Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Unless someone saw the accident? What if Zaffeera survived?

  No one heard or saw the car crash. No one knew until before dawn, when Zaffeera did not return home that night, and rising smoke from the burning car was spotted.

  When Michel landed at the Los Angeles airport on Sunday evening, two security guards met him at the exit gate.

  “Are you Mr. Michel Amir?”

  “Yes.” Michel watched the men, puzzled. “Something wrong?”

  “There has been a serious accident …”

  CHAPTER 74

  AWARDS NIGHT

  “Five minutes!” Ian Cohen said nervously. “Why did they have to send us a limo? We could’ve taken our own car,” he complained. “What’s wrong with my Rolls-Royce?!” He adjusted his uncomfortable cummerbund. As he loosened the bow tie around his neck, he looked up. Noora stood at the landing of the stairs, wearing a proud smile and the classy black gown with the delicate gold straps.

  Cessi and Sam walked up behind Ian and clapped their hands. Ian just stared, his mouth open.

  She began to come down the stairs.

  “We have a problem,” Ian said seriously. Noora stopped, her smile fading. “You’re gonna outshine ‘em all.”

  “As long as I don’t outshine the future Mrs. Jaqui Amstern!” Noora replied, laughing.

  It had happened like a dream. When Noora heard Kelley Karlton being called, she remembered floating down that aisle and flying up to the stage. If the cliché ‘Cloud Nine’ meant anything, Noora was on Cloud Countless! She made a speech, one she had not prepared. Her words flowed out of her lips like sweet water, and she managed to say it all in the short time they allowed before the orchestra played. She had thanked the heroic Ahna Morgenbesser first. “She taught us love, she taught forgiveness …” Then she thanked Annette, Alain, and Annou. She took a brief pause and thanked “The exceptional producer, Mr. Ian Cohen.” She knew all the cameras were now on him! “And don’t call him ICE! He’s got the warmest heart!”

  Everyone in the audience laughed. She thanked Jaqui and Setchka, and her son, and then she stopped and said: “Thank you, Um Faheema. And to you, Dweezoul!” She touched her bead proudly worn around her neck (which did not take away from her glamorous gown). She was escorted backstage by two exquisitely-clad models. When she floated back down to her seat, she gave Ian a warm hug. She waited for the lights to dim for the commercial break and the next presentation.

  She waited long enough to watch him walk up and accept his award. Then she made her way quietly outside and slipped out through one of the back doors. She crossed the street and caught a taxi. She returned to Ian’s house and grabbed the one carry-on that Cessi had kept for her.

  “I saw you on tele-beezion, Miz Karrl-tone; you look beautiful!”

  “Thank you, Cessi!” Noora said and gave her a hug. She ran upstairs to change, and minutes later, she hopped back in the taxicab and was driven to the airport.

  Noora took the redeye from L.A. to Paris. Once she arrived at Orly Airport in Paris, she waited at the airline’s private lounge. What time was it at Al-Balladi? Ahna had said, “The opposite side of anger is courage.” At this time, she felt neither. She was on a mission. Moments later, she heard Kelley Karlton being paged through the loudspeaker. The representative at the lounge was able to book her on a nonstop to Cairo, boarding immediately, with a transfer to Al-Balladi. However, there was just one seat left in coach class on the flight to Cairo. Would she mind? What did it matter where she sat? As long as she got there.

  As the plane soared into the cloudy sky, so did Noora’s heart. She leafed through a magazine, and a line caught her attention: “This period of incubation will soon make way for illumination.” She rubbed Um Faheema’s blue pearl. She pressed the talisman to her chest and closed her eyes.

