Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Everyone was surprised at Shamsah’s comment. They all laughed.

  “Tell them where else you’re going on your honeymoon,” their mother said. She was painstakingly stitching tiny needle points of shiny white silken thread into a silk handkerchief. “That is, if it’s okay with you, Zaffeera. It’s not a secret, is it?”

  “No, no,” Zaffeera answered slowly, turning for the seamstress to finish with the hemming. “I spoke to Michel yesterday morning. He just came back from Paris, you know … Well …” Zaffeera took a deep breath, trying to contain her excitement. “He wanted to keep it a surprise, but he had to tell me. I believe his father suggested it, and I am most grateful …”

  Everyone stared at Zaffeera. Yasmina Fendil was glad her daughter was more talkative. She seemed even happy for the first time in so long.

  “Yes, and?” Shamsah asked impatiently.

  “I am most grateful to the Good Lord …”

  “All right, already, my sister. Stop the suspense!” Shamsah pressed. She punched the mute button on the remote control.

  “He is taking me to Honolulu,” she proudly announced.

  Everyone looked at Zaffeera with surprise.

  The assistant seamstress turned to Madame Solange and whispered, “Where is Ana-lulu?”

  CHAPTER 39

  THE WEDDING

  They held hands while the sheik prayed in front of them. Farid Fendil had originally wanted his daughter and Michel to be married by the wise man who had originally married him to Yasmina almost thirty years before. But the old mullah was now in his eighties and somehow, Farid had accepted the offer of Sheik Abdullah Kharoub, the head of the MOFHAJ group, to perform his daughter’s wedding. Of course, the MOFHAJ men were honored. They were all standing around him now in a circle. Farid Fendil tried to concentrate on the prayer. He needed to repeat some of the words from the Koran. He could not allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of the past. He felt dizzy and his mouth was dry. He promised himself he would take care of his health as soon as the wedding and the festivities were over.

  Sitting on the low ottoman, Michel kept his head bowed. He was holding Farid Fendil’s hand. Nodding his head at times, eyes half-closed, he tried to understand what the sheik was saying. If he had known, he would have called the whole thing off. It was embarrassing. He was told that the ceremony was going to be “traditional.” He thought he would walk down the aisle, and it would be short and simple—but it was turning out to be this tedious ceremony in which the women were not even participating. And his new bride was not even with him! No one had told him it would be this type of old-fashioned, or more to the point, ridiculously archaic wedding ceremony. There was a roomful of men in traditional dress, and endless prayers. The lengthy ordeal made him feel awkward and terribly uncomfortable.

  The hand of his future father-in-law was becoming clammy, and Michel could feel him tightening his grip.

  They asked him to repeat the verse of a prayer. His French and his English were better than his Arabic. The sheik patiently repeated for Michel, who uttered each word like a parrot. Pay attention, Michel chided himself. He could still change his mind. Couldn’t he? “I was not told it would take so long,” he would tell them. His old, wise professor in Paris had once told him that it did not take him long to get married, and he was married a long time. So what was the point of this pompous fanfare? I am deeply regretful! I made a dreadful mistake, don’t you see?

  Instead of speaking what was on his mind, Michel repeated the next verse he was asked to say. He looked up. All the men around him nodded in agreement. He glanced at Noora’s father. … No, he had to change his way of thinking: Zaffeera’s father. What was Mr. Fendil thinking now? A moment ago, he seemed quite uncomfortable. Now he appeared content. No, perhaps more like satisfied. Michel could have sworn that Mr. Fendil’s eyes were tearing now, although it appeared that he was trying to conceal it.

  He wished he could just get up and run. It would be dishonorable if he did. Especially to Mr. Fendil. He also suffered the loss. His daughter. With this wedding, Michel believed that he would bring hope to the Fendil family. Zaffeera would be good for him. She was smart. She possessed a certain degree of strength, especially at this difficult time. Whatever he needed, she ordered it for him, and it was at his doorstep within twenty-four hours. Like the pillows. And great books on losing a loved one … and on architecture. Yes, he would immerse himself in architecture, his true passion. He would let his new bride take care of everything else.

