Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  He dreamed he was in Khayat’s villa, resting on a hammock with the gentle breeze swaying him to the tarrawah, Alexandria’s own sea breeze, the one he had missed when years ago, he vacationed with his wife and children. He could smell and feel it now. He turned his head to the breeze. The vision of Noora appeared. “Look at me, Father, I am here,” her voice echoed with the sea breeze. She wore a yellow dress. With the sun behind her, illuminating her, Noora looked breathlessly beautiful. Her long brown hair shimmered in the bright light and floated around her shoulders, glowing like gold, as she approached her father in slow motion. She headed straight to him, her arms opening and reaching out to envelop him. He stretched out his arms to her and suddenly fell off the hammock. The grass beneath him, to his horror, became an abyss.

  His body jerked from the dream and he jumped, finding himself in his bed with cold sweat pouring out of him.

  He had never dreamed about Noora before. It was too real. Did he oversleep? He checked the illuminated digital clock on his nightstand. To his relief, he realized less than fifteen minutes had elapsed. He must immediately dismiss that dream from his mind!

  When Farid Fendil returned to the grand ballroom, the bride and groom were just leaving for their romantic horse-drawn carriage ride that would take them around the hotel before returning to cut the cake. A crowd of well-wishers began to cheer.

  As Farid Fendil returned to the grand ballroom, Sheik Abdullah Kharoub walked up to Mr. Fendil. “Ah, you look more relaxed now that your daughter is in the hands of a husband,” he nodded, smiling for the first time.

  “We are very grateful for the blessings Allah has bestowed upon us.”

  The sheik nodded again. “Indeed. Hamdallah. Alas, it is getting late … It is time to gather my family.”

  “The evening is young. The bride and groom have not yet cut the cake.”

  “Save us each a piece,” he said. “It is too late in the evening for my wives. They have done enough celebrating. Thank you for bestowing on me the honor of marrying the children.”

  “The honor is ours, hag Abdullah Kharoub,” he replied respectfully.

  Farid Fendil’s youngest daughter, Shamsah, bounced between the two men. “Father!” she squealed excitedly, skipping in her pink dress that fell just above the knees.

  “First excuse yourself, Shamsah. As you can see, I am busy …”

  “But Father, you promised you would dance with me at least one time. You promised…”

  “First, what do we say, Shamsah?” Farid Fendil said, his voice soft.

  The girl turned to the sheik and batted her eyes shyly. “Excuse me for interrupting.” Turning back to her father she whined, “Father …?”

  Farid noticed the sheik’s posture had stiffened and his eyes widened. It was obvious his daughter’s intrusion had irritated him.

  “I’ll be with you in a little while, my daughter. Go dance with your brother.”

  “All right, Father,” Shamsah said. “Don’t forget, you promised to dance with me.”

  The two men watched as Shamsah scurried off to the dance floor. A young man approached Shamsah and asked her if she would dance with him. She shook her head timidly, then ran to the sweet table, where Kettayef was biting into a huge chocolate éclair.

  Sheik Abdullah Kharoub took Shamsah’s father aside and whispered, “I would assume she is not circumcised.”

  Farid raised his eyebrows. He was shocked. He thought he had misunderstood the sheik’s request until the old man stepped shoulder-to-shoulder and whispered his request closer to Farid’s ear.

  Moments later the sheik gathered his entourage of wives, a dozen or more children, and countless grandchildren. They all left the grand ballroom, while a long, shiny ring of black limousines waited outside.

  When they were all finally gone, Farid gave a deep sigh. He headed straight to the hotel bar and ordered a strong drink. The old sheik would have fiercely disapproved. Farid Fendil only drank occasionally, when he was abroad. At home, he respected his custom and wanted to be a good Muslim—alcohol was not a good idea right now, but would not Allah, the all-merciful, forgive him this time, knowing how badly he needed to calm his nerves?

