The ocean seemed calmer now. Twinkling lights on the horizon appeared and disappeared as she rose and fell with the swells. She could swim toward that direction thanks to the life preserver that kept her afloat. But the salty sea burned her eyes, and her weary vision could deceive her. The luminous dots on the skyline could be miles away.
Her dress was not allowing her to swim freely. She managed to slip it off and wrap it around the life preserver.
Up ahead, a lighted yacht floated.
“Hey! Help!” She waved her exhausted arms.
There was no response. She realized there was no way anyone could see her from the boat.
Rest. I must rest, she thought. Then maybe I can scream. She did not want to close her eyes, for fear she might fall asleep and the yacht would sail away from her view. She nevertheless drifted into sleep.
She was slammed back to reality when the sounds of a motor approached. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from. The yacht was much closer now. A speedboat full of passengers was racing toward it.
Noora paddled closer, but she was still too far away to be heard.
Music drifted from the deck. By now, the yacht was close enough and she could see blue-and-white-fringed awnings dancing in the night’s breeze. Again she waved wearily.
There was a party going on. She could even hear glasses clinking and people laughing.
Guests from the motorboat were being helped on board. As she swam closer, she could see them clearly. Couples—men in tuxedos, women in shiny evening gowns.
The shrill laughter of a young woman wearing a bright red sparkling dress pierced the air as she was being helped on board by a few men.
If they should rescue me, what story would I tell them? Her chest tightened. Warm tears cascaded down her cold cheeks.
Noora swam closer to the yacht, out of sight of the approaching motorboat. She wrapped her dress around her neck and pulled herself up the anchor chain. In elementary school, she had been the fastest rope climber in gym class. She had practiced a system. Midway through her climbing, her dress slipped off and fell into the sea, floating rapidly away with the current. Noora hesitated, but decided to continue her climb. Exhausted, she didn’t think her arms could support her weight. Twisting her feet around the rope, slowly she climbed. The party was taking place at the opposite end of the boat. She fitted her foot into one of the yacht’s hanging lifebuoys, and with one last effort, heaved herself on board.
Wearing only underpants, she crouched in the shadows and waited while catching her breath. She crossed her arms around her bare breasts and sat shivering, waiting to gather her strength and her courage. She heard sounds of someone approaching above deck. She darted through a narrow passageway, in search of an open door, wishing she could find a towel or something to cover herself. She jiggled every door in her path. The fifth door opened and she stumbled inside.
She was in a large, luxurious cabin, dimly lit by candles everywhere. Soft music played from hidden speakers. A magnum-sized bottle of Cristal was chilling in a sparkling silver bucket, on a bright white tablecloth, with two place settings of gold-and-white china.
Keeping her breasts concealed by her hands, shivering even more from the air conditioning, Noora made a fast dash through another door, into a sumptuous powder room. She heard footsteps.
A large, shiny black marble bathtub was surrounded by thick, tall glowing candles on the marble ledge, along with a bottle of Dom Perignon champagne, which was nestled in a Lucite bucket filled with fresh ice cubes.
Noora reached for one of the monogrammed towels from the golden rack and quickly dried herself. She folded the towel and replaced it the way she found it. Two white peignoirs were hanging on electric racks. Too cold to resist, she grabbed a robe and slipped her shaky arms into the soft, warm terry cloth. She crouched in a corner behind the door, hugging herself. Her body shook uncontrollably and her teeth chattered. The warmth of the robe felt soothing, and slowly she was able to calm her trembling body.
She was startled at the shrill sound of someone whistling. A man began humming a happy tune. Noora realized she must have dozed off for at least twenty minutes, because the tall candles had burned a good way down. She had not heard him come into the stateroom. He popped a cork. It flew past the bathroom door and ricocheted on the wall not far from where Noora hid behind the door. The cork hit the tub, bounced a couple of times, rolled around and around, and finally landed next to the bathtub drain. The man came into the bathroom and turned on the light. Noora huddled closer to the wall behind the door. Spotting the cork, he bent to pick it up from the tub, his back to Noora. Clad in a white tuxedo jacket, he resembled the movie star, Cary Grant, at least from where she hid. He paused for what seemed to Noora like the longest and most uncomfortable minute. Finally, he turned on the faucet, selected one of the nearby jars of pink bath powder, and sprinkled some in the tub. He stopped, looked at the tub, and poured the entire container into the rushing water. He tossed the cork back in the tub and whistled off, shutting the door behind him.
