Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Noora wanted to stay awhile longer, watching the fisherman feed the birds, but he stood up.

  “I have to go back to work, my friends,” he said to the pigeons, “if I want to make it to Marseilles!” He lifted his cap to Noora, nodded a polite adieu, and began to walk away.

  “Excuse me, sir, did you say you were going to Marseilles?”

  “Yes. First stop in Athens. Then Marseilles.”

  “How long does it take to sail to Marseilles?”

  “About four days, not long.” Again, he lifted his cap to Noora, clicked his heels, and headed back to his fishing boat, the Lydia.

  Noora studied the boat, wondering idly if this rusty old bucket could get her to Nice. Wasn’t Marseilles near Nice?

  Noora paid the taxi driver and climbed out of the car, dazed at the sight before her. She scarcely recognized the façade of the Cecile Hotel, because the structure was in the midst of remodeling. She entered through the revolving doors into the familiar marble lobby, decorated with tapestries. A group of tourists had just arrived by van. They looked like Americans, but spoke animatedly in French and Arabic. Luggage was stacked in the lobby, and the bellmen were busy attending to the new arrivals. Noora stood in line at the registration desk. She should have called first to find out if there was a room available. If she paid for one night in advance, perhaps they would not insist on a credit card. She could concoct a story that she was waiting for her brother, who had been delayed and was on his way. She had enough money.

  That’s when she saw him. The man with the mustache! The same man she had seen in London. Her heart began to race. He was sitting in the lobby with two other men, holding a demitasse midway to his mouth. From across the lobby, he stared at her.

  Oh God! She turned away and looked down, holding her bag tightly.

  “May I help you, please?” Noora heard the clerk behind the counter say.

  “Oh. Thank you … I …” Why hadn’t I thought of wearing a veil to conceal my face?

  Hands grabbed her by the shoulders from behind. He jerked her around to face him.

  “You!” he said, and spat right at her face.

  Another man rushed up and screamed in Arabic, “Moustafa! What are you doing?”

  As Moustafa turned to the other man, Noora managed to break free. Holding tightly to her bag, she ran out through the revolving doors. She flew down the sidewalk and made a quick left around the building to the seacoast road. Nearly getting hit by the oncoming cars, Noora dodged her way across the boulevard. Cars honked furiously. She heard the sounds of screeching brakes and angry drivers shouting.

  She ran faster than she believed possible. A few minutes later, as she mingled in a sea of pedestrians along the wide sidewalk, she slowed down to catch her breath. Narrow cement steps led down to the beach. As she was about to take the stairs, she ventured a quick glance over her shoulder. To her horror, the Arab man, in his shark-colored suit and red tie was rapidly gaining speed, getting closer.

  “Stop! Thief!” she heard him shout.

  Trying to escape, she bumped into a tall man in a white garb, who grabbed her. Hitting him with her Bedouin bag, Noora managed to push him away and break free just as her pursuer was about to jump on her. She spotted a bus passing by on the street.

  Two boys in traditional striped pajamas were happily riding on the bus’s rear bumper. She chased after the bus. Behind her, cars honked, and people screamed for her to get out of the road.

  “El ha’ooni! Help me!” she yelled out to the kids over the noise of the traffic.

  The two youngsters reached out their hands. But the bus was going too fast, and Noora could not touch even the tips of their fingers.

  “Throw your bag,” one of the boys yelled. Noora hesitated then threw it and he caught it like a ball. He grinned with pride. The other boy stretched out one arm to Noora while his friend held on to the elastic band of his pants.

  The bus picked up speed, and the Arab man was gaining on her. Noora did not think she could go on. The bus suddenly slowed as it neared an intersection, and Noora was lifted up on the ledge by the surprisingly strong arms of the boys. Moustafa ran faster, furiously trying to grab her off the rear bumper. Noora sat on the wide bumper between the boys, supported herself by their arms on each side, held her legs up, and kicked her pursuer in the face.

