Nageeb had given her just about the same message. What did that mean?
After the dreadful news of Nageeb’s accident, she had stayed awake most of the night. In the early morning, as dawn neared, just as the muezzin was heard chanting the Morning Prayer that echoed from the minaret through the town, “Allah Akbar…” Yasmina Fendil heard a gentle knock.
“Go away,” she begged in a weak voice.
The door opened slowly. It was Zaffeera, dressed in a traditional long black dress.
She looked tired, pitiful, and frail. “I love you, mother of mine,” Zaffeera said as she walked a few steps to her mother, looking at the floor. She broke down crying. “Allah blessed you with other children who … who need you. They need you to care for them. They need you now more than ever, ya Ummy.”
Yasmina Fendil rose from her bed and hugged her daughter.
Zaffeera was right. Indeed, since Noora’s death, she had neglected her other children.
“I am proud of you,” she said to Zaffeera. “Proud of your good reasoning and of your strength.”
Yasmina sent Abdo to tell her husband that she intended to go with him and see Nageeb’s body as soon as they flew him back to the Al-Balladi airport. If Farid had to go with the sheik and those men who always hovered around him, Yasmina would have Abdo drive her. She would not allow those men to prevent her from seeing her own son. Her dream—her vision of Nageeb—had given her a sense of strength, but she wasn’t sure how she would react to seeing her son’s body.
When she arrived at the airport, Abdo was told to stay in the car. He was not a member of the Fendil family. Yasmina stood a step behind her husband. She did not collapse. She did not shout or pound at her chest or rail at the Almighty for robbing her of her beloved son. Instead, she held herself straight, ignoring the disapproving murmurs and stares of the sheik and his men.
They had apparently cleaned Nageeb’s lifeless face. There was no mark on it except for a slight cut by the side of his right eye.
He looked like a prince. Instead of grief, she experienced a prolonged moment of inner harmony and warmth, such as she had never thought possible. Words ringing like a melody from some celestial plane penetrated straight to her heart: “To the Almighty we belong, and to Him we return.”
After viewing Nageeb, Yasmina saw that it was her husband who needed her help. Remembering Nageeb’s words, Yasmina firmly took hold of her husband’s arm, just as he was about to collapse, and led him back to the car. Together, they rode home.
Later, Farid sat alone in his quarters and mourned his son. Yasmina knew men cried silently in their hearts, more for the loss of a son than the loss of a daughter.
During the next few days, Yasmina went to care for her little girl, Shamsah. With Zaffeera’s support, they spent hours helping Shamsah to accept the fact that her brother and sister had returned to heaven.
One night, Yasmina went to Kettayef’s room to read to him, something she had not done in a long time. Her boy looked into her eyes. Articulating each word, still with a certain degree of effort, he said: “Mother, Nageeb … said I must … speak … now.”
When Yasmina heard her young son’s voice for the first time, she grabbed him, cried, and kissed him all over his head. “Kettayef! You can speak!” She screamed and wailed as her cries of joy echoed through the corridors, announcing to everyone that a miracle, an act of God had just occurred.
From that moment on, the Fendil family decided it was time to put their misfortunes behind them. They were going to care for the other children God had given them, and Yasmina knew it was time to appreciate them—every moment of every day, and give thanks to the grace of Allah, because like Zaffeera—who had been strong for them all—they were also in good health.
Yasmina Fendil had even thought perhaps it was time to spend private moments with her husband. No one could ever replace the children God took away. But she was still young enough to conceive. She could bear another son. Perhaps one more daughter as beautiful as Noora, if that were possible. It was too soon to bring up the subject, and she felt embarrassed to discuss her feelings with her husband, who was too busy with his business—and his grief.
But then, another unexpected event occurred—something extraordinary that only Allah could explain—which helped Yasmina close the heavy doors of sorrow: Michel Amir honored the Fendil family by asking Zaffeera for her hand in marriage.
CHAPTER 21
OASIS MIRAGE
Several weeks had passed since the helicopter crash, and Noora was able to lift herself up in bed—but she still felt dizzy, unless she moved very slowly.
