What should she do with them? She threw the underpants in the trash, realizing she might have saved that man’s reputation. She pushed her cart back out into the corridor, ready to tackle the next room.
That night, Annette’s eyes were clearer than usual. She seemed happy, even after a long workday at the hotel.
“Tell me more about the docteur!” Annette asked for the third time. “A widower? And, he is Juif? A Jewish docteur,” she murmured dreamily. “He must have liked you very much. A man never invite a girl he just meets for lunch in a nice restaurant, and pay. Jamais! Les hommes pareils, ils n’existent plus. Men like that don’t exist anymore. They always want something more in return,” she rambled on in French, talking to herself. She drowned a chunk of buttered French bread in her homemade lentil soup. “Only please don’t forget moi, your friend, yours truly, when he proposes.”
Noora nearly choked on her food. “You’ve been reading too many romance magazines, Annette.” She broke off a chunk of warm, crusty baguette and piled on some creamy butter. She dunked it into her soup, popped it into her mouth, and closed her eyes to better savor the luscious taste. Annette was a true culinary artist who delighted in mastering the most challenging French recipes, using the least expensive ingredients; she had a gift in turning any cheap meal into a feast.
“There are no accidents in life,” Annette declared.
Noora did not want to think about her encounter with Docteur Demiel, because she could not bear to think about Uncle Khayat. She rose to clear the table.
“What happened? You were so hungry, and now, non?”
“Thank you, it’s very good. I enjoyed it. It’s just that …”
“You need food. You are skinny.”
“I will pay you back for all you have done for me. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what …”
“For the love of God, you are my friend. We have known each other in another life. We were friends before this lifetime. I had a dream before I meet you … now I am sure it is true! I know I sound like a crazy girl right now, but I believe inside my heart we died in a concentration camp together. We were little. Maybe ten years old. We promise each other … We promise …” Tears began to well. “… One day, we would find each other. If it did not happen, why I feel so much strong energy when I first see you on the beach? We lived another life. We suffered very much. This time we are going to make up a good life.”
“I don’t know about another life. Perhaps it’s because we have both experienced a degree of hardship in this life.”
“Non, it’s much deeper. We need to help one another.”
So far, Noora thought, Annette was doing all the giving. How could Noora ever think to repay her?
Parallel to the Croisette, Cannes’ popular seacoast road, was a little side-road café, where starving painters had once traded their chef d’oeuvres for meals.
La Poulette, a quaint and eclectic hideaway, had served lovers, foreigners, and people-watchers for decades—a perfect place, especially during the film festival.
Noora’s hair fell loosely around her shoulders. Her bangs were too long and annoyingly covered her eyes. She needed a haircut. She sighed at the thought that she did not possess one franc to pay for a visit to the beauty parlor. Payday was in five days. The money was going to be barely enough to help Annette pay for food. If she was lucky, perhaps she could buy flowers for Uncle Khayat’s grave. Money for a haircut was a selfish thought. She looked at her luscious baba-au-rhum. Annette was devouring her second chocolate éclair. They had so much in common. They loved sweets and did not have to worry about putting on weight. Stress took care of that.
A crowd gathered outside on the street. Screams and whistles were heard, and within minutes, photographers exploded out of nowhere, as cameras flashed, blinding everyone.
Analissa Nielsen was walking alone, wearing a wide-brimmed hat and Chanel sunglasses. She had a low-cut white halter top, revealing cleavage that probably made men drool and women envy, and a red-and-white polka-dot chiffon skirt that flared out two inches above the knees. She walked and swayed in slow motion.
Analissa decided she had to get some fresh air. Her penthouse suite at the Majestic Hotel was lonely. Her new husband of four months, the world-famous movie actor, the one and only Sergio Maggiamore, had recently returned from location. He was out again, this time attending some kind of a serious meeting with producers, accountants, and attorneys. She loved the movie business but hated the business of movies. Sergio made it quite clear he did not want Analissa in his business meetings. He said she would be bored. What he really meant was her presence would distract the little horny idiots with balding heads, small penises, and ugly wives. Their attention would not be on Mr. Maggiamore.