  Passengers on the bus were watching from the back window above Noora. Her kick incapacitated him, but only for a brief moment. He came after her, faster, angrier, reaching out to yank her off. The bus crossed the intersection. Picking up speed, it spewed out black fumes. Her pursuer was out of view, hidden by a noxious cloud of black smoke. More cars were honking. When the exhaust fumes began to dissipate, Noora spotted him coughing, at the edge of a sidewalk. Not seeming to care why the girl was being chased, the boys who rescued her whistled at the pursuer, jeering and waving their arms as if they had just won a race. The man disappeared behind heavy traffic.

  Noora was out of breath. Moustafa. Now she knew his first name. She put a hand to her chest and felt a sudden cooling sensation from the blue stone on the copper chain Um Faheema had given her.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE SEA VOYAGE

  Sailing through an unusually rough sea, the Lydia creaked, and everything not nailed down banged and bumped in the night. Noora thought the old fishing boat would split apart and she would surely drown. The way she was feeling, death seemed like a preferable alternative.

  Three more days, and Yorgho—the man who communed with pigeons—would dock his old, smelly fishing boat in Marseilles. He had given her a nice little cabin with a tiny but private bath, where she spent most of her time. He had told her she should sleep out on the bridge if she was so sick. Noora felt safer locked in her cabin. She was not sure she could trust the man, though he seemed harmless and was constantly busy with his work. Finally, Yorgho convinced her to get some fresh air. He brought a lounge chair on deck for her. Even though it was the middle of May, the cold wind howled as if they were in the middle of winter.

  “Is just a passing storm, nut’ing serious.”

  Serious or not, she barely missed his shoes when the next bout of nausea struck.

  “Please forgive me,” she cried.

  “Is okay,” he laughed. “You get used to it, Bebba.”

  He went downstairs, leaving her alone on deck in her misery.

  She must be the only woman on board. How could she have been so naive? A Greek fisherman and the Italian seaman who had helped her upstairs could do anything they wanted with her. She would be at their mercy, she thought, as she dragged her way to the rail and vomited again, though there was nothing now but bile in her stomach. Yorgho said she should eat something and watch the horizon. He appeared bored with her. He seemed, however, to have a decent disposition. If not, those pigeons would never have gotten so close to him. Pigeons, she thought, instinctively knew the difference between good and evil. Like all animals.

  Resting on a teak deck chaise with shredded canvas upholstery, Noora nodded off into an exhausted sleep. She dreamed she was on a white horse, galloping along the seashore. She was the only one riding, while everyone else lounged beneath blue-and-white-striped parasols. Beautiful couples, dressed in fine clothing, were watching her, smiling, as her white stallion galloped gallantly along the beach. She heard the music of Dweezoul’s favorite song, Sarah Vaughn’s “Broken Hearted Melody.” Somehow, the dream brought calm to her torment. The wind began to feel cold again, waking her to consciousness. Slowly she rose and made her way back to her cabin, while the Lydia headed north, rising upon the swells, then slapping hard into the troughs.

  Soon she would be in Nice. There, women could wear a bikini and swim wherever they pleased. Girls could even go topless. In Alexandria, women could not even wear bathing suits—they had to keep their arms, legs, and heads covered. She remembered again Dweezoul’s wise words: Maybe things do work out for the best. Holding on to her Bedouin blanket, Noora fell asleep on the narrow cot.

/>   She was awakened by a heavyset woman, holding a tray of food. Noora sat up. A woman on board?

  The woman said something in Greek to Noora, showing her a tray with hot cereal and a tall glass of steaming milk. She placed the tray at the foot of the cot, smiled, and left. Noora tried to go after her, but the woman disappeared behind one of the cabin doors. Noora returned to her cabin and closed the door. She stared at the hot cream of wheat, inhaling the inviting aroma.

  Later that evening, Noora managed to wash under the showerhead that sent down intermittent blasts of cold and hot water. Splashing water on her face, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the stained chrome mirror of her tiny bathroom. She scarcely recognized herself. Her face was a grayish green. Her eyes were puffy. The scar that ran down her right eye seemed more prominent. She dried her body with a small hand towel.

  There was a persistent knock on the door. Unable to find something clean to wear, she slipped on her soiled yellow dress.

  “Good morning,” Yorgho said. He removed his cap. “How are you doing, good?” he queried in Greek, then switched to English. “You look more better.”

  Noora ventured a smile.

