Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  As she picked up the mail from the floor, she noticed a light blue envelope with French stamps. It’s for me!

  When a male nurse convinced Mr. Cohen to take a little walk down the hall, Noora was finally able to open the letter.

  “It’s from Annette!” she said out loud to no one, her heart bursting with excitement as she ripped open the envelope. It was a handwritten letter on pretty blue-and-white paper.

  “Ma très chère amie, I am infinitely sorry for not having written for such a long time. A thousand thanks for your kind letters, and for the beautiful card from Hawaii!”

  Noora’s eyes filled with tears as she slowly sank to the edge of a plastic chair in front of the window.

  “Docteur Alain opened a new clinic in Juan les Pains, and I am helping him,” Annette wrote. “Alain has proposed. You must see the diamond ring he gave me. We plan to marry in six months. I would like you to be my maid of honor …”

  The Honolulu sun filtered through the tall window behind Noora, warming her back. She remembered the first time she met Annette. That dreadful day, when Noora had been washed on the beach.

  “My poor dear, we can fry an egg on your back!” Annette’s singsong Parisian words rang in Noora’s ears.

  So much had happened since. Noora held Annette’s letter to her heart. “Thank you, God,” she whispered and ran out of the room, down the hallway, in search of the phone.

  Turning the hallway corner, she heard Ian returning to his room from physical therapy. “Get me out of this Popsicle joint or let me croak!” he shouted. “Kelley? KELLEY?! Where the hell is she!”

  This time, he would just have to wait, Noora thought. She had to call France.

  “Mr. Cohen?” Noora asked that night, while Ian miserably tried to swallow a tablespoon of tomato soup.

  “That soup’s cold! We’re not in Frogsville, and I sure as hell didn’t order Vichyssoise!”

  “How would you like to go home?”

  “Home? Yeah, right. Quacks won’t release me. They say they have to see improvement. Fuck ‘em!” He pushed his food tray away.

  “Remember the doctor who came to see you at the hotel in France? My friend, Doctor Alain Demiel?” Noora asked, trying to disregard his anger and putting on a cheerful voice.

  “Spare me the gory details.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Cohen?”

  “You’re gonna run off and marry him.”

  “Oh, no no, nothing like that. I called him and asked for his advice. I hope you don’t mind, but he is a dear friend of my friend.”

  “Friend of a friend,” he murmured, letting himself fall back on his pillow, and closing his eyes. “Very encouraging.”

  “Doctor Alain Demiel spoke to your doctor on the phone,” she said, approaching his bed. “They agree that you would be better off in your own home than in the hospital … If you have someone to care for you.”

  “No shit,” he whispered, his eyes still closed.

  “I should like to remain in your employ. Sam will be flying in to Honolulu. That is, if it’s all right with you …”

  Ian popped his eyes open. “You called Sam too?”

  “I … I hoped you wouldn’t mind. Sam will be here to help you, and …”

  “Just promise you won’t run back to Frogsville.”

  “What if I promise to return you to your Bel Air home and be your caregiver?”

  *

  Less than four months after his quadruple bypass surgery, Ian Cohen had to admit he felt better than he had in the past few years. He no longer feared the possibility of a stroke, or worse yet, that he would be paralyzed and would have no one to care for him. Everyone in Hollywood knew that no matter how popular the producer, you were “as good as your last picture.” And if you were the unfortunate one stricken by a serious ailment, your business was shot to hell.

  It was uncanny how Kelley Karlton had popped into his life. At the right time, too. Like some angel, only he never would have thought that she would come to his rescue in the form of a French hotel chambermaid. Not that he ever believed in any of that psychic woo-woo stuff, and the word “spiritual” always annoyed him, but he actually prayed for someone he could trust to come to his needs. Through some kind of something he could not explain, the girl must have been sent to him by Bevvy.

  He liked having Kelley around, especially when he came home in the evening, grouchy as hell. She always greeted him with a smile, never bitching, perfectly happy to have spent the entire day at his mansion, reading the scripts and manuscripts he gave her, or working in the garden, planting or tending to his roses. She had a thing about roses … especially the peach-colored ones like they had in the South of France.