Noora couldn’t believe he had not seen her. She could hear a phone ringing out in the stateroom.
“Hello? Yes! Good. Have Stefano escort her,” the man said.
With the slight rolling of the yacht, the bathroom door creaked open a few inches. Through the crack between the hinges, Noora could see what was going on in the stateroom.
A tall female appeared. Noora recognized the young woman in the shimmering red dress she had seen in the motorboat. Her stunning gown had a side slit that reached nearly up to her hip. Her golden hair was styled in a classy French twist.
Searching for a way to escape, Noora noticed the porthole above the tub. It was too small.
“You had to send me some fucking foreigner to greet me on board,” Noora heard the young woman say loudly. “Too big to do it yourself, huh, honneee.”
“Ah, Ana-leaze, please,” the man said.
Noora peeked through the hinges and saw the man putting his arms around the young woman and kissing her neck.
“Screw you.”
“With pleasure, my love.”
“Ooh, champagne. And caviar canapés? Surely you didn’t go through all this trouble for moi,” she sang out.
“Who else but you, mon amour?”
“Who else, you have the nerve.”
“I have another surprise for you, darling,” he announced, taking her by the hand. “Step into my powder room.”
She stopped him midway and wrapped her arms around him once again. “I love it when you spoil me. Turns me on.”
They kissed wildly.
“All right,” he said when they finally unplugged from one another. “We will keep my surprise for dessert. I’ve been yearning to have you all to myself. Most of all, darling, I’ve been yearning to taste you …”
Noora shrank behind the door. Trembling, she waited. Her throat tightened. What was she going to do now? Maybe she could pass for one of the guests. But how? What clothes could she steal and from where? Her hair was all matted. She probably stank like rotten fish. Perhaps she should just tell these people the truth: She had fallen off a fishing boat on her way to Nice. She wished she could shower. She wished she could die.
She knew her only option was to crawl out of the stateroom and hope the couple would be so wrapped up in each other, they wouldn’t notice her. As she began to make her way to the door, she was astonished by what she saw on the black satin bedspread.
The woman in the red sequins was on her back, her legs spread out, her dress pulled to the waist. The man had his face planted between her legs.
Noora tried to crawl out while the couple was thus occupied. The young woman suddenly rose and rested on her elbows. Noora quickly shrank back to her hiding place behind the door.
The golden faucet continued its gentle cascade and the water now reached the edge of the bathtub. Mounds of pink foam started flowing down the sides of the tub, drowning out the candles’ flames. Soon the man would have to swit
ch off that water.
The lovers seemed too busy. Noora sprang and turned off the faucet, then dashed back to her hiding place. The moaning from the stateroom got progressively louder. The woman let out a few yelps. Moments later, she heard the woman chuckling.
“Careful!” she giggled.
“You do it, then.”
“No, you do it …”
He was trying to help her remove her gown. It seemed they could not decide whether to slip it from the bottom or from the top.
“I wouldn’t want to mess your perfect chignon, darling. Your queenie hairdresser would never forgive me.”
Giggling like teenagers, they managed, and now the young woman was proudly displaying her nudity. She stretched her arms over her head and purred with lusty delight.
Noora recognized the woman whose face had graced magazines all over the world. She was Analissa Nielsen, the American movie star.
While the lovers were busy in the stateroom, Noora could no longer keep her eyes open. She nodded off. Um Faheema was humming a tune and smiling. Saloush the goat appeared behind her, bleating loud, louder.
She was slammed back to consciousness when the bleating became a loud shriek.
