How did the woman know about movies?
Um Faheema rose. Spreading her arms out wide and looming above Noora, she said, “Your dream was a message that you must continue on your journey.”
My journey? Noora bit her lip and put a hand to her scar by her eye. How could she leave the people who had become her family? Now that she was finally strong enough to help with the village chores, she had to leave? She could plant seeds, harvest, feed and care for the children. The young ones depended on Noora’s nightly story time. She also learned how to make pita bread, and even knit—from shawls to blankets to little booties for the newborns. She had even assisted the village midwife in two childbirths. It was not right to leave now. But then she thought of Nageeb’s urging, and the promise she made to him the last time she saw him. A strong shiver unconsciously shook her entire body. She hugged her blanket.
*
The first time Noora rode a camel was on a short visit to the pyramids of Giza with her family. She was twelve years old. She had had a rider with her and someone on foot holding the reins. She had been so scared of the camel she and Zaffeera were riding that she could not wait to jump off. Zaffeera had been more courageous, but not Noora. Now she was holding her own (but just barely), sitting on a grouchy creature with a mind of its own and doing a great job convincing Noora it was in charge. Dweezoul and the man they called Uncle Omar rode ahead. Their camels were certainly more tractable.
Uncle Omar had once been a desert bandit, Dweezoul told Noora, and no one could feel more comfortable in the desert than when accompanied by Uncle Omar. But like Um Faheema, could he predict weather changes in the desert?
She turned to bid her beloved Bedouin family adieu. Far in the distance now, all the villagers she had grown to love stood, forming a long line of well-wishers. Tears welled in her eyes, but she had to be strong.
“He will always be with you … in spirit,” Um Faheema had said.
Being with the Bedouins in that part of the world had made her feel connected to Nageeb. Noora’s chest ached as she thought of him. Um Faheema had also assured her that she would always be close, and she would send Noora soothing thoughts. Noora would miss her. She would miss the children and their melodious laughter. She would even miss Saloush, that silly, stubborn goat, who every morning licked her toes to announce that breakfast was ready.
As the camels plodded across the desert, Noora turned and gazed at the smooth domes of the golden clay huts sparkling beneath the sun. From a distance, the village seemed mystical, unreal. The glowing aquamarine pond reminded her of a precious jewel. She looked back until the village slowly dissolved into a haze on the horizon.
Um Faheema stood with the villagers as they waved a blessed Ma’al Salaama, a farewell to Noora—the one they named Light of the Desert.
Someday, Noora would return. Um Faheema would be waiting for her. By then, she herself would have taken on a different form—a lighter one, in the higher plane of existence.
Noora soon learned that the Bedouins had remedies for virtually everything that might go wrong. Before venturing out into the desert, she had been instructed to rub her body with a pungent herbal ointment that would keep her cool during the hours when the desert’s scorching heat reached as high as 126 degrees. Their camels were laden with all the necessary provisions. The large clay jugs they carried kept the water cool. Aunt Zeinab had filled sacks with her baked specialties, including her luscious aagwas. Um Faheema had loaded the camels with fresh lemons stuck full of cloves, sacks of dates, and sun-dried fruits.
High upon a rocky mountain now, Noora, Dweezoul, and Omar faced an endless sea of golden sand—an awesome universe spread out before them. As they descended into the desert, Noora’s camel suddenly picked up speed and launched into his turf, like an animal that had been set free. From that moment on, to her own surprise, Noora no longer feared the animal she had named Camelot. Camelot was certainly in harmony in his own element, and soon became as docile as a friendly horse.
Static drowned out Casey Kasem’s station on Dweezoul’s transistor radio, but they could hear modern Middle Eastern music. Noora, Camelot, and her traveling companions made the three-and-a-half-day journey through the desert to the swinging rhythm of lively Arabic songs.
CHAPTER 24
THE SOUQ
The sun rose high above a citadel that loomed over the dilapidated buildings of an ancient marketplace.
