Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  He bandaged her face, carefully taping it to protect her broken nose. She needed hospital care and X-rays. But he’d have to fill out insurance forms. How would he explain the cause of her injuries? He could claim she was his wife and give false names. No, he could not afford such a risk.

  He began to eat the warm falafel sandwich on pita bread, chewing without tasting. His tired eyes drifted to a large painting of a young woman that hung on the wall near the bed. The woman had shiny black hair, short and teased up in a bob—a style that seemed in vogue in the sixties. He stared at the picture until he couldn’t keep his eyes open and began to drift into a light snooze. He thought of Noora and Zaffeera in London, before the winter holiday. He remembered their brunch at the Dorchester Hotel. Noora had been chatting happily, but Zaffeera appeared annoyed. Something about her eyes reflected perhaps … jealousy? He was tired and probably imagining something nonexistent. Zaffeera loved Noora. Perhaps she didn’t like her new school. Perhaps she felt uncomfortable in a foreign city. But Zaffeera was the one who had begged their parents to study in London and be with her older sister. She had even written their father the nicest letter …

  With that last thought, Nageeb fell into a deep sleep.

  He dreamed of a newspaperman standing on a sidewalk in London and waving the latest edition. When Nageeb passed him by, the man opened the newspaper and showed him provocative pictures—of Noora! But when he looked closer, the girl in the picture had blonde hair and looked like a pop star. “Undeniable proof!” the man shouted angrily. He resembled one of the fundamentalists Nageeb had seen at his father’s office. Zaffeera appeared from the corner of the street, holding a book in her hand.

  Nageeb woke up with a start. His eyes drifted back to the painting of the black-haired young woman holding a yellow flower about the size of a daisy. He rose from his chair to better read the handwritten insignia on the bottom of the painting. “Admire ma fleur de la passion.” Admire my passion flower? Nageeb thought there was something odd about this picture. Her eyes were beckoning, almost hypnotic. He gave a shiver. Somehow that glance reminded him of Zaffeera. But he remembered how at times she appeared so shy and removed. She used to slouch and hide behind her books.

  What happened in London? What impelled Noora to do whatever it was that she supposedly did? It wasn’t like Noora to venture to a foreign disco at night. She loved music and dancing, but she never went out on her own. Unless she was lured out by one of her classmates? Had someone given her drugs? Who took those pictures? Did their father hire a bodyguard without their knowledge while they were in London? He was aware that his father wasn’t too happy about leaving his daughters unchaperoned after Nageeb left London. But he knew the school’s reputation and all their professors; plus, the girls were safe, living in a quiet, posh neighborhood, and Noora was a responsible young lady. What could have happened?

  Nageeb felt dizzy and sick to his stomach—too many unanswered questions. He was sorry he ate that sandwich. He went to the bathroom, poured a glass of water, and sipped it slowly. No use trying to figure out what happened. He had to focus on Noora and her serious wounds.

  *

  In the confines of her bedroom, Zaffeera stretched and yawned on her low-to-the-floor, billowy, down-filled sofa surrounded by mounds of silk pillows.

  From a platter on the glass cocktail table in front of her, Zaffeera picked up a half mango with the pit still in it. She sucked out most of the juicy flesh, revealing the whole long seed, which now looked like a stiff tongue. She closed her eyes and slowly began to twirl the pit around and around in her mouth, sucking on its juice, imagining it was his tongue.

  “Michel,” she whispered. She would give him such pleasure, he would be on his knees, begging for more! She smiled at her fantasy. The flame of the almond-scented candle on top of the cocktail table cast shadows of erotic figures on the wall. Her head resting on a large pillow, she slowly opened her Christian Dior satin robe. She ran the tip of the juicy mango seed down to her breasts. She loosened the robe, twirled the mango around her erect nipples. Patience, my dear. She would make Michel the happiest man on earth. She grinned at the thought, separated her legs, and imagined him there. “Aah, ooh! Yes … Yes!” She moaned with the unbearable pleasure of it. She shuddered as one exquisite explosion after another shook her from head to toe.

