Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “No, sir. Not at all,” she said. They had removed his lower denture plate. Suddenly she wanted to laugh. Nervous reaction? She couldn’t help it.

  Until then, Noora had not realized he had false teeth. He looked so different. Old. Helpless. She had to turn away and stifle a chuckle. She started to laugh. But she wanted to cry. Stubborn tears escaped, yet she wanted to run out to the corridor and laugh out loud. Such a mix of emotions … What was wrong with her?

  The doctor walked in, giving Noora a quick glance at first, but then he did not acknowledge her presence. With his back to her, he began to talk to Mr. Cohen. He was holding a plastic form in the shape of a human heart. There was another doctor now, and two nurses stood nearby. Slowly, Noora began to take a few silent steps away. Miss Nobody needed to make herself invisible. They caught her laughing at the wrong time.

  “Kelley!” Ian Cohen called. “Come back. She needs to hear this too, Paul.”

  The doctor turned and extended his hand to Noora.

  “Dr. McGratten.”

  “Kelley …” she nodded, taking the doctor’s hand, then looked off. Why did this doctor make her feel uneasy? She walked to the opposite side of the bed. Ian Cohen reached for her hand and held it tight.

  “You said it was going to be just an X-ray. You can’t make me stay!”

  “I can’t force you to do anything. But you must know what is going on with your heart and what the angiogram shows.”

  “If you can’t give me a drink, then give me a Valium. Why’s it so friggin’ cold?!” He squeezed Noora’s hand harder.

  “You have a badly diseased heart, Ian,” the doctor said with intense eyes. “We can operate on you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?!”

  The doctor turned to one of the nurses and gave her some quick instructions. She hurried to one of the desks across the room and picked up the phone.

  “Paul, you don’t understand. I’ve got a company to run. Hundreds of people …”

  “Yes, Ian,” he said. “If you weren’t my friend, I wouldn’t talk to you this way. You could have a major heart attack at any time. You were lucky that time in France. You could be permanently …”

  Noora could not listen anymore. Mr. Cohen was squeezing her hand so hard, it hurt. She wanted to cry. Why did she care so much about this man, who was little more than a stranger? Perhaps he had been her last hope? She could always go back to France. No, it was Ian Cohen himself—for some reason, she felt a sense of compassion. She could feel his pain. He was in great danger.

  “Quadruple bypass?” Ian shouted.

  “We remove arteries from your leg to replace the diseased ones,” the doctor said.

  It all seemed complicated. And frightening. Nageeb would have explained it all to her if he were there at that very moment.

  “I didn’t expect that,” Ian Cohen said. “This is total shit.”

  “You’ll have a younger heart,” the doctor said, cracking a quick smile.

  “This is not a good time. We’re about ready to go into production.”

  “I wouldn’t wait if I were you,” the doctor said.

  Ian let go of Noora’s hand. “Kelley, get me my clothes.”

  “Mr. Cohen, you heard the doctor …” Noora said timidly, afraid to disobey, but even more afraid of what would happen if she helped him leave.

  “I’ll do some homeopathic crap and I’ll be fine. I know what these guys do. They’ll saw open my damn rib cage!” He turned to the doctor. “You’ll slice me up like a butcher.”

  The doctor gave Ian a serious look.

  “What about my movies? My studio?”

  “You’ll have more years to make better movies,” Doctor McGratten said.

  “My movies are very successful, asshole.”

  “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Noora heard the doctor say as she made her way out of the ward. She leaned against the wall. She should stand nearby in case he called for her. But who was she supposed to be? How would she introduce herself? Kelley Karlton, Mr. Cohen’s personal assistant? Just what exactly was a personal assistant?

  Moments later, to her surprise, Mr. Cohen was dressed and walking toward her. “Come on, kid. We’re outta here.”

  The pair took a cab to the hotel. They waited for the elevator, and when it finally arrived, a group of Japanese piled inside, barely leaving room for Noora and Ian. “Let ‘em go,” he said. “I’m no sardine. Listen. It’s too nice a day,” he said, watching the elevator door close. “How about we go for a walk along the beach. Maybe stop at the Honolulu Zoo down the street or something. Would you mind?”

