Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “Oh la, la!” she exclaimed. “Eh ben dis donc,” she murmured to herself then remained silent for a long moment before speaking again. “I knew it. I saw it! Always because of men.” She plopped herself back down on the sand. Hugging her legs, she rested her chin on her knees and rocked herself. “He beat you up?”

  Noora didn’t answer.

  “Did you catch him with anozer girl? So you had to … escape and jump in the sea? Yes?”

  “Amazing,” Noora said, squinting against the glare.

  “All of life’s creation is amazing.”

  “You know Dweezoul?”

  “Pardon?” asked the French girl.

  Noora realized she was not thinking clearly. “Sorry … I don’t know. I just … wish I could have some water.”

  “Yes, yes, I have,” she said digging in her beach bag. She stopped and looked up. “Oh, pardon. Annette Bonjour,” she said, extending her hand to Noora.

  “Bonjour… And au revoir,” Noora said without taking the girl’s hand.

  “Non, non. Je m’appelle Annette Bonjour. Eez my name. And you?”

  Noora pulled herself up from the sand just a bit. She hesitated, then accepted the girl’s hand, keeping her other hand over her breasts.

  “Oh …” Noora stammered. She realized if she showed her bare breasts when she sat up, she would not look out of place in this part of the world.

  “Here. Have good fresh water,” the girl said, extending a large bottle of Evian. “Wait. I have a glass, even.”

  “I don’t need a glass …”

  “Yes, yes.” She dug in her beach bag again and produced a plastic wine goblet. She poured water and offered it to Noora, who gulped it all down in a matter of seconds. “You are so thirsty, pauvre chérie. One would sink you came from the desert.” The girl took the goblet from Noora, refilled it, and handed it back to her.

  “Thank you,” Noora said, hunching over to keep her breasts low to the sand.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ouch. My back is burning.” Her entire body ached more.

  “Let me poot some cold water in your back. It will … how eez the word? It will seezzle. But it will cool your hot skin. Zen we can poot a low-seeon.”

  “Thank you,” Noora said. The girl slowly poured water on Noora’s back and patted it gently.

  “That does feel better, thank you,” Noora said, starting to wonder why this stranger was so friendly.

  “Eef you go to the police, they will make you feel out all kinds of formalities, and believe me, it’s a waste of time,” she said, dropping her bottle of water in her bag. “Les hommes! Testicles of shit … Sorry. I get agitated when I sink how some men treat women. No respect. It is diss-grace-fool.”

  Noora wondered if the girl had an extra bottle of water … Perhaps she would not mind lending her just enough money for a local phone call and perhaps some clothes?

  Annette extracted a cigarette from her beach bag and lit it. “We flush our men down the toilette, and then we regret later. Why? Because … we need them later. Tsk, tsk,” she grumbled, shaking her head. She drew deeply on her cigarette, as she contemplated the yachts and slowly exhaled. The smoke drifted into Noora’s face.

  “Oh, j’m’excuse. I forgot, I queet!” Annette said, burying her cigarette in the sand. “I am asphyxiating you. I know you don’t smoke.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I am learning to be, how shall I say, une clairvoyante. It is a geeft, you know, but many don’t know it.”

  Noora turned and looked around, trying to figure out the map of her surroundings. Over her shoulder, she glanced inland and spotted international flags in the distance. They graced the façade of … the Carlton Hotel?

  I’m in Cannes?

  The fog lifted from Noora’s mind.

  Swimming with the tide toward the blinking lights on the horizon, she had actually landed on French soil … without a passport. Memories of her ordeal flashed. She escaped the actress who could have scratched her eyes out with those long fingernails. Noora remembered when she dove off the yacht and when a strong wave slammed her closer to shore, where strings of lights grew brighter and she could see cars moving along a seacoast road, giving her temporary hope. But the waves claimed her, dragging her out again. In the darkness, she had feared that surely she would be thrown toward the barrier of rocks that rose like jagged teeth waiting to crush her bones. She remembered she could barely lift an arm to swim. A shark could have easily attacked her. She slammed into one of the looming rocks, begging God for mercy that she would die quickly without suffering, and discovered it was a buoy. Somehow, she had avoided death—again.