  “Good morning,” she nodded. Let him think I’m English. Anything but who I really am.

  “You like the breakfast, yes?” he asked as he replaced his dust-encrusted cap, hiding his greasy, thinning hair and bald spot.

  “Yes. The woman who brought me breakfast,” Noora ventured, unable to contain her curiosity, “is she your wife?”

  “Ohhy, ohhy, ohhy! No, no, no!” he said, as if he had been insulted. “She belong to Yanni!”

  Noora thought Yanni must have been the handsome seaman who helped her on the bridge the night before.

  “Yanni is Italian who work for me!” He knocked on his chest boastfully. “Obleevia, she work for both us two! She cook a lot. She eat a lot too!” He chortled. “May I come in, pleeze? I need to see someting leaking.”

  Already brushing past her, he headed straight to the wall next to her cot and pointed to a slight trickle dribbling down the wall and collecting in a little puddle on the flimsy carpet at the foot of her cot.

  “Aha! I feex it. No problem. Obleevia, she has good eyes.” He turned and looked at Noora, who grabbed her Bedouin blanket and wrapped it around herself. She knew her yellow dress smelled like vomit.

  “Eef you need wash clothes, Obleevia she wash for you. She hang laun-dree in boiler and everyting dry very queek. Queeker than sun.”

  He himself did not smell too grand, reeking of a mixture of stale tobacco, fish, and some kind of musk cologne that failed to conceal his pungent body odor.

  “Where did you learn to speak English so well?” she found herself saying, then immediately regretting it, because it would keep him longer in her cabin.

  “I speak seven languages! And you don’t speak Greek?”

  “Just a couple of words actually, like tee kannes, how are you, and goodbye. And also, oppa!” She laughed nervously, wishing she had kept her mouth shut.

  “Ah, tee kannes. Kalla. I am fine. Very good. Greek is the prettiest language in the whole wahrld,” he said, gesturing with his hands to form an imaginary sphere. “You change an’ go upstairs. Nice day. Storm is passed. Fineesh. Sun is good and hot now. Sea is no more agitated.”

  “Where can I find Olivia?”

  “No, no. Obbleevi-a. Obleevia-blimp. You know what eez blimp? Like zat.” He mimicked a gorilla. “I go get her.”

  “Thank you,” Noora said, quickly closing the door behind him. He probably had a key to her cabin. He’d be back soon to repair the leak.

  After the terrible first night on board the rusty old Lydia, the trip improved. Noora began to enjoy standing by the rail as the wind slapped her face and the ship cut through the sea. She spotted schools of dolphins, one after another. Multicolored fish streamed beside the Lydia. By now, the boat was laden with tuna. Noora had not realized so many fish could be caught in one afternoon. The men handled nets expertly, and in no time, mounds of shimmering fish were packed as tightly as sardines into steel containers filled with sea water. As soon as they were full, the containers sank like elevators down to refrigerated compartments. Poor fish, she thought. Um Faheema and Dweezoul would not have liked to have seen that.

  In time, Noora began to feel less apprehensive about her four companions, and she was grateful they left her alone. Yanni, the good-looking Italian, had pumped muscles and a navy-blue-and-white-striped T-shirt that he seemed to never change. Despite his powerful build, Yanni looked puny next to Obleevia. Yorgho appeared intimidated by the woman and stayed well out of her way.

  There was another seaman, a little chunky fellow who was never introduced to Noora. He was a dwarf, a little over three feet tall. She tried not to stare. He seemed an unfriendly little character, with large, black, deeply set piercing eyes.

  When the Lydia arrived in Athens, Noora felt happy, anxious, and impatient. She was getting closer to Nice.

  “You can leave ze boat. Come back before nighttime. Take tour to Acropolis, eef you like. Eez very old,” Yorgho said. “We sail to sea very, very early tomorrow. Before the sun comes up. Very bee-zy now. Much work to finish.”

  When Noora set foot on the Athens dock, she felt dizzy. The dock seemed to be swaying. Was it an earthquake? She was about to rush back on board when it occurred to her that she had been at sea for four days and she had lost the feeling of her “land legs.”