  “No, sir.” There was a zoo nearby? Noora loved the idea. Perhaps later she could talk to him and change his mind about his operation, although he seemed pretty stubborn about it and made up his mind that he would not do it.

  They walked the short distance to the tip of Waikiki, crossing the street to the park. A huge old tree shaded the entrance to the zoo.

  “Ah, wouldn’t you know it, wouldn’t you know it!” Ian said.

  A large sign displaying the words “Temporarily closed for renovations” blocked the wrought iron gate.

  “Of all times. Shit, it was fine the way it was before,” Ian whined. “Where do you suppose they stashed all the animals during the supposed renovation? I mean, they had elephants and lions here, and the neatest monkeys. Bevvy loved to come here. What a shitty day …”

  “Look at this tree,” Noora commented. “It’s incredible. Why I don’t recall ever seeing such a … What kind do you suppose …”

  “It’s a banyan,” he grumbled.

  “I think it’s a monkey pod. A very old one. Must be over a hundred years old,” Noora said, admiring the old tree branches.

  “Well, if it is a monkey pod, where the hell are all the monkeys?”

  “Mr. Cohen!” Noora giggled.

  “Don’t tempt me,” they heard someone growl.

  Startled, Noora turned and saw a homeless man in baggy, dirty pants and a cut-up, soiled tank top, staring past them angrily. He began walking away rapidly, mumbling to himself. He stopped abruptly. “Don’t tempt me!” he repeated. Shuffling away from Noora and Ian, he seemed oblivious to anyone around him, except perhaps the imaginary tempter.

  “Perhaps we should give him a few dollars,” Noora suggested.

  “He’ll use it for drugs.”

  “Oh?”

  The man came around again to their view and passed them by. He stopped suddenly. “Don’t tempt me, kimosabe!” He walked away and crossed the street to the beach while mumbling away to himself.

  Noora saw that Ian was amused. “What did he say? Wasabi?”

  Ian burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. “I … I’m sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

  “Oh, it’s all right, sir,” Noora said, glad to see him laughing—whatever the reason.

  “Not wasabi … Wasabi is that green paste you put in your soy sauce. For sushi!” He laughed again. “It’s kimosabe. Ever watch The Lone Ranger?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A television show.”

  She gave him a blank stare and looked off.

  “Never mind. You’d have to be American. And a lot older.”

  But Noora knew what he was talking about. Nageeb, Abdo, and Kettayef used to watch The Lone Ranger with their father—among other old American television shows. But she was not going to think about those days. No, she wasn’t going to even think …

  “When I used to come here in the sixties,” Ian continued, walking away from her, apparently expecting her to follow him as he spoke, “and even in the seventies, I never saw homeless people.” He stopped, kicked a nearby pebble, and plunged his hands in his pockets. “Everyone was rich,” he said as he continued to walk, Noora following by his side. “And I’m not talking about the tourists. I mean the Hawaiians. The authentic ones, not the Happas. The real locals. They fished all day and strummed ukuleles at night. They had that ohana spirit. Family.
Strong, spirited families that stuck together. Who needed money when everyone looked out for everyone? Now it’s cement city. Look at this place. High rises, fancy hotels … and freaks. Hey, wait a minute. Maybe there’s still one place that didn’t change very much. God, I sure hope not.”

  Under the canvas umbrella of Honolulu’s famed Outrigger Canoe Club, Noora and Ian Cohen waited for their order to arrive while they silently watched the dazzling orange sun as it sank on the horizon.

  The ocean reminded her of Alexandria’s sea—calm and turquoise, turning to indigo as it spread out to the slightly curved horizon. Again, she felt the need to lose herself in her own reverie. Dreams of happy times. An old fifties song came to mind: “Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream …” In dreams, she could imagine herself in the arms of the man she would never stop loving. But she had to face reality, because the man sitting across from her was playing Russian roulette with his life. He could have a heart attack at any moment. Allah! Protect this man …

  “What are you thinking about so hard, lady?” She heard Ian’s grave voice.

  “Well, just that …” She looked out at the ocean. “It’s beautiful here.”