Well, Analissa thought, she needed attention, and stroking too! Lots of it. Why did she become a star in the first place? She decided to give her favorite friends, the paparazzi, a run for their money.
Two nights before, Analissa had dumped Bob Brockman, the producer who had the nerve to hide some bitch in his bathroom. He wanted to surprise her, he said. She was no lesbian. The bastard. Furthermore, the so-called big-shot producer was either too cheap or probably not rich enough to own his own yacht. He rented one. And he was married. With too many ex-wives and spoiled kids! He was losing his hair, and he was really a lousy lay. The price she had to pay for stardom. She had won the lead role in his upcoming movie. She had earned that part! The script had called for great locations: Streets of Beverly Hills. Every starlet would have killed to get the chance to work on that film, and she got the lead role. After that fiasco night in his chartered yacht, Bob Brockman had called her time and again, begging her forgiveness and swearing that he had no idea there was a young chick hiding in his cabin’s bathroom. Yeah, right! Some clandestine girl happened to be there by mistake. Did he think she was that stupid? After the movie, she would not need the jerk anymore.
She had called her agent in Beverly Hills and told him Bob Brockman was a pervert and enticed her to a ménage-à-trois.
“This is Hollywood, honey; you don’t burn your bridges,” the agent had the nerve to tell her. She would have dumped him on the spot if he hadn’t been one of Hollywood’s top agents.
The thought of how she had been used and abused made her furious. She had to do something to gain more respect. Ian Cohen was more powerful than all of them. Mr. I.C., the untouchable. Well, she finally touched him. In more places than one. It had been a great challenge to get the old mogul’s attention. She had tried for more than five years. Why did he not show interest? Because she was married? That never stopped a big shot movie producer before! To be in one of his action-packed movies would make her a bigger star. The opportunity might even win her recognition in the Guinness Book, as the highest-paid movie star—at least for that year! Perhaps her wish would come true. Only a few hours before her husband arrived in Cannes last night, she had wangled her way into Ice’s hotel room, into his bed, in his arms, and even beneath his balls! She had left her underwear on the floor. On purpose. Of course. She was going to cry in her husband’s arms as soon as he walked through the double doors of their hotel suite, and she would tell him how Ice tried to seduce her.
Sergio would not doubt her one bit, and Analissa was going to get her revenge. No one ignored Analissa Nielsen. Not even asshole Ice Cohen.
This is how she made it happen: It was late. Ice had a few drinks and he looked beat. He had hosted the first film festival press party at the Hotel du Cap. And he had not invited her. She had waited for him downstairs in the garage when his guests had all gone to their rooms and he was on his way to his rented car. She had convinced him he was too drunk to drive. She drove him to the Majestic—it was not out of her way since they stayed in the same hotel—and together they had stumbled into his suite. She had made him laugh and did not talk about movies. At dawn, during the thunderous sounds of his snoring, Analissa Nielsen sneaked out, leaving lipstick smudges on the towels—he should never forget
their bath together—and she had left her underwear on the floor next to the bed, before returning to her suite, a few floors up.
Exiting through the rear door, trailing perfume and knowing full well she would attract fans, Analissa strolled down the avenue.
“It’s Analissa!” fans roared to her delight. The paparazzi called out to her for a better pose, a better picture. Soon, she would be in all the French magazines.
Sitting at a small round table with Annette at the little sidewalk café, Noora turned pale. Analissa, who was spotted gathering fans at her heels, may have recognized her. While cameras flashed, the starlet stopped dead in her stilettos and actually glared at Noora. Noora almost choked on her baba-au-rhum. Fans were shoving papers and pens for Analissa’s autograph, cameras flashed blindingly, but Analissa pressed closer, obviously trying to get a better look at the dark-haired young woman sitting at the café.
