Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Preferring to eat something that had not endured the trauma of being slaughtered, Noora ordered a veggie burger. She was bothered by the undercooked meat Zaffeera always ordered.

  Twenty minutes later, their order arrived. Noora looked away as Zaffeera hungrily devoured her bloody-rare hamburger. She spotted that man again—across the street. She had seen him before; she could swear he was watching them, even though he seemed to be waiting for the bus as he stood at the curb next to a lamppost. Noora was about to mention him to Zaffeera, but decided against it. No need to alarm her unnecessarily, she thought. It was probably just her imagination.

  Noora’s double-chocolate shake arrived with a slice of hot apple pie for Zaffeera. After a quick sip through the straw, Noora wrinkled her nose.

  “I don’t understand why Americans have to salt their desserts.”

  “Many dessert recipes call for a pinch of salt. It’s to bring out the taste,” Zaffeera said.

  “I think that entire pinch of salt wound up in my one serving!” Noora said with a chuckle.

  “I’ll go pay the bill,” Zaffeera said.

  “But you haven’t touched your dessert.”

  “I’m full. You can try my pie. Maybe they didn’t salt that.” Zaffeera took her wallet out of her purse. “Be back in a few. Wait for me here.”

  Noora tasted the apple pie, and turned to the window. The man was still out there across the street, and he spat on the sidewalk.

  Noora recoiled with disgust. The bus stopped in front of the man and barred her view. She pushed the plate of apple pie away.

  “Are you still working on that?”

  Noora looked up. A yellow-haired busboy stood holding a stack of dirty dishes. “No, I’m finished. Thank you.”

  “You didn’t like the pie?”

  “Yes, well, actually …”

  “Tastes better a la mode, right?” he winked.

  Noora laughed. “Well … perhaps.”

  “If you like, we can get you a vanilla scoop. One scoop of chocolate and one vanilla would be even better. We also now have pistachio. You like pistachio?”

  “I sure do, but no, no, that’ll be fine, really.”

  “We also have the yummiest chocolate cake. Decadent. Deadly!”

  “Really?”

  “One of the customers here called it the Suicide Cake. That’s ‘cause once she tried one bite, she wound up eating the whole thing. Most people do! It’s really heavenly.” He winked again.

  “Well … I’m kind of full. But thank you very much, indeed.”

  “Hey, no prob. If you need anything else, holler. That’s what we’re here for, okay?”

  “Thank you!” Noora said with a broad smile.

  Moustafa spat again. The girl was flirting! A tease, she was. If he had not seen her with his own eyes, he would never have believed it. She was spoken for. That waiter in the restaurant was raping her with his eyes. Probably because she was taunting him with that smile of hers. Since last September, from the moment he laid eyes on her, Moustafa felt deeply attracted. Watching her, day after day, made him more and more frustrated. But he could only do his job. He was there for one purpose: to protect Mr. Fendil’s daughters. He was an honorable man.

  Inside the Hard Rock Café, Noora ventured a quick glance out the window, hoping the man had hopped on the bus. But the bus left and he was still there. He turned away and lit a cigarette. A sudden shiver ran through her. She grabbed her backpack and hurried to the cashier’s desk.

  Zaffeera was gone. Noora searched for her in the ladies’ room, but she wasn’t there, so Noora made her way to the exit. She leaned against the glass door for a moment to steady herself. She felt dizzy—not exactly sick, but lightheaded. Something in that chocolate shake did not agree with her. Perhaps she just ate too fast. I hope I’m not catching the grippe, she thought, chiding herself for not taking her daily vitamins. Behind her, she heard a couple of teenagers say to their friends, “Let’s visit their logo shop around the corner.”

  The logo shop? Oh yes, Noora remembered. The restaurant had a gift shop, and Zaffeera had mentioned something about buying presents. She glanced across the street before venturing outside. Her heart was pounding faster now. She tried to calm down. Why was she feeling out of control? Thank goodness that man was not there. He must have taken another bus. How silly to imagine he was watching her. But where was Zaffeera? She walked around the corner and found the café’s gift shop.