  He sat in a corner of the grand ballroom and observed his daughter Shamsah dancing with Kettayef. He smiled as he watched his handsome son, barely recognizable in an elegant white tuxedo. He turned his gaze back to Shamsah. She had thick and lustrous brown hair, styled in long ringlets. He brooded glumly on the terrible duty … the obligatory request the sheik commanded that Farid owed to his vivacious young daughter.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE RING AND THE CURSE

  Outside the Al-Balladi Prince Hotel, two white horses pranced gracefully as Zaffeera and Michel exited through the lobby’s revolving doors. The newlyweds were greeted by yet another cheering crowd of well-wishers, and a downpour of gold coins was tossed for good luck. The horses were hitched to a beautiful white carriage, festooned with golden ribbons and hundreds of red and white roses.

  Zaffeera knew she had never looked more beautiful. Her eyes, brightened by honey-colored contacts, had been expertly made up by a renowned French makeup artist. She kept one layer of her double veil in front of her face, while the other fell behind her delicate tiara and flowed down her back, to her waist. This, too, had been carefully planned so that the groom would view his new bride through the sheer veil, allowing her face to glow with a slightly out-of-focus radiance.

  Zaffeera glanced around, looking for the four photographers she had hired to snap pictures as Michel gallantly helped his bride onto the carriage. Had the photographers taken enough pictures with her glowing tiara in virgin white? There could never be enough wedding pictures, as far as she was concerned. She had instructed the photographers to shoot as many pictures of the bride and groom as they could, but in a discreet manner. Now the world would see he was legally hers. They were both laughing delightedly, for the first time, as they tried to dodge the endless gold coins and birdseed thrown at them. Once the couple nestled inside the carriage, the white mares pranced and whinnied, then set off in a rhythmic trot. It was a glorious night, the midnight blue sky spilling a glittering jewel box of stars. In the distance, however, clouds had gathered and flashes of lightning grew closer, heralding the approach of a thunderstorm.

  Back at the hotel, the women’s quavering cries of joy continued to echo through the hotel’s hallways, all the way to the streets and the grand ballroom. The loudest cry, it seemed, was her mother’s, who could not stop herself from trilling in joyous ululation. She followed a group of musicians playing their instruments as they danced their way back to the grand ballroom, where the celebration was to continue for their guests until dawn.

  Inside the horse-drawn carriage, for the very first time, Michel took Zaffeera’s perfectly manicured hand. Upon her left ring finger, he placed a gold ring laced with baguette-shaped diamonds designed to look like a bow, and in the center of the ring, six prongs held a single sparkling blue diamond.

  Zaffeera gasped. She recognized the ring immediately. Michel had designed it for Noora. The stunning piece of jewelry was called the “Forever Ring.” When Michel had given it to Noora during a family engagement ceremony two years before, the ring had been a bit large for Noora’s finger.

  Later, after reading about the quality of diamonds, Michel had decided to replace the original stone with a blue diamond for Noora. He had taken it back to Paris for a better fit and mostly for a finer diamond.

  Now the ring sparkled on Zaffeera’s finger, and her entire body tingled.

  She had cursed that ring when Noora wore it for the first time at her engagement announcement. Noora had shown it off to the whole family, including all the household help. Zaffeera had hidden in her room, searching for a book about witchcraft. She needed to find a curse to bestow upon that ring in order to mar the wedding of Noora and Michel. She could not find anything that fit the circumstances, and decided to improvise. At dinnertime, Zaffeera dropped twenty millig
rams of Valium in Noora’s soda. Later that night, after everyone retired, Zaffeera went to Noora’s bedroom. While Noora was sleeping soundly from the effect of the Valium, Zaffeera removed the ring from her finger and tried it on. The ring’s original size had actually been a perfect fit on Zaffeera’s finger.

  She had spent a good half hour admiring the ring that was now on her own finger. She remembered murmuring low, “You see? The ring fits my wedding finger. It was meant for me..” How she wished she did not have to put that ring back on Noora’s finger. “I curse that ring for all times,” she said, removing it. “And may the Evil Eye bring you misfortune and as you wear it, may you never have sons,” she said, replacing the ring on Noora’s finger.

  Zaffeera smiled at the memory. Her plans had evolved quite well.

