“A mansion. Same shit!”
“It won’t look right. I don’t think that he …”
“He’s not even there!” she barked. “Shacked up in Hawaii with some bimbo, I’m sure!”
She stormed back in the house.
The man ran around the BMW and popped open the trunk. He dumped in all her luggage and slammed the trunk shut. As he started back for the house, he noticed Michel and Zaffeera’s limousine parked in the shady corner. Zaffeera watched as the man put on an exaggerated smile and headed over to greet Michel.
“Hello, I’m Kennilworth Cohen,” he said extending his hand.
“How do you do … I am Michel Amir,” he said, shaking Kennilworth’s hand. “We had an appointment … We can come back another time,” Michel uttered awkwardly.
“This is a perfect time, actually. Just wait here for a couple more minutes. Be right back.”
The blonde exploded again out of the wrought iron door, holding yet another mound of clothes, which she threw on top of the previous load.
Kennilworth ran to her and opened the driver’s door.
Shouting something else at the man, she slid behind the wheel and slammed the car door, screaming, “Fuck you!”
Tires burned on the hot cement as the fire-engine-red BMW rocketed up the hill.
The man appeared rather glad to have been left by the young woman in the red convertible, and eager to show off his property. He led Michel and Zaffeera to his front door.
“You came here all the way from Paris to see my house?” the owner said, visibly impressed. “Did you say you’re … originally from Egypt?”
“We’re Egyptians, but we live in a small town in Jordan called Al-Balladi.”
“Is that like near the … the Sahara Desert?”
Zaffeera narrowed her eyes. She would have loved to thrust a knee really hard into his crotch and watch him dance.
“No,” Michel replied politely. “Actually, it’s not at all in that region. It is a beautiful, modern town, with gardens, office buildings, lakes, and monuments. We are in the process of building our new home there.”
Kennilworth checked out Zaffeera. “How interesting,” he said.
On the granite counter of the oblong kitchen, next to floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors, Kennilworth proudly unrolled the new plans of his house, as well as John Lautner’s original blueprints. “I’m going to keep Lautner’s ideas. That architect was incredibly gifted. This is the last house he ever designed, you know.”
“Would you consider selling it?” Michel asked.
“Selling this house? Oh, well, I’m not sure,” Kennilworth said. “However, anything can be bought. Right? That is, if the price is right.”
That night, in their hotel room, Zaffeera stared fixedly at the ceiling, hoping and praying for lovemaking.
“I’m so sorry,” Michel said.
“Why are you sorry?” she asked hopefully. She inched closer to him.
“Because I have subjected you to such unruly behavior.”
“Forgive me, but I am not sure I understand.”
“That woman. This morning.”
“It is not your fault, Michel.”
“I brought you there.”
“I closed my ears. I heard nothing.”
A long moment passed as they lay side by side in darkness.
“I don’t think that guy is very much attached to that house,” he said. “I think I may be able to make an offer.”
“It could be a great house … if you remodeled it … with your own vision.”
“I couldn’t change anything structurally. The design is …wonderful. Fantastic.”
“The view is beautiful,” she said. She had to say something positive. What was so great about that house? Floor-to-ceiling glass everywhere, barely any walls except steel sticks to hold an oddly shaped roof? She could tell that a man designed the house. It had small bathrooms and hardly any closets—no provisions for even one servant—merely a glorified bachelor pad.
How many nights would she lie in that same position, wishing he would make love to her? She could not keep waiting for Michel to make the first move. This could not go on! She wanted sex. She needed it. He was her bloody husband!
She cuddled close to Michel and began to caress his chest, then down below the elastic band of those bloody damned blue pajamas he always wore! She wanted to hold his most precious part and rub it and feel it grow. Her hand stopped right below the elastic band. Why did he make her feel shy? How much could she do to him, without his thinking she was perverted or … whorish? He seemed so inexperienced. She was about to gently move her hand away when he turned to her, and very slowly at first, he kissed her.
