Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

Zaffeera stood fuming in front of her floor-to-ceiling mirror.

  The twitching of her left eyelid began to throb faster. Her first abortion in Italy and the second in Paris had been easy. This one would have to be in Los Angeles. It should be easy to get rid of that female fetus secretly, in that immense, anonymous city.

  Michel was due to leave for Los Angeles in a few days to oversee the construction of a new house in Bel Air, and she was proud of him. After all, wasn’t Bel Air one of the wealthiest residential areas in Southern California? He had invited her to accompany him. During takeoff on the Concorde, she was going to announce that she was expecting. She had it all planned. Of course, she would not have told Michel she knew it was a boy—just give him the wonderful news that she was carrying his baby! Now everything was shot to hell.

  Instead of reveling in his joy, she would be forced to sit and watch him read books and magazines through the long flight and pay no attention to her, as usual. Misfortune had fallen upon her once again.

  When they finally landed in Los Angeles, Zaffeera gave a deep sigh of relief. Soon she would get rid of that awful morning sickness that lasted three quarters of the day. Traveling long distances, of course, didn’t help, not that flying ever bothered her, even if the flight was turbulent. This time, she had spent most of the trip vomiting in the bathroom. Michel didn’t seem to have noticed, too busy reading books on architecture—mostly about Julia Morgan, the woman architect who built Hearst Castle in California. For the first time, she didn’t mind, as long as he didn’t suspect her condition.

  Early the next morning, as usual, Michel did not show a single sign of affection—what a waste of opulence in such a lavish Beverly Hills suite and no lovemaking. But again, she didn’t mind and didn’t even have the desire to get close. She wanted him to leave so she could go on with what needed to be done. Fortunately, his first meeting was in the early morning. To her surprise, however, before leaving, he stopped at the door, came back to bed, and while she pretended to be asleep, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Well, that was a nice surprise. It was really a shock.

  The moment Michel closed the door, she counted the seconds until the elevator bell, down the corridor, finally sounded. She waited to make sure he was gone, and when she was convinced he was, she bounced out of bed and called information for the American Medical Association. She was given a few names of reputable gynecologists.

  The third doctor on the list she had jotted down had a clinic several blocks east of Fairfax on Santa Monica Boulevard, in West Hollywood. No one would know her there. But for the first time, she was scared. She had always been in control, afraid of nothing. Something gnawed inside her. She didn’t know why.

  Heading east on Santa Monica Boulevard, Zaffeera adjusted the rearview mirror of her rented car. Surely no one would ever recognize her in that dreary part of Hollywood, driving a little white Toyota.

  She wore a long black skirt and white blouse with a fringed black shawl and a straw hat that fell down to the rim of her large, cheap sunglasses. As she climbed the dusty outdoor steps that led to the front porch of the women’s clinic, Zaffeera felt her heart beating hard. She had been through this mess before. The procedure was not difficult. They inserted an object, and minutes later, she was no longer pregnant. She would menstruate again, and there would be nothing more. Why was she so uneasy now? After each procedure, she had been informed she was to have “no sex for ten days.” No problem. Michel never made sexual advances anyway. She was always the one who started the seduction, at the break of dawn, when he was most vulnerable—in his sleep.

  She sat in the doctor’s small waiting room in a shabby wicker chair. The few other women in the waiting room did not look American. The magazine she picked up was printed in Russian. Zaffeera leafed through it and stared at the pictures, her mind elsewhere.

  Who the hell was this doctor, making me wait for almost an hour? She was the last one left when the receptionist finally called, “Mrs. Jean Williams? We forgot to ask. Do you have an insurance card?” she said in a strong Russian accent.

  “An insurance card?”

  “Yes, so I can make a copy for our files. We can fill out your medical forms and mail them for you …”

  “Yes, I do have a great insurance plan,” Zaffeera replied. “However, my medical insurance is from England. We moved here recently from London,” she said, accentuating a British accent. “I will pay in cash, then send the paperwork to my insurance company. That will make it easier, I am sure.”

  “Please follow me,” another nurse said, holding a file.

