Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “Last night, I noticed there was a small gift shop right downstairs.”

  “Where’s my wallet? Oh yes.” It was under the sofa pillow he had slept on. “Here,” he said, opening his wallet. “Whatever you need.” He handed her a few Israeli bills. He looked up at her and saw that her eyes were clearer now. But she had removed the bandage from her nose; he wished she had not done that.

  “I doubt I’ll need more than that.”

  “That’s fine, Noora. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, but you don’t look very well, I’m sorry to say.”

  “No, I’m doing well.” In truth, he had never felt worse.

  “Wasn’t that a great movie?” Noora asked.

  “What movie?”

  “The Sound of Music.”

  “Oh yes … yes.”

  “They don’t make movies like that anymore,” Noora remarked, folding the Israeli currency. “There are too many violent ones these days. We have enough violence in real life. They should have called it The Sound of Happiness.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said with a smile. How safe was it for them to leave the condo?

  With the black shawl partially concealing Noora’s face, and wearing his sunglasses, they took the elevator down to the gift shop. Noora stood in front of the store and admired a pretty yellow dress with large pockets on the mannequin in the window. Nageeb pressed a few more bills into the palm of her hand.

  “I have the feeling this dress will bring you luck. It’s a sunny, bright color,” Nageeb said when Noora argued that she didn’t need the dress.

  “I insist,” Nageeb said. “Try it on.”

  While he waited outside, he wondered again about those men in the restaurant. Eilat no longer seemed so magical. The benign, warm climate for which Eilat was known was now stifling and hot. The fresh, balmy breezes became annoying winds to Nageeb and carried too much dust. He could not wait to leave.

  “I really like it,” Noora said, modeling her new dress when they returned to the condo. “It’s cotton and very comfortable. You were right … Thank you.”

  They sat on the floor and had an indoor picnic. Crudités, pâté, and caviar were laid out on the glass cocktail table, and they ate as the sun slowly set. Noora went to the kitchen and found candles in the cupboard. “We’ll have dessert by candlelight,” she said.

  “Alexandria!” Nageeb said, out of the blue.

  “What?”

  “I don’t believe Father would want to go to Alexandria.”

  “What are you talking about?” Noora asked, clearing some of the paper plates from the table.

  No, Nageeb did not want to bring up the subject of their father again, but how else could he convince Noora that Alexandria might be the right place for her safety?

  “Remember how frustrated Father became with Alexandria, how he never could get approval on anything he wanted to build, or even repair, after the Jewish developers had to leave, and Europeans for that matter. The business situation became too unstable and too risky for Father.”

  “Yes, I remember him talking about that.”

  “And then there was the problem with Uncle Khayat.”

  “Oh yes. But why was Father so mad at Uncle Khayat?”

  “Because he didn’t want to help Father build Al-Balladi.”

  Noora put the food on the kitchen counter and sat at the edge of the couch near Nageeb. “Wasn’t Uncle Khayat an architect before he decided to retire when he was still so young?”

  “Yes. He was brilliant. A visionary. He could have helped Father, but Uncle Khayat didn’t want to leave Alexandria. ”

  “He loves the sea,” Noora said, looking out at the balcony. Why should he want to build something in the middle of the desert? There’s nothing like the cool breeze of the Mediterranean Sea. You know how intensely hot and dry it can be at Al-Balladi. Really, he was right about that.”

  “He used to say, lazem el bahr.”

  “We must have the sea,” she sighed pensively, remembering. “I miss those summers in Alexandria. With Uncle Khayat … and his wonderful little villa.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I know you would be safe there, Noora.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You loved Alexandria.”

  “We all did,” Noora said.

  “You can stay there.”

  “That’s a good idea. I am sure Uncle Khayat wouldn’t mind. Perhaps I can stay there awhile. When things settle down, we can call Father and let him know I am all right.”

  Nageeb was thunderstruck. Was she that much in denial? “Listen … Listen to me,” he said. “You cannot go back.”

