’s suite, with trembling hands, she inserted the key and locked the door behind her.

  She had to do something about her looks. Anything so she would no longer look like Noora. From that moment on, her name would have to be Kelley Karlton. She would find a way to acquire her own identity, her own passport. She would change her hair color—bleach it blonde—and maybe even get plastic surgery. No one should ever know who she once was. Besides, wasn’t she supposed to be dead?. She ran to her bathroom, turned the lock securely, and sank to the floor, supporting her back to the door. She was unable to shake away her fear. Um Faheema, she thought, her eyes tearing, why didn’t I stay in your village? I felt safe there. She pressed Um Faheema’s blue bead against her chest. With this amulet, we shall never be apart. I will regain my courage and never lose faith.

  Six o’clock that evening and not a minute later, Ian Cohen entered his hotel suite. Noora waited for him by the door.

  “Ready?” he asked as he hurried to his room.

  “Yes, sir.” She clutched Annette’s hand-knitted sweater.

  “I’ll be a coupla minutes,” he said, disappearing behind the double doors of his master suite.

  At six thirty sharp, Noora and Ian passed through the Palm Court on their way out of the hotel. She noticed a woman wearing a black veil and a long black dress, walking a few feet behind a stern-looking Middle Eastern man.

  “Don’t get why they make ‘em dress like that,” she heard Ian say.

  Distracted, Noora tripped on the raised small marble square and almost fell. Ian grabbed her arm and looked down at the floor. “Careful! They’d better fix that!”

  “I’m all right, sir, thank you.”

  “They’re letting this place go to hell,” he muttered, gently taking her by the elbow and guiding her ahead of him through the revolving doors. She was impressed by this unexpected gallantry. But as he followed her through the revolving doors, she could swear that she heard him say, “Fucking ragheads… They’re takin’ over.”

  The limo dropped them off by a delicatessen. Ian went inside and was greeted by storekeepers as if he were the Godfather. Noora followed him down on narrow steps behind the restaurant into the large, well-lighted lobby of a screening room. Inside, where the smell of fresh paint lingered, five men waited for Mr. Cohen. They all settled in reclining red velvet chairs.

  Ian introduced Noora as “Kelley Karlton, new apprentice from France.”

  Apprentice? Noora wondered, but nodded politely.

  A couple of the younger men, in their mid-thirties, shook Kelley’s hand. She recognized the man who barely acknowledged her presence, seemingly busy in his own thoughts. He was the film director, Bernie Berkovitz, also known as BB Gun. She was sure he was the man she spoke to on the phone at the Majestic Hotel. She remembered him from television talk shows in London, where he was interviewed for some kind of an action, cult-type movie he’d made several years ago. The young director had a distinct voice and a quintessential New York accent. Noora thought it was best not to speak, because he might recognize her voice—but perhaps she was just being silly. Still, she could never be too cautious. While the men were busy conversing and settling into their seats in the front row, Noora found a seat in the back. They all carried legal-sized note pads and flashlight pens that they used as soon as the theater lights dimmed to black and the screen came to life. She thought they were going to project a movie, a new feature, perhaps not yet released.

  After ninety minutes of painfully boring scene after excruciatingly rough-cut scene, without sound, Noora understood what he meant by “rushes.” She found the whole process so monotonous, she wished he hadn’t brought her along. Worst of all, practically every scene was bloody and violent.

  When the rushes were finally over and the lights came up, Ian stormed out of the screening room. Once outside, the men separated in different directions. BB Gun had his own limousine waiting. The other men walked away without saying anything to Noora.

  She was glad to be out in the fresh air, and hadn’t noticed when Ian approached her.

  “So, Mrs. Lincoln, how’d you like the play?”

  Play? “Pretty violent, I’d say.” The words left her mouth before she could stop herself.

  He chuckled and walked ahead of her. “I like that answer,” he mumbled almost to himself.

  A taxi went by, and Ian waved until he saw the off-duty sign lighted.

  “Shit! God forbid taxis are around when we need ‘em. Let’s get outta here,” Ian Cohen said. He started walking fast down the block, grumbling to himself. “Asshole, BB Gun … Not worth another heart attack.”

  Noora had to hurry and keep up. Less than two blocks later, he began to slow down. He seemed out of breath.

  “Young directors! They get lucky for a sec and think they’re hot. What they really got is rabbit-shit for brains!” he muttered. He turned to Noora. “You look beat.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cohen, I am kind of tired, sir,” Noora said. Actually, she feared his anger might give him another attack.

  “Okay, let’s go home. Hey!” He waved down a taxi. “We’re in luck!”

  They settled into the cracked back seat. The cabby looked Middle Eastern. He turned a corner, maneuvering as if they were on a roller coaster.

  “Slow down, we’re trying to carry on a conversation back here!” Ian shouted, and turned to Noora. “So you thought some of those scenes were a little too violent?”

  “Well, actually perhaps … Yes, they were.” Now he would surely be mad.

  “Good, because we focus on male audiences age fourteen to twenty-four. They’re the moviegoers. Immune from TV violence. We gotta give ‘em something more on the silver screen. More fun. Faster scenes, more shocking. What worries me is BB Gun’s direction. Sucks. Thank God I got a decent editor beside me!” he said, watching the taxi driver, who drove carelessly.