She started eating more solid foods: fresh-baked pita bread with goat cheese, mixed with cut-up tomatoes and sprinkled with dried fragrant herbs, luscious cookies and date cakes. Slowly, as she began to regain her strength, she took small steps around the bed at first, and later with Dweezoul’s help, she walked around inside the hut.
One morning, Dweezoul walked in and took Noora by the hand. This time, he guided her outside. She was unsteady and a bit frightened. The sun shone so brightly, she couldn’t see. She wanted to crawl back into her sand bed, but Dweezoul encouraged her to hold on to his arm and continue. “You can do it, Noora, you can!”
Dweezoul stood patiently with her, and waited as her eyes slowly adjusted to the bright daylight. Rows of mud huts, baked by the sun to a pale peach, began to focus into her view as she walked slowly farther and farther from Um Faheema’s main hut at the top of a small hill. Other huts in the village were smaller and surrounded by pink-and-white miniature picket fences, overflowing with flowers—mostly pink and purple bougainvilleas. There were apricot trees, orange trees here and there, short and tall date palms, shading her way. Noora looked around in wonderment.
Such a lush oasis in the middle of the desert?
Women, young and old, dressed in black, came out of their homes, some holding babies, others passing by balancing a water jug on their head, waving at her. Everyone was smiling, greeting her as she continued down the palm-shaded path. Children scampered around, laughing and cheering, and even Saloush came to her side, followed by other goats. The soft grass massaged her feet as she walked. She continued down a pathway bordered by a long row of dwarf citrus trees. Dweezoul remained by her side, holding her hand, guiding her along. Further down, beyond another row of small palms and brush, a vision of turquoise slowly took shape.
Tiny waves of clear, transparent water gently lapped on a powdery, golden shore. A pond? Noora blinked several times to focus. No, this was more like a lake. Surely it had to be a dream—or a mirage, for nothing could be so beautiful.
Slowly, she walked along the smooth, wet sand lining the water. She dipped her feet in. It was cold at first, but she quickly grew accustomed to the cool, refreshing liquid. She made her way down deeper in the water and gradually sank in. She was dreaming, and wished she could remain there—as long as possible. When she began to move her limbs—carefully at first—she felt rejuvenated. She was not worried that the water might be too deep. But when it reached her neck, she swam closer to shore and let herself float. She must have entered some kind of a blissful state; all her senses were renewed.
She wanted to remove the white cotton garb she wore so she could feel the cool water caress her entire body. Dweezoul had disappeared by then, and only the village women were standing at the edge, cooling their feet, happily watching her.
When Noora slowly waded to shore, the women followed. Forming a tight ring, they slipped off her dripping cheesecloth gown. Noora did not feel threatened by them, but she wondered what they were about to do to her. They were all smiling while they dried her off with large colorful woven cloths that were as absorbent as towels. Over her head, they slipped a black traditional robe similar to the ones they wore. One by one, they introduced themselves by name. The first one pointed to her chest and said her given name was Ouahdah. The second one pointed to herself and said, “Tneinah.” The third one said, “Ashrah,” and so on. Noor
a wondered why their names sounded like consecutive numbers in Arabic.
They guided her to the shade of a short palm with a fat trunk. They all bowed as if she were some high priestess, then shuffled away, leaving her alone.
Dweezoul, Um Faheema, and a tall, thin woman appeared, carrying large copper platters of apricots, dates, and something that looked like teacakes, covered with powdered sugar. They placed the trays in front of her.
“This is our aunt Zeinab,” Dweezoul said. “She can bake whatever it is you want, and later, if you like, she will be proud to show you the ovens that she built herself. With my help, too, of course.”
Noora was speechless. The only thing she could mutter was, “Shokran …”
“You are welcome,” the tall woman mumbled humbly, “Bent el Noor.”
Daughter of light? Why would she call me that?
“Her aagwas are the best. Like what you would expect to eat in the best bakeries in the world, or even in heaven,” Dweezoul said.