“You!” Noora heard her yell. A gleaming white convertible honked as it glided around the bend toward Analissa Nielsen. More fans gathered around her. She turned and immediately put on her famous smile, sent air kisses to her fans, and was helped by two men through the growing crowd and into the car.
“Did you see that car? It is a Rolls-Royce. I think a Corniche! Why all those stupid movie stars receive so much admiration and have gorgeous cars!” Annette said.
Noora nodded, looking away. Her father had a white convertible Corniche. He wasn’t stupid or a movie star …
“I don’t know, but I think she recognized you!” Annette exclaimed.
“Me? No,” Noora said nervously, turning her back a little more to the street.
“You know who she is?”
Noora shook her head no.
“She is the biggest vedette! The new Brigitte Bardot of the American movies, and now even of the world! But you will never believe me when I tell you,” Annette said, leaning closer to Noora. “I clean her room at the hotel.”
“You do? She’s … in the hotel?” Noora’s heart began to pound. That woman could have her arrested.
“Yes, and not only that, but eef only everyone know what a dirty person she is, oh la, la, maybe they all be more disgusted and not so goo-goo, ga-ga about her,” Annette snickered. She took another sip of her hot chocolate. “I cannot even tell you how dirty she is, because I don’t want to ruin your appetite.”
If only people knew what a sharmouta she really is, Noora wanted to say.
CHAPTER 34
THE MYSTERIOUS BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENT
Al-Balladi’s most prominent hakim, the family physician, shook his head. He was unable to convince his patient Mr. Farid Fendil that he was digging his own grave.
“I’d like to refer you to a nutritionist and a personal trainer. They are both excellent. I use them myself.”
Farid Fendil was sitting up in bed. He respected Doctor Hamid, but how could he possibly admit that he had spent the night fornicating like a young Arabian stallion with Madame Medina? It had nothing to do with his cholesterol. When you’re older, you are a little out of practice, and you just can’t do it as much, and for as long, even though he actually had. And without the help of that latest blue-pill craze.
“Esmaa, ya Doctoor Hamid,” Farid Fendil said, smiling humbly. “I just exerted myself.”
“Exerted yourself?” The doctor studied his patient curiously.
“Yes. With work, and I have not had much sleep.”
“I advise you start swimming at least fifteen minutes every day. Then graduate to twenty minutes. I know you’ve got a great pool …”
“The pool is closed!” Farid Fendil interjected, slamming a fist on the bed, surprising the doctor with his sudden outburst.
“Perhaps it is a good time to reopen it,” the doctor replied, looking straight into Farid Fendil’s eyes, showing he was not intimidated by his prominent patient.
“I can’t,” Farid Fendil replied weakly, avoiding the doctor’s eyes.
“Mr. Fendil, you have built a wonderful spa for our community.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He recalled how hard he had worked at getting the most qualified team of men. His world-renowned spa had graced the latest magazines, even in Europe.
“I am a proud member,” the doctor said. “I frequent it once a week. I advise you do the same. It would be a pleasure to see you there.”
“Have a good day, Doctor.” Mr. Fendil waved him off.
“One more thing,” the doctor said, seriously. “I need to schedule you for an angiogram. How would next Monday be?” he asked, checking his book.
“What for? I’m busy.”
“When can you make time?”
“I’ll call you.”
The doctor shook his head as he scribbled something in a notebook, then snapped it closed and replaced it in his attaché case. He opened a new manila folder and scribbled some more information. “I wouldn’t wait if I were you. It’s a simple procedure.”
“All right. I’ll phone you after the sixth of July.”
The doctor understood. “Fine. It’s only a few weeks away. We have just received the invitation to your daughter’s wedding. My wife and I will be honored to attend. My wife is sending you a written reply, probably as we speak. I will call you on the seventh of July, to remind you of your angiogram.”