  Perhaps too well. She had not expected their father to kill Noora for the shame she had brought. Noora had dishonored him through her own sheer stupidity and selfishness. Noora had shamed everyone in the family because she had been weak. She could have been stronger and said no! It wasn’t Zaffeera’s fault. It was not she who killed her sister. That was not at all what she had planned. She just wanted her parents to know that they had been wrong about their favorite daughter, Noora, and that indeed she was the wrong choice for Michel. No, she definitely had nothing to do with the killing of Noora. Everyone believed she drowned the night she arrived with her sister. It was possible. She could have gone for a quick dip and drowned because there was no one there to rescue her. She arrived late, was fatigued from the long trip, and had a cramp. Zaffeera knew it wasn’t likely. Cramp or no cramp, Noora was an excellent swimmer. Zaffeera suspected something dreadful might happen when she saw how the chauffeur glared at her sister that night after they landed at the Al-Balladi airport. There was hatred in that man’s eyes. Word had obviously gotten to the men who were followers of the old sheik. The pictures of Noora in the disco undoubtedly had been shown to her father. Undoubtedly he had been dishonored. Everything happened the way Allah had wanted it. Her brilliant scheme could only have succeeded with the help of Allah. And now the brilliance of the ring that bound her to Michel, the man who was always meant for her, sparkled brightly on her finger.

  Michel had actually given the ring to her! Out of the love he had for her and only for her! He must have always really loved her, because now they were married. Married! She started to weep with joy and relief. She threw her arms around Michel and hugged him so tightly, she nearly dislodged her headpiece. Never mind; she wouldn’t need it anymore!

  The horses trotted back to the hotel. Inside the white fairytale carriage festooned with flowers, Zaffeera inhaled the fragrance of her husband’s aftershave mixed with his own dizzying scent that transported her into a frenzy. She couldn’t wait for their marriage to be consummated. They would have sex every morning and every night—at least! She would surely make him the happiest man.

  On the penthouse floor of the Al-Balladi Prince Hotel, minutes before midnight, the newlyweds entered the luxurious honeymoon suite.

  Zaffeera stood at the foot of the sumptuous bed before her. Her entire body tingled at the thought of the sexy night that awaited them.

  Michel, in his handsome tuxedo, walked straight to the bar and studied the large selection of drinks in crystal decanters.

  “There’s juices, soda water, 7-Up, Coke. I don’t think they forgot anything. This is quite an incredible variety,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Perhaps we should have a little champagne.” He pulled a magnum-sized bottle of Cristal out of an ice-filled silver bucket.

  “All right,” she whispered.

  “Would you like a strawberry in it? There’s a whole bowlful here.” He opened a blue Tiffany box and pulled out two sparkling crystal champagne glasses. “Wow,” he said, bringing a glass to the light. “Beautiful.”

  “Strawberries in champagne. How clever,” she said, inching her way closer to the bar. She wished they would both inch their way closer to the bed.

  “I saw that in a movie once. Nice touch. Look at all the strawberries they left here for us,” he said, sounding rather awkward. “My, they thought of everything.”

  Zaffeera was the one who had thought of everything. “Perhaps I should change,” she said, batting her eyes.

  She stood in her wedding gown, feeling stupid. She had removed her veil and draped it on the couch. She was glad the hotel’s management remembered her strict instructions to keep the lights dimmed low, and to place two lit vanilla-scented candles by the bar, and two almond-scented candles on each side of the king-size bed. She had thought of requesting a smaller bed, so Michel would have to sleep close to her, but decided she did not want to appear too forward and demanding in front of the hired help or the wedding planners.

  She had also requested soft music.

  Didn’t he hear what she just said? Perhaps I should change, she wanted to repeat, but thought she had better wait.

  She watched him as he slowly unwrapped the golden foil from the top of the champagne bottle, unwinding the wire fastening from the Cristal, pulling the cork with some difficulty. Finally with the loud pop, “Voilà!” he said, with what she could have sworn was a nervous chuckle.

  He poured champagne into the tall, delicate crystal flutes and dropped a strawberry in each glass. Bringing a glass to his new bride, Michel looked uneasy when he briefly met Zaffeera’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, taking the glass.