Aunt Zeinab bowed her head, and following Um Faheema, she walked away.
Dweezoul flopped down across from Noora and wiggled himself into a comfortable position on the sand.
“I bet you think I am much older than I really am.”
“How old are you? If I may ask?”
“I am eleven years, and you are welcome to ask anything you want,” he said, his eyes resting on the tray of goodies. “How can you look at the aagwas, smell them so close, and not want to devour at least one?” He picked up the tray. “Please, try one.”
Noora took one of the round teacakes and began to eat. “Mmm … melts like butter.”
“Indeed.” He served himself one of the cakes. He popped the entire thing in his mouth. “Dee-licious,” he said, his mouth stuffed. “You are sitting under the tree of energy,” he remarked, puffing out some powdered sugar as he spoke.
The boy was so lively, Noora couldn’t help but smile, watching him as he smacked his lips and licked his fingers. She noticed that when it came to sweets, Dweezoul acted like a typical kid. But there was something about his eyes. When he was quiet and looked straight at her, they seemed older, reflecting much wisdom.
“Eat, eat. Um Faheema’s mish-mish are the sweetest.”
She picked an apricot and passed its smooth surface across her cheek. She inhaled its sweet fragrance and took a small bite. Juice squirted down her chin. Indeed, she had never tasted apricots so sweet.
“You see? I told you,” he said, smiling. “Rest your back on the tree. It will bring you peace and energy. Now you are not sick anymore,” he announced. He looked up and squinted at the sun. “It is naptime.” He rose to his feet. “Enjoy the sweets. Um Faheema will be back with more treats!” He shuffled off.
Noora looked around. All was quiet now. Not even the sound of children’s laughter or even Saloush’s bleating. Was everyone in the village napping? The gentle rustle of palm fronds above soothed her, and she was lulled to sleep.
CHAPTER 22
A MISSING PIECE OF THE PUZZLE
Farid Fendil sat in the darkness of his office. The gloomy atmosphere matched his mood.
“Father, it’s Nageeb. Cairo had a strong earthquake, as you probably heard. The hospital suffered no damage. But they need me to help with casualties. I … I have to fly back to Cairo immediately …”
He detected the uneasy pause in his son’s voice on the answering machine. “I’ll call you when … Inshallah, I’ll call you soon, when the phone lines are not overloaded. Ma’al salaama…”
He had heard the same announcement at least a dozen times—the last message received from Nageeb before the helicopter crash. He had made a copy of the tape and kept it on the top drawer of his desk. He pressed the instant replay and listened again to his son’s last words.
There was something about Nageeb’s message that did not feel right—something just didn’t add up. The Tiffany clock on his desk chimed. Three in the morning already, and he was still filled with questions. Nageeb had seemed evasive. He was definitely hiding something … What was he concealing? Frustrated, Farid rose from his chair.
He took the service elevator down to his sixteen-car garage.
On yet another sleepless night, Abdo decided to go to the garage and polish Nageeb’s car. Privately grieving over the loss of Nageeb and the fact that there were too many unanswered questions, he found that waxing and polishing the black Mercedes helped him deal with his sorrow and his troubled mind. Nageeb’s car had been recovered in Aqaba, and luckily, when it was towed back to Al-Balladi, Farid was not home. Abdo had cleaned away Noora’s bloodstains in the back seat, but there were a few stubborn ones on the carpet that he was unable to remove. The hubcaps, phone, and sound system had been stolen by vandals. They were all replaced, as per Mr. Fendil’s orders. No one mentioned the stains to Abdo. If anyone said anything to Nageeb’s father when they found the car, Abdo was not told.
Was there a chance that Noora survived? Was she still in Eilat? He had called the timeshare resort where Nageeb and Noora stayed. They had checked out. There was no report of a woman in the helicopter, he reminded himself yet again. There were two casualties, the authorities had said—the pilot and the passenger. So where was Noora?
