Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “Feel the softness of this silk,” Zaffeera whispered enticingly. She was checking out a long, skin-colored négligée on a mannequin.

  Noora studied the fabric.

  “Try it on!” Zaffeera urged.

  Minutes later, Zaffeera paced in front of the dressing rooms.

  Noora peeked her head out of a dressing cubicle and motioned to her.

  “I don’t believe it should be worn with a bra,” Zaffeera said inside the dressing cubicle.

  Noora unsnapped her bra and slipped it off. She studied herself in the mirror. “Oh my. I couldn’t wear this, it’s too …”

  “It’s too dark in here,” Zaffeera cut in. “They have a three-way mirror right outside.”

  “Are you crazy? I wouldn’t dare. There are people out there.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stand right in front of you.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t … I just couldn’t …”

  “No one will see you. I promise.”

  Beneath bright lights, Noora gaped at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Her figure was quite visible through the sheer silk. Zaffeera stepped aside, hoping to give Moustafa, and everyone else, a clear view.

  “Goodness! I can’t believe you got me out here,” she giggled, embarrassed. “Don’t you think it’s way too risqué?”

  “Not for a honeymoon. You look absolutely ravishing,” Zaffeera said. If Moustafa was doing his job, he should have had an eyeful, she thought, as Noora rushed back to the dressing room.

  Moustafa stood behind a rack of dresses, perspiration pouring down his back. Sharmouta! Because of that evil whore, he was painfully aroused. His little camera nearly slipped out of his sweaty hands. He fumbled with the gadget, trying to steady his trembling hands while snapping more photos. She had just paraded herself in that sinful excuse for a garment. Under lights, security cameras, and mirrors, no less!

  She was unworthy of the Fendil name, and she was a curse on her family. Moustafa came from a very poor family, but his father prayed five times a day and they were respectful. Their women only wore long, dark dresses of thick material with the proper headdress, and kept their eyes down, never provoking, never arousing a man.

  So what if he was the girls’ bodyguard? He was not made of stone. He had feelings. He was a man. They had made him watch that beautiful young woman, day after day, until he could not sleep at night. He had found relief—shamefully—with the earlier pictures he had taken of that Noora girl. Though his job was to watch over Mr. Fendil’s daughters, he had to remain invisible and stay out of their private business. But it was no longer private. She had behaved sinfully, in public. He wasn’t sure before, but now he was convinced the girl was drunk. She had to be, and he should at least report her to the sheik.

  First, he needed visual proof.

  He checked for TV monitors. If he were caught taking pictures, they would arrest him or maybe accuse him of being a corporate spy, photographing the store.

  She was now at the register, buying that bordello-wear, and God only knew what other filth! The short girl, the shy sister, stood behind with her head down, looking ashamed—as she should be.

  *

  By three o’clock in the afternoon, Zaffeera exited Harrods with Noora walking ahead. Zaffeera was loaded down with large shopping bags. A two-tier sightseeing bus was waiting at the curb.

  “I just bought the last two tickets for Harrods’ bus tour,” Zaffeera said, setting down the bags. “Look at this brochure.”

  While Noora read the information, Zaffeera noticed people were starting to queue up to get on the bus. “Let’s go, so we can get a good seat on the upper level.”

  “I don’t know, maybe we should do it another time,” Noora said, staring blankly at the brochure. “We still have to pack …”

  “It’s the only time we have,” Zaffeera said, leaving the brochure with her sister and carrying all the bags. “They serve hot cocoa and chocolate teacakes. Should be enough caffeine to keep us going until midnight!” she added cheerfully. But she worried that they had the rest of the afternoon to kill, and her plan wouldn’t go into high gear until the evening. Everything had to be just right. It wasn’t going to be easy. That much she knew.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE VELVET CAVE

  “Oh can’t you see, I have a special hot dream,” the lyrics of a popular song blasted from the disco’s speakers.

  Noora found herself standing on a crowded dance floor, wondering how she had gotten there. Around her, couples were moving dizzily to the thunderous beat. She couldn’t find Zaffeera—she was nearby a moment ago, then she was gone. Noora managed to find her way off the dance floor.