  Inside, Zaffeera stood in line, studying a legal-sized piece of paper.

  “Hamdallah,” Noora said, relieved. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” she asked in Arabic.

  “Noora, English,” Zaffeera whispered, giving her sister a reproachful stare.

  “What’s the difference? They’re all tourists here.”

  “We’re in England. We speak English.”

  “Okay! You don’t have to be so stiff about it. We should be proud of who we are.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. Why didn’t you wait for me in the restaurant?”

  “I finished eating,” Noora said.

  “You could not have finished that pie so fast. You didn’t like it.”

  “No, I … okay, I didn’t like it. Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Well … yes … I’m fine, now. Is that a list you made for gifts?” Noora asked, looking down over Zaffeera’s shoulder.

  Zaffeera nodded toward a pile of gifts she had stacked on the counter by the cashier. “Keychains and little souvenirs for the maids … I found that leather jacket … and T-shirts. You should’ve waited for me in the restaurant.”

  “I’m sorry; I was worried about you.”

  “Why?” she asked, inspecting the price of the leather jacket, and raising an eyebrow.

  “You’re my sister. That’s why. I’m responsible for you … Besides, don’t you want me to choose presents with you?”

  “Of course. This jacket will look great on Nageeb, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, yes. You’re amazing. I worried we wouldn’t have time to find gifts for everyone, and here you are. With a complete typed list. Nageeb will love that jacket. As for little brother, you know he doesn’t like to wear T-shirts.”

  Zaffeera smirked. “And we don’t like those ugly striped pajamas our little Kettayef always wears around the house.”

  Noora laughed. “What about Shamsah? Sweet little sunshiny Shammoo-sah …” Noora sang. She gave a quick glance out the window. That man was nowhere in sight, and indeed, she had been foolish. How silly of her to have imagined she was being followed. But she still felt a little unsteady.

  “For Shamsah, I found this,” Zaffeera said, inspecting a little denim top with white lace.

  “But that looks more like for a seven-year-old. She’s nine.”

  “I know. But it looks like it’s her size. She’s small,” Zaffeera remarked. “I don’t think she grew too much since the winter holiday.”

  “Three months ago. Last time we saw her … Three whole months … Seems like forever,” Noora said, almost to herself.

  Zaffeera walked out of the store carrying large shopping bags.

  “Let me help you,” Noora said in Arabic, following her sister.

  “Once again, Noora,” she chided, “we are in England.”

  “Yes, and we’ve been speaking British for months now. It would be nice to switch to our mother’s tongue for a bit. What’s the big deal?”

  “We can do that tomorrow when we land,” Zaffeera said.

  “Oh, all right, ya okhti … When in Rome, do like the British!” she said, exaggerating a British accent. She skipped along the sidewalk. Suddenly, for some reason, she felt like playing hopscotch or doing something fun and silly. “Sweet little Shamsah, I can’t wait to squeeze her little cheeks!” Noora said, glad she didn’t feel dizzy anymore. “Laugh a little, Zee. You are always so serious.”

  I’m not serious, I’m just angry! You bloody fool! Zaffeera
wanted to shout. But it was essential to control her feelings, Zaffeera thought, stopping at the edge of a stoplight. And now there were no taxicabs for hire. Of course, they were never around when the weather turned miserable. Behind the lamppost across the street, she recognized Moustafa in his black rumpled trench coat. He was trying to light a cigarette with matches that would not catch in the cold drizzle. He would strike one again and again without success. Over and over, he repeated the nonsense. Why didn’t the homar use a lighter? He should be paying attention, starting to wonder about Noora’s silly behavior.

  Quickly, Zaffeera turned and quickened her step.

  “Why won’t you let me help you with the bags?” Noora asked.

  “I’m fine. And, guess what? Today is your day.”

  “What? Don’t walk so fast …”

  “I said today is your day! Because anyone who has to look at old-maid Margaret Pennington every day deserves a break, if not a medal,” Zaffeera remarked, slowing down a bit.

  “You know, she actually put her arm around me and gave me a compliment this morning.”

  “I knew the old woman was a lesbian,” Zaffeera muttered under her breath.