  “Maybe not for a … a while …”

  Nageeb shook his head. “No, Noora.”

  “Two or three months …” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I know Father will be glad that I am okay.”

  “Noora …” Nageeb took her hands in his. “Please. You must understand …”

  “Understand what? That it was all a horrible mistake, a terrible misunderstanding? I’m not saying it wasn’t my fault … I had no right to drink alcohol. I must have been terribly drunk. I’m sure it didn’t take much for someone like me who never touched alcohol … I thought it was water … I made a terrible, horrible mistake, and maybe he can hold a grudge like that with Uncle Khayat, but I’m his daughter … and … Father is the one who always taught us to forgive.” She was talking faster now. “Remember at school? Whenever we got mad at a classmate or a teacher, Father always said, ‘Let it be. Forgive.’ Do you hear that, Nageeb? He’s the one who always taught us to forgive … Nageeb, please, don’t tell me I can’t go back …”

  Silence.

  “Nageeb? Answer me. Please, tell me what you said is not true.”

  “Noora, there were pictures. Proof …”

  “Pictures?”

  “You can’t go back.”

  “But that’s impossible! What do you mean, pictures?”

  “You must promise me. You won’t go back, you won’t contact anyone.”

  “No. No!”

  “You must promise to stay away. I believe Uncle Khayat is the only one who can protect us now …”

  “Protect?” Noora said, looking at him blankly. She rose and walked to the balcony, staring out at the deep blue shades of the Red Sea.

  “Uncle Khayat will welcome you,” Nageeb said, following her. “Please, Noora, promise you won’t call Father. Promise.”

  Noora continued to stare at the sea. Finally, she turned to her brother. “All right, Nageeb,” she murmured, her eyes blank. “I promise.”

  Nageeb woke before dawn, anxious to call the first helicopter company open for business, so he could charter a chopper that would fly them to Alexandria. After leaving Noora with Uncle Khayat, he would need to rent a car and drive to Cairo. Somewhere on his way back to Cairo, he would have to stop at a public phone and call his father. He dreaded the thought of speaking to him again, but he could not raise any suspicion. He also dreaded the thought of returning to the hospital in Cairo. He wished he could stay with Noora and Uncle Khayat at his peaceful seaside villa.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE PEASANT GIRL

  Young Gamelia came from a small village between Assiut and Menya, along the Nile River, an area known as Lower Egypt.

  Her mother, Um Gamelia, had worked for the Fendil family for more than a decade. Um Gamelia had been a devoted and loyal maid, and probably Mrs. Fendil’s favorite. She was bright and quick, and understood Mrs. Fendil’s needs. She was also very personable. To reward her for her loyalty and hard work, Mrs. Yasmina Fendil allowed her maid to return home every three months. Um Gamelia spent two weeks with her aged mother, and her daughter, Gamelia. Bent Gamelia—daughter of Gamelia—was Um Gamelia’s only child. Um Gamelia had lost her husband to another woman when her daughter was just a baby, and she never heard from him again, which suited her very well.

  Bent Gamelia had been a happy child, carefree and c
omfortable in her home village, where she used to play along the banks of the Nile. She was surrounded by friends and neighbors, and had grown accustomed to being away from her mother for three months at a time. When she was not playing with other children and young teen girls, weaving baskets or selling fruits, she would lose herself in the picture books her mother sent her from Al-Balladi. She lived with her grandmother in a safe world of innocence and simplicity.

  Until one night when she was thirteen years old.

  She had gone to fill her clay water jug with cool river water, a chore she always did before sunset. This time, she was late. Engrossed in a wonderful new book of fairy tales her mother had mailed her all the way from Al-Balladi, she kept procrastinating until it was almost dark. It was late October, when the days grew shorter. Even so, Gamelia had never felt frightened alone in that part of the village. It was her world.

  Returning from the river, he appeared like a tall shadow and said something in a foreign language—English, French, German, or maybe even Russian—she didn’t know foreign languages enough to understand the difference.

