Yasmina Fendil had finally opened her eyes and turned from her pillow. She looked straight up at her husband and said, “Tell that woman who looks like a man never to touch me again.”
That evening, Magda left Yasmina’s room, never to be seen in the Fendil household again.
CHAPTER 17
LEAVING EILAT
As the first rays of sun shimmered across the Red Sea, illuminating Eilat’s beaches into a sparkling gold, Nageeb sat leaning against the front door of the condominium, clutching the phone in one hand and leafing through a phone book. Finding what he had been searching for, he dialed the number of a private limousine service that apparently catered to dignitaries and celebrities.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Nageeb,” Noora told him once they were in the rented limousine. Under her large black dress, he was glad she wore the yellow dress he had encouraged her to buy. It would take two or three weeks for her bruises to disappear. She would heal faster in Alexandria, he thought.
He hated the idea of having to stop before boarding the chartered helicopter, but he could not forget his good friend. He asked the chauffeur to take them to a delicatessen. He chose a large basket of international delicacies, and a magnum-sized Dom Perignon for Shlomo and his wife.
An endless hour later, through heavy traffic, the dark-tinted, bulletproof limousine arrived near the airport and pulled to a helipad where their chartered flight awaited. In no time, and to Nageeb’s relief, the three-passenger chopper, piloted by a young Israeli, lifted off. Destination: Alexandria, Egypt.
The weather was clear and bright—a perfect day for a beautiful flight.
Noora’s heart lifted with hope as she watched the beautiful resort city of Eilat below at the edge of the shimmering turquoise sea. Soon she would be in Alexandria with Uncle Khayat, where she would swim in the sunny aquamarine Mediterranean. She would miss Nageeb, but Cairo was not that far after all.
He promised he would visit her every chance he could, and in turn, she promised him that she would not contact their father and she would stay with Uncle Khayat. She should never break that promise. Time would wash away the pain, she reminded herself. And then, perhaps in time, her father would … Well, perhaps, he would forgive her. Would he? She would think about that later.
In the meantime, Uncle Khayat would help her decide what was the right thing to do. Obviously, she would not be able to return to school in London. But how would she explain her absence?
Nageeb, who was in the front seat next to the pilot, turned and gave her a broad smile.
“Don’t you think we should call Uncle Khayat and announce our arrival?” Noora asked.
He couldn’t hear her with the roar of the helicopter.
She mimed a telephone receiver. “Uncle Khayat! We should call him!”
The sun was bright and she squinted. Nageeb bent over, searching for something in his bag. He handed her a pair of sunglasses and nodded. “Okay! When we land! Okay?”
“O-kay!” she yelled back and put on the sunglasses. But she didn’t need them for long.
Less than thirty minutes into the flight, the sky turned dark. A sudden Khamseen, a powerful sandstorm, appeared from the distance and quickly engulfed them.
The pilot tried to gain altitude and rise above the storm. Nageeb gave Noora a nod that all would be okay. But before Noora could pray, the chopper tossed around, shuddered, and shook violently. Rapidly, it plunged down, down.
The sandstorm finally subsided, and the desert sun blazed above her. She felt as if her feet were on fire. Her left leg was scorched, and the hot sun intensified the burning pain. She had a difficult time opening her eyes, but when she finally did, she saw Nageeb a few feet away, flat on his back, unmoving, one leg bent in a bizarre position.
“Nageeb! NAGEEB!” She tried to crawl to him, but she couldn’t move. The sand stuck to her flesh like burning powder.
Pulling herself on her elbows, she cried out in pain, but she had to reach Nageeb, and when she finally did, she saw his chest was covered in blood.
“No! God, NO!” She pressed her hand on his chest to stop the bleeding. One deep cut ran alongside his right eye, oozing blood. He was struggling to breathe.
“I’ll get help.” She looked around. She began to crawl away, trying to figure out where they were. Not far from them, the pilot lay still, his body nearly covered by sand, next to the twisted and demolished helicopter.