  She reached for her neck. To her relief, Um Faheema’s amulet was still there.

  “I was saying zat you can borrow my towel,” Annette said, breaking into Noora’s thoughts.

  “Thank you so very much,” Noora muttered and took the warm, dry towel. “Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. My French is not so good.” Slowly and painfully, she managed to rise a few more inches from the sand.

  “Eez better zan my English. But I need to practice very much, for my work. I am … how shall I say … une femme de chambre … a chambermaid at the Majestic Hotel, and they have many American people for the next two weeks because of the film festival, and most of the big shots, they don’t speak French … And your name is?”

  “Oh … Pardon?” Noora asked stalling for time. She had to invent.

  “Your name.”

  “My name?” The first thing that popped into Noora’s mind was Monaco, and the movie star princess. “Kelly,” she mumbled quickly.

  “Eet’s Kell-ey?”

  “Uh …yes. It’s Kelly.”

  “And your surname?”

  “My what?”

  “Nom de famille… Your family name?”

  “Oh … Uh …” Noora stammered, slowly turning her stiff neck to her left. She could see the Carlton Hotel in the distance. She was about to say I do not have a family, but thought better of it. “Carlton … Kelly Carlton.” She nodded slowly, running a shaky hand through her matted hair.

  “Kelly? Do you have any relation with the Carlton Hotel, by chance?”

  “No.”

  “No, I thought not.”

  “Karlton is spelled with a K. And Kelley … with an e-y at the end,” Noora found herself lying. She wondered how she even came up with such a spelling, but then she needed to add some quick originality here and perhaps now the girl would leave her alone.

  “Eef you go back to that yacht, the man who beat you up, I don’t want to scare you, but …”

  “It was just a fishing boat. It’s gone now. To Marseilles.”

  “Marseilles?”

  Noora nodded mournfully. “I left all my money. And my bag …”

  “I am not surprised. He probably toss all your belonging to the sea. Pouf. He took your money, bien sûr! Men. They have no heart.”

  “It was nice talking to you,” Noora said, trying to rise to her feet. She feared that she may have broken something, but all the parts were moving, however stiff she felt.

  “Where are you going with no clothes?”

  “May I please borrow your towel? I have family … I need to find a public phone.”

  “Ah, ben non, we mustn’t bother family with our personal problèmes. Everyone must follow their destiny …”

  “I have an uncle. He’s like … a father to me.” She burst into tears. She tried to stop but couldn’t.

  “Oh, mon Dieu! I am sorry. It is my fault. I had no business to talk so much. I have a beeg mouth.”

  “Just go away,” Noora managed to say. She gave the towel back to the girl. She didn’t care if her breasts were bare. God made them, a decent job at that, she thought angrily, plus she was on the beach in the South of France! She was unable to stifle her sobs, and all she could do was hide her miserable face in her hands.

  By the time Noora regained some control of herself, Annette had gathered her
beach gear. She picked up her towel and handed it to Noora. “Please keep it. A gift. I did not mean no offense. Very sorry.” She started to walk away.

  Noora wrapped the towel around herself and stumbled painfully after Annette. “Please. I am the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to be rude …It’s just that … you see, I must find my uncle.”

  “Maybe I can help you?”

  Annette lived behind Cannes’ prestigious Majestic Hotel, across the narrow alleyway.

  “We pass through l’hotel de luxe where I work, cross this little ruelle and voilà—chez moi. You can shower in my bathroom. I poot new tiles last week. I did a better job than that shit, Bruno,” she said. “Come. I have a telephone.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  Annette made a fast dash across the busy boulevard. Noora held the towel in place, took a deep breath and every ounce of effort she had left, to follow Annette.

  She had a terrible time keeping up with her new acquaintance. Her stomach was churning, and her head was pounding harder now. They passed by rows of colorful pastries and croissants displayed in bakery windows. Noora was not only weak from her recent ordeals, but she was weaker yet from hunger.