  “It sure is. Life can be sweet. It would be hard to leave it.”

  “Then, Mr. Cohen …” This time she turned and looked straight at him. “Please, have that operation.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. He watched the boats bob gently in the distance. A brightly colored catamaran drifted majestically to shore.

  “I’ve been a member of this club for over twenty-five years. I used to come here with Bevvy. We used to order liver n’ onions. Now they have nothin’ but nouvelle frog food.”

  “Bevvy?” He had mentioned that name before.

  “My wife. Beverly. Beverly Hillard-Cohen. She was wonderful. She was beautiful,” he said, looking off. “God took her away from me. Son of a bitch.”

  “Sir, please be careful what you say …”

  “Why?”

  She pointed to the sky. There you go again, Noora chided herself, putting your foot in your mouth!

  “You mean you believe in God and all that stuff?”

  “Well, sir, maybe not ‘all that stuff,’ but I believe there is an Almighty one.”

  “Why?”

  Noora shrugged.

  “Why would you believe in someone or something with the power to bring so much injustice? So much suffering in the world. So much crap …”

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Sorry, kid. Don’t mind me. I’m just a grouch.” He turned and stared back at the ocean.

  The Hawaiian waiter bounced in with platters of teriyaki beef on a skewer, and a large platter filled with a mountain of nacho chips blanketed by a thick layer of melted cheese.

  Ian Cohen wondered about the girl who saved him in Cannes. She had substance. She had depth. What was her story? She was not one of those whiny types of “take-me-show-me-buy-me” chicks. Or one of those with some kind of brought-upon-yourself traumatic, trivial oh-brother story—like most people he knew. Sure, everyone had a story. As far as he could see, this girl had history. Maybe she came from a broken home. No, it had to be something less common. Definitely some kind of tragedy happened to her. But why should he get involved? As long as she stuck around and didn’t gossip, her business was none of his.

  He remembered the dream he had had the night before. He was lunching at the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills, eating alone. Bevvy was sitting at another table across the restaurant of the hotel, which he didn’t think was even built when she died. In the dream, she was holding the receiver of an ornate golden telephone to her ear. He could hear her voice—as if on a phone line—and she was talking to him. But there was no phone at his table. He forgot what they talked about. He remembered the last thing she said before getting up and leaving. Something like, “Take care of the kid, she’ll take care of you.” For some reason, the dream kept nagging at him.

  When the taxicab pulled out of the Outrigger Canoe Club parking lot, Ian Cohen had a sudden change of heart. Instead of telling the driver to head back to their hotel in Waikiki, he asked him to drive to Kahala, in the opposite direction.

  “I really didn’t want to come back here ever again,” he admitted to Noora as they rode through Kahala’s residential streets lined with ornately gated mansions. “However…” he said, then remained silent.

  “However?” Noora asked.

  “If I’m gonna croak, I might as well see the old place. One more time.”

  “You will live a long time, Mr. Cohen.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because your friend, Doctor McGratten, really cares for you.”

  At the entrance of the newly renovated Kahala Mandarin Hotel, two valets opened their doors.

  “Come, I want to show you something. Have you ever heard of this place before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Quit calling me sir, kid.”

  “Quit calling me kid, sir.”

  Ian Cohen laughed. The girl was all right.

  Noora followed Ian to the hotel’s lagoon and stood next to him on the Japanese bridge. Two dolphins jerked their heads, showing their permanently smiling snouts. As they twirled beneath the surface, Noora squealed with such obvious delight that Ian was glad he had decided to come back to the hotel in Kahala after all. He thought he would never return to the special hideaway he had shared, year after year, with his beautiful wife, Bevvy. A place with happy memories was a trap for him. But now, somehow, his grief had been appeased.

  “Enjoy the dolphins,” he said to Noora. “I’ll be in the bar.”

  He was already dialing on his cell phone.

  “Roz!” Ian Cohen shouted into his cellular while heading toward the outdoor café nearby. “Listen, I’ll be away for longer than I thought.”