  Zaffeera waited twenty more minutes inside a frigid, air-conditioned examining room, where she had to strip down and sit on a paper runner, wearing nothing but a thin paper gown.

  After a quick tap on the door, a doctor wearing a baseball cap popped his head in. “Mrs. Williams? Sorry for the wait. I’ll be right back.”

  That’s it, Zaffeera thought. I’m out of here! She had done extensive research on that doctor. Board certified, he was supposedly one of the best and most respected gynecologists in Los Angeles. It was hard to believe it, with that shabby office. If he was so great, why was he not in Beverly Hills? Or at least in Century City!

  Doctor Eugene Brandis finally walked into the examining room. He removed his baseball cap, revealing that he was nearly bald. But his face was young. John Lennon lenses rested on his prominent, angular nose. His eyes were a gentle blue.

  “Hello, hello. I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice soft and whispery. “What a day … I’ve had one emergency after another … Hi, I’m Doctor Brandis,” he announced with a sigh, extending his hand to Zaffeera. The moment he shook her hand, his focus was completely on her.

  “How do you do, I am Mrs. Jean Williams,” Zaffeera said.

  The doctor took a moment to read her application in her new chart. Zaffeera had written that the purpose of her visit was to “terminate pregnancy.”

  He reached for the wall phone and summoned one of his nurses to come in.

  After a pelvic examination, the doctor said, “You can get dressed. Let’s talk in my office.”

  Zaffeera felt uneasy as she sat across the doctor’s dusty old desk, piled high with files. He finally looked up.

  “I’m sorry, I cannot perform an abortion,” he announced. He removed his glasses and rubbed his weary eyes before replacing the glasses on the bridge of his nose.

  Zaffeera was shocked. Who was this idiot telling her what she could or could not do with her own body?! “Why not?”

  “You’re too far along,” he said, sighing and shaking his head.

  What kind of talk was that from a doctor! “It’s been six or seven weeks, not more,” she said, trying to stifle her rising anger.

  “More like three months,” he said, still shaking his head, “as you could see it on the ultrasound monitor. You heard the strong heartbeat.”

  Zaffeera’s ears were buzzing, and she was almost shaking with rage. But she knew it was imperative to stay in control. She should have had that abortion done long ago, but she had undergone several tests to be absolutely sure it was a female fetus. She watched the shine of his bald head, wanting to spit at it. She wanted to slap him and bring the homar to his senses. She crossed her legs, pulled a few loose strands of hair from her face, and tried to remain composed. Her left eyelid started to twitch furiously.

  “I don’t think it’s been that long.”

  “I’m afraid so,” the doctor said.

  “I will pay you triple the amount you usually charge. More, if necessary. In cash,” she said, leaning closer to him, waiting to see him become impressed. “Looks like your office could use some remodeling.”

  Showing no emotion, he busied himself writing down information in her chart. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Williams,” he said without looking up. It was obvious, as far as the doctor was concerned, that the consultation was over.

  “But if I have it, I’ll die …. I’ll truly die!” She raised her voice, almost forgettin
g her British accent. She calmed herself and looked at him intently. “It is a matter of life and death, Doctor.”

  “Indeed, it is,” he replied gravely as he finally looked up. “I am glad to announce that you are in very good health.”

  “No, I am not. You have misdiagnosed …”

  “You are welcome to seek another opinion. As far as I can see, you should have a perfectly normal pregnancy, a normal delivery, and a healthy baby.”

  Zaffeera rose and stormed out of the doctor’s office. On her way, she briefly stopped at the receptionist counter. “Bill my insurance,” she said and angrily ran down the stairs.

  That night, Zaffeera lay awake in bed and stared at the ornate ceiling of the lavish Beverly Hills Hotel suite. Michel was sound asleep. Zaffeera wondered if she could get rid of this alien invader by pounding on her stomach. No, she would only injure herself. Silently, she rose and glided to the bathroom. She stared at her reflection from the dim nightlight.

  “Bloody female fetus! You are not going to win power over me!”

  Three days later, Michel eagerly announced to his father, his father-in-law, and his wife that he had been commissioned by a prominent family, a well-known investment banker, to design his home in Bel Air.