  Up ahead, a crowd of seamen and travelers from other cargo ships that had just arrived began forming a line into Customs. Noora had forgotten a critical detail: She had no papers. How was she ever going to get through Customs at Nice? How could she have been so stupid? She wanted to run back to the Lydia, but the gangplank was removed. She could not find Yorgho, his crewmen, or Obleevia.

  A seagull landed nearby.

  “If I were a seagull,” she thought as tears welled, “I would fly to France.”

  “Eh, Bebba!” Yorgho called as he pushed his way through a crowd of dockworkers. The seagull flapped its wide, majestic wings and flew into the vast blue sky.

  “What you doing? You need to go over dere!” He pointed to the Customs building.

  “I changed my mind. I need to get back on board.”

  “Ah, les filles. They change mind all de time. Okay. Come.”

  “You took away the gangway,” she said, rushing after him.

  “What?”

  “The bridge.”

  “We take away because we want no monkey business and pirates on my Lydia! Capisce?”

  “Pirates?”

  “Thieves.” Yorgho whistled shrilly up to the deck. From the Lydia, the dwarf’s large head and serious face appeared out of a small porthole.

  “Marius, he weel help you. No changing of mind so much,” he said, moving closer to her.

  She could see the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead under the hot sunlight. He smelled like fish and major body odor.

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  The dwarf began to roll down the gangplank while Yorgho spotted other seamen and walked off with them, rambling on joyfully in Greek. He seemed well-known and well-liked.

  Once on board, Noora searched for Obleevia. For the first time, she ventured everywhere, discovering many cabins, mostly tiny, and a cozy one that looked like a living room. There was no sign of Obleevia. She found the kitchen, where a fresh-baked braided loaf of bread was on the counter.

  Noora caught a glimpse of the dwarf in a dark corner of the narrow hallway. He faded silently back in the shadow.

  She lay awake that night, worrying about a passport. What could she do? There was no solution. She drifted into an uneasy sleep.

  The Lydia’s engines woke her before dawn. They were underway. Destination: Marseilles.

  She made her way up to the deck, and found Yorgho sitting on a stack of thick ropes, staring out to sea. As Noora approached, he jumped up, putting on a toothy smile, so wide that she saw the gleaming golden teeth in
both corners of his mouth.

  “Ah, good morning. You had a good rest?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Noora replied, noticing the sky, glowing with pink, orange, and blue hues. She was relieved to see there was no storm and the sea was calm. “Where is Obleevia?” she asked.

  “Busy with Yanni.” He formed a fist with his left hand and thrust his middle finger in and out, suggesting they were fornicating.

  “Oh …” she said, trying to appear nonchalant. She turned and headed back downstairs. Up to now, he had been polite. This surprising gesture made her terribly uneasy. Just because pigeons responded to him did not mean he was to be trusted, she reminded herself.

  When she reached her cabin, she found Obleevia carrying away her food tray. “Thank you!” Noora said in Greek.

  Obleevia turned and smiled at Noora.

  The next day, as the Lydia glided on calm seas under a gray sky that sent a steady drizzle, Noora stayed in her cabin.

  Late in the afternoon, there was a knock on her door.

  “Obleevia say I am insolent, because I should invite you to captain’s table. Join me for supper, please,” Yorgho said, the second Noora cracked the door open. He stood two feet from Noora, breathing hard. He stank of stale tobacco and strong mouthwash.

  The dinner table was nicely set, with a yellowed but clean tablecloth. Yorgho sat without his cap, his hair combed back, sticking to his scalp and perfectly parted to one side. Noora realized “supper” was going to include only the two of them.

  “Who is navigating the boat?” Noora asked.

  “Marius.”

  She wondered where Yanni and Obleevia were, but this time, she had no intention of asking.

  Yorgho offered her rolls in a red plastic basket. The Greek was being a little too gallant, she thought. She nodded politely and took a roll, wishing she could be off the ship. She wondered if she could slip away tomorrow in Marseilles and hitch a ride to Nice. Or call Uncle Khayat from Marseilles?

  Yorgho was chatting away, telling her about the art of fishing, and boasting that he was the best on the Mediterranean. Noora sat up straight, trying to look as if she was paying attention.