  Resuming her composure, she tossed the mango seed back in the platter and pushed it away. With eyes blazing, as in London after her evenings of satiation, she pressed a switch on the remote control next to her. The entire room lit up. She slipped her robe back on, then rose and glided to her bathroom.

  A faint chime sounded on her bathroom phone. She grabbed the receiver.

  “Ya mazmazelle Zaffeera …?” a young woman’s voice ventured timidly.

  “Where the hell have you been?!” Zaffeera snapped, turning on the golden faucet of her tub to its maximum force.

  “A woman told me to stay in my room until now …”

  At that moment, Zaffeera thought she heard something. She turned off the faucet. Someone banged loudly on the locked door of her bedroom.

  “Stay where you are until you hear from me,” she barked. She hung up as the pounding continued.

  “Who is it?!” Zaffeera shouted. She would have to talk to her mother about hiring such incompetent maids. She tightened the satin belt of her robe as she marched through her bedroom.

  “Your mother wants to see you in her bedroom,” came a gruff woman’s voice.

  “Who is this?” Zaffeera demanded without opening her door.

  “Magda,” the woman answered. The sound of thick heels clacked on the marble floors and echoed away through the corridor.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE PROMISE

  Noora was drifting in and out of consciousness. Nageeb improvised an IV stand from a wire coat hanger and coat rack from the rickety armoire. He attached an IV bag to the hanger, connected the tubing, and inserted the needle in Noora’s left hand, taping it carefully in place so it would not tear loose. For now, he would keep her sedated. He had enough supplies to feed her intravenously for a day or two. He turned on the light in the bathroom and kept the door ajar.

  He remembered when he was a little boy and Noora was just born. Their mother had looked like an angel, sitting up in bed, surrounded by pillows as if she were floating on clouds. Sultana had stood next to his mother. Three generations of women—the most wonderful women in his life. “Promise me you will always take good care of your little sister …”

  The words echoed painfully in his heart.

  He knelt at her bedside and kissed her forehead. “Allah ma’aki okhti anah,” he whispered, invoking God to be with his dear, wounded sister.

  Nageeb locked the door, leaving the “Do Not Disturb” card dangling from the doorknob. He tiptoed out into the dark corridor. Downstairs, the boy was watching the news on the black-and-white tube in the lobby. He did not notice Nageeb.

  Sitting in the sun-heated leather seat of his Mercedes, Nageeb dialed his mobile phone to check his messages. His father’s male secretary had left an urgent request to call the office at once. Nageeb was aware that his father never spoke personally into recording machines, because it was beneath him.

  He thought of his mother. Why didn’t he simply dial her private line and tell her what happened? But if he did, she would never be the same. It would not be the right thing to do. He would regret it later. What about the other children? Would there ever be a right time to tell them the truth? He wished he were a boy again, so he could pour his heart out to her. She always knew how to console him. His father never knew that soft part of his son—that was something only between him and his mother.

  “Ummy anah,” he whispered to his mother, “I will keep my promise.”

  In the rearview mirror, he caught a glimpse of himself. His eyes were bloodshot. “He will regret it,” he said, grinding his teeth. He found his sunglasses on the passenger seat and put them on.

  He dialed his f
ather’s number.

  *

  “Nageeb? Ibni, I have been waiting for your call.”

  “Yes, my father.”

  “Where are you? El arabeya?”

  “Aiwa, my father,” Nageeb answered in Arabic. “I am in the car … Good evening. I met the gentlemen at the helicopter, and they left for Aqaba. I’m calling from Aqaba. I had some mechanical problems with the car and I had it checked. It was the fuel injector …” Nageeb spoke rapidly, knowing his father understood nothing about cars, except where to purchase them for his collection.

  “Esma’a menni.” He enunciated each word softly and with such patience, it seemed he was talking to Nageeb the boy, instead of his grown son. “Listen to me. I wanted you to go with … esh esmou …”

  Nageeb knew his father never remembered names. “His name is Youssef …” he said.

  “What?”

  “I believe his name was Youssef, Father.”

  “You were to fly with him in the helicopter. I didn’t ask you to drive.”