  “My pleasure,” he said, watching the bubbles rise to the surface of her glass.

  Why is he looking so … melancholic? Zaffeera wondered, feeling suddenly insecure. He should be happy. What is he thinking about? Why isn’t he looking into my eyes, telling me how beautiful I look? He hasn’t even complimented me on my dress! This is our honeymoon, dammit.

  “Come, let’s go out on the balcony,” Michel said without looking at her.

  The balcony? The bloody balcony?! That would be farther from the bed!

  Michel had already opened the tall french doors. The sheer curtains billowed out in the breeze. He held the doors open for Zaffeera. In her wedding gown, she stepped outside, feeling awkward.

  Zaffeera stared at her stunning ring. Under the recessed lighting that shone from the archways surrounding the balcony, blue light shot from the diamond. She reminded herself again that Michel had actually given her the ring—with the “better diamond.” She wondered how many carats it had. She would have to have it appraised. Not that it mattered. She would never forget how he gave it to her, looking at her with such kindness. Yes, he must have always loved me, she thought, gazing now at the sky. Why was he wasting time out here? It was time for lovemaking. He was leaning against the rail, sipping champagne and gazing at the stars. He should be gazing into her eyes, for crying out loud! Perhaps he would make her pregnant tonight, and nine months from now, she would give him a precious son. No. Too soon. Maybe her pregnancy would be a difficult one. She must not allow negative thoughts. But what if expecting a child took away the joy of sex? She doubted that. She read in magazines and books that couples could have sex up to the ninth month, or at least till the end of the seventh month. She would surely put on more pounds around her waist the minute she conceived. Pregnancy could wait! What she needed was to have him all to herself. Her mother did not get pregnant for five years after her marriage. Their father was fine with that. He had even kidded that Allah had given them more time to enjoy each other before all the children came. She would wait three years. Three glorious years of sex, day and night! Her entire body tingled at the thought. And after that, when she gave him a son, he would forever be tied to her. But he was tied to her now, she thought. Silly me. One thing for sure: He would never look at another woman after she gave him an offspring. Or two sons. He would never think of … Noora? No! Their marriage was now a bond like blood, a bond that could never be broken—especially after the birth of their first son.

  Twenty long and uncomfortable minutes later, while Zaffeera was occupying herself wi
th thoughts of their future, he was still standing there, in the same position, his back to her. He had finished his champagne, and he was toying with the glass, running his index finger around the lip of the crystal, making that ringing sound—while she sat on one of the chaises, like an idiot, waiting for his first move! Wasn’t he supposed to carry her in his arms through the threshold, and weren’t they supposed to be kissing by now? Maybe she should say something.

  “I’m going to …” she said while at the same time he said, “Would you like some …”

  “Sorry!” she said.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said.

  “You first. Sorry.”

  “I was just … going to ask if you would like some more champagne.”

  This is a catastrophe, Zaffeera thought. She lifted her glass, showing it had barely been touched.

  “Sorry. We didn’t have to have champagne,” he said.

  “Oh, no. It’s very good.”

  “Would you have preferred Coke?” he asked.

  Noora would have preferred Coke. Zaffeera lowered her eyes. “Yes, actually, I like Coke. But I do like this …” she said demurely.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. We rarely ever have champagne. Except on very special occasions. And this sure is one … Well … I think I’d better change,” she said softly. “The night air is making me feel a little chilly. I’m also tired.”

  He finally turned and looked straight at her. “I’m so sorry. How selfish of me. Of course, you must be exhausted.”

  “Aren’t you?” she asked, lowering her eyes.

  “No.”

  No?! What did he mean by “no”? On second thought, that meant he could keep it hard all night. She felt like a kid waiting impatiently to open the last and largest birthday present. She couldn’t wait to feel him. She wondered how big he was. She closed her eyes and wiped the sweat that formed on her brow. What did he really look like? How many professional women had he had? One? Two? More? She felt a twinge of jealousy. She supposed his father had followed the tradition of taking his son to a brothel, to have sexual experiences with a professional—a man must learn these things, so he would know what to do on his wedding night. But were there any others?