  She caught a glimpse of her reflection on a floor-to-ceiling gold-specked mirror. What was she doing wearing such a short skirt and a halter top that was so tight? Her hair was teased up wildly like a lion’s mane, and her eyes were heavily made up. That can’t be me. The last thing she remembered, she and Zaffeera were in her bedroom, applying mascara in front of her dresser mirror. They were having fun, like when they were kids and played dress-up. She remembered trying on a blonde wig. The hair felt like golden strands of silk—millions of them, flowing down below her waist. The elastic headband around the wig’s cap was too tight to fit over Noora’s voluminous hair. Zaffeera had tried it on, but she kept sneezing, with all those loose strands flying around. She did manage to fit into it because her hair was short and fine. But the wig looked ridiculous on Zaffeera, and Noora could not stop laughing. Could she have offended her sister? No, because she remembered Zaffeera holding on to her chest and begging her to stop making her laugh so much, for she would surely pee in her pants. This made them both laugh hysterically. Later, they caught a cab and headed to a disco, where friends from college were having a costume party. As soon as they arrived, Zaffeera said, “I don’t know if we are in the right place.” The music was too loud and the place was mobbed. Noora looked around but didn’t recognize anyone from school. Zaffeera rushed away to stand in the long bathroom line. “If I don’t go ahead of these girls, I’ll surely make an embarrassing puddle,” Zaffeera said, laughing.

  A few minutes later, a girl with long blonde hair and a miniskirt appeared and began dancing around Noora—it was creepy, like some mixed-up dream. The air was getting stuffy and heavy with cigarette smoke. “Let’s see if I can get us something cold to drink. Then let’s get out of here.” She heard Zaffeera’s voice, but she didn’t see her.

  Lights flashed while the music continued. How odd, Noora thought.

  Thunderous sounds vibrated like a thousand-piece orchestra. The neon lights made her hotter. She wished she could peel off her top. Her throat was burning and she wondered when Zaffeera would be back with cold drinks.

  Someone sang along to the familiar disco song. His mouth was close to her ear. Too close. “Join me… Wild and wet…” he said. She turned. A dashing young man wearing a black tuxedo and a bright white shirt offered her a sparkling cold glass. The long-stemmed crystal flute shimmered invitingly under the multicolored lights. She took the glass and drank it down.

  The glass had a bright red strawberry in it; she tilted it until her tongue grabbed the sweet, juicy berry.

  A handsome, dark-haired young man, also in a tuxedo, took the empty glass from her hand.

  “Michel?” Noora couldn’t believe her eyes. The young man’s arms gently circled her shoulders.

  “Yes, darling,” he whispered close to her. “We are on our honeymoon, honey …”

  Noora felt dizzy and terribly confused. “We’re not married, and this dress … is certainly not a wedding …”

  “Why do you hurt my feelings? I love you …” he said.

  Gently, he lured her to a corner of the discotheque. He eased her to a low burgundy velveteen banquette. He massaged her back first. Noora began to relax. His tender but firm touch felt awfully good to her tense muscles. He moved his hands and caressed her breasts. The first man, the one who gave her champagne with the stra
wberry, sat next to her and nibbled at her ear.

  “No. Don’t,” she whispered breathlessly while the first man’s gentle touch started to arouse her. But this was wrong. “Go away, you’re not Michel …”

  He reached under her short skirt and tried to pull down her panties, but the elastic band was too tight. Something inside her warned, “No!”

  “NO!” Noora repeated aloud.

  “I love you, I always will …” he whispered while gently pulling down her strapless top, revealing her bare breasts.

  She did not stop him, because with that tight top off, she felt cooler and free. She moistened her dry lips.

  “I’m very thirsty and I want to get out of here right now!”

  “Okay, honey. I’ll get you out of here.” He handed her another tall, cold champagne flute, and she drank it like water.

  Her lips were moist now and he kissed them, his right hand fondling a breast.

  “No, please,” she said, trying to push him away.