  “What did you say?” Noora asked, chasing after her sister.

  “Nothing!” She walked faster through the rushing crowd of pedestrians on the wide sidewalk.

  “You said something. Did you say les…bian?”

  “Noora!” Zaffeera stopped. “How could you say such a thing!”

  “Whatever she is, she was being kind…”

  “I said I knew the old woman was intelligent. Come, I have a nice surprise.”

  By the time they arrived at Allen Street, Zaffeera felt ready to collapse from carrying all the bulky bags for several blocks. They crossed the little landscaped courtyard, where a few roses were starting to bloom, and stepped up to the main door.

  Noora rang the doorbell.

  “Use the key,” Zaffeera huffed, breathless.

  “The concierge will buzz us in.”

  “She’s on a holiday.”

  “Oh, that’s right, I forgot.” Noora rummaged through her backpack. “Come on, key. It’s here somewhere …”

  Zaffeera set the bags down, pulled her own set of keys from her purse, and unlocked the old wooden door.

  “After you,” she said. “Go ahead. I’ve got the bags.” As soon as Noora entered the apartment building, Zaffeera waited a moment, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught Moustafa hopping out of a taxicab. How did the homar find a taxi? She noticed that the cab driver appeared Middle Eastern. Did Moustafa know him? Was the driver also connected to that sheik? As far as she knew, there was only one person following them, she thought, entering the building. Inside, Noora was persistently pressing the button for the lift—as if she thought it would arrive any faster—which annoyed Zaffeera even more.

  Late one night, when Zaffeera took the trash out to the incinerator, she finally discovered where Moustafa lived. She spotted him as he scuttled into the apartment building across the street. She knew he had to live alone. One evening, she recognized his silhouette in the front window of the fifth-floor apartment, where he had a view of Noora’s window. Zaffeera’s bedroom was in the back, facing a wall in the alley—by the fire escape.

  The girls squeezed into the one-person lift and rode up to the fifth floor.

  “Who left the heater on? It’s stifling in here,” Noora said, entering their flat.

  “I believe you did.”

  “Oh, sorry. Did I really? I don’t even remember,” Noora said, dumping her backpack on the living room sofa.

  Inside her bedroom, Zaffeera opened a dresser drawer and removed a small sampler box containing a dozen chocolates. She inserted a needle into a syringe that she took from her purse, and filled it with a clear liquid from a small vial. She slowly injected about a half cc into two of the bite-size chocolate pieces.

  “I can’t wait to get out of those clothes!” Noora said, breezing out of the bathroom. “Why they insist on this stupid dress code is beyond me,” she muttered, pulling her navy-blue sweater over her head. She unbuttoned the collar of her starched white shirt and made her way to her bedroom. “When are they ever going to get modern heaters instead of these awful radiators that get too hot and go tak, tak, tak all night long!”

  “Right after we move out, no doubt,” Zaffeera said, standing at the door.

  Noora tossed her ankle-length skirt on her unmade bed.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Zaffeera sang, holding the box of chocolates. She waved the fragrant package.

  Noora’s eyes lit up. “Chocolate?”

  “Swiss, if you please. They taste like silk, dahlin’ … A reward for getting through our exams,” Zaffeera purred. “You know, when you wondered where I was that night? When you woke up and said you didn’t find me? Well, I was out looking for the best shoco-lahs!”

  “Oh my, Zee, you are so sweet. You shouldn’t have gone through that trouble. But thank you, thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Which one of these sinful little devils should I pick?” Noora eyed each piece.

  Zaffeera suddenly felt regret for what she was about to do.

  Be strong, Zaffeera told herself. But I don’t really want to harm my sister, a weaker voice pleaded within. The stronger one urged: Just a little bit of ecstasy should do it. Chicken out now and you’ll have to watch her marry your man. If she bears him sons, he’ll have to love her. Then there will be nothing you could ever do …

  “Take this one!” Zaffeera urged, sounding almost too anxious. Noora took one of the doctored pieces and popped it in her mouth.

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Noora unbuttoned the endless little buttons of her shirt, and fussed impatiently over her cuff links. “It’s too hot in here,” she complained, peeling off her shirt and tossing it at the foot of her bed. “I can never open that stupid window!”