  Although Zaffeera tried very hard to act pleased, she could not share his excitement.

  “I am proud of you, Michel,” she told him, hugging him and wishing they would celebrate over a night filled with passionate lovemaking.

  But now his focus was on another house. Someone else’s joy, instead of the house he was to build for them at Al-Balladi. The family who would live in the house Michel was to design had two boys, and the wife was expecting their third. How could that woman be so damned lucky?!

  Zaffeera was becoming more and more anxious. She must get rid of that female creature inside her before it was too late!

  As the hazy California early sun filtered through the hotel’s sheer curtains, a light beam of her blue diamond wedding ring sparkled straight to Zaffeera’s eyes. The diamond was beautiful and perfect.

  She found the heavy phone book inside a nightstand drawer, threw it on the comforter, and kneeled by the foot of the bed, searching through the Yellow Pages.

  Less than an hour later, Zaffeera drove herself to a clinic in the San Fernando Valley. She was never more thankful that Abdo had taught her how to drive when she was merely fifteen. Without her father’s knowledge, she had acquired an international driver’s license when she was in London. It would have been impossible to wait for a taxi or get a limousine and tell the driver to wait for her at an abortion clinic. Driving in Southern California seemed nearly as important as breathing.

  Zaffeera laid out twelve hundred-dollar bills on the counter of the reception desk in a brand-new, small structure and was ushered into the examining room. She had found the right place. Finally.

  Less than four hours later, Zaffeera drove back to Beverly Hills by the Ventura Freeway. Traffic became progressively heavier, bumper-to-bumper; at times it was at a standstill. She didn’t feel much bleeding, and there was no discomfort at that time, but she was starting to feel anxious. Thirty minutes later, as she finally neared the freeway exit, she began to feel cramps similar to those of an oncoming menstruation. Luckily, Santa Monica Boulevard was free of cars, and she was able to zoom down the boulevard, catching green traffic lights most of the way to the hotel. She made a sharp right to the hotel and realized she still had to return the car. But the rental office was not that far, and the cramps had eased. She returned the compact Toyota to the rental office on Beverly Drive, and from there she took a taxi back to the hotel.

  On the bureau of their hotel suite, Zaffeera found Michel’s note.

  “I hope you enjoyed shopping in Century City.

  I am meeting with the couple whose house I will be designing.

  Please join me in the restaurant downstairs.

  Michel.”

  He did not even sign it “love”?! But he did honor her by requesting her presence in a business meeting. As she headed for the bathroom to change, she felt a pinch below her stomach that rapidly grew to an excruciating cramp, followed by another, then another. She really wanted to join her husband. She wanted to meet the couple who had commissioned Michel to design their house, wanted them to know she was Mr. Michel Amir’s wife. But all she felt like doing now was crawling into a warm bed and holding her knees to her forehead. The pain was becoming intolerable. She barely managed to ring the restaurant downstairs.

  “I am so sorry, dear Michel,” she breathed, truly barely able to speak. “I must admit, I made a dreadful mistake.”

  “What happened, Zaffeera?” Michel asked on the phone, sounding genuinely concerned.

  “I never thought I would admit such a thing to you, or anyone. But … actually, I … I shopped till I dropped!”

  She heard him laugh. It’s not funny! she wanted to shout and slam down the phone in his ear. Instead, she forced a chuckle. “Yes, I just need to rest.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well,” Michel said kindly, sounding more serious now, as if he knew he should not have laughed. “May I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll be fine …”

  There must be something wrong with Michel, Zaffeera thought, crouching beneath the down comforter, wishing she had a heating pad. It is the man who determines the sex during conception. What real man does not want a son? Why on earth would he want a female? Surely he must want a girl—in order to name her… No. He could not still be thinking about Noora! Could he? “Shit!” Zaffeera said out loud, forgetting her cramps for a brief moment until she was seized by another sharp pain.

  She phoned the nearest drugstore in Beverly Hills and had the medicine prescribed by the clinic delivered to the hotel. That night, and for the next day, she lay in bed, doubled over in pain. Even the codeine-filled capsules did not do their work. For the first time, she wanted Michel to stay away. Luckily, she knew he was going to continue being busy with meetings. He was not due back until after dinner, and hopefully he would not notice how ill she was.

