Noora heard him urinate. Didn’t he believe in closing doors? She wasn’t sure how to take this rude behavior. He was a strange man. He had a terrible temper, but somehow she didn’t feel threatened. In fact, he was rather intriguing.
“I need someone I can trust,” he called from the bathroom.
She rubbed Um Faheema’s blue stone and replaced it under the lacy white collar of her black uniform. He was facing her now. He had splashed water on his face, and was drying himself with a hand towel.
“Where’s my jacket?”
“On the chair, sir.”
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Stay with me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have to go and finish cleaning …”
“I would never say this to anyone, but I’m scared shitless. Wish I could get back to L.A. right away, but everyone here will know I’m a sick man. Why’d you chop off your hair? There’s no script in development for a concentration camp survivor. I don’t do Sophie’s Choice genres.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Noora ran her hand through her hair again, nervously.
“Never mind. I’m just rambling on. Probably that medicine under the tongue. Listen, I’ll make you a deal: I’ll pay you anything you want if you could just stay with me tonight.”
“Sir, that is absolutely impossible.”
“Christ, you can see I’m in no condition to make advances. Stay with me in case I get another attack.”
Noora stood speechless.
“I don’t beg.”
“It’s just that it’s not allowed. I must abide by the hotel rules. Doctor Demiel will be here anytime you need him; he assured me of that. He left you his card. I’ll write down the direct number where you can reach him this evening. He won’t be far, actually,” she said, glad he had accepted Annette’s invitation. She needed to let Annette know right away.
“Does anyone know a doctor came to see me?”
“I doubt it very much, sir. He left by the service stairs.”
Noora had volunteered to take over one of the maids’ evening shifts to give Annette and the doctor some space—and earn a little extra money.
At midnight, Noora ended her second shift. She felt bad about refusing to stay with Mr. Cohen, but she could not jeopardize her job. Should she check on him before leaving? Ask if he needed anything? What if he was asleep? What if someone saw her in his room? She took her employee card and punched out.
Under a glowing royal blue Riviera sky, the Croisette was bursting with lights and music. Noora wished she could sit in an outdoor café, order a salade Niçoise perhaps, or even a warm, crusty baguette with butter, anchovy paste, and slices of tomatoes with cornichons and moutarde de Dijon. Or maybe even something as simple as feta cheese on pita bread. Or toast with caviar, and an icy glass of Coke with lemon. Her mouth watered and her stomach growled. She had not one franc to her name.
She ventured near the Palais du Festival, where a crowd of fans had begun to gather. A huge banner stretched above the marquee:
IAN COHEN PRESENTS:
“FROM HERE TO HELL”
Written and produced by Ian Cohen in association with
IAN COHEN ENTERTAINMENT (I.C.E.)
Electricity filled the air. The area was swarming with movie stars making their staged exits from the theater. They paused and posed for the photographers, and glided out upon the red-carpeted steps, all in resplendent finery. Thousands of fans cheered on the street. Throngs of photographers swarmed the entrance to the Palais du Festival. Blinded by flashbulb bursts, Noora became dizzy and disoriented.
Analissa Nielsen’s name was called. The crowd roared and cheered, and began to surge along the sidewalk. Noora was engulfed like a sheep in a stampede.
The crowd became rowdy. The fans aggressively pushed for a better view of the movie stars. Noora felt the noisy crowd press closer around her. High-pitched whistles assailed her eardrums and she began to push her way out of the crush. A group of gendarmes finally arrived and struggled to restore order.
Everything began to spin around her. Please God, don’t let me faint. If she wound up in the hospital, how would she explain her existence?
She managed to make her way out of the chaos. She hurried away, grasping her heaving chest and passing the Carlton Hotel terrace.