Abdo was startled when his surrogate father appeared, approaching him. Dressed in his traditional gallabeya, Farid Fendil—who never came to his garage in the middle of the night—was now shuffling heavily in his leather house slippers. He put a heavy hand on Abdo’s shoulder and shook him slightly. “It’s yours,” he murmured, blinking his eyes nervously. “Nageeb would have wanted it that way.” He shuffled away, leaving Abdo dumbfounded. “I’ll sign the papers over to you tomorrow,” Farid added over his shoulder. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, sounding like a foghorn echoing through the huge garage. He headed away and stopped in front of the white Rolls-Royce convertible Corniche that gleamed under the recessed lighting. He turned to Abdo and asked, “Is the Corniche ready?”
“Yes, Abu Nageeb,” Abdo replied, calling him Father of Nageeb out of habit. He was glad that the part for the air conditioner had finally arrived from England, and he had decided not to put off repairing the Rolls, even though Abu Fendil hardly ever drove that car.
After years of dealing with mechanics who were unable to keep his cars in perfect condition, Farid Fendil had awarded Abdo the job of full-time mechanic. He did not expect Abdo to wash and wax his cars as well—he had a special team to clean and detail his Al-Balladi cars, but Abdo enjoyed the process. He was meticulous about keeping Farid Fendil’s cars all in perfect condition and waxed to a mirrored finish. The process of washing and waxing cars actually helped Abdo think. And at times, it helped him not to think.
Nervously folding the soft polishing cloth into a small square, Abdo watched Farid from the corner of his eye, as the weary man climbed into his Rolls-Royce. One of the garage doors clicked open, bringing a whiff of cool desert night air. The car made its regal way out of the garage and into the night. As the door slowly slid back down, Abdo wondered why Farid Fendil would want to give him Nageeb’s car. He did not need it, even if it was worth a fortune. Nothing seemed worth anything anymore, Abdo thought bitterly. Besides, he had his own four-by-four Jeep, in addition to the twenty-year-old Mercedes 300 Diesel. With over a quarter of a million miles to its credit, the old Benz still handled just fine. He was thankful, however, not because of Abu Farid’s generous gift, but for what was probably a gesture of gratitude.
But why did he decide to drive the Rolls at this time of the night, and in his house slippers? Where was he going at this hour? As much as it concerned him, Abdo knew it was none of his business. It was certainly not up to him to question Farid Fendil’s outings. Perhaps torment over his son’s death left him restless. Perhaps he was headed to the mosque to pray?
Farid stopped his car at the intersection of two major highways. The roads were dimly lit and there were no cars in sight. He pressed the lighted buttons of the tortoise-shelled, gold
-trimmed mobile telephone receiver.
“Is this the magnificent Madame Medina?” For the first time in a long time, he found himself smiling.
“Yes, it is,” the sleepy female voice answered.
“This is Farid Fendil,” he said, making a sharp turn onto an unpaved highway and heading away from the mosque.
CHAPTER 23
LIFE IN THE DESERT
As the weeks and months elapsed, Noora was more at ease with her Bedouin friends. In the beginning, she had a difficult time understanding their dialect, even though many of their words and sentences were similar to the Arabic of Egypt. Now she could easily understand them.
Noora spent most of her days helping the women in their daily chores. They taught her how to care for the goats, sheep, and chickens. But under the blazing sun, Noora quickly tired. Um Faheema tried to give Noora easier chores, but Noora wanted to keep up with the rest of the women, who seemed tireless and efficient in their tasks. After the midday meal, Noora usually napped, as the children did. After their nap, they drank the cool apricot juice the women brought them. Noora looked forward to this time each day, when all the children gathered to sing songs and play games, always with Saloush tagging along.
In the late afternoon, Noora helped Um Faheema crush and put away the herbs that had dried in the sun.
Soon after sunset was their suppertime. They ate a simpler meal than the one at midday. They had goat cheese, omelettes and hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, just-baked pita bread, and fruitcakes filled with sweetmeats. They drank aromatic sweet herbal teas, served in shiny silver vessels, which their ancestors had made centuries before. The children enjoyed foot-long lollipops made from molasses and sugar and ground almonds—probably the most succulent treats Noora had ever tasted.
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