Noora had not seen such a dense and noisy crowd since she had visited a souq in the outskirts of Cairo when she was a child. Here, it seemed as if she had stepped back into the Middle Ages. Hundreds of men, women, and children milled about in traditional dress on one long, narrow street.
The air was heavy with smoke from grilled lamb, incense, and spices. Noora realized that at Um Faheema’s Bedouin village, she never saw or smelled the roasting of lamb—or any meat. The animals of Um Faheema’s oasis were their pets and gave milk, but were not eaten.
Omar and Dweezoul had left their camels in a campsite where vendors were setting up their tents for the cold nights.
At the edge of the souq’s narrow strip, Dweezoul helped Omar put up their kiosk. Noora watched with amazement as her companions rapidly unrolled bolts of canvas, nailed wooden sticks, spread out colorful tabletops, and in no time assembled a large kiosk with an extending tent. They laid out their finest goat cheese, the diversity of Aunt Zeinab’s luscious baked goods, Um Faheema’s essential oils in a variety of tiny ornate alabaster jars—their best sellers; plus aromatic dried herbs in small, hand-woven pouches.
Noora’s traditional long garb and veil were far too hot in the midday sun. Um Faheema had advised her to wear the complete attire so she would not attract attention. But Noora had to drop her veil so she could at least breathe.
Dweezoul prepared a tall glass of cool lemonade and added a few drops of Um Faheema’s condensed oil of chrysanthemum, other herbal nutrients, and stevia to sweeten the drink. He dipped in mint leaves and offered it to Noora, who gladly found a spot in the shade.
“Thousands of years ago,” Dweezoul said, seemingly unaffected by the heat, “The Source of All offered seeds to a hawk, who flew above our land and dropped them for our ancestors to plant. The herbs grew fast, and our people grew healthy and disease-free.”
“May Allah bless you,” she said, savoring the cool drink. “This is really refreshing.”
Covered in black from head to toe, except for their eyes, women of childbearing age lined up in front of Omar and Dweezoul’s kiosk. Some were carrying their babies wearing bright bonnets with strings of blue beads sewn into them. Noora wished she could hold one of them. By now, Noora thought, she could have had one of her own. She and Michel … Don’t think about that, Noora. You must help your friends and not be a burden to anyone anymore.
“Here, Noora! Inhale this,” Dweezoul said cheerfully.
She buried her nose in one of the sachets and breathed in a lungful. “Thank you, Dweezoul, thank you and may Allah …”
“Most welcome! You know, if kids from the ghett-ohs inhaled these, they would never need drugs,” Dweezoul sang. He gave a customer a colorfully wrapped treat for her toddler.
“Where did you learn that? From your radio?” Noora said, helping Omar with the long line of customers.
“I learned from Elvis Presley’s song, ‘In-the-ghett-oh!’ Come, my sister. Unfortunately, I see it is time for us to leave,” he said, fetching her bag.
“But Omar needs our help. We can’t leave him with all these customers.”
“Omar loves the chaos. Don’t worry about him. He’s cool.”
Omar turned to Noora and bowed low. Noora bowed back while shaking his hand. “Thank you for all you have done for me. May Allah keep you and bless you.”
He smiled. His teeth were brilliantly white, like the turban that appeared permanently planted on his head. In Arabic, he murmured, “May we see your face in happiness, daughter of light.”
Noora spotted a tear escaping from the corner
of his eye. “May God bring light upon you,” she replied in kind.
As Noora and Dweezoul headed for the train station, Noora was amazed.
“This is more like a city, not an oasis.”
“Most oases are vast. Except for ours. We are from a different energy.”
“Different energy?”
“Yes. I know a good shortcut to the train station. It’s through another souq. Come, let’s hurry.”
The Bedouin women had washed and repaired the yellow dress Noora had bought in Eilat. They managed to salvage it somehow, patching or reweaving the torn material and removing the blood stains. It looked practically new again. Noora was embarrassed because she did not remember if she thanked the women for their hard work. Noora would be able to wear the dress in Alexandria—in honor of Nageeb.
