Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  From the reflection of the glass wall behind him, she could tell he was nude. She kept her eyes to the ground as she handed him his clothes.

  “Do me a favor,” he said. “Go out there and tell ‘em it was just a bad case of gas. I’m now feeling a hundred percent better, and thank them very much. I’ll meet you in the car.”

  In the parking lot, as he drove out of the hospital gate, Ian seemed suddenly energized.

  “Kennil-worthless,” he mumbled. He turned to Noora. “Let’s grab a bite, kid. I know a great place. Open all night. You’ll love their chocolate cake.” He turned his attention back to the road and made a sharp left. “God, I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

  At the Hamburger Hamlet on Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills, Ian Cohen devoured a juicy rare hamburger, along with a large order of french fries drenched in ketchup, and a tall glass mug of draft beer to wash it all down.

  Noora was enjoying a triple-layer chocolate cake with a mug of hot chocolate—hopefully it had enough caffeine to keep her awake.

  “You didn’t really respond when I asked you if you finished that script.”

  “I’m sorry; I should have returned it to you …”

  “I got more copies. Did you read the entire thing?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a long pause.

  “That good, huh?” He poured salt over his ketchup.

  “Well, it was all right, really …”

  “Quit the B.S. Tell me how you really liked the script.”

  “Well, I found it a bit too … Well, too bloody. Gory … I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t like it.

  “Well … In my opinion, and that is strictly my own opinion, sir …”

  “I won’t get mad if you finally get to the point.” He took a big bite of his burger.

  “There were some scenes I found …” She stopped herself.

  “Some scenes you found what?”

  “Perhaps a tad too far-fetched,” she said before she could stop herself.

  He stared at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. She was sure he was going to explode.

  Instead, he swallowed his food and said, “I see. Tell me everything that’s bothering you about the story, and I’ll give you a good reason for it, because I’ve been through this property a zillion times with a gazillion writers.”

  But Ian Cohen knew he was running out of creative juice. Good material didn’t come by like it used to. There was a time when he could doctor any script, or if he had a story idea, he could assign a writer. In a few weeks, they practically had a shooting script. Not anymore. There were so many scripts floating around Hollywood, but none of them moved him anymore. He spent a fortune on rewrites. Maybe he should just shelve the damn script. What the hell did she mean by “a bit too far-fetched”? What the hell did she know? “Kids love things that are far-fetched,” he said.

  “I don’t believe the antagonist should be killed by the protagonist. The antagonist should be killed as a result of his own actions.”

  “Screenwriting 101,” he mumbled.

  “Pardon?”

  “Never mind.”

  “And Michael the antagonist … Michael Mancuzo, that’s his name, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he said. At least she remembered the character’s name. Most readers didn’t remember names of characters. That was one positive point.

  “The character of Michael Mancuzo is all bad. Nobody’s all good or all bad. There’s no depth to his character.”

  “He’s a mean bastard who kills. A cold-blooded murderer. How much depth does he need?”

  “He is not a robot.”

  He’s a fucking moron and a damned killer! Ian wanted to say, but he was in the company of a lady. “All right, even if he’s a killer, he’s still human,” Ian admitted.

  “He was once a child,” Noora continued. “And innocent … before he started to go bad. I’m sure there was someone he had to care about, still cares about.”

  Ian chewed on that idea. “So?”

  “It would give the reader … I mean the audience … a moment to think … to have a little compassion,” she said, thinking he was surely going to tell her to go back to cleaning rooms.

  Ian stopped eating. “Then what?”

  “That’s it.”

  “C’mon. Tell me more.”

  “I’m sorry, this is only my opinion.”

  A waitress slung a platter of onion rings on their table.

  “That was a good observation,” he said. “I’ll buy you another piece of cake. What else about the story? I didn’t write the script. You wouldn’t be insulting me.”

  “It’s just that the characters hardly speak to one another. They are not robots.”

  “We established that. They are actors. What’s the difference?”

  Noora shot him a look.