Here we go finally, Zaffeera thought. It was a pretty good start. His lips felt wonderful. There was potential. As they continued to kiss, she searched for his tongue. She slowly wiggled her way beneath him. They would do it old-fashioned style—for now. She didn’t want him to suspect she was an expert at this pleasurable game. She could feel him against the thin satin of her nightgown and the thick cotton of his pajamas. He was so wonderfully hard! Oh my, Zaffeera thought, arching her back. The moment seemed endless when, yes … YES! At last, she guided him inside her. Aaah… Her entire body trembled at the sensation. Michel’s penis was completely inside her now. She helped him through his awkward movement. In and out. Not too far out now. Keep doing this, she sang to herself. She was on the verge of screaming, “I love you! Don’t stop! Stay there, I-want-you-all-night… I command you!”
He reached a silent orgasm.
She bit her lip. Shit!
Zaffeera was asleep, her head on Michel’s arm. Slowly, he eased his stiff arm away from her and crept out of bed. He tiptoed to the desk and opened his attaché case. He pulled out something from one of the pockets and silently went into the bathroom. The early-morning sunlight streamed through the bathroom window. He sat on the steps of the whirlpool tub and bent to stare at the picture he held in his hands.
“Forgive me, my darling,” he whispered to a small portrait picture of Noora.
CHAPTER 47
RAINBOW RIBBONS OF HOPE
Twelve days after Ian Cohen’s bypass surgery, Noora decided she must talk to Mr. Cohen’s doctor. She could not allow him to intimidate her. Mr. Cohen had suffered yet another terrible night. She had waited, but the doctor never showed up in the morning, or after lunch. Mr. Cohen could no longer eat, and the state of his health was deteriorating. By three o’clock that afternoon, Noora was informed that Dr. McGratten had left on an emergency.
“Where?” Noora asked a male nurse she had never seen before.
“The mainland. His father had a stroke,” he said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Noora said. “But I need to know who’s replacing Mr. Cohen’s … my father’s doctor. No one came to see him today.”
“I’ll find out for you,” the nurse said, heading to the next room on the floor.
Which direction was Mecca from Honolulu? Noora knelt, facing the window, and touched her forehead to the floor. Allah Akbar, she whispered … What is God’s will now? Um Faheema, you said you would be with me always, in spirit. Looking to the sky, she clenched her copper chain with the blue stone. In the name of God … please, guide me.
She wondered why the nurse asked Noora if Mr. Cohen had a living will. What did he mean? Was Mr. Cohen dying?
As Noora gazed out the window, she saw a glorious rainbow forming behind the hill in the distance. She gasped when ribbon rays of color appeared, forming a second rainbow, outside the first, appearing more luminous and ethereal.
“What’sa matter?” she heard Mr. Cohen ask gruffly behind her. “What’re you doing on the floor?”
“Mr. Cohen, you’re awake … look! Outside …” Noora said, rising stiffly. “There is a double rainbow!”
“Where?”
“Right there, in front of your window!” She held his head up for a better look, and arranged the pillow for him to see.
“Oh,” he said, showing a certain degree of interest through his droopy eyes.
“So beautiful,” she said, pressing the button a notch and raising his bed so he could have a better look.
She walked to the window. “I’ve never seen that color of lavender on a rainbow before …”
“Violet.”
“Pardon?” she turned to him.
“It’s violet,” he said, his eyes closed.
She turned to admire the rainbow again. “It is violet.” She turned back to Mr. Cohen. He was silent. She moved closer to him. A tear slowly rolled down on his left temple.
“Rainbows are a sign of good luck,” Noora whispered.
“You are my good luck,” he murmured.
His eyes were still closed. His breathing seemed shallow and labored. Even though they said the X-rays showed no tumor in his colon, his stomach looked larger than it had been that morning.
At three o’clock in the morning, Noora was jarred out of a dream. She had fallen asleep under double sheets in her cot next to the window in Mr. Cohen’s room. He still had difficulty breathing; he wanted water, and his stomach seemed to have grown to double its previous size. She gave him water in a small cup, which he drank like a thirsty man in a desert. He wanted more. She wasn’t sure if that would aggravate his situation.