  The taxi made another quick turn and she nearly fell on top of Ian.

  “You can hold on to my arm.”

  “Thank you,” she uttered, feeling for the handle on the door. It was torn off.

  “Hey! Slow down!” Ian shouted.

  “My driving eez the safest in the city. You don’t like eet, get anoder cab!”

  “You got it!” Ian retorted.

  The cabby screeched to a halt, nearly sending both Ian and Noora into the semi-closed glass partition.

  Ian gave the driver his money. No tip. The taxi took off.

  They stood by the Peninsula Hotel. Ian looked around. “It’s freezing. I told you you’d need a raincoat. Let’s grab a cup o’ coffee. Forget the cabs. I’ll call for the limo. Freakin’ ragheads,” he mumbled. “I swear … City’s full of ‘em! God protect us!”

  Ragheads? She knew the taxi driver was from somewhere in the Middle East. Mr. Cohen’s remark hurt her. What would he do if he knew she was from the Middle East herself? A Muslim, no less.

  CHAPTER 37

  BEL AIR
<
br />   The plane ride from LaGuardia to Los Angeles was uncomfortably turbulent. Ian Cohen’s pilot flew the private jet at different altitudes, trying to avoid rough air caused by storms in the vicinity. Still it bounced around like a paper airplane in the wind. Ian realized he wasn’t going to get much reading done. At times, the motion was so severe, it was making him uneasy. He watched his new companion, Kelley Karlton, who sat a few seats away, across from him. She appeared composed, as if she’d flown on private jets before. Staring out the window, she seemed lost in her own thoughts. He wondered what they were. Not that he cared. She probably left an abusive boyfriend who beat the shit out of her. But she didn’t look that stupid. Although pretty girls usually were, when it came to men. Whatever her past, it was good to have her along. Her genuine indifference about her surroundings actually started to make him feel more at ease.

  When they finally landed, Sam, Ian Cohen’s personal driver—and butler—waited at the gate.

  At five o’clock in the afternoon, the San Diego Freeway was creeping along, bumper-to-bumper, giving Ian an opportunity to work on his notes and sign letters that had been faxed to him in New York.

  At last, the gleaming royal blue Rolls Royce made its regal way through the imposing Bel Air West gates.

  Turning on to Bel Air Road, the Rolls Royce entered through a wide-open wooden gate and stopped beneath the porte-cochère at the top of the circular driveway. Mr. Cohen’s house was a combination of a mansion and a huge hacienda. With Spanish-tiled roof and peach stucco walls, the house was surrounded by perfectly trimmed, tall Italian pines. Mediterranean-style windows with flowerpots made her feel as if she was either in Spain or Italy.

  Ian Cohen flung open his door and bounded out of his car.

  “Finally!” he mumbled.

  Sam jumped out of the Rolls and opened the front door of the house for Mr. Cohen.

  “You know, Sam? Never thought I’d make it back. Sure glad to be home.”

  “Yes, Mr. Cohen,” Sam replied, apparently glad to see his boss as well.

  Mr. Cohen crossed the large foyer with a wide sweeping staircase to one side, and headed straight to his office. He sank into his brown leather wing chair, took a cigar from a carved wooden box on his Hawaiian koa desk, and flicked his black-and-gold Dunhill. He sighed and coughed. Wasting no time, he dialed his secretary’s voice mail and dictated a letter while fumbling through the pile of mail stacked high on his desk.

  Sam stood at the door and cleared his throat. “Where shall I put your guest’s luggage, Mr. Cohen?”

  Ian looked up. “Oh, yeah. Why don’t you show her to the guest house. Wait. On second thought, put her in the upstairs guest room. Next to mine.”

  Noora was delighted with her room. A tall window opened to a charming little balcony. As the sheer drapes billowed and the cool California breeze caressed her, she stood there, hugging herself. It’s beautiful here. Below her balcony, she saw a tennis court surrounded by perfectly trimmed, tall Italian pines. A few steps down, beyond trimmed bushes, was a gleaming aquamarine oval-shaped pool. Chilled by the evening air, Noora stepped back inside and removed her shoes to better feel the soft peach carpet. Everything in the room seemed new. Even the walls looked like they had recently been painted—all in peach tones. Coincidentally, her favorite color. Surely there had to be a catch. No man would offer all this without expecting at least something in return.

  Noora was still resting snugly beneath the down comforter when the sun was already high in the hazy sky. She had fallen asleep with her dress on. She was grateful no one disturbed her during the entire night.

  But when she opened her eyes, she realized someone was knocking gently at her door. She heard a woman’s voice.

  She jumped out of bed, and when she opened the door a crack, she was surprised to find a Spanish-or Mexican-looking woman, in a starched white uniform with a pink organza apron. Smiling, the woman showed silver caps on her two front teeth.

  “Buenos dias,” the maid said. “My name is Cessi. When would you like breakfast?” she asked in Spanish.