  He wore dark pants instead of the traditional gallabeya, and unzipped them in the middle. She thought he had some sort of a large knife when he pulled this big thing out of his trousers. She feared he would hit her. She wanted to run but he barred her way. He spoke to her in a gentle tone. With his other hand, he pulled out a candy bar with shiny wrapping from his pocket, while stroking what she realized was his member. She refused to take the candy, even though she knew it was the most expensive treat sold in the marketplace—a foreign chocolate bar with a crisp wafer in the middle. The water jug became heavy, slipped out of her hand, and fell on the muddy riverbank. When she tried to retrieve it, he grabbed her. She froze. She felt something hard poking against her stomach.

  “Hellwah, enti bente hellwah,” he repeated in broken Arabic.

  No one had ever told her she was pretty before. “Pretty girl,” he repeated in a heavy accent, breathing nauseating smells on her—stale cigar smoke and alcohol.

  For a moment, she thought she could run from him, and when she tried, he wrapped one strong arm around her waist tightly. Suddenly, her undergarment was down and his hand was probing between her legs. She struggled and managed to break away, but his hand grabbed her skirt and she fell on the grass close to the riverbank. He threw himself on top of her, one hand over her mouth and the other forcefully pulling up one of her legs. He thrust himself into her but finally he let go of his hand over her mouth.

  The pain was so intense, she wanted to scream, but she was terrified he would strangle her. “Please don’t kill me,” she managed to mutter while he continuously whispered how beautiful she was.

  “Aiwa. Aiwa! Yes. Yes!” he panted in Arabic.

  “No, no!” she begged, and bit her knuckles until she tasted her own blood.

  “Hellwah, pretty … Ahhh Aiii-wah …” he panted. “ … aaah so pretty …”

  She felt very wet suddenly—to her horror, she was sure he was urinating inside her. As she was about to scream as loud as she could, he held his hand to her mouth again.

  Finally, he stopped moving but remained on top of her. He continued breathing hard close to her face, like the hot desert wind that sent odors from the livestock nearby. At last, he moved away from her. Slowly, he rose to his feet. While she tried to hold her breath for fear that if she moved he would kill her, she heard the creak of his metal zipper. He sighed deeply and groaned. Then he laughed. She saw his teeth shine under the first moonlight. He tossed the candy bar next to her. Her heart was pounding so hard, she thought it would burst out of her chest. She wanted to crawl away into a nearby bush, but she was in so much pain, she could not move. As she silently prayed to Allah that the man would spare her life, the tall figure slowly walked away, like an afreet, an evil spirit of the night, a dreaded ghost dragging his long shadow with him.

  Stifling her sobs, Bent Gamelia managed to rise to her feet and wade into the river. Slowly, the pain inside her began to subside. Shuddering with horror and disgust, she scrubbed away the sticky substance he had left between her legs. But she felt that a part of him was still stuck to her. She waded deeper and scrubbed herself until she was sure there was no trace of his stench or any other thing that came from that devil man.

  As she waded back to the riverbank, she wiped her face with her drenched skirt. Shivering from shock and the cool night air, she searched for her undergarment. It was too dark, and she panicked at the thought that if anyone found her panties in the morning, they would surely suspect what happened. Perhaps she would even be blamed and accused of selling her body to a stranger for a candy bar. Searching frantically, she finally found the garment near the bushes and stuffed it in her skirt pocket. As soon as she had the chance, she would burn it. She found the candy bar with the shiny wrapping on the ground and as she tossed it in the river, she stumbled on her jug by the muddy soil. She filled it quickly, her eyes darting fearfully, worried that the devil man might return. Silently, barely able to walk, she finally made her way home.

  Later, when her grandmother asked to help her lift the water jug for cooking, Gamelia noticed it had a chip on the top rim. Under the kerosene lamp, she could see a deep hairline crack running from top to bottom of the jug.

  “Let me do this. It’s too heavy,” Gamelia said, and she kicked the jug, pretending it was an accident. The jug split in half.