  Um Faheema appeared in her mind’s eye. The vision of her wearing her black veil draped around her head was vivid. Slowly the face dissolved into a younger Um Faheema with a clear, unwrinkled face. And she was wearing white. White? White silk covered her head and floated around her, below her shoulders. She could smell the sweet aroma that was hers only, of herbal teas—mixed with the fragrance of rose water and lavender, tangerine and lime … Noora welcomed and inhaled the scent of her memory. The old woman’s lips began to move, the one tooth sticking out just a bit. Courage, she said in French. Cour-ahj, Noora … With every word in every passing moment, Um Faheema’s eyes brightened. Cour…age!! She repeated in French. Court, meaning run! “Rabbena ma’aki ya benti,” Noora heard her clearly now in Arabic. The Lord is with you, my daughter.

  When the plane touched down on the Cairo runway, Noora was jolted from sleep. “I’m almost there.” She should board the next plane back to the States—for where could she find the courage to confront her father? What would she say to him?

  She was unprepared. First, she needed to show up. Alive! Was there a death certificate? There had to be.

  He had denounced her. You don’t denounce your flesh and blood, Father, she thought as she followed the other passengers out of the gate … You don’t!

  Moments later, a haze of dizziness overcame her. I can’t do this … But I must. Fear was a paralyzing disease. She would not fall into that trap again.

  Noora stepped out of the plane and breathed in the warm air—the fragrance of her past. Take your courage with both hands, she thought, looking around. She took a deep breath … How different the Al-Balladi airport seemed now—more buildings in the distance. More cement, marble, and limestone buildings, everywhere.

  There were more airplanes—private and commercial jets—more people milling about. Most of the women were veiled. Some were completely covered, from head to toe!

  Following other passengers, she walked to the gate and straight to Customs. She waited in a line that seemed to have materialized in a matter of seconds. She looked around, wondering when they had built this stark building. Security guards were posted everywhere. She kept her large sunglasses on, and her head covered by a black silk shawl. The line moved quickly. Noora felt the blood rush to her head as the security official checked her passport and visa. He looked up. “Remove your sunglasses,” he said impatiently. She did. She knew everything was in order; but she felt uneasy. She should have brought a male traveling companion or a bodyguard to accompany her. How could she have neglected such an important detail?! Women in that part of the world did not travel alone. In the form distributed on the plane prior to landing in Al-Balladi, she had written the purpose of her trip was to visit her family. After routine questionings, most of which she had written down on the passenger questionnaire prior to landing, the official finally stamped her passport. She followed other travelers through an exit leading to the conveyor belt where travelers were to retrieve their suitcases, some of which were being searched thoroughly.

  Noora had brought only the small carry-on. She would not need more than a change of dresses—long black skirts, black blouses, a pair of black pumps—two long scarves to conceal her head and neck—and a long white chiffon dress with a white silk scarf to match.

  “Miss Karlton?”

  Noora whirled around, startled. Calm down, she chided herself. Her heart was still hammering and she was perspiring.

  “How do you do? I am Khamis, of Oasis Travel and Tours.”

  “Ah, yes! I am so … glad to see you!”

  “Thank you, welcome. May I carry your bag?”

  “No, thank you. It’s not heavy.”

  “The luggage of your flight should be coming through here at any moment …”

  “I don’t have luggage. Just this.”

  The chauffeur was surprised. “Very well,” he said. “The car is right over there.” He pointed across the passageway, where a row of gleaming black limousines awaited.

  “So many limousines …” Noora said before she could catch herself.

  “Pardon, Madame?”

  “Oh … it all looks so new.”

  “A lot of construction going o
n these days. I’ll bring the car around. If you don’t mind waiting right here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, adjusting her sunglasses and wrapping her black shawl tighter around her, completely concealing her hair.

  The limousine pulled up and the chauffeur ran to open the back door for Noora.

  As they drove away from the airport, onto the familiar road, Noora spotted a glass skyscraper in the distance.

  The structure loomed in the hazy horizon and reminded her of a Las Vegas hotel she had seen in a magazine, with dozens of trimly cut trunks of royal palms planted in perfect succession along a stretch of manicured lawns.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have to get back to the airport as soon as you drop me off?”

  “No, madame,” the driver replied, seeming confused.

  “I may need your service for the rest of the day.”