Noora left his room with the excuse that she would find ice water. She ran out to the nurses’ station and demanded to see a doctor.
“First thing in the morning, Doctor Ferguson, the doctor on call, will be here to see your father,” a nurse said calmly.
“First thing in the morning? He’s having trouble breathing now! We need a doctor right now! IMMEDIATELY!” Noora commanded, surprised at her own forcefulness. “No doctor came in today at all!”
Doctor Ferguson, a tall, handsome young man, walked into Ian’s room not more than twenty minutes later. Noora watched as he tapped on Ian’s stomach, which sounded like a hollow drum.
“It’s going to take a few more days to get all this inflammation down,” Dr. Ferguson said. “At least.”
I must get Roz back here, Noora thought, rushing out to the public phones next to the elevators. She began to dial and realized it was just about 6:30 in the morning in Los Angeles. She hung up, paced for a moment and dialed again, leaving an urgent message for Roz to call her back. She knew Roz would be at the office just before 8:00 AM, Los Angeles time.
An endless hour and a half later, Roz finally returned Noora’s call at the nurses’ station. “It’s impossible for me to leave the office at this time,” she said to an exhausted Noora. “And between us, Kennilworth-less is getting more and more demanding. He has his own secretary, but he wants me to transcribe his letters and do everything. And the writers are demanding the changes now … They have no clue regarding Mr. Cohen’s condition.”
“But Mr. Cohen did make—is still making the changes on the script, you know,” Noora found herself saying.
“He is?”
“Yes. I’ll send the changes as soon as I can.”
“I knew I could count on you. Just fax everything ASAP. What’s your fax number?”
“Oh. Sorry, I never had the chance to leave the hospital …”
“Get with the program, dear. This is the film biz. We don’t waste a second, even if we’re on our deathbed.”
“I’m sure the nurses will let me use their fax machine. I’ll get that number as soon as the changes are done.”
Mr. Cohen was in no condition to think, let alone dictate anything. All he could do at that time was fight for his life while trying to breathe through his vaporized-oxygen mask.
In the afternoon, after the lunch tray was removed, and the nurses stayed away for a good two hours, Noora had a chance to read through the script. She asked one of the nurses for a small portable lamp. Lowering Ian’s food tray—which she used as a makeshift desk—to a workable level, Noora settled on the plastic recliner in his room. While Ian Cohen slept, breathing through his oxygen mask, Noora picked up a pencil and studied his notes. Tracing over his handwriting and signature, she practiced until she could imitate his unusual scrawl. She would be in deep trouble if anyone found out. But Roz was pressuring. No, she was demanding. What else was Noora to do?
Luckily, there was a postal substation downstairs, next to the hospital’s gift shop. Before changing her mind for fear that she might get into even more trouble by forging Mr. Cohen’s signature, Noora mailed the first part of the doctored script to Roz—Overnight Express.
Noora had begun to get used to the dreadful sight of what the nurses told her was a catheter, a rectal tube that had been inserted to release the toxins from Mr. Cohen’s abdomen. The transparent tube snaked down to a pouch beneath the foot of his hospital bed.
Today, Ian was too weak even to speak, and Noora wondered if there was any hope for him. But while she waited and prayed for his recovery, she continued to make script changes on her own. What else was there for Noora to do? Except to keep mailing out the edited pages. Roz said the writers were pleased with what she had sent so far. Apparently, everyone assumed he was on vacation. No one suspected Mr. Cohen was in the hospital and that he was in no condition to keep his eyes open long enough to read anything.
More than two exhausting weeks had elapsed since Mr. Cohen’s operation.
“Sitting morning and night, worrying, is unhealthy,” Doris told Noora. “That’s what we’re all here for. Take a walk on the beach. Waikiki is a great diversion. You need a little sun and fresh air, Kelley.”
“If something happens to him while I’m gone, I’ll feel like I’ve abandoned him.”
“We all know you would never do that. Here is my card. It’s got my pager number. You can call me from wherever you are.”
“Please don’t misunderstand. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Doris. You and the staff here are doing a good job. And you’re an angel.”