You see, Nageeb, I am keeping my promise. I am going to be with Uncle Khayat.
As they walked in the scorching heat, Noora unconsciously removed her headdress and pulled up her sleeves. “What happened to that cool cream we used in the desert?”
“It’s in your bag.” Dweezoul pulled out a small earthenware jar with a cork. “You must remember to always keep your face covered up to your nose and your arms must be covered too. All the way down to your fingers.”
“Yes, my brother,” she teased in Arabic, rolling her eyes.
“Hey, I didn’t make the rules. If it were up to me, I’d have all the girls in a bikini! Like in France. And America!” He switched to English and mimicked a perfect American accent. “It was an itsy-bitsy, teenee-weenee polka-dot beekeenee…” he sang, guiding her away from the passing crowd of men who were giving Noora a disapproving stare.
“This man-made tradition, and I doubt it is really a tradition, is ridiculous. It’s too hot,” Noora complained as they stood on a narrow street with rows of medieval structures. She rolled down her sleeves. “We could get so much more done if we didn’t have to cover up our arms.”
That’s when Noora realized it had become such a part of herself, she had forgotten. “Oh my goodness.”
“What?”
“My watch!”
“Yes?”
“Dweezoul!” she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “I can’t believe I didn’t even think of it.”
“Better not think of it. Whatever I think you’re thinking.”
“I can sell it!”
“Oh no!” He pounded his forehead. “I was afraid that’s what I thought you said … and no, no, you can’t …”
“Don’t you understand what this means?”
“It means forget it.”
“I can buy my own train ticket. And you can buy all the batteries you want. Don’t you see?”
“I don’t see it, and I don’t even want to think it.”
“Why?”
“It’s gold. It belongs to you. It’s of a personal matter.”
“It is impersonal if you can’t buy anything with it, and if I can sell it, we can even buy all the sugar from here to Hawaii,” Noora said, stroking the solid-gold watchband under her sleeve.
Dweezoul didn’t want to hear any more about the watch. He rushed ahead of her. “Please, Dweezoul. Please?”
“Souq El Kanto is less dense than Souq El Mogharba, where we left Uncle Omar, and it’s not far from the train station,” Dweezoul said.
Noora realized a richer clientele frequented the area. Men in turbans rode donkeys, and there were even a few Volkswagens, Toyota trucks, and noisy little motor scooters.
“First a medieval marketplace. Now it looks like we have entered into the late twentieth century,” Noora said. “I feel dizzy from it all.”
“You’re dizzy because you are hungry. And I am famished.”
“Yes, indeed, we must eat something. Something healthy.” With the thought of selling her watch, Noora insisted on going to the café across the street.
They took the table in a corner, and a waiter served their favorite Arabic food: spicy brown fava beans, strained the way Egyptian mothers prepared them for their children because of the high content of iron. They sprinkled their bowls of fool medammes with bits of hard-boiled eggs, and like kids, they dunked warm pita bread into the hot brown soup and licked their fingers with great delight.
Dweezoul finished his plate before Noora and set it aside. “It’s not right,” he said.
“I want to sell the watch. Do it for me, please.”
He pulled out something from his pocket. “Do me this favor, Noora. When you get to Alexandria, let go of this in the middle of the sea.”
“The middle of the sea?”
“Yes.”
Noora stared at the pebble he placed before her. How would she get to the middle of any sea?
“Every time you think of something sad, remember it is not so bad, but the wonder of the journey. When you return, and this you will do,” he said, placing the pebble in the palm of her hand, “this pebble will drift back to shore, and never again will you face a closed door.”
“You lost me, Dweezoul. Did you just recite some lyrics from a song?” She studied the pebble. What was so special about an ordinary little polished stone?
“No, it’s from our friends of the spirit world.”
“I’m guessing you don’t mean the radio.”
“A different radio. One that doesn’t need batteries,” he grinned. “It’s getting late,” Dweezoul said, standing. “Let’s give the good man a bakshish, and hurry. The stores will soon close.”