  “I am at your service.”

  “I just need to check in at the Hyatt Hotel first, then could you … Could you take me to 27 Nassehr Street?”

  “27 Rue Nassehr?”

  “Yes. After I check in.”

  “Of course.” There was a pause, then: “Would that address on Nassehr be the … the developer’s house, Mr. Fendil?”

  “Yes.”

  Inside the hotel lobby, there was a long line at the checkin counter. Noora made her way to the ladies’ room, and moments later, she returned to her waiting limousine. Dressed in the long white skirt and long-sleeved cotton blouse she had brought with her, white leather pumps, and an extra-long chiffon scarf she wrapped around her head, Noora wore no trace of makeup.

  The tall filigree gates leading to the Fendil mansion were open—as they had always been.

  The façade of the house and the Tiffany front doors seemed smaller than she remembered.

  “Drive inside, please,” Noora said.

  The royal palms lining the driveway waved in the wind. One could swear they were waving at Noora, welcoming her. Only she knew better. This was no welcoming return. The trees were much taller now. The lawn was impeccably manicured, but her grandmother’s rose bushes bordering the driveway were gone. Other than that, not much had changed.

  The limousine made its way to the marble front steps. One of the Tiffany front doors opened. A young houseboy dressed in a white gallabeya appeared holding a portable vacuum. He was obviously surprised by the unexpected guest and watched the pretty lady who got out of the limo and climbed the steps.

  “I’m expected,” she announced decidedly in Arabic and brushed by him, entering the house.

  Her ease in speaking Arabic again surprised even herself.

  The young houseboy watched the attractive figure clad in white from head to toe, her heels echoing gently on the marble floors, as she made her way through the corridor.

  Noora marched ahead, through another long corridor, adorned with columns and archways—straight to the men’s wing.

  Farid Fendil had returned from work early. The quadruple bypass surgery three years before had been a success, and he had recovered rapidly. But that afternoon, he felt heavy, perhaps from the desert heat that had blown in from the south, and this morning, he had experienced some shortness of breath. He decided to go home for a refreshing swim in his remodeled pool.

  Wearing a bathing suit and long white terry robe, Farid made his way out through corridors of the men’s wing. He decided to take the shortcut through the courtyard shaded by the huge mango tree.

  On the opposite side of the house, Noora’s heart pounded as she made her way to her father’s office. He was not there. Right outside of the double doors, a houseboy was sweeping the floors. He was obviously stunned at the sight of a woman in the men’s wing.

  “Where is Mr. Fendil?” Noora asked in Arabic.

  “He … I think he … went to the pool …”

  “Thank you.” She walked on.

  The houseboy ran a hand to his chest. “Ya satehr,” he said. He ran in the opposite direction, through Mr. Fendil’s bedroom suite and to his bathroom, which resembled the interior of a Turkish bath. An older houseman clad in a white gallabeya was hanging fresh golden monogrammed towels.

  “I … saw a ghost. Wallahee, a woman ghost … In the men’s wing,” the houseboy said, his face pale.

  “You’ve been smoking hashish again?”

  “No, I swear … she had blue eyes and … I … aiii … she went to the pool ….”

  “Go to the mosque and pray. Finish your work later.”

  Noora stopped at the tall glass double doors with etched designs of tropical birds and hesitated. I cannot do this! I must, I must! My love for my father has never faltered. I cannot allow fear to stop me now … He must know the truth. Just do it! She pushed one of the doors, and it swung open. She stepped inside the sunny atrium housing the Olympic-sized pool. A pair of life-size bronze statues of lions (that were not there before) greeted her on either side of the narrow marble walkway, bordered by a dense array of palms and other plants. The lush tropical setting radiated beneath an enormous glass dome.

  As she walked down the path, the white veil that covered her head slowly loosened and fell to her shoulders. She could hear the swishing sounds of water. She ventured closer where the pathway cleared to the pool.