  “Voilà, my best friend, Micheline. You like?” Annette asked proudly. Micheline was a rusty, beat-up lemon-colored Renault, with a shredded convertible top.

  Annette drove like a maniac. If God spared me last night, Noora thought, I’ll surely die now from a collision. But somehow, the cool sea breeze that slapped her face revived her. Annette found an impossibly small parking space on one of the side streets from the Croisette, and to Noora’s surprise, she maneuvered the jalopy expertly into the tiny slot.

  “I leeve on the seventh floor,” Annette Bonjour explained as they started up the first flight of stairs. “Zey built zis building much before elevators were invented,” she said, laughing. Noora wondered how she would ever make it up. The narrow stairs creaked under her feet. She dragged upward slowly as Annette sprinted on ahead. By the sixth floor, Noora thought she would surely pass out.

  Annette waited patiently for Noora until she made it to the last step.

  “Now can I faint?” Noora managed to say, breathless.

  “You get used to it; good for the legs!” She said, barely out of breath. She unlocked the door. “It’s a leetle bit messy, so don’t look too closely.”

  Noora sat down on the first chair she found and closed her eyes while she caught her breath. She heard Annette lock the door. She opened her eyes and saw her picking up newspapers and magazines from the floor next to a love seat in the tiny living room. A tall rooftop window was covered by sheer, lacy drapes with pink-and-white-striped curtains tied back with pink satin ribbons.

  Annette opened the floor-to-ceiling white shutters, revealing a kitchenette. “I just painted them. You like?”

  “Yes,” Noora forced herself to answer.

  “They were ugly brown when Bruno lived here. Now they make the apartment look bigger, more bright. White opens the eyes.”

  There was a large black pot on the old two-burner stove. Annette lifted the lid and inhaled the cooking aroma. “I was not tired last night, so I cooked. I bought different fish and shrimps and clams from the fish market, on sale. I had to cook them right way before they … how shall you say, spoil. I make the best bouillabaisse! I made eenuf for ten people. I wanted to send some to my grand-mère in Paris, but eet would spoil too soon. I am happy I can share wiss you.”

  “May I please have a glass of water?” Noora asked, her eyes searching for a telephone.

  “But of course!” Annette opened a tiny refrigerator jam-packed with food and bottled water. “Qu’est-ce que tu préfère? Perrier ou Evian?”

  “Just water from the faucet.”

  Annette took out a bottle of Evian. “Pas potable! Not good for you from the faucet. Here. Good water, fresh from the French mountains.”

  Annette brought the phone, attached to a long, twisted cord, while Noora gulped down the entire bottle of water.

  Next to the window, Annette set a small round table with a white lace tablecloth.

  “I just bought this porcelain china. Beautiful, yes?” she said, holding up two plates she removed from a small wall cupboard. “It is very expensive. Slowly, I buy one piece at a time. One or two every year. I have almost enough for a set for two. Next year, I will buy the sucre and crème sets.”

  “It is beautiful,” Noora said, holding the phone and listening to Uncle Khayat’s message again. She hung up. She was not sure what to say to the machine. She would try him again in a little while. Looking down, she noticed she had sand stuck between her toes. Her feet felt itchy and the skin of her heels was dry and cracked. She hoped soon to be soaking in Uncle Khayat’s bathtub. He probably had a comfortable guest bathroom like the one in Alexandria. “May I please leave your phone number on my uncle’s answering machine?” The room began to spin. “He … is still not home …”

  When Noora opened her eyes, she was lying on Annette’s loveseat.

  “You fainted,” Annette said, placing a cold, wet towel on Noora’s forehead. In her other hand, she held a bottle of cologne.

  Chabrawichi! Noora sat up, remembering the clean, lemony scent of her uncle’s aftershave. She could see him vividly in her mind’s eye, smiling at her.

  “I should have offered you something to eat before I made you climb up all the stairs … I am very sorry. When did you eat the last time?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “That is too long ago if you don’t remember.” Annette helped her sit up. “Chicken soup good when we break a fast. Only I have fish soup. But you must eat.”