Noora dropped the little pebble in her pocket while Dweezoul placed a generous tip on the table for the waiter.
They had spent half the money Dweezoul and Omar had brought with them, on Noora’s one-way train ticket and on the restaurant. When he leafed through the information booklet about the train ride to Alexandria, Dweezoul found out the trip would take sixteen hours because it made many stops. Trains to Alexandria left only once a day, and always at noontime.
Noora realized they would need a lot more money than just the train fare. As the brilliant ball of orange sank beneath the horizon, so did her morale.
“We’ll have to return to Omar,” Dweezoul said. “No worries, he has made quite a bit by now from all the goods he sold today.”
“That money is for your village, Dweezoul.”
“Actually, we at the village get by very well without money,” Dweezoul said. He flipped on his radio. Sarah Vaughn’s “Broken Hearted Melody” played. He raised the volume and held the radio to his ear. “I love that song. Don’t worry. Remember, things happen for good reason. They always do.”
Noora agreed this time, because she would have time to sell her watch and pay back Omar and Dweezoul.
The campsite was teeming with lively Arabic music and the scent of open-air cooking. “Ahlan. Ahlan wasahlan!” Omar said, putting his hands together in prayer, then clapping.
“We missed the train,” Noora explained.
“Things happen for good reason,” Omar said. He turned away, smiling, and kneeled to resume his cooking. He served the two of them lentil soup, rice, cooked vegetables, and a delicious chopped salad. “Hamdallah, you were meant to share this meal with me,” Omar said, pouring aromatic mint and honey tea in demitasses.
After their supper, Noora rested her head on a pillow that still carried the scent of Um Faheema’s herbs. Under a dimly lit lantern, she studied her watch, read and re-read the tiny inscription on the back.
My Arusah
Happy l6th
Your Father Forever
Forever? Tears welled in her eyes.
She still was not clear about what happened or why. When she told her story to Um Faheema, the wise woman had appeased her fears and anxiety. But Um Faheema didn’t encourage her to go back to her father. Did that mean that she could not go back? Not yet or not ever? She reminded herself again of her promise to Nageeb—she would not get in touch with their family. She had to remain in exile and stay with Uncle Khayat. If she could only remember what happened in London. But what
good would it do? She had been drinking and someone photographed her at a disco. Someone may have framed her—that man with the mustache? Still, it was her fault. She drank alcohol. She danced with strangers. She had shamed her father and everyone. The memory of the beating flashed through her body—he had hit her. He had kicked her. Tears flowed like a fountain now, and her stomach cramped. She pulled up her cover to her eyes. She couldn’t let Dweezoul see her in this condition. She wanted to fall into a deep sleep. Push away the feelings. The pain. Forget. Uncle Khayat will know what to do …
As the sky began to show its first light, the men rose with the raucous pre-dawn chorus of distant roosters. Noora woke to the inviting aroma of Turkish coffee. It appeared everyone was awake, hunched over the fire, sipping their demitasses and talking to each other. Arabs of all tribes must have passed through here for centuries, en route to distant shores. They seemed to know one another. In an endlessly changing world, Noora thought, this land remained unchanged.
Early in the morning, Noora and Dweezoul returned to the souq.
“Look at this modern little store. Looks like it’s open.” She pointed to a shop displaying a variety of modern jewelry.
“I was hoping you changed your mind.”
“I’ve made up my mind, Dweezoul, I’m sorry.”
Dweezoul pointed to a fruit cart across the street. “Okay. I’ll wait for you over there.”
A bell jingled as Noora entered through the opaque glass door protected by filigree ironwork. Like a whiff of cool air on a seashore, Noora felt immediately revived by the store’s air conditioner—a nice refuge from the stifling heat outside. She hadn’t imagined that modern amenity existed in this part of the world. But somehow and all too soon, Noora began to feel uneasy.
Behind a glass counter, the jeweler closed his display case against the wall and finally, he turned to face his only customer.
“Yes?” he asked in Arabic. He was not dressed like most men in the area. He wore black trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt.
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