  The old sheik barged in on his reverie, asking him to repeat another verse. Michel did. His Arabic was lousy and the sheik did not seem pleased. Too bad, Michel thought. That old man was lucky he didn’t just get up and leave.

  *

  Farid Fendil was uncomfortable holding Michel’s hand under the embroidered handkerchief his wife had sewn for the wedding. He did not realize the ceremony would go on for so long. He needed air. Dear Allah, I plead with you, help me ease away that awful feeling of nausea. Beads of perspiration formed. His abdomen began cramping. Cold sweat poured out of his body. Everyone was too close. Oh, mighty Allah …

  His head hit the ground first, with a loud thud.

  When he opened his eyes, everyone was staring down at him. First the sheik with intense dark eyes, expressing disapproval. Then Michel, who looked at him with great concern—and two other men from the religious group, who stared at him with steely eyes.

  “Mr. Fendil, are you all right?” Michel asked, helping his new father-in-law up.

  “Yes, yes,” Farid Fendil nodded, sitting back down. Someone brought him a glass of water and he took a sip.

  “We must call the doctor.”

  “No. Please, gentlemen. I just needed some water. I am terribly sorry…”

  “Hamdallah. He is regaining color,” someone said. Everyone was nodding. “Hamdallah.”

  “Gentlemen, let us forget this incident. I am feeling better,” he lied. “Shokran … to you all. Thank you.”

  Ten minutes later, and what had seemed like an eternity to both Farid Fendil and Michel Amir, Abdo (who was chosen as the messenger), rushed out to announce to the women that Zaffeera and Michel were officially husband and wife.

  From the opposite end of the Fendil mansion, where the women had waited impatiently to hear the good news, ear-piercing ululations suddenly broke forth with such volume, the men could clearly hear the joyful cries.

  In the grand ballroom of the new Al-Balladi Prince Hotel, the reception was a feast none of the guests would ever forget.

  Crisp white brocade tablecloths covered the round tables in the grand ballroom. Each table had a work-of-art centerpiece of tall topiaries, decorated with densely filled red roses and fresh lilies of the valley from Switzerland. From the food to the thousands of imported flowers, everything had been planned by Zaffeera. No detail was overlooked, and nothing had been left to chance.

  Except her honeymoon.

  CHAPTER 40

  HONOLULU CITY LIGHTS

  The L1011 departed Los Angeles on time. Ian Cohen briefed his new young companion about the purpose of the trip.

  “I gotta get an angiogram. Whatever the f… the heck that means,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than a coupla hours. There’s only one doctor I can trust. Used to be my war buddy out in slant-land. I don’t think anyone knows me in Honolulu. I’m sure they don’t give a rat’s ass about Hollywood. They’d rather surf. Well, I’ll be mostly at Straub Hospital…”

  Noora tried to take notes, but he might as well have been speaking ancient Chinese. Did he say “Strowb Hospital?” It sounded more like “strawberry hospital.” What did he mean by “slant-land?” She had an idea, but she wasn’t going to ask.

  Five and a half hours later, they landed in Honolulu.

  At the busy airport, Noora followed Ian Cohen out of Gate 22, through the open-air walkway. Sweet tropical fragrances enveloped her. The memory of Uncle Khayat’s garden of plumeria, frangipani, and roses rushed in on her
entire being. Noora felt transported to the age of ten, arriving in Alexandria on the first day of summer vacation. She experienced a sudden burst of joy, a feeling that had been so dormant, she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be happy. Reality struck when she realized Mr. Cohen had moved on far ahead of her. She hurried after him. Stay in the present; you must not think of the past!

  In the terminal, bare-chested young men and lovely long-haired women in colorful muumuus held up handwritten signs with the names of passengers they were meeting. The only thing missing, Noora thought, was live Hawaiian music and hula dancers.

  “The last time I was here, they didn’t have all this cement,” Ian Cohen said, setting his attaché case down. Some passengers walking ahead of him stopped to pull out carts for their carry-ons. Ian dug in his pocket in search of some change. He slid several quarters into a slot and released a cart. He’d never used one before, and he wondered why there were no porters like in the old days. It seemed a sad lifetime ago since he had visited Honolulu with his wife Bevvy. He put his carry-on and attaché case on the cart and pushed it ahead of him. After a few steps, he realized he was out of breath, and a tremor of fear moved through his gut. “Shit,” he said.