  “Make you feel good, Noora my sweet…” He slid his tongue into her mouth and practically down her throat while the music boomed from loudspeakers.

  *

  Moustafa could not believe the spectacle unfolding only a few feet from where he stood. Allah Akbar, those breasts! His cigar almost fell out of his parted lips.

  The crowd from the dance floor moved closer to the spot where the beautiful young woman was putting on an erotic show.

  With trembling hands, Moustafa reloaded his camera, cursing under his breath that he did not buy more film.

  “Sharmouta!” He pushed his way violently through the crowd to get at her.

  What a body. He could hardly breathe.

  He put the camera securely inside the breast pocket of his suit. When he looked up, he saw Noora being escorted by her two boyfriends through the crowded dance floor. He pushed his way through dancing couples and saw Noora disappearing toward the exit.

  He tried to follow, battling his way through a crowd of newcomers. Once he was finally outside, he spotted one of the tuxedo boys putting her into a cab that was waiting in the no-parking zone. Moustafa shoved the man aside and tried to grab Noora. He almost had her when the other boyfriend jumped him from behind. Moustafa struggled with him.

  “Hey! What’s your problem?” the tuxedo boy asked.

  Moustafa spotted the taxi pulling away. Sharply with an elbow, he shoved the other bastard who had fondled Noora. He wanted to smash his face, but there was no time. He ran across the street to catch the next passing cab, and hopped in.

  Zaffeera’s plan had unfolded better than expected. That evening, she had worn her long blonde wig, and once again, she knew she had been totally unrecognizable. She was sure Moustafa would be too busy with Noora to bother searching for her.

  Zaffeera understood the desire for sex better than anyone. Her secret thirst could never be quenched. Ever since she was fourteen years old, Zaffeera had explored her sexuality. She learned to satisfy herself with a girl not much older than she was—her personal little maid, Gamelia, who was obliged to do whatever Zaffeera wanted without question and without ever revealing their personal affair to anyone.

  When Zaffeera began her school year at the London Ladies’ College, she had spent the first two months on a nightly search for the right club where she could fulfill her sexual fantasies.

  She had chosen the two-bedroom apartment from the list recommended by the college. Their father had reluctantly approved, after much thought and the consideration that the flat was within walking distance of Kensington Palace, the London home of royalty.

  Zaffeera had chosen the back bedroom at the end of the hall, with a fire escape—the perfect means to leave and return unseen.

  Soon after the sisters moved in to the flat, the seemingly shy girl, dressed in black, silently climbed out of her room nearly every night. She left by the alley, where Moustafa—in his flat across the street—could not see her. Like a shadow, she wound through shortcuts, between Underground stations. In a public bathroom stall, she would put on a long blonde wig and wrap it tightly in a black scarf. At the entrance to the nightclub, she removed her scarf, and plain Zaffeera was immediately transformed into a blonde bombshell in four-inch stilettos.

  The sleazier the nightclub, the better. There, she indulged in erotic pleasures. So loud was the music, no one heard lovers moan and cry out in climax. Zaffeera loved to watch them. X-rated videos seemed like family entertainment in comparison to what she saw live. If they spotted her as a voyeuse, they would invite her to join. But she looked for a special type of partner. Zaffeera’s conquests kissed her long and hard. She was an experienced kisser, and knew how to make her lover-for-the-moment beg for more. Zaffeera did not wear panties, which gave her that extra charge, teasing herself as that burning part of her waited for someone’s tongue to satisfy her. It didn’t matter to her whether the lover was male or female, although at times she preferred girls.

  “Harder!” was the only word Zaffeera ever said.

  If the moment’s lover was a guy, there was never penetration. Zaffeera was in total control of her priceless treasure, reserved for marriage—reserved for Michel. She never took chances. Every sense sounded out, like an alarm, if any male dared to go too far. After she climaxed, returning to a composed calm and gazing intently into space, Zaffeera would slowly smooth out her clothes and hair, stroking her long blonde wig repeatedly.

  She returned to her flat at different times every night, always making sure the light was out in Moustafa’s flat across the street.