  “Okay, maybe I’m kidding. Guess I shouldn’t insult ‘em. Damn actors. Wait till you work with one.”

  “Mr. Cohen, sir, to me, the story seems … well, monotonous.”

  “You must be joking. That movie’s a rollercoaster ride.”

  “Perhaps … but the plot is predictable. You always know the kind of thing that’s going to happen next.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the fun of how the predictability comes out at the end, and of course, the special effects.”

  “Yes, but where are the unexpected twists, the ones that fool you, that grab you? There’s nothing … I mean, not enough to make the ride fun and interesting … then … it’s … the end. Like the French say, it ends en queue de poisson. In a fish tail.”

  “Give me a for-instance.”

  She blurted out what she thought of the plot, her ideas about how the characters could be given more depth, how she would want to see the story evolve—beginning, middle, and end.

  Ian stopped eating and stared at her. The kid made sense. “Ever been to Honolulu?”

  CHAPTER 38

  PRENUPTIAL PREPARATIONS

  In the Fendil mansion, the household staff prepared Zaffeera’s favorite dish—lamb chops, extra rare filet mignon, saffron rice, and steamed vegetables, always served on a shiny silver tray with embroidered linen. But Zaffeera barely touched her food.

  Um Gamelia, the mother of Zaffeera’s personal maid, had returned to help with the wedding preparations. It was unusual for all the maids to be in the kitchen at the same time, but there was so much to do, and they were all genuinely concerned about the health of the young bride-to-be.

  “You know what she said?” Mona whispered aloud to another maid named Khadiga.

  “No,” Khadiga said with eyes wide as an owl.

  Um Gamelia, who was preparing a lunch platter for Mrs. Fendil, shook her head. She was well aware that gossip was dangerous. It could easily cost those two maids their jobs, however genuine their concern was for Miss Zaffeera. They had both been with the Fendil family for five years and had been sent by a renowned employment agency. They were trained to respect their employers’ privacy at all times. Um Gamelia did not want to lose focus and began to work faster, putting the final touches on the platter. If she forgot something, like a condiment or the special sea salt Mrs. Fendil required, Um Gamelia would look like a fool, and she would have to return to the kitchen, a long and unnecessary trip, including a waste of time.

  “Miss Zaffeera never says anything,” Aziza, the laundry maid said, heading for the ironing room, her arms laden with the family’s white linen.

  “That is true. But this time, she probably couldn’t help it and needed her mother’s reassurance,” Mona said.

  “Zaffeera spoke to her mother in front of you?” Khadiga asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” Mona said.

  “She usually closes the door when she’s with her mother,” Khadiga noted.

  “What did she say to her mother?” Mona had to ask.

  “She was crying. She said she felt guilty, and that Mister Michel should have been her brother-in-law, not her husband. I never saw M
iss Zaffeera cry like that.”

  Um Gamelia cleared her throat loudly. A long silence fell in the kitchen. Everyone returned to their respective chores.

  “She’s been through a lot, poor thing,” another maid dared to break the silence.

  “There is nothing abnormal for a young bride to be scared before her wedding day,” Um Gamelia said, staring at everyone firmly. “I would appreciate it if we tend to our own business and never speak about our employers’ personal affairs,” she added sternly. Everyone lowered their eyes and nodded.

  Um Gamelia lifted the heavy platter she had just prepared and marched down the long corridor.

  Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! What is going to happen to me now? Um Gamelia’s daughter wondered again. Bent Gamelia leaned wearily against the kitchen sink, drying a porcelain platter. She kept drying that same platter absent-mindedly, knowing her face was white, and if anyone should see her, she would raise suspicion.

  Would her mistress still need her—after she was married? Would she continue to use her, that way? She prayed that would not be the case. Zaffeera and her new husband would be away for a month-long honeymoon. Bent Gamelia looked forward to that time of rest. But what then? She knew Zaffeera was going to live in Mr. Amir’s mansion. Would she still be Miss Zaffeera’s personal maid? Only Allah and time would tell, she thought with a shudder. She was exhausted. Zaffeera had kept her up until dawn.