“Run, Noora,” Nageeb whispered.
“NO!” She tried to get back closer to him, and she felt a stabbing pain on her left leg.
“Run, Noora,” he murmured.
“I’ll never leave you, Nageeb! I beg of you … please … Oh God, somebody help!” She pulled herself closer to her brother.
“Promise …” He whispered as she attempted to clear the sand away from his bloody lips.
“Okay,” she cried, wrapping her arms around his body. “Nageeb … please … I love you!”
“Run. Runnnn!” his voice echoed in her brain.
“I’ll never leave you.” Somehow, against her wishes, she began to crawl away while Nageeb’s commanding voice rang in her ears with the sounds of the wind.
“Nooorrraaahhh,” the wind called, no longer Nageeb.
A thunderous explosion sent a hail of flying debris from the helicopter. Something heavy slammed into her head.
*
Noora heard a loud bleating and wished the annoying sound would go away. Her eyes were crusted shut. She finally managed to open one eye slightly, then the other. Her vision slowly came into focus.
An eyeball with a horizontal pupil stared down at her. A goat?
When her vision cleared a little more, she saw tall, dark bodies looming above her. Their billowy black robes flapped loudly like flags in the wind, their shadows shielding her from the scorching sun. But her body felt like it was on fire, and she was in great pain. If those looming shadows had been angels, they would have worn white and they would have had wings.
She must have gone to hell. She fainted into darkness.
CHAPTER 18
THE SEDUCTION
Zaffeera sat on an embroidered wing chair, staring at the intricate weave of her father’s carpet. She wore the traditional black dress. A black veil covered her face—the same style Mrs. Jacqueline Kennedy had worn during President John F. Kennedy’s funeral. She had carefully planned her attire for its mourning effect. She cast a quick glance at Michel, who was not far from her, a low copper table between them. He seemed lost in his thoughts. His face was pale, but he still looked so good. What was he thinking about? Sex? He probably desperately needed it. She would give him all that his heart desired. He needed sun too. They would surely honeymoon by the sea in a luxurious resort. He had been in “gray Paree” too long—the winters of Paris could be too cold, and cloudy, she thought. Her entire body tingled, just looking at him. Michel, darling, you were meant for moi.
She stole a quick glance at her father, who was on the opposite side of their huge living room, beyond other antique furnishings and Turkish tapestry. Sitting across from each other on ornate Louis XIV furniture, next to the fireplace, the two men seemed engrossed in a serious conversation. She would give almost anything to hear what was being said. Did Michel have any idea what the topic of their conversation was? She hoped they were discussing their children’s future. Together.
Michel had no idea why he had to sit and keep Zaffeera company while his father met with Mr. Fendil. Unless they told him where Noora was buried, he saw no reason to be in that house.
It was not fair to make Noora’s sister sit across from him. She hardly ever spoke to him, and surely she had to feel as awkward as he did.
He glanced across the living room at the men. Earlier, his father said Mr. Fendil hinted that, “Since Noora passed away, it would be advisable to marry her sister.” Wasn’t that what they did in biblical times? When the wife died, the husband married the sister. Mr. Fendil must have gone temporarily insane. He no
ticed he had become much more religious and wore the traditional garb. But who was he to judge a man who had lost his daughter? Well, he too had lost someone he loved so much. His chest tightened and he could barely breathe. He wanted to run outside and cry, but that would surely belittle and embarrass his father. He picked a walnut from the huge bowl on the cocktail table that separated him from Noora’s sister, and with hidden strength he didn’t realize he had, he cracked it with his bare hands. He glanced again at his father. This senseless meeting had to end. Now.
He rose from his chair, ready to head over to his father, when a houseboy appeared and began serving the men tea from a tall silver carafe. Michel sat back down, but on the edge of his seat, ready to jump up the instant the houseboy left.
Noora’s sister whispered something.
“What?”
“I know where she is buried.”
Michel pulled his chair closer and leaned across the copper table. “Excuse me?”