“You are the angel, Kelley. Your father is lucky to have a daughter like you,” the social worker said. “It’s obvious he’s proud of you.”
“Thanks … Thank you.” Noora turned and hastily made her way to the elevator, and punched the button down to the lobby. The doors opened. She was alone. “My father is not proud of me,” she said to the mirrored elevator. “My father is ashamed of me.”
CHAPTER 48
CHANCE ENCOUNTER
Michel and Zaffeera landed at the Honolulu airport in the early afternoon. As they made their way out of Gate 22, they were greeted by a chauffeur holding a sign:
“Mr. and Mrs. Amir”
Through the open-air walkway, the fragrance of plumeria flooded Michel with memories of his younger and happier days. He remembered the plumeria trees that grew in abundance in Alexandria, around King Farouk’s gardens, where he had first met Noora with that bright smile, eyes like the Mediterranean seashores, golden bronze skin … soft … if he could just touch her. Once more. And her hair … Lustrous brown. Silky …
Maybe choosing Hawaii for his honeymoon was not a good idea. He had looked forward to visiting Honolulu. Most of all, he wanted to be on the other side of the world, completely away from anything that would remind him of his lost love. He had forgotten that Hawaii also had plumerias. He didn’t know their fragrance would ignite his memory in such a way, the trade winds bringing him that same perfumed air, like the tarrawah, the sea breeze of Alexandria. Next year, he would have to venture out to Asian cities—Hong Kong—cement city. Great buildings. Shanghai. Bangkok, dense with incense and smog. In Hawaii, he should not think about Alexandria! He would focus on visiting the historical buildings—and the renovated hotel in Kahala where he and Zaffeera were scheduled to spend their honeymoon. But first, Michel had reserved a suite for two nights in the historical section of one of the oldest hotels along Waikiki’s famous Kalakaua Boulevard.
A white limousine drove them to the Moana Surfrider at the end of Waikiki. Under the white column of the porte-cochère, as Michel and Zaffeera were greeted by
two friendly valets, a beautiful Hawaiian maiden winked at Michel as she placed a lei of purple and white orchids over his head first, and another for Zaffeera.
Michel admired the tapestry and the early century’s architectural style. “Look at that,” he murmured almost to himself. “Interesting design. Embossed fleurs-de-lis on the façade, giving it a French regal look, yet keeping the original British tone of old Hawaii.”
Later that day, as the sun began to set, casting a brilliant glow above the ocean, Michel sat with Zaffeera, to dine at the Verandah Restaurant. They were serenaded by the pianist, whose fingers danced across the keyboard, making the melody seem like a gentle waterfall.
“I think we should have a white grand piano for our new home,” Michel said, watching the young pianist. “Do you play?” he asked Zaffeera.
“I used to. Unfortunately, I dropped piano lessons when I was fourteen. A white grand piano would be lovely,” she murmured demurely. “Do you play, Michel?”
“Not very well. I’m a bit rusty.”
Zaffeera smiled and lowered her eyes. He was making plans for their future. His words, “for our new home,” sounded more melodious than the piano music.
She was hungry and turned to the buffet table. She didn’t like the idea of having to serve herself. They had to stand and wait in line, holding their plates—as if they were beggars! How utterly repulsive, Zaffeera thought. She turned to Michel. He was now gawking at walls and ceilings—not looking at her.
After they had made love in Los Angeles, he had been polite toward her, but during the entire five-and-a-half-hour flight, Zaffeera recalled, he had not even looked into her eyes. He never complimented her on the long, flowing navy blue dress with delicate little flowers that she had ordered from Paris. The fitted dress actually gave her a slim line. It cost more than a thousand dollars and was worth the price. Her navy blue high-heeled Bali shoes gave her height and made her feel even slimmer. Stand up straight when you walk, she reminded herself every minute. She had felt like a model walking down a ramp. Her lustrous dark brown hair fell down to her shoulders, thanks to the best products available. She had spent half a day in a Beverly Hills salon just the day before, while Michel was busy sketching ugly old buildings in the dreary parts of downtown Los Angeles.
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