  The night before, Bent Gamelia had committed a sacrilege, an unforgivable sin. But she was given no choice. Choice was not a word she could ever consider. She was a servant.

  She wanted to crawl into a corner of the kitchen. Perhaps she could confide in her mother? No! Zaffeera would surely find out and she would certainly kill her. She would take the small, thin, sharp knife she used for her mangoes, and without a second thought, she would slit Bent Gamelia’s throat. Her body would be thrown in the Red Sea for sharks to shred her to pieces. She had heard about this happening. She had heard it from Mona, the inquisitive maid, who had seen a report on television. The newsman said that girls from neighboring countries in the Middle East who did not behave properly, or shamed their families, were no longer stoned or beheaded, but thrown alive to sharks in the middle of the Red Sea. Was that why they called it the Red Sea? Because it was infested with hungry sharks and stained with the blood of sinners? But the Red Sea was quite far from where they lived, she tried to remind herself, feeling her stomach starting to cramp.

  “Poor children,” she heard Mona say.

  “She is now an angel and she must have brought the two of them together. We must pray for their happiness …”

  “The Good Lord works wonders … Hamdallah,” another maid said.

  “Hamdallah,” Mona said, sitting in the corner of the kitchen and plucking feathers from a just-slaughtered chicken. “They will soon be husband and wife. He is a respectable man. Handsome too!”

  “That young man is as good as a prince,” Khadiga said. “It is a blessing indeed for the Fendil family. The devil came one night, be’eid min hinnah, far, far away from us, ptoo!” She mock-spat. “But, hamdallah, the Good Lord arrived in time to restore the misfortune of the family, by having the sister marry the young man. We have so much to be grateful for.”

  “May Allah the great, the Almighty all-powerful grant the new couple many healthy sons!” Khadiga said.

  “Gamelia? Are you sick?” Mona asked.

  Gamelia had to control her trembling and say something quickly. But words refused to form out of her lips.

  “What is the matter with you, ya Bent? You have not said a word, child,” she said, resting the now-nude hen on the marble counter. She began to carefully fold the flying mounds of feathers in sheets of newspaper.

  Did it show?! She could feel her blood draining to her feet. Oh my God, they know!

  “Listen, young lady …” she heard Mona say.

  “Yes?” Gamelia’s voice came out weakly screeching. She stared at the dead chicken on the counter.

  “It would be best if you go and rest now. The bride-to-be will soon require much attention,” one of the maids advised.

  “If you need assistance with her washing or ironing, don’t be embarrassed to ask. It will be our pleasure to help you,” Aziza the laundry maid assured her.

  Pleasure? “No, really, I’m fine, thank you …”

  Hopefully, these women would never imagine the “pleasures” Zaffeera required, or rather commanded. She shuddered again.

  In the past few months, Bent Gamelia had begun to see things more clearly; it was not normal to do what her mistress demanded of her. Worst of all, something more horrible had occurred the night before.

  She had gone to prepare the nightly bath for her mistress. Afterward, Miss Zaffeera had settled in bed and decided to read. It was another one of those big, thick science fiction-type books all written in English. As usual, Bent Gamelia had gathered Zaffeera’s wet towels and soiled clothes to be washed separately in the special hypoallergenic soap. Zaffeera asked lazily, and in a half-yawning voice: “Fluff me up two more of those pillows for my back.”

  As Bent Gamelia obliged, Zaffeera suddenly grabbed her and kissed her hard on the lips. She held her tight and pulled her onto the bed—the way a man might subdue a woman. She did not struggle. She froze. Perhaps it was shock. Perhaps subconsciously, she knew that was what she was to do in a situation such as this. To her surprise, she actually found herself being aroused by her mistress’s hungry kisses. Zaffeera’s expert hands traveled under Gamelia’s starched pink-and-white uniform, under her brassiere, and a second or so later, she was fondling Gamelia’s left breast. She squeezed both nipples so hard, Gamelia could still feel the pain.