  Quite often, Zaffeera searched through Michel’s drawers. Even his luggage. She knew everything he owned. The day before her abortion, she had searched in his attaché case and there, to her fury, she found in a hidden pocket a picture of Noora. The photograph was taken in Alexandria at San Stefano Beach Club when they were younger. They had danced on the beach terrace, while Zaffeera remembered eating her heart out, watching them make eyes at each other. Noora’s picture looked worn. Worn out! Could Michel be looking at that picture often? Every day? Every night?!

  I am losing my mind. She’s dead! Damn you, Noora! Damn you, in whatever HELL YOU’RE IN!

  Zaffeera bit her knuckles hard while her cramps intensified.

  CHAPTER 52

  SUSPICIOUS MINDS

  Who the hell was this chick barging into his father’s life? Kennilworth wondered when he saw his stepfather and that young woman arrive together at a Hollywood function at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.

  He heard she was nothing but a maid when Ian Cohen scooped her out of a hotel in France and brought her to the U.S. How did she get him to vacation in Hawaii when they were in the middle of pre-production? And he knew Roz had informed Ian about the attorney in business affairs who had sent a memo advising that the writers hadn’t completed the shooting script!

  It appeared the girl was often his stepfather’s personal escort. Could Ian be that pussy-whipped? Did the old man think he could fool everyone just because he didn’t put an arm around her and they didn’t hold hands? But Kennilworth was glad they didn’t show physical affection. That would have looked disgusting. And why would he choose that chick over the myriad movie stars in Hollywood? That girl was young enough to be his goddamned granddaughter! The hottest stars could barely get Ian Cohen’s attention. Even he couldn’t get a moment alone with Ian Cohen. At first, Kennilworth thought it was a possible ego thing—having a young French maiden. But t
hat type of relationship should have been over by now.

  The girl never wore sexy clothes, yet she exuded femininity. Every time he saw her, she wore either a classy pantsuit or a business suit where the skirt always reached below the knee. She didn’t show cleavage like most actresses, yet she looked stacked. What if those two decided to—God forbid—get hitched? It would be a disaster. His mother should be rolling in her grave. That bitch could get all his money.

  He had to put an end to it—fast! He had to think of a way.

  Returning home from yet another ostentatious Hollywood awards ceremony in Beverly Hills, Ian Cohen shuffled into his office and dropped wearily on his brown leather couch.

  It had been eight months since his quadruple bypass surgery, and even though he felt better, he was emotionally drained. Slumped over, he stared at his feet for a long moment. Finally, he raised his weary head. “Kelley? Kelley! Where the hell is she?”

  “I’m here,” she said, approaching his office door.

  “Listen, I’m making a promise to myself, and you gotta make me keep it. Don’t let me set foot in one of those fucking affairs again. They’re not like they used to be,” he said, staring sadly at the floor. “That time’s gone,” he complained. “As dead as Irving Thalberg. As gone as Vivian Leigh … Unless I am nominated for an Academy Award, and that’ll never happen … not with the shit I produce … Right?”

  “Oh, Mr. Cohen.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t need to prove anything. I sure as hell don’t need their awards ceremonies, shaking hands with phonies. And those parties. I don’t need their catered foods that give me heartburn, and I sure as hell don’t need Kenni watching over us, making stupid remarks.”

  Noora slowly approached Ian and sat on a chair next to the couch.

  “Kenni.” Ian shook his head. “He’s nothing—nothing like his mother. Bevvy liked parties—intimate ones, where guests knew each other. And they didn’t shake your hand while looking around for who else was there with a bigger name who might help their frickin’ career. Bevvy was an angel. And she knew good stories. You know, she could predict a hot property or a flop, from the first few pages of a script. And she read everything. But Kenni, no. I spent a fortune on film schools for that kid. All a waste of money. He just wanted to nail actresses and show off his fancy Italian sports cars. He doesn’t even know how to pronounce their names, let alone drive them! Loser, that’s all he is. Spoiled rotten loser.”