“I know where she is buried,” Zaffeera repeated slightly louder behind her veil. She threw a quick glance at her father. He was staring blankly at his demitasse and shaking his head.
“I can take you there.”
“When?” Michel searched for Zaffeera’s eyes through her veil.
“Tomorrow. After lunch.”
“Anytime will be fine …”
“Shh …” She lifted her veil. “Don’t let our fathers know.”
“Why?”
“Tradition … Women here are always buried in the desert. In unmarked graves. I’m sorry … you didn’t know?”
“No. I … I am sorry. I did not know …”
Tossing restlessly in his king-size bed, Michel’s father glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Past midnight. He had to be up by five in the morning. If he did not get enough sleep, he would be too tired to think clearly tomorrow. He and Mr. Fendil had scheduled meetings back-to-back, starting early in the morning, with bankers, attorneys, and executives to go over plans for the new hotel in Egypt. Switching on his bedside lamp, he sat up, grabbed his attaché case next to the bed, and began to sort out some folders. But his mind kept drifting back to his son. Surely Michel was upset with him. How could he blame him? He had made a selfish decision. He had nearly forced—and perhaps even bribed—his son to marry Noora’s sister. Just because he was doing business with the girl’s father was no reason for him to talk Michel into marrying someone he didn’t really know, let alone love.
“They need some time. They’re still young,” he had said earlier when he met with Mr. Fendil. In truth, he didn’t have the nerve to tell him that just that morning, Michel had a change of heart and even denied agreeing to propose to Noora’s sister.
But Mr. Fendil had apparently made up his mind. “They will have plenty of time after they are married,” he said. Mr. Fendil had not been the same since his daughter’s fatal accident. When Michel’s father offered his condolences, Farid changed the subject. Everyone had his way of dealing with death and grief. He understood the pain of losing a loved one as well as anyone. He was still grieving the loss of his beautiful wife, who had passed away many years before. But nothing could be more devastating than a parent losing his child. He heard a light knock on his bedroom door.
“Father?”
He was surprised to hear Michel’s voice. “Come in, come in,” Mr. Amir said, propping himself up against a couple of pillows. He hoped his son was not upset with him.
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Michel said, standing at the door. He tentatively ventured into the room, still dressed in his suit. His tie in his hand, he appeared weary.
“You never disturb me.”
“I saw the light under the door; I thought it would be all right …”
“I was just getting ready for tomorrow’s meetings.”
“Yes. Congratulations,” Michel said.
“We are only in the very beginning stages. There is so much to do. ”
“I’d love to see the architectural design.”
“As a matter of fact, we are getting the revised ones tomorrow, as well as the scale model. I can’t wait to show them …”
“I’m looking forward to it …” Michel cleared his throat. “By the way … regarding tomorrow …”
“Sit down,” Michel’s father said, pointing to a nearby chair.
“No, that’s all right. I’m on my way to bed. But I was wondering … perhaps … I could meet with Noora’s sister? Maybe after lunch … for a lemonade?”
The moment his son left his room, Mr. Amir wanted to phone Mr. Fendil and give him the good news: It was time for courtship. But it was late. Instead, he picked up the phone and dialed the direct extension to his private chauffeur.
Shortly after the Morning Prayer and his first meeting with Mr. Amir, Farid Fendil marched to his office in the high-tech building where he occupied most of the penthouse floor. One of his world-renowned architects had somehow dropped the ball during Farid’s absence, claiming he never received the fax Farid had sent him with all the important changes.
Cement for the two-story waterfall feature had been poured into concrete blocks; tons of imported coral rocks had already been intricately fitted into it, according to the original plans—which had been changed! The oversight was going to cost an easy quarter of a million dollars to undo and restructure. The grand opening of the office building was scheduled in a few days. We’ll never make it now! Farid had thought he was done with that project, and he needed to focus on the new 300-suite hotel and spa at Sharm El Sheikh.