  If Zaffeera returned by midnight, tired but still too wound up to sleep, she lounged nude under her covers, which gave her that extra tease. She thought of Michel and masturbated to a gentle climax. Sometimes she felt relaxed enough to fall into a blissful sleep. Other times, she read murder mysteries until three in the morning, or finished her boring homework.

  By 6:00 AM, when it was still dark, Zaffeera’s alarm clock would sound. She bounced out of bed and immediately changed her Egyptian cotton sheets into a freshly laundered set and stuffed the ones she had used the night before into a special laundry bag—which she took that day to the cleaners. Resuming her regular morning routine, she made her bed, tucking the laundered sheets tightly around the mattress, and smoothed out her fluffy silk down comforter. She replaced her two huge shams that she kept every evening on a nearby chair, then aligned her six lavender-filled, heart-shaped throw pillows in an exact order, always the same way, one overlapping the other. She made it a rule to be organized at all times, alert, prepared, ahead of the game—whatever game she played.

  But the most important rule was that she was to never be disturbed at night in her room. Zaffeera told Noora that if she were awakened by a knock on her door, she would be very startled and could never go back to sleep. She knew her sister would respect that request, because by ten o’clock in the evening, especially during the week, Noora went to bed. Luckily, Noora needed eight hours of undisturbed sleep in order to function, especially the next day, during the demanding school hours.

  On her way home from the Velvet Cave, Zaffeera dumped her platform shoes, one at a time, in different trashcans, and replaced them with black Mary-Jane slippers. In the darkness of a deserted street, she removed her wig and hesitated. She really didn’t want to discard it. It fit perfectly. Made of the finest human hair, it had cost her a fortune. But what if she was in an accident or someone rummaged through her bedroom and found it? What if her father saw it? There could be no trace or evidence, in case Noora remembered seeing Zaffeera in that wig. She tossed it in a dumpster down an alleyway, reminding herself that this part of her mission should be over. It’d better be, she thought, hiding in a dark corner to catch her breath. She turned the shiny red satin coat inside out. It was now a simple black coat. She unfurled the waistband of her miniskirt, letting the material down until it reached her ankles. She fluffed up her hair and covered it with the black, floppy beret she had hidden in her coat pocket. She remov
ed her disposable, extra-light-blue contact lenses and extracted her black-rimmed glasses from her bag.

  Hurrying through the streets, Zaffeera was back at her flat in record time. Only this time, she did not have to hike up the fire escape, very carefully and silently, fearing that someone might see her. She hoped she would never have to do that again.

  She climbed the five flights of stairs, two at a time. The lift was much too slow. Once she locked herself in her flat, she leaned heavily against the door to catch her breath.

  She checked her watch and calculated she was six minutes late, according to her timetable. The phone from the hallway rang, jarring every nerve in her body. After the third ring, and after a deep breath to regain her composure, she lifted the receiver.

  “Salaam,” one of the maids said all the way from Al-Balladi.

  “Good evening,” Zaffeera said in a serene voice. “It is good to hear from you, and how are you doing this fine evening?” she asked in Arabic.

  “Thank you, Miss Zaffeera, all doing well, hamdallah. We regret for being a little late calling. I am connecting you to your mother now,” the maid yelled into the phone in Arabic, obviously not wanting to waste time on a long-distance line.

  “Zaffeera, dear. Poor little Shamsah …”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ya haraam… She caught the chicken pox.” Yasmina Fendil spoke to her daughter in Arabic. “I thought you and Noora should know … It is better she has it now than when she is older.”

  “I’m so sorry. But do tell her I have a nice surprise for her.”

  “You are always so thoughtful, Zaffeera. We are giving her a bath with calamine lotion. We are trying to keep Kettayef away. He did not have the chicken pox, you know. Maybe he should have it too. But one sick child at a time is all we can handle … aagh, how I miss your grandmother. She would have taken charge. She would have cured my little Shamsah in no time …” She continued to ramble on, while Zaffeera rolled her eyes, waiting for an opportunity to get to the crucial matter.

  “By the way,” Zaffeera was finally able to interrupt, “they called this morning to confirm about the limo …”