  CHAPTER 41

  FARID FENDIL’S FIRST VISION

  As the festivities continued at the Al-Balladi Prince Hotel grand ballroom, Mr. Farid Fendil was back shaking hands, accepting good wishes from his guests.

  After recovering from the fainting episode, he had to excuse himself several times. He was convinced it was a case of stomach virus or the flu. At his back, always shadowing him, was the man he was beginning to think of as the Nosy Nuisance. Sheik Abdullah Kharoub did not have the courtesy to leave him long enough to relieve himself in private in the men’s room.

  Almost two hours after the marriage ceremony, and after the second dinner course was served, a group of belly dancers performed an outstanding spectacle to Middle Eastern music, as the newlyweds sat on high-backed gilded chairs upon a podium ornately decorated with red and white roses. While the guests were enjoying the food and the spectacular show, Farid Fendil managed to disappear through the crowd at a moment when the sheik was distracted.

  He spotted Abdo standing near an exit door and maneuvered him outside. He asked Abdo to drive him home. Abdo seemed quite surprised, but Farid also knew Abdo never asked personal questions. The mansion was not more than twenty minutes away. Neither the sheik nor his men would suspect Farid to ride in such a clunky, undignified vehicle, especially during his daughter’s wedding celebration. Farid crouched in the back seat of the ancient orange-colored Mercedes, as Abdo quietly drove him out of the hotel.

  As Abdo pulled into the Fendil driveway, worrying more than wondering why he was asked to drive him home, Farid said, “If Sheik Abdullah Kharoub or any of his men should come here and ask where I am, tell them I said it’s none of their business!”

  Abdo was surprised by Mr. Fendil’s comment. Surely they would not believe him.

  As if Farid read Abdo’s mind, he added, “If they don’t believe you, you can tell them to go to hell!”

  Abdo was stunned. Was he really talking about the MOFHAJ men, whom he always seemed to want to impress? The men whose values Mr. Fendil had so much embraced recently? “Mr. Fendil,” Abdo found himself saying, “in all due respect, they might become more suspicious.�
�

  “Tell them I’m … at the reception. And absolutely do not allow them in my house. Wait for me, ya ibni. I may take a while,” he said, opening the door to Abdo’s car.

  In the privacy of his bathroom suite, a good half hour later, Farid felt much better and could breathe more easily. He splashed cool tap water on his face and patted it dry. Opening the large mirrored door of his medicine cabinet, he noticed the bottle of cologne that was still sealed. He stood for a moment and hesitated. Finally, he took the bottle and unsealed it, splashing a large amount on his face and neck. The lemon-scented Egyptian Chabrawichi cologne had been a birthday gift his cousin, Khayat, had sent him more than two years before from Alexandria. Farid Fendil had never sent a thank-you, or acknowledged that he received the gift. Perhaps he should have sent his cousin a wedding invitation. He had heard rumors that he moved to the South of France and married a European actress. Khayat had told Farid years before that he would never leave Egypt. He had criticized Farid for leaving Alexandria to rebuild the poor, run-down oasis, far out in the middle of the desert.

  Farid studied his reflection on the gilded mirror of his bathroom. He saw dark circles under his eyes. You’re the fool, Khayat Fendil, you are the jackass! Farid thought. He picked up the bottle of cologne and spoke to it: “You said you’d never leave Egypt and then you did. One should never say never. It couldn’t have been for money. Must’ve been for that European pussy. You couldn’t settle down with one of our own. You lied, ya Khayat.”

  Never mind about my cousin, Farid thought, tossing the bottle of cologne in the trash nearby. Everybody lies.

  Would Khayat have declined his daughter’s wedding invitation? he wondered, running a comb through his graying hair. He inserted his comb on top of his brush and, hesitating for a moment, he picked up the bottle from the trash and put it back in his medicine cabinet.

  Returning to his room, he removed his ornate gallabeya and laid it on a nearby chair. He would rest for fifteen minutes. The wedding festivities should last a few more hours, and he would not be missed, he thought, dimming his bedroom lamp low. He would take care of his health after the wedding ceremonies. Maybe he should have that angiogram. If they found clogged arteries, it would mean heart surgery. His health was fine. He was simply stressed, he thought, stretching on his bed.