“God willing. Ma’a Salaam,” Farid murmured, sinking into his pillow, pretending he was going to get some sleep.
He heard the doctor leave. Today, he had to hire a new chief financial officer. The one he had had for many years just keeled over right at his desk—a sudden heart attack. He had other problems, too. His comptroller wasn’t coming up with the right numbers. One of his best architects had accepted a job to build a hotel in Shanghai without consulting with him first. So many problems. So much happening at once; some of his best people quitting on him.
But first and foremost, he needed to get to the bottom of an important matter, the one concerning his son.
Who was Shlomo? A friend of Nageeb, who had sent a birth announcement from Israel. Israel? Apparently, Nageeb had seen this man before the … crash. Allah! Why did Nageeb go to Israel?
The authorities had never said his son’s ill-fated helicopter flight had originated in the resort town in Israel, until months later when he read the accident report. All this time, he had believed the chartered chopper had flown from Aqaba and was on its way to Cairo, not Alexandria. Then again, perhaps he could not get a helicopter that would land in Cairo due to that earthquake. But Farid had done some research and found out there was no damage reported at the Cairo airport after the quake. Did his son plan to drive from Alexandria to Cairo? He knew Nageeb preferred to drive, but it would have taken too long to get to Cairo, since he needed to be there as soon as possible.
He had to stop torturing himself with all these questions. His head was pounding. He had heartburn and shortness of breath. And now his doctor insisted on an angiogram. What did that entail? How long would it take? He would have to ask his secretary to do some research on angiograms. Better yet, he would make inquiries himself. He did not want to raise any questions about his health.
Why didn’t the dictionary he kept next to his nightstand, with his Koran, not have enough information on angiograms? Impatiently he leafed through the thick book and found the word angioplasty. Something to do with repairing or replacing damaged blood vessels. Nageeb would have known all about that.
Wasn’t that what his uncle Fellous recently endured?
Farid crawled out of bed, pushed into his leather slippers, and shuffled to his huge, hand-carved dresser. He opened the middle drawer and took out the cards that had been sent to Nageeb from Israel—Shlomo’s post card and birth announcement. He read them for the sixth or seventh time. He weighed every word of the note his son’s friend had written—the card thanking Nageeb for the gift basket and Dom Perignon that apparently Nageeb must have sent before leaving Eilat. Another piece he could not fit into his puzzled mind.
Nothing made sense anymore
. Everything seemed more confusing. His chest felt tight and his heartburn intensified.
CHAPTER 35
THE DOCTOR AND THE DOG
The balmy Riviera night brought everyone out, beneath the starlit sky, especially Hollywood celebrities. The evening was spectacular; film festival electricity charged the air. Only winners of this game, those who made millions per movie, could afford to be there in their proud splendor—top studio executives, independent producers, world-renowned directors, and international film distributors. The Carlton terrace sparkled with the brightest celebrities the world had to offer.
Annette was not going to miss this evening. She was going to stargaze at the American male stars. Tonight, once and for all, she would forget Bruno.
“I am no more victime d’amour. I am in control.” She hooked her arm around Noora’s and guided her to the Carlton terrace. The girls found two chairs and claimed them before anyone could take them away.
They ordered one café au lait to share.
“Hot. I am feeling hot. Look, look! It is Tom Selleck, non? He is even taller and more good-looking,” Annette squealed. “Look. That is him, en personne.”
She spotted Johnny Hallyday, the blond, green-eyed singer and guitarist who had become a Parisian pop artist since the sixties. “I don’t believe it. It’s him! You know, he is still trying to make it in America!”
In his younger years, the Parisian rock star, now in his fifties, had once been referred to as the Elvis Presley of France. Proudly, he strolled by, only a few feet away from Annette, with a voluptuous young blonde by his side. “My mother knew him when he used to sing during intermissions at the neighborhood cinema near the Rue Caulaincourt in Paris. She knew him even before Sylvie Vartan!”
“Who?”
Light of the Desert Page 28