  The best bouillabaisse she ever tasted was devoured with crusty, warm, buttered bread. Later, Noora felt better and began to think more clearly.

  “I drive you to your uncle later,” Annette said, while clearing the table. “I think it is thirty minutes, more or less, from here. They have beautiful villas where your uncle lives. I used to drive there with Bruno and dream that someday … I think first you need to shower, yes? Comb your hair?”

  Noora rose to take a look at her reflection on the small mirror by the front door and stumbled.

  “Rest now. I put good crème medicinale on your sunburn back. We go tomorrow.”

  Noora didn’t think she could wait until tomorrow. She was still wearing Annette’s towel. She wished Annette would lend her a dress or something appropriate to wear, but felt uncomfortable about Annette’s hospitality. She never heard of anyone who picked up a stranger on the beach, took her home, and fed her dinner—especially in a foreign country. Unless … she had ulterior motives? She wrapped herself in the bath towel, stepped out of the tiny bathroom, and immediately reached for the phone, dialing her uncle again, praying he would finally answer.

  “Still not home?” Annette asked, searching in her armoire among the small selection of clothes.

  Noora held Annette’s telephone against her chest. “He’s home! His line is busy! Oh my God!”

  “I will drive you,” Annette said, pulling out two dresses on hangers.

  “Thank you so much. I will repay you … ten times, this I promise.”

  “Oh, silly, it eez my pleasure.” She held up the dresses for Noora’s perusal. One was sleeveless yellow and the other was sky blue with short sleeves and deep front pockets. “I think the blue one to match your eyes?”

  “That is, if you don’t mind …” Noora said, wondering where her yellow dress had drifted by now.

  “You have not seen your uncle for a long time?”

  “A very long time.”

  Uncle Khayat’s villa was minutes away from Cap D’antibes at Eden Roc. Night had fallen, and all was dark and quiet at the villa on the Rue de Charlemagne. Not as large as the one in Alexandria, his villa was nevertheless lovely, from what Noora could see. There was a large verandah with clay pots of red bougainvillea that climbed up and flowed over the banister—like the ones she remembered in Alexan
dria. A dim light illuminated a shiny green front door.

  Annette kept the motor running. A vicious-sounding dog barked next door.

  Noora knocked on the door a few more times and waited. Ten minutes later, she returned to Annette’s car.

  “Maybe he went out to dinner,” Annette suggested, switching off the ignition. Her car was making a racket and spewing out too much smoke.

  “Maybe he’s in the backyard, and he can’t hear the door,” Noora said hopefully. She was looking forward to daylight, when she would see his roses and other flowers that were giving off such a lovely fragrance. There was no doubt this villa was Uncle Khayat’s. “Maybe he is asleep.” It could not be more than eight thirty.

  The girls passed through a narrow pathway by the side of the house, where orange trees were in full bloom. Noora wondered why he had not picked all the ripe oranges, many of which were rotting on the ground. Under the thin crescent moon, she could not see them too well, and had squashed a couple of oranges on her way. A sinking feeling came over her.

  “You are crying?”

  “No, no,” Noora said, holding a sniffle and making her way silently back to the front yard.

  Annette followed. “We can wait longer if you like,” Annette offered. “It is not like I have someone waiting for me.”

  “You have to work early tomorrow,” she said, heading for the car.

  “Et alors? So?” she shrugged.

  Leaning against Annette’s car, they waited while watching the villa, as frogs called to each other, echoing through the cool night air.

  “Annette, I don’t know why you are being so nice to me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Someday, I shall reciprocate.”

  “It is the Almighty Source of All That Is that takes care of that,” she whispered. “It … How shall I say, is good karma. You know what means karma?”

  “I’ve heard the word.”

  “The more good we do, more good returns. From the Source, not from the person where we give, tu comprends?”

  “Yes. I understand,” she said, remembering Um Faheema’s words. She wanted to say to Annette that she knew someone dear to her who talked like her. She would tell her when the time was right. “I would like to stay and wait for my uncle, if you don’t mind,” Noora said, feeling more anxious and even a bit nervous now.