  What he really liked most was that no one at the studio could figure out their relationship, and he was aware there was juicy gossip. He always liked keeping his personal life a mystery—especially his relationship with Kelley Karlton—and above all, a mystery when it came to his stepson. Always envious and jealous about anything Ian did, whether business or personal, Kenni was constantly trying to figure out what Ian was doing with such a young chick. Not that Kelley Karlton was either provocative or as glamorous as the parade of hopefuls at the studio; but from the plain clothes she wore to the way she carried herself, she still had a certain style and class, and she didn’t suck up to anybody. Best of all, Kelley did not give a flying crap about Kennil-worthless.

  Ian chuckled at the thought of how his stepson tried to make a pass at her at one of the recent Hollywood parties he had to attend one Sunday evening. He had brought Kelley as his guest. He was going to make a quick appearance, shake hands, and split. But their short appearance was long enough for Kenni to try something stupid.

  “Is he getting fresh?” Ian had asked her after she walked away from Kenni and headed to the dessert table.

  Kelley had smiled confidently, saying, “Mr. Cohen, I know how to handle myself.”

  Ian wanted Kenni to think she was his girlfriend. Make the lazy bum think we’re an item, he thought.

  “The desserts here suck,” he whispered, quickly nudging Kelley toward the exit. “Tell me the Hamlet has better chocolate cakes.”

  “The Hamlet has better chocolate cakes,” she said, smiling.

  Ian hated the little hors d’oeuvres they served that invariably gave him heartburn, and he was itching to go back and dine at his habitual Sunday night hangout—and hide away in his cozy booth by the bar. He had missed that place, and he sure as hell did not miss those lame Hollywood parties where everyone wanted to be seen but no one really gave a shit about him.

  Sitting across from Ian Cohen in the last booth of the restaurant, Noora toyed with her huge piece of chocolate cake on a plate large enough for four. “I need to return to France,” she finally gathered the courage to say.

  “You’re not my prisoner. But uh … if you want more money … we can talk.”

  “Oh no, thank you … It’s not at all a matter of money. I would like to attend a wedding. And, since you don’t really need an assistant … or a caregiver now …”

  “Can’t say that I blame you for leaving. I’ve been an asshole.”

  “Mr. Cohen, what I am trying to say is, I was asked to be maid of honor at my best friend’s wedding.”

  He continued to chew, keeping his eyes on his plate. He looked up and gave her an “I don’t believe you” look. “My best friend’s wedding, huh?” He chuckled. “Haven’t we heard that title before?” He poured more ketchup on his plateful of fries. He became serious and looked her in the eye. “I wish you’d stay.”

  “I didn’t think you needed me anymore,” she said.

  “I need you even more.”

  “To nag you about nutrition?” she teased. “Certainly not.”

  “That don’t bother me,” he said, taking a big bite out of his rare burger.

  “I … I’m not sure I can continue being of service.”

  He reached for the salt shaker and caught her serious look. “See? Like
now. You remind me about stuff that’s bad for me.” He put down the salt and sprinkled pepper on his fries. “You’re also not afraid to tell me if a script sucks. You’re a good story analyst.”

  Noora felt herself blushing. “Really?” She was never sure whether he liked her comments about the scripts—he argued and grumbled often enough.

  “Yeah. Really.”

  They sat eating in silence until Noora finally raised enough courage to speak. “I have a confession to make.”

  “There’s a Catholic church down on Santa Monica by the Beverly Hills flats.”

  “There is something I would like to tell you,” she said seriously.

  He didn’t respond.

  “The passport I came with …”

  “I know,” he said, not looking up.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s your friend’s,” he said, stuffing his mouth with fries. He took a big gulp of beer and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I needed you to come back with me ASAP.” He raised an empty bottle of beer to a passing waitress. “Another beer, Marj.”

  “Right away, Mr. Cohen,” the waitress said, taking the empty beer bottle on her way to the bar.