  He felt his hair stirring in the warm trade winds. He smelled the plumeria. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he died here.

  Once outside of the baggage claim, Noora followed Ian Cohen to a limousine. They were whisked down the freeway ramp and onto Kalakaua Boulevard, where traffic nearly crawled. Noora was mesmerized by the scenery, marveling at the indigo ocean along the wide boulevard. As soon as they entered the Waikiki strip, she felt overwhelmed and confused. It was like something out of Asia, yet it was American, Honolulu was like nothing she had ever seen before. And yet … there was a feeling of déjà vu. Because of the beaches, perhaps? There were so many tall buildings facing the long stretch of beaches.

  The limousine made a sharp right at the end of Waikiki and to the entrance of the imposing white porte-cochère.

  “Welcome to the Moana Surfrider,” a white-clad Hawaiian valet said sonorously as he opened the door.

  On the front verandah, gleaming rows of white wooden rocking chairs faced the main Waikiki drag.

  A Japanese bride wearing a bright white traditional wedding gown with a Cinderella skirt brushed by Noora as tourists snapped pictures of her. The bride nodded a few times shyly, hiding her mouth with her white-gloved hand.

  Noora followed Mr. Cohen down the hall of the second floor—the one she heard the clerk at the counter call the Historical Section. She was carrying Annette’s small black suitcase, Annette’s hand-knitted sweater that felt too warm around her arm, and Annette’s purse—God bless Annette.

  Ian stopped.

  “You know this hotel was the first one built here? It was named The First Lady of Waikiki. See? I’m a good tour guide. Here’s your key.” He handed her a small envelope with two plastic cards. “Let’s see… Here’s my room. I think yours is across the hall. They said they can change us to adjoining rooms tomorrow … Come in for a minute.”

  The heavy door to the room slammed after them automatically. He gestured toward his garment bag and let himself fall into a wicker chair. Noora left her luggage near the door and began to hang up Mr. Cohen’s clothes.

  “Call the bellman or someone and ask ‘em to fix this shit.”

  Fix what? Noora wanted to ask.

  He was pointing angrily at a mechanical box on the nightstand.

  “Ask for a bigger room, damn it. This is too small!”

  Noora fiddled with the buttons on the box.

  Soft music wafted from somewhere below on the beach. The clinking of silverware and china, children’s laughter, along with the gentle lapping of ocean waves upon the shore, made the melody of the outdoors quite inviting. Ian Cohen was looking out at the scenery. Noora followed his gaze. Beyond the verandah, surrounded by white pillars, a young woman in a long, flowing dress was strumming a harp.

  “Without health, money means shit,” Ian mumbled as if talking to himself.

  Noora tried to understand how the lights in his room worked. After she tried several buttons, the television, floor lamp, and air conditioner kicked into life.

  At least she accomplished something for Mr. Cohen. She still couldn’t understand why a man in his position would want her around—except that … well, at that moment, he seemed genuinely exhausted.

  In her room, Noora opened the white shutters. Looking out at the ocean, she thought perhaps she could start another life right there in Honolulu. Perhaps she could find a job and get a little corner flat with one of those balconies in one of the many high rises.

  Mr. Cohen wanted her to be ready by six o’clock—Hawaii time, he had added. She checked the digital clock by the bed. Hawaii was three hours earlier than California. She had three bonus hours to rest her tired body and mind. She flopped gratefully on the bed. With a weary hand, she pulled the folded comforter by the foot of the bed up to her eyes.

  The jingling phone jarred her out of a dream. She stumbled around the bed searching for the phone. She had been dreaming of the Bedouin village again, and thought she was being awakened by the little bell that used to hang around Saloush’s neck. She knocked the receiver off the hook and quickly picked it up.

  “Did I wake you?” Mr. Cohen’s voice asked.

  “Oh no,” Noora lied.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, I …” She turned to the window. “I was just admiring that … banyan tree.”