The movie starlet had sat on the black porcelain toilet when she discovered the stowaway crouched snugly behind the door.
Noora’s eyes popped open, and she found herself staring back at Analissa. Caught in the middle of relieving herself when she spotted Noora, the nude celebrity was unable to rise fast enough from the toilet, because she wasn’t done. She was screaming while pointing at Noora, as if she had discovered a mouse. Finally, Analissa Nielsen sprang to her feet, grabbed Noora by the hair, and pulled her out of her hiding corner and dragged her to the stateroom, shrieking all the while.
“Son of a bitch!” she yelped at the surprised lover who was stopped short of pouring champagne into a crystal flute.
The star’s long, red acrylic nails dug into Noora’s scalp. “This was my surprise? This is what you call dessert?!”
Noora screamed with pain.
“I’m no lesbo and I don’t share my men!”
With a burst of adrenaline, Noora managed to twist the starlet’s arm and break free. The furious Analissa lunged after Noora, grabbing her by the collar of the peignoir. Noora peeled out of the robe and tore out of the stateroom.
Clad only in her underwear, and in a moment of desperation, Noora climbed over the ramp.
Out on the main deck, guests were dancing to a hot Latin rhythm.
She hoped no one saw her silhouette diving overboard.
CHAPTER 30
YASMINA FENDIL’S REQUEST
The Fendil household was buzzing with excitement. Yasmina and her husband Farid set the date—July 6—for the marriage of their daughter Zaffeera to Michel. Gifts were already pouring in to the mansion’s delivery entrance.
Zaffeera stood on the verandah of her mother’s suite and watched the setting sun. She wore a long, black traditional dress, and a black veil covered her head.
Mrs. Fendil was resting on a lounge chair, her tired legs propped up. They were quite swollen at this time of day. She was hemming a dress for Shamsah.
“Out of respect to my dear sister Noora, I would like to keep my wedding simple and religious,” Zaffeera said, her back to her mother.
The evening’s call to prayer wafted from a distant minaret.
Mrs. Fendil sighed. Inshallah. If it were the will of Allah, a small, traditional wedding it would be. She had never been religious herself. Somehow lately, the whole family had turned to religion—Zaffeera most of all. Mrs. Fendil understood that religion was a comforting way to heal the pain one felt at the loss of a loved one. No, she corrected herself, two loved ones.
She put down her sewing and studied her daughter. She realized she had never known her as well as her other children. When Zaffeera was an infant, Yasmina had given her all her time because she was frail and needy; but she had neglected Nageeb and Noora. When Kettayef was born and Yasmina had been so preoccupied with her boy’s mysterious muteness, taking him from one specialist to another, she had neglected her other children. Especially Zaffeera who was quiet and shy, and had grown apart from the other siblings, and from Yasmina herself. Zaffeera was very intelligent and independent—in fact, she seemed to need nothing from her mother. After Noora’s accident, Zaffeera became more attentive toward Kettayef and Shamsah. She read to Shamsah every night. Zaffeera had also been the one who convinced the Al-Balladi Primary School principal to enroll Kettayef, who was now miraculously starting to form sentences.
Yasmina wondered what was on her daughter’s mind. Was she worried about becoming a wife? Did she know what would be expected of her? Perhaps Zaffeera was too embarrassed to ask questions. But she had received a modern education. Surely she would know what she was to do on her wedding night.
Zaffeera did not wish to face her mother, for fear that her eyes would reveal the lusty excitement and triumph she felt over finally conquering Michel. She swallowed hard before answering. “Aiwa, Ummy?” she said, turning slightly, and casting her eyes to the floor.
“I would like to ask a favor of you.”
“Yes, Mother, anything.”
“When you have a daughter, nothing would please me more than if you and Michel name her Noora.”
“Yes … Yes, Mother,” she replied, her voice breaking. She stood a calculated moment before rushing out of her mother’s room.
By the time she finally made it back to her room, Zaffeera was boiling.
“I shall never!” She said between clenched teeth. She made her way to her bathroom and locked the door.