  Zaffeera studied her sister. “Why don’t we go out and finally enjoy the rest of our free afternoon. Let’s go shopping! For your wedding night!”

  “I haven’t even started packing,” Noora sighed. “Help me open this window.”

  Together, they managed to lift the window up an inch.

  “Give it a few minutes, and it will be almost as cold in here as outside.”

  “I can barely feel the air. I can’t wait to leave this place. Oh, I don’t feel like packing—I feel kind of … dizzy.”

  “I’ll help you,” Zaffeera said, faking a cheerful voice. “It’s not as if we have to pack furs and heavy sweaters!” She laughed. “We’re just going home, to the hot, blistering desert for a whole week!”

  “Sounds wonderful. But I feel weird,” she said, pushing the crumpled clothes on her bed to the floor, and falling in, grabbing a pillow and putting it between her legs.

  “Maybe you can nap or watch a little telly while I change into normal clothes, instead of those silly school clothes. Oh, and I have another surprise. Something fun for you to wear,” Zaffeera said, and returned to her bedroom.

  She chose a mid-length black wool dress with scooped neck, and a black wool cape with fringes reaching to her low-heeled black leather boots. She pulled her hair back and topped it with a black felt beret. She studied her reflection on the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Not too stylish—a little matronly. She hoped it would not be difficult to persuade Noora to wear the sexy clothes she had purchased for her.

  A half hour later, Zaffeera and Noora were on the sidewalk of a busy boulevard. Wearing a seductive low-neck pale pink knit top that fit tightly, and a short-to-the-waist butter-leather black jacket above body-forming jeans, Noora seemed to have popped off the cover of a celebrity fashion magazine.

  They had no trouble finding a taxi.

  On the first floor of Harrods department store, Noora admired the Egyptian artifacts on display. Unsteadily strolling through the aisles, gazing at the vases and gilded statues, she made heads turn and upstaged the exhibit.

&nb
sp; Noora wandered into the food court and stopped to admire the assortment of wedding cakes.

  Beyond the colorful tiled archway, Zaffeera spotted Moustafa. He was devouring a sandwich with all the grace of a hungry bear. She took Noora’s arm and tried to pull her away from a towering wedding cake displayed in the center of the court.

  “We would need a ladder to cut the first slice,” Noora said, refusing to budge. “I wonder if those … angels are edible.” She acted more inebriated than drugged, and her eyes were glazed over. “Could they ship this … wedding cake? How many people do you think it would serve? Is it real?” When she looked at Zaffeera, she seemed to have trouble focusing. “Wouldn’t spoil, you know,” she said, slurring her words. “It’s probably mostly made of sugar. Sugar is a natural preservative. D’you know that? Of course! You know everything … You’re the brain in the family … Unless they put custard filling. Right, Zee? Then it would be all messy …” She moved closer for a better look and stumbled, nearly smacking her face into the twelve-tier wedding cake.

  Zaffeera grabbed Noora before she made a terrible spectacle of herself (although that would have been perfect for Moustafa’s eyes). “Perhaps we should wait after the spring vacation,” she said, slowly guiding Noora away.

  “Aiwa, taba’an, yes, of course. Sorry. No Arabic in London … But we’re at Harrods. And you know, it’s owned by Mister… What’s-his-name? He is from Egypt, too. Of course, you know that. Like Father. I do believe he is a cousin.”

  “Distant. Very distant.”

  “We’re probably all related. Father should invite him to my wedding and I should add more swans made out of marzi…pan,” she said. “I’ll have none of those cheap plastic swans on my wedding cake.”

  “After our vacation, we’ll order anything you want. That is, if you don’t mind my help …”

  “I would be honored. Since you are going to be my maid of honor,” Noora laughed.

  Zaffeera gritted her teeth. She caught sight of Moustafa weaving through a crowd of Japanese tourists who had poured off a bus. She led Noora away, but not too far, hoping Moustafa had seen them.

  On the second floor, Zaffeera maneuvered Noora to a display of lingerie.