  “Oh … uhm, later … I need to dress,” Noora said in English, trying to figure out how to repeat the words in Spanish. She had learned some Spanish when she visited Madrid a few years back, but she forgot most of it. The maid lingered for a brief moment then left.

  “Miss Karlton, I’m sorry,” Sam, the lanky African-American butler said when Noora came down the stairs, freshly showered, wearing another one of Annette’s dresses. “Cessi doesn’t speak much English. She didn’t mean to barge in your room while you were still asleep. I told her not to disturb you.”

  “Oh, it’s perfectly fine, thank you. You see, I’m just here … visiting …,” Noora said, feeling awkward about this situation.

  “It is our pleasure to be at your service, Miss Karlton,” Sam said. “Mr. Cohen wanted you to know that he’ll be busy all day at the studio. He said you needed to do some shopping?”

  “Well, no … I don’t …”

  “Mr. Cohen said I should take you to the Beverly Shopping Center and pick you up before six o’clock, because he’ll need the car by seven for his dinner meeting.”

  Cessilia entered the large foyer holding breakfast on a white wooden tray. There was a bright glass of orange juice, a mound of scrambled eggs, toast, small jars of jam, and a tiny basket with steaming miniature muffins.

  “She baked those muffins this morning. We hope you would like them. Would you like breakfast in your room or the dining room?”

  “Oh …” Noora was speechless. The butler and the maid patiently waited for her answer. “Thank you …” Noora thought surely she should eat in the kitchen—wasn’t that where she belonged? They didn’t offer the kitchen as an alternative, though. “If you don’t mind, I guess … in my room?”

  Sam drove Noora to the mall in West Hollywood and parked the Rolls-Royce in the valet parking space on the bottom floor.

  “By the way …” he said as they walked to the elevators. He handed her an envelope. “Mr. Cohen asked me to give you this. When would you like me to pick you up, Miss Karlton? Or would you prefer that I escort you and help you with your shopping bags?”

  “I’m really not here to do any shopping. I came here to work for Mr. Cohen.”

  After a pause, Sam said, “Of course.” He pressed the elevator button for the fourth floor.

  The elevator doors opened and Noora stepped into a shopper’s fantasyland. Beautifully displayed windows graced brightly lit shops everywhere she looked.

  Sam gave her a moment to take it all in, then he politely cleared his throat.

  “When would you like me to pick you up, Miss Karlton?”

  “I don’t know,” Noora said, worrying about getting lost in such a maze. “How about in an hour?”

  “Miss Karlton, are you sure an hour would be enough time?”

  “How long does one need to shop in such a wonderful place, would you guess, Mr. Sherman?”

  “It’s hard to say. Perhaps three hours, Miss Karlton. At the very least.” He smiled, showing a brilliant set of bright whites against his coffee-brown skin.

  The moment Sam left, Noora opened the envelope and found five hundred-dollar bills. She gasped and shoved the money back in the envelope. There was a letter written on Ian’s personal letterhead.

  “Buy a nice suit. Dinner’s at eight sharp. Sam will drive you.”

  Mr. Cohen had a very distinctive signature.

  For a brief moment, she felt carefree. She found a classic gray suit on sale for less than two hundred dollars. Annette’s white blouse would look smashing under the jacket, Noora thought. She would wear her friend’s blouse for good luck. As she breezed past store windows, she caught her reflection and stopped. Her hair looked like she had been through a hurricane.

  Ian Cohen returned home from the studio at seven sharp in a miserable mood. Sam had Mr. Cohen’s gin and tonic waiting for him.

  “I don’t feel like going out tonight,” he said to Sam. “
But even on my deathbed, I’ll have to go. Can’t say no to a Japanese billionaire, now can I?”

  “No, sir,” Sam replied.

  “I hope you convinced the girl to get something decent to wear for tonight …”

  When the girl he brought from France met Ian in his study, he was speechless. She wore a simple and classy gray suit. He did not realize such simplicity could make a woman look so attractive. Her short brown hair and bad haircut had been trimmed and restyled, with sunny blonde streaks, obviously by professional hands, giving her skin color a healthy glow. Wispy fringes softly framed her high cheekbones and oval face.

  The faux-Chanel earrings she wore looked as exquisite on her as if they were genuine.

  “I can change …” she said, blushing.

  “You look perfect. We match … Don’t we?” He grinned. He was also clad in a dark gray suit and white shirt.

  Sam drove them to the Beverly Regent Hotel.

  At the hotel’s posh Gardenia Room restaurant, Mr. Cohen introduced Noora simply as Miss Kelley Karlton, with no further explanation.

  Kazumi, Mr. Okata’s wife, an attractive, tiny Japanese lady in her late forties, and their daughter Takako, a shy eighteen-year-old, sat next to Noora in the circular booth.

  Although the hotel served excellent Japanese cuisine, Mr. Okata and his family all ordered prime rib with baked potatoes.

  “Ice” Cohen had begun to relax and enjoy himself. He was glad he had decided to bring Frenchy, who seemed at ease with the Japanese. But his comfort didn’t last; his stepson Kennilworth, clad in a designer suit, accompanied by his current blonde-for-the-moment, had just walked into the restaurant.