  Gamelia’s body had responded with an involuntary quiver of pleasure, while at the same time, she wanted to scream, “No, please …” but Zaffeera had rolled on top of Gamelia and pulled down her panties. At first, Gamelia was terribly embarrassed. This time, it was Zaffeera who was separating her maid’s most personal spot—that sacred place of hers which had already been violated, “down there,” the one where only a husband should touch in darkness for the sole purpose of conception. Zaffeera licked her fast and furious, in hard, circular motions. For the first time in her life, the maid experienced a certain deep, delicious feeling as her body shuddered like warm electricity running through her entire being, one spasm after another. She had to bite the back of her hand, to the point of drawing blood, so she would not scream with a mixture of pleasure, pain, and shame.

  Zaffeera, who was breathing hard like a man, tore off her peignoir and rubbed her nude body wildly against her maid’s. They thrashed around in bed together for what might have been an eternity, kissing, thrusting fingers and tongues on each other’s sacred place.

  When Zaffeera was done with her maid, she gave her a tall glass of cool, sweet almond juice that she had kept in her small bedside refrigerator.

  Soon after she drank, Bent Gamelia felt dizzy and disoriented. Everything around her began to blur.

  Zaffeera ordered her to gather the laundry and leave.

  “Go straight to your room. Speak to no one. Wash my clothes at dawn before everyone else’s clothes. Come back at eight in the morning.”

  When Bent Gamelia stumbled through the halls, her arms full of wet towels, she prayed she would not run into anyone. Zaffeera’s perfume was still lingering over Gamelia’s entire being. It was a new fragrance. Zaffeera frequently changed perfumes. Bent Gamelia didn’t remember how she managed to make her way to the laundry room. It was a miracle she had not fainted in the corridor. She dumped everything in the special laundry machine. She then washed her face and arms in the gushing warm water of the washing machine’s gentle cycle.

  “Speak to no one,” the words of her mistress echoed. Did she tell her to wash her clothes in the morning so they would be fresh and not sit overnight in the washing machine? Too late. She would have to wait until the cycle was complete. But that dreadful dizzy feeling intensified. For a m
oment, she thought she was on a boat in the middle of a stormy sea. Zaffeera must have drugged her. She must have put something in that almond water; she was now sure of it. A feeling of panic overcame her. She could not wait to be in her own room so she could throw up and clean her stomach of any drug that would destroy her. She had managed to quietly rush through the service exit and outside to the garden. A few yards away, she entered the small building of the servants’ quarters. After she closed the door to her tiny private room, grateful that she had her own little bathroom closet, and even more grateful no one saw her, she hugged the toilet and vomited everything she could before letting herself fall into her narrow bed. She heard the dawn chant from the Muezzin, the distant Morning Prayer voice that came from the town’s minaret. She prayed desperately through her silent sobs: “Please, Allah, I beg you forgiveness. Once again, I have sinned.”

  Two days prior to the wedding, on July fourth, America was celebrating Independence Day, broadcasting the parades and celebrations on the international news channels—in major Hollywood production style.

  In the women’s den, Zaffeera was being fitted into her wedding gown. Last-minute stitchings were being done by the French seamstress, Madame Solange, along with her two assistants. Zaffeera finally allowed the head seamstress to add a few pearls and tiny silver beads around the edge of the skirt and around the borders of the long train.

  Shamsah was on the floor, watching the American parade on the modern large-screen television.

  “Shamsah! See, over there, right on that street … can you see the colorful awnings?” Zaffeera pointed to the TV. “That’s the hotel where we’ll be! Michel and I will be right there in just about a week from today.”

  “Inshallah,” their mother was quick to say. “God willing.”

  “I want to go with you,” Shamsah said to her sister.

  “You can’t, it’s their honeymoon, ya habibti,” Yasmina said with a smile.

  “Next time, Shamsah, I promise I will take you to Los Angeles, and we’ll stay in that hotel,” Zaffeera said. “And guess what! Disneyland is only an hour away from there.”

  “I’d rather go shopping with you in Beverly Hills and visit Rodeo Drive.”