As he searched frantically through a pile of file folders on his huge black granite desk, he realized, to his horror, that he had never dictated the urgent changes. He had written them down on legal-sized paper, something he often did before dictating to one of his male secretaries. Such an oversight had never happened before. He was furious. How could he possibly have made such a costly error?
It was her fault—the one who shamed him. The one who made him lose control enough to lose it all. The one whose name he had to erase forever! He pounded a fist on his desk. He could not afford such an oversight. It wasn’t the money. It was the fact that he could lose face in front of the investors and his employees. He decided from now on, it was imperative to do nothing else but immerse himself in business.
Early that morning, he received a message from Mr. Amir—his son had finally come to his senses. He scribbled a note to liquidate the London flat and dictate a letter to the LLC. As far as he was concerned, Zaffeera was finished with college. Education was not for women. The wise sheik had warned him. He should have listened.
He was, however, pleased to learn, from the written reports brought to his desk by the sheik himself, that Zaffeera had remained close to her mother’s bedside, doting on her tirelessly around the clock. His wife Yasmina should recover soon, and he would have her so busy planning a huge wedding, she would have to forget about … about everything else. He pressed his intercom and shouted for his secretary.
The Lincoln Town Car, driven by Monsieur Amir’s longtime chauffeur, made its way through the outskirts of Al-Balladi. Zaffeera sat close to the door, and Michel was on the opposite side, to her right. Her acrylic nails were painted with a gentle coral-pink polish. The fragrant cream on her hands had a sparkling glow. She rested her right hand on her knee for Michel’s view. If he were not going to look at her, he would surely rest his eyes on her hands. Noora’s hands were certainly not as lovely as Zaffeera’s, because she never bothered with manicures and she had dry, ugly cuticles.
On her index finger, Zaffeera wore a delicate ring with tiny diamonds and a small, round turquoise stone in the middle. Michel was still staring out the window. Finally, his weary eyes turned, he blinked a few rapid times, looked down, and rested his gaze on Zaffeera’s hand. He looked away again.
“Excuse me, please?” Zaffeera asked.
“Yes?” Michel finally looked at her.
“Ask your chauffeur if he would not mind to make one more rig
ht, then stop at the end of the street. At the corner.”
Once they arrived at the place Zaffeera designated, she opened her own door and began walking down the sidewalk without saying a word.
“Wait for us here,” Michel told the driver. He ran after Zaffeera.
She entered an outdoor bazaar on a long, narrow street. She stopped at a kiosk where fresh-cut flowers were on display. A bouquet of peach-colored roses and baby’s breath were handed to her. Zaffeera paid for the flowers.
When Michel realized Zaffeera was buying flowers, he wished he had thought of doing that. Peach-colored roses had been Noora’s favorite. Zaffeera walked up to him, her black veil over her face, and handed him the flowers. She turned away, walked out of the bazaar, and crossed the street. He followed. Zaffeera finally stopped, turned, and slowly ventured closer to him.
“Min faddlak,” she whispered. “May I ask permission for an important favor?”
“Yes, anything,” Michel answered numbly. Holding the flowers to his chest, he bent closer to Zaffeera so he could hear what she had to say.
“Please don’t let anyone know where I am about to take you.”
“You have my word.”
“Not even your father, in all due respect. No one, please.”
“You have my word of honor, Miss Fendil.”
There was a long silence before she finally spoke. “Where she is, only women can visit.” She lowered her eyes some more.
It was getting harder for Michel to control his tears. He had to turn away because he didn’t want her to see him cry.
“I am terribly sorry; are you all right?”
“Yes,” he answered, his voice breaking. He wanted to run through the empty field and break free from the pain in his chest that imprisoned him. He hadn’t cried when his mother died, except when he was alone. Even then, he had hidden his tears under his blankets when he was certain no one could see him. Now he felt out of control.
*
Zaffeera had the burning desire to touch him. Finally, she was alone with him. She could smell his mild, lemon-scented aftershave. She admired the form of his strong, V-shaped back. Patience, my dear.
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