  “It’s a fake.”

  “Oh?” Noora tried to focus.

  “Why don’t we go and find out? Are you dressed?”

  “Yes!”

  “I gotta make one more phone call.”

  Noora hopped out of bed, combed her hair, brushed her teeth, and smoothed out her dress. A few minutes later, she heard a light knock.

  “Ready?” he said when she opened the door. He seemed out of breath as he stood at the threshold, making no attempt to enter her room. He had changed into a blue short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt and wrinkled gray trousers.

  At the Banyan Verandah restaurant, Ian sat across from Noora at a table near the shore. A Hawaiian band strummed ukuleles, and two young hula dancers moved gracefully. But the music and the dancers did not seem to change Ian Cohen’s foul mood.

  “I’ll be happy to bring you something from the buffet, sir,” Noora offered.

  “I’m not hungry. I’ll just have coffee. Screw them. Why can’t they just serve from the menu?” he grumbled. “Anyway, we’re only here for a couple of days. Then you can bet we’ll blow this Popsicle joint.”

  A white-gloved waitress served Noora passion fruit iced tea.

  Ian had a double gin and tonic.

  As Noora studied the lavish array of foods on the buffet tables, she was surprised to find Ian Cohen standing right behind her, awkwardly holding a plate, like a brooding kid. He served himself hearty portions of salad, sushi, and beef.

  A young, petite Chinese woman replaced the Hawaiian band and played on a white grand piano near their table. The Hawaiian melody she played seemed to help appease Ian’s mood. As he ate his meal, Noora noticed his shoulders starting to relax.

  She felt her own anxiety begin to dissolve. She tucked some loose strands of hair behind her ears. As she dug a fork in her salad, she heard Ian: “Where did you get that scar?”

  Ian’s question was so sudden, Noora didn’t think she heard right. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I said I gotta get something from the bar. Stop saying sir,” he said and motioned to a passing waitress.

  “Yes, sir … Sorry.” As soon as Mr. Cohen looked away, she brought back strands of hair closer to her cheek.

  Six o’clock in the morning—Noora and Ian headed for Straub Hospital in a rented limousine.

  “They say an angiogram is nothing more than a fancy X-ray. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. They want me to hang around till noon. They’ll have to show me
that machine first.”

  Noora sat in a dimly lit waiting room. Why must they keep it so cold? An hour later, when her nose felt as if she’d been walking in the winter streets of London, a nurse arrived.

  “Miss … Cohen?”

  “Karlton,” Noora answered, jumping to her feet.

  “Are you Mr. Cohen’s daughter?” Obviously, the nurse didn’t hear Noora’s correction.

  “Well, I am his … Yes.”

  “He asked me to give you his jewelry.” She handed Noora a chain with a Hebrew letter in gold, and his wedding band. “He wants to see you.”

  Noora found Mr. Cohen in a hospital gown, lying on a gurney next to the wall. Two male nurses were ready to wheel him to X-ray.

  “Wish me luck, kid,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.” She did not want to say “Good luck.” She feared it might bring him bad luck. She would have preferred to say Allah ma’ak—God be with you.

  Slowly, she walked out to the waiting room and put his jewelry in her pocket. Nageeb used to say he felt comfortable in hospitals. She never felt more uncomfortable.

  Noora sat downstairs in the cafeteria, nursing a second cup of hot cocoa from the vending machine. Two hours had passed, and she thought she would soon pass out. What was taking so long, and why did they have air conditioning, when the island was blessed with trade winds perfumed by plumeria trees? They were everywhere in the city and in full bloom.

  From the loudspeaker, she heard the name. A female voice on the intercom repeated “Kelley Karlton” twice. Are they calling me? She was actually being paged?

  She found the stairway and took the stairs three at a time. There should be no reason to summon her, unless something serious happened to Mr. Cohen.

  Behind a curtain, she found him lying back in the same place, and he was shaking uncontrollably beneath white sheets.

  “Kelley … Where the hell’d you go? I thought you were gone.”

  “No sir.”

  “Look at me. The big-shot prick. I’ll be a stiff on a slab if I let ‘em touch me.”