  “At that time, there was no time for legalities when I was about to kick the bucket,” he said.

  Noora stared at her dessert. He knew all along! What else did he know? Would he have cared if he knew I was an Arab—a Muslim, no less? She was certain he did not know her origins. If he did, he would stop referring to the Arab people as “ragheads” or “camel-jockeys” in front of her.

  “So, when’s that wedding?” he asked.

  Air France flew Noora back to Paris. Nervously holding her passport at the arrival gate of Roissy Airport, Noora felt weak, and her hands trembled as she waited her turn at Customs. She had dyed her short blonde hair back to brown to match Annette’s passport picture. She wore brown contact lenses. With a dark pencil, she had reshaped the contour of her lips to match Annette’s. When her turn finally came, she could barely breathe—surely she would get caught this time. The official opened the passport and looked at her briefly. The thump of his stamp on the passport resounded in every nerve of her body. Her heart skipped a beat. She grabbed her carry-on and ran out to the baggage claim.

  Noora was to meet with an attorney in Paris the next morning to arrange for “Kelley Karlton” to have her own passport—finally! How much did that cost Ian Cohen—and wasn’t he running a major risk?

  “Don’t ask questions,” Ian had warned her. “Just sign the documents that show you were born in Frogsville. You’ll get yourself a passport so you can fly back with your own name. The only thing I ask of you is that you don’t make me look like a horse’s ass.”

  Noora wasn’t sure she understood what he meant. But she knew this: She would never betray his trust. At least as far as Kelley Karlton was concerned.

  “Just get back here as soon as you can.”

  Did he think she would run away with her new passport and he would never see her again? The only way she would prove him wrong was to simply return to Los Angeles. And she would immediately send a postcard telling him she had arrived in France and confirming her return date. No, she would not disappoint him.

  *

  On a sunny Riviera afternoon, in a rose-filled outdoor restaurant called Le Beau Mirage, a rabbi chanted a Hebrew prayer. Beneath a white gazebo festooned with pink rosettes and lilies of the valley, Noora stood next to Annette, who looked radiant in a white-laced gown. Family and guests watched with anticipation as Docteur Alain Demiel smashed a glass wrapped in a white linen napkin.

  At the sound of broken glass, everyone clapped and shouted “Mazel tov!”

  While a violinist played a tune from Fiddler on the Roof, Annette turned to her maid of honor and smiled gratefully with teary eyes.

  There were more than a hundred guests, a few relatives, and close friends mostly from Alain’s side, along with other doctors and their wives. But the one who captured Noora’s attention was Ahna Morgenbesser, Annette’s grandmother, who sat next to Noora during the dinner reception. The woman watched Noora intently. Every time Noora met her gaze, Ahna smiled.

  Noora began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Annette was right,” the old lady said in a German-accented English.

  “Sorry?”

  “Annette was right. You are a very special young lady. I think she said you are a writer.”

  “A writer? No,” Noora said with a little chuckle. “Not me. I just like to write. I’m not very good. I also like to read … Novels and such.” What did Annette’s grandmother mean?

  “I would like to tell you my story. After the wedding. Most people don’t believe it, but I have a feeling you will.”

  Noora put her napkin on her lap. What was she supposed to say?

  “We have much in common,” Ahna Morgenbesser said.

  “Really?” Noora took a sip of water. What could they possibly have in common? They were decades, cultures, and continents apart.

  “You are a survivor.”

  She knows, Noora thought. Oh my God, she knows I am an imposter.

  “My eyes are not so good anymore, but I can still see. In a different way. In a different way, you understand.”

  Turning to the woman, Noora nodded and forced a smile. A shiver ran through her body. It seemed as if Um Faheema was watching her, through the eyes of Ahna Morgenbesser. C’est très bizarre, Noora thought, as the French would say, very weird. She excused herself and headed to the ladies’ room.