  “Forgive me,” Bent Gamelia said to her grandmother. “But we still have water in the other jug I filled this morning. I will bring you clean water from the well first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Ma’alesh, it is fine,” her sweet grandmother said.

  In the traditional way, the peasant woman believed accidents happened for good reason.

  That water was contaminated by the devil. How could Bent Gamelia ever drink from the Nile River again? She promised herself she would never reveal her horrible secret.

  A month later, when Um Gamelia returned home on her regular vacation, Gamelia begged her mother to let her work for the Fendils. The timing was perfect. Um Gamelia wanted to stay in the village to take care of her mother, who was growing weaker.

  Mrs. Yasmina Fendil had readily agreed to have the young Gamelia work for her and her family.

  At the train station, Um Gamelia had instructed her daughter on what was expected of her, and reminded her several times that everyone wanted to work for the Fendils because they were good and generous.

  “They will treat you like an employee and not like an animal. They will give you a nice, clean room with a television. And they will even let you use the phone to call me!”

  Bent Gamelia was well aware of the Fendils’ generosity.

  “Always be at their service,” her mother tried to whisper in her ear as her daughter was switching the old luggage from one hand to another.

  “Yes, Mother.”

  As she rushed to climb on board the crowded train, her mother stopped her, looked into her eyes, and said, “Listen, Gamelia. Do anything they ask. Even if they ask you to lick their behind, you lick it! I know it sounds strange, but you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Gamelia nodded. Quickly, she kissed her mother and boarded the train, promising her mother she would be a good servant, follow her mother’s instructions—and secretly promising herself that she would never return to that village again.

  Zaffeera was fourteen years old when young Gamelia went to work for the Fendil family. Soon, Zaffeera recognized there was something different about the girl with the pink medawara—a chiffon scarf that she always wore wrapped around her short, frizzy hair. The little maid was painfully shy and shamefaced. Zaffeera noticed whenever she accompanied her on a shopping trip, or any family outing, Gamelia showed an irrational fear at the sight of men who wore trousers instead of the traditional gallabeya. Every time Zaffeera questioned her about her fear, the maid blushed, looked away, but never gave a response. Zaffeera judged by her servant’s face—and body l
anguage—that it was possible someone had been at her. No one else guessed such a thing, but Zaffeera was convinced and began to have fantasies about her maid being raped by a man in trousers, a thought that aroused her.

  One night, Zaffeera was bathing in her bathroom, and as usual, the young Gamelia helped her with her bath. After Zaffeera was done, the girl routinely took her towels and soiled clothes out to the laundry room to wash them separately, because Zaffeera was allergic to regular detergent. That night, a few weeks after her fifteenth birthday, the routine changed. Zaffeera told her maid that she was exhausted from all the hard work at school and she needed a massage. She casually asked Gamelia to lick her “down there,” so she could really relax until she could fall asleep.

  Remembering her mother’s instructions, which she took literally, Gamelia did what her mistress commanded. From that moment on, Gamelia became Zaffeera’s very personal maid. No one ever knew or even suspected what her “work” involved.

  *

  Zaffeera was playing the role of devoted daughter. She spent two days standing at her mother’s bedside. She comforted her, changed the compresses on her forehead, and spoke to her softly.

  “Ummy, ya ummy anah.”

  She read to her mother passages from the Koran, and old poems she knew her mother liked.

  Magda remained in Mrs. Fendil’s room throughout the time that Yasmina refused to leave her bed. Standing next to the door like a prison guard, Magda seemed like a robot and never sat. Every four hours, she injected Mrs. Fendil with a sedative.

  On three occasions, Farid Fendil came to visit his wife. He held her hand. He whispered her name several times, but she refused to even acknowledge his presence.

  The last time he paid a visit to his wife, Farid spoke to her in a low voice, while Zaffeera stood respectfully several steps behind him. Her eyes cast to the floor and her face covered by a sheer black veil, she heard her father say: “Allah blessed us with other children. We must not neglect them. It is our duty to take care of them so they do not go astray. They need you, Yasmina. They need you.”