“Over my dead body!” she growled at her reflection in the mirror. Besides, she would give him only sons. She would make sure of that.
CHAPTER 31
RESCUE ON THE RIVIERA
On a seashore filled with more pebbles than sand, Noora lay face down. Waves lapped at her bare feet. She was experiencing bizarre dreams—voices muttering, faces fading in and out of focus. Um Faheema’s face appeared. She was smiling, offering comfort.
Was she back at the village with Um Faheema? Noora wondered. Was she waking from a dream on her sand-filled bed? She could hear one of Dweezoul’s favorite songs. Did he have his transistor radio turned on? No, not possible. The only way she was back in the desert was if she were dead. Her eyes felt sticky. She remembered that earlier, she had felt a light drizzle falling on her achy back. Now her back felt warm and dry.
“Dis donc, excuse moi, mais tu vas t’faire brûler,” said the voice of a young woman, in a strong Parisian accent.
Keeping her face turned away, Noora tightened her arms around her head. The girl’s shadow felt unpleasantly cool on her back. She wanted heat.
When Noora didn’t respond, the woman continued in English. “Soon we’ll be able to fry an egg on your back!” Noora peered an eye out from under her arm. The girl’s shadow was still shading her. Standing about three feet from Noora, she was holding what looked like a bottle of suntan lotion.
“J’ai besoin de soleil,” Noora muttered, glad she still remembered some French. She wanted warmth. She needed SUN. But the young woman would not budge.
“Vous êtes Anglaise ou quoi?”
I’m not English! Why would she think that? “Go away, s’il vous plait,” Noora whimpered.
The girl remained planted in the same spot.
Noora managed to pull herself up a bit and ventured another quick glance. She couldn’t quite see the girl’s face in the sun’s glare.
“Whaat happen to you?!”
Noora squinted up and fell back to the sand. “Leave me alone.”
“Pardon … I mean no offense.”
Noora took a quick look around the vicinity. Further down the beach, young couples were sunbathing. The girls were topless.
Was she nude too? Horrified, Noora quickly felt her bottom. She was relieved to find she was still in her underwear—the yellow stretch knit pair she had boug
ht in Eilat.
“Where are you from?” The young woman persevered. “Are you here for ze festival?”
When Noora gave no response, the girl walked back to her beach mat. Before long, she was again at Noora’s side. She dropped her canvas bag, her towel, and herself three feet away.
“I am here early this morning to look at the beautiful Greek yacht zat just arrive. You were in same pozee-seeon. I go to work and when I come back after le dejeuner de midi and soon it will be sunset, and you are in same pozee-seeon. Surely something eez wrong … Did you lose your things?”
Noora opened her mouth to speak, but no voice came out. The ball in her throat was too large and she needed to cry.
“Maybe you should like a good after-sun low-seeon? Or une couverture … euh … une … towel?”
Noora could hear the honking of cars and the growling of motor scooters from the busy road above the beach. A French sixties song wafted faintly from somewhere nearby, reminding her of the happy times when she and Michel used to dance to old, romantic songs. Michel. She could still feel him close as the two of them swirled around the open-air terrace of San Stefano Beach.
“I like your aura,” the French girl said.
Noora turned to see who this person was. The girl wore a pale pink-and-white polka-dot bikini bottom and a white tank top. She stood about five feet seven inches. Her hair was brown, cut short à la gamine, with wispy strands framing her face. She had large, honey-brown Bambi eyes.
My or-what? “What did you say?” Noora had to ask. She could now feel the terrible aches all over her body.
“Your aura. It’s pink. And violet. Like a … rhain-bow. C’est joli. Pretty. Euh, I would say, like a crown almost. Interesting. Sounds cray-zee, non? But I can see auras. Sometime. Eet is a light. Eet comes from the top of our head.”
Noora’s head was pounding.
“Where are you from?” the girl asked her.
Water. If the stranger could perhaps be kind enough to let her have a little water. Noora managed to raise an achy arm and pointed to the sea. “There.”
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