  “I am terribly sorry. I misunderstood. I’ve had the night shift at the hospital. I was not thinking straight. I know it’s no excuse, and I …”

  “I understand you have important duties. That is why I wanted you to fly.”

  “Father, there was no room for me in the helicopter, and …” Nageeb almost lost control of his anger. He wanted to shout “MURDERER!” He wanted to scream out every insult he knew, in every language ever invented. He reminded himself he must handle this terrible situation very carefully—for Noora’s sake. “I’m sorry I interrupted you, Father.” He kept his voice as calm as possible.

  “What is it you want to tell me?”

  “Just that … I am on my way to see Uncle Fellous,” Nageeb mumbled, feeling defeated.

  “Good. That is very good, my son.”

  Uncle Fellous did not own a telephone. Nageeb understood why his father wanted him to pay a visit to the aged uncle who had just undergone heart surgery. But … did his father truly expect him to go with those fanatics out on the fishing boat and watch them dump … the body?

  The thought of the poor girl being shredded by sharks made him ill. How could he possibly allow such a terrible thing to happen? He remembered how Moharreb had treated the black plastic bag containing the young woman’s body. How he had eased it in the trunk, with such respect. If his trusted childhood friend had found out the truth—Nageeb shuddered—he never would have believed that he, Nageeb Gabriel Fendil, would stoop so low and tell such a lie to Pepsi.

  Nageeb found himself trapped, and he was suffocating in his father’s web of lunacy. Their last conversation was something out of a nightmare.

  In his office at Al-Balladi, Farid Fendil was puffing on his pipe. He knew that Nageeb never cared to fly, especially in helicopters. His son preferred to drive. That was the reason Farid never bothered to purchase a helicopter in the first place.

  “That’s fine,” Farid said on the phone. “Yallah, go and give Uncle Fellous my very best. Let him know I will be seeing him soon, inshallah,” he said. “God be with you, my son,” he concluded and hung up.

  Farid Fendil’s mind was on other matters now. Earlier, he received word from the head man of the MOFHAJ, the sheik Abdullah Kharoub, that the helicopter landed in Aqaba. The chartered fishing boat was there, waiting. Two MOFHAJ members were given the orders to take the boat out to sea at two in the morning. The sheik assured him that “the girl’s shamefully contaminated body” would be obliterated.

  Farid’s anger mounted. He wished he could have ripped her apart with his own hands. From the day she was born, he had loved her. He had given her everything her heart desired. She had been his little girl. She had been his pride. She had been … How could she have betrayed him?!

  The sexual images of the photographs the sheik showed him that fateful morning kept appearing vividly in his mind again and again, torturing him until he could no longer stand it. He felt sick to his stomach. Sick at the thought of men touching his daughter—fondling her body, naked for the world to see. She had dishonored and violated his name. She had shamed his entire family. She had …

  He staggered to the bathroom in his office, barely making it to the toilet, and threw up, then leaned on the sink and glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He had to regain control of himself, so he ran the faucet full force and splashed cold water on his face. He held a hand towel to his face as he stumbled back to his desk and let himself fall heavily in his armchair. He breathed deeply; never had he been so out of control. Nausea? Even vomiting? Those were signs of weakness. He was a man!

  He made the mistake of raising his daughters too liberally. He had been influenced by Western ways, but he should have known: A man must never have a close relationship with a daughter; it leads to evil. He rose from his chair and thrust his fist into the nearest wall, feeling no pain—just a little relief.

  Farid had one more task to complete; it was his duty as the head of his household and as a husband. “I must protect!” He rubbed his bloody knuckles on the white cotton of his garb.

  Earlier, he had been introduced to Magda—the only woman connected to the MOFHAJ group, a religious and respectful relative of the sheik.

  Magda was to inform his wife of their daughter’s “accidental death,” the sheik had wisely advised. Farid agreed that Magda would watch over Mrs. Fendil during the mourning period—in case Yasmina started screaming and crying, falling apart, like most women did.