  Inside one of the bathroom stalls, she allowed her tears to flow. Her emotions were getting the better of her. Why now? Well, she tried to rationalize, weddings are an emotional event, and hers was a dream taken away … Michel … More tears flowed, cascading down her cheeks. She patted her face with toilet paper. Her makeup was ruined. She waited for the other ladies to leave the bathroom. Once alone, Noora made it to the sink and splashed water on her face, patting it dry. Breathe, Noora, breathe. Everything will be fine. For now. She had to hurry back to the reception so that no one would suspect how she felt. She had capped her emotions so well; she no longer knew why she felt such pain in her heart. Luckily, she had a little foundation, lip liner, and eyeliner, which she applied, hoping no one would notice that she had cried. But it was a wedding; doesn’t everyone cry? When she returned to her seat, the old woman had not moved from her chair.

  “I hope to see you again, my pretty. J’espère. And I hope I will have the opportunity to spend some time with you,” the woman said, taking Noora’s hand. “Please come to Paris before going back to America.”

  “I can’t. I have to return to the United States, where I am employed … I have a job waiting …”

  “Yes, I understand. But do come for a visit. You can stay with me. I have plenty of room. I can still make the best kuchen,” she said, glancing at Noora’s untouched piece of cake.

  “Thank you. Perhaps another time I’ll visit. With Annette,” she offered cheerfully, hoping to pacify the lady.

  “My time in life is becoming short.”

  “Oh, perhaps not, one never knows … I enjoyed meeting you, and I’m sure we will meet again.” Noora smiled, grateful to see the other guests starting to bid farewell to the bride and groom.

  CHAPTER 51

  THE CURSE

  Zaffeera threw her Chanel and Gucci shopping bags and Louis Vuitton tote on her bed. After a visit to the gynecologist, she had gone on a shopping marathon at the brand-new, four-story Al-Balladi mall.

  “It’s another girl!” she said bitterly.

  Gamelia, who had remained her personal maid, hurried to unpack Zaffeera’s purchases. She laid the new clothes on Zaffeera and Michel’s king-size bed, the way she had been instructed, carefully cutting off the tags, laying each item aside for Zaffeera to give the order whether they needed washing or dry-cleaning. Zaffeera never wore anything she brought home from the store. Each garment had to be cleaned or washed before she would wear it. />
  “Hamdallah! And what a blessing it is, Miss Zaffeera,” Gamelia offered politely, while carefully smoothing down and admiring one of the new silk blouses. Zaffeera whirled around and slapped Gamelia hard across the face.

  “You idiot! It’s a curse!” Zaffeera hissed.

  Shocked by the sudden blow, Gamelia fell to her knees, lowered her head, and hid her face in her hands. “Forgive me … forgive my stupidity, Miss Zaffeera,” she implored. “I am nothing. Nothing.”

  “Don’t call me Miss Zaffeera! I am Mrs.! Mrs. Amir, MRS. AMIR! Do you understand?!”

  “Yes, Mrs. Amir, I beg your forgiveness Mrs. Amir, please, Mrs. Amir,” she pleaded, crouching closer to the floor, her arms protecting herself from another possible blow.

  Zaffeera stormed to her bathroom suite and slammed the door behind her.

  She had to give Michel a son, honor her family, and show the men of Al-Balladi, and all the affluent families her father knew, that the Amirs were giving birth to sons. She knew she had passed every other test. She was a model wife and a woman of high position in the eyes of Al-Balladi, volunteering in children’s hospitals, and serving meals to the poor in nearby villages.

  She always wore the most exquisite clothes, as if she were the wife of a dignitary, and her hair was always in place. In rural areas, she always covered her head with the proper headdress. She knew that Michel was impressed with her intelligence and sense of organization. She kept organized files for her husband while he was designing their new house. Since he continued to be fascinated with Frank Lloyd Wright, she found everything ever written on the architect. She even became an expert in feng shui, the Chinese art of creating harmony in the home—theirs and the ones he was commissioned to build. She often accompanied Michel to Los Angeles when he worked as consultant to other architects, builders, and real-estate developers—she was there for him, never complaining, making him feel like a king. She had to present him with a son. She would stop at nothing to give Michel a son!