  With each stroke Farid Fendil took, a vision seemed to form up ahead, above the steps of the pool. A tall young woman appeared. She radiated beneath the bright sunlight emanating from above. A sudden pain gripped his chest, and he swallowed pool water. He coughed, and his eyes blurred from the water. But he tried to focus on the woman who stood there. He waited for his cough to subside. The pain in his chest eased a little. Slowly, he swam forward, but he had not yet reached the shallow end of the pool. He could see her now.

  He gasped and started to choke. He tried to swim to the edge by the handlebars for support, but he couldn’t. “Help …” he managed to utter and sank for a moment, swallowing more water. He was still in the deep end of the pool and his chest pain was excruciating.

  The fifty-seven years of his life flashed before his eyes. He saw himself back in his wife’s room, the morning Noora was born. The aquamarine pool around him metamorphosed into the color of Noora’s eyes. His arms were too weary to reach the edge. Again, the vision of Noora appeared. He felt heavy, heavier … He could no longer float, and could barely breathe.

  “Help! Help me, Allah!” he pleaded.

  Noora watched her father in disbelief. Could he be drowning?

  She felt his desperate struggle and she began to choke as well. He was begging for her help.

  She threw her veil aside, kicked off her shoes, and dove in.

  She pulled him to the surface but he was too heavy. With sudden strength, Noora managed to pull him to the shallow end, and dragged him up to the steps. Breathing hard, Noora held her father in her arms.

  “Abuyah. Father,” she cried, dripping wet hair strands falling to her eyes, mixing with her tears.

  He gagged and coughed. And then he stopped.

  Gently, she rocked him. “I love you …”

  “Arusah, ya arusah anah,” he whispered. “Doll, oh doll of mine …”

  He touched her face. She put her hand over his.

  “Shokran ya Allah …” he whispered. Thanking the Almighty God, Farid Fendil took his final breath and allowed a tear to fall.

  EPILOGUE

  Michel opened the door to the limousine before Abdo could switch off the engine. He wanted this day to be over. He wanted to return to his father’s private jet as soon as possible. He wanted to be whisked away, back to L.A.—where he could be engrossed in his work. Where he wouldn’t have to think about his life—the mystery, the grief, and the drama surrounding it. He needed to forget …

  He ran up the stairs to the Tiffany front doors of the Fendil house. Mrs. Fendil had returned from Switzerland with Abdo and her two children. Michel wasn’t sure why she had summoned him. Perhaps she thought that be
ing with the family of Zaffeera would help ease his grief. He prayed they had not invited the whole town to offer their condolences. Sympathy he did not need—or want.

  A houseman opened the door and nodded politely. Another ushered him down the long corridor, then stopped. “This way,” he motioned. “They are waiting …” he said and turned back to greet Abdo at the front door.

  As he made his way down the marble halls that seemed endless, Michel thought he should have more compassion. They had become his family as well. Mrs. Fendil certainly did not deserve all this suffering. How could he refuse her invitation? He had to come back … for her … Having lost two of her children was bad enough, but now to lose another daughter, Zaffeera, and her husband, in such a short amount of time … It must be unbearable. Indeed, he needed to be present, at least to help comfort what was left of the Fendil family. Eventually, he would get over the tragedy of his marriage—and Zaffeera’s strange death … But Noora? He could never get over Noora. He entered through the wide-open doors to the great room and saw Mrs. Fendil hugging someone tightly, her shoulders moving up and down in a heavy sob. At first, he thought it was Shamsah, for he only saw her brown hair, which was shorter now and reached down to her shoulders. Mrs. Fendil had her arms wrapped around the girl’s back. But she was taller, and when he looked around the room, he saw Shamsah, her hair up in a ponytail, sitting with Kettayef on one of the couches. He could tell that both had shed tears, but the odd thing was, they were smiling. Shamsah was the first to see him. She gave a little gasp, jumped up from the couch, and rushed to her mother. She gently placed a hand on the woman embracing Mrs. Fendil. “Look, look who is here,” Shamsah said with excitement in her voice.