  *

  Standing at the Al-Balladi airport, where a row of private jets gleamed impressively beneath the bright desert sun, Moustafa ground his teeth in anger. He should have been on the fishing boat in Aqaba, instead of boarding a private jet. He should have been the one to see to it that the girl was dumped into the Red Sea. He had brought a flashlight to watch as sharks yanked pieces off her. How many times he had dreamed of devouring those breasts! He saw them in person only too briefly, the beautiful breasts those vile young men at the disco fondled with their filthy, sinful hands. He would never forget the disdainful look she gave him behind the window of that restaurant in London. You thought I was beneath you. Look at you now!

  The call came from the sheik himself. It was, of course, an honor. But he was told instead of heading for Aqaba, he had a new assignment: to guard and protect another wealthy man’s daughter, who was studying at the university in Egypt. He was to remain in Alexandria for a year. The sheik gave him bonus money for his work on the Fendil girls, and an advance for the upcoming assignment. He would be staying at the luxurious Cecile Hotel for the duration of his new job. Better than the dreary flat in London. But the sheik had not given him a single word of praise. That would have been worth more than the bonus money.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE SEARCH FOR A SANCTUARY

  Uncle Fellous was the brother of Farid’s father. As he lay dying, the old sultan had whispered his last wishes to his only son, Farid Fendil: “Visit my grave once a year. But promise to see my young brother several times a year.”

  Farid kept that promise. Nageeb never knew what Uncle Fellous really did for a living. After a failed venture as an antique rug dealer in Istanbul, Uncle Fellous worked for a cotton mill in Alexandria. A few years later, he ended up in Aqaba with his doting wife, Zouzou. They had lived for twenty years at the edge of the city, in a small dwelling he called a villa. It was a dilapidated house surrounded by a low stone wall, festooned with dried weeds. Nageeb’s uncle was nicknamed Uncle Fellous, which meant “Uncle Money,” probably to compensate for the fact that he never had any.

  Uncle Fellous and Aunt Zouzou had no children of their own. They only visited Al-Balladi after the birth of each Fendil child. They knew Nageeb quite well, because Farid made it his duty to bring Nageeb every time he visited his uncle in Aqaba.

  Nageeb wished he did not have to leave Noora a moment longer than necessary, but he had been brought up never to go to anyone’s house empty-handed. He could not take the time to find a florist. Luckily,
he found one of his uncle’s favorite treats on his way to the house.

  When Aunt Zouzou opened the door and saw Nageeb, she burst into joyful tears. Nageeb-el-doctoor, as she proudly called him, had come to see them. It was a wonderful surprise.

  An ancient kerosene lamp barely illuminated the living room. Nageeb found Uncle Fellous sitting cross-legged on the low divan, like a Bedouin.

  “Ahlan wosahlan,” Aunt Zouzou welcomed him.

  The tang of incense, cumin, coriander, and other herbs engulfed Nageeb’s senses, and for a brief moment brought him back to his happy childhood.

  He was glad he came to pay a visit at night. If they noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, even though the living room was dim, he would explain that he had been studying hard for his medical exams and working nights at the hospital in Cairo.

  The old grandfather clock chimed, vibrating every nerve in his body. He had been away from Noora for almost twenty minutes.

  Nageeb cleared his throat. “Uncle Fellous, I wanted to come and see you after your operation, but this is the first time I could get away,” he said in a voice he prayed would not betray his feelings.

  Handing Aunt Zouzou the treats he had brought, Nageeb sat on the couch near his uncle. While Uncle Fellous chatted on about the rising costs of food and all the pills he had to swallow, Nageeb kept nodding compassionately. He was trying to decide if this house could possibly be a safe hiding place for Noora.

  “Oh, Nageeb, Nageeeeeb,” Uncle Fellous whined, “if you only knew what the doctors put me through.” He blew his nose into his handkerchief as if blowing into a musical instrument. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his gallabeya. “Why didn’t you tell me they were going to crack my ribs open?”

  “You know you are fifteen years younger!” Nageeb turned to his aunt. “You see, Auntie Zouzou? Now he is as young as you!” he teased.

  “Look, our Nageeb, el doctoor, o’ombri anah, he brought us Loukoums! Turkish delight with pistachios too! Your favorite. Your favorite!” She turned to Nageeb. “You always spoil us so much. Too much! But we are very grateful. How is the family, ya Nageeb?”