She passed by the brightly illuminated Martinez Hotel. A few blocks further on, the crowd had dissipated, and she began to breathe easier. She headed down to the beach, where she saw a few couples locked in close embrace. She unlaced Annette’s work shoes and eased her sore, blistered feet out of them. It had been a long, exhausting day. The sand soothed and massaged her feet with every step she took. The salty Mediterranean air revived her. She walked down to the edge, letting the cool water ripple over her feet. She heard music from the beach restaurant nearby. She closed her eyes and imagined she was back in happier days.
Noora leaned next to Annette’s door to catch her breath after climbing the seven flights of stairs. She had to be quiet and not wake Annette. Silently, she turned the key Annette had given her. As she cracked the door open, she was surprised to find Annette, and Docteur Alain Demiel, cozy in her love seat, with teacups on their laps. Baldo was curled up at Annette’s feet. The romantic voice of Dalida, singing a French fifties song, trailed from Annette’s little cassette player.
“Where were you?” Annette said, her face flushed.
After the doctor left, Annette insisted on warming up dinner for Noora. “It’s the least I can do.” Annette looked uneasy. She poured some hot chamomile tea for Noora.
“You are so good to me. How will I ever repay you …”
“Moi? I thought you would be mad.”
“Mad? Why?”
“Because I was entertaining your friend. I called the hotel. You were kind to take Martinelle’s place, because her little girl was sick with a terrible grippe, and oh, that was so thoughtful of you. I hope you didn’t mind. I mean, for Alain… le Docteur. He told me what happened to his family. His parents and grandparents had to leave their country, Egypt. They were thrown out. His grandfather was even put in jail because he was Jewish. They escaped on a small fishing boat to Italy, and … he told me so much about his life, and …”
“I think you two would make a wonderful couple,” Noora cut in.
“You do?” Annette blushed deeper.
“I do,” Noora smiled.
“You are not mad?”
“Au contraire, Annette. I am happy for you,” Noora said. “Very happy … By the way … something happened today on the second floor.”
“You can use my passport,” Annette said after Noora told her about Ian Cohen.
“I don’t believe I heard you correctly,” Noora said.
“You can use my passport. I have a new one!” Annette said proudly while slicing into a crusty baguette. “I got a new passport when I thought I was going to go on my honeymoon to Venice with Bruno. L’imbécile.”
“I’m not sure I understand …”
“Well, it is the balance of life. When one door closes, always a window opens.”
“Annette, it’s very kind of you. But it is absolutely not possible.”
“Everything is possible.”
“But Annette, it’s illegal.”
Three days later, Noora stood at Charles de Gaulle Airport, waiting to board the Concorde.
Annette had reshaped and fixed Noora’s choppy haircut, and coiffed it to look similar to the style in the passport picture—a short bob à la gamine. The stark picture showed Annette with eyes half-closed and a crooked smile—convincing enough. With makeup, Noora managed to conceal the scar that ran down below her eye. The French passport listed the color of eyes as marrons, brown. Noora prayed no one would look at her closely.
Noora feared if they discovered her deception, she would be deported. But where? To France? What if they found out the truth?
Every ounce of energy drained out of her when the uniformed security officer opened her passport. She kept her eyes
lowered. At that moment, another uniformed official appeared behind the man at the customs counter and whispered something to him. The official holding Noora’s, alias Kelley Karlton’s, alias Annette Bonjour’s passport, barely glanced at the document’s picture. He methodically leafed through to the last page, stamped it, and handed it back to Monsieur Ian Cohen, with a respectful salutation.
CHAPTER 36
NEW YORK, NEW LIFE
A chauffeur welcomed Ian Cohen at Kennedy airport. The luggage was placed in the trunk of a black stretch limo.
At the checkin counter of the Plaza Hotel, Mr. Cohen was greeted with the respect usually accorded to royalty. Noora followed him down the corridor toward his reserved suite. He seemed tired but wouldn’t let anyone carry his leather attaché case, heavy with file folders and scripts. In his other hand, he carried a canvas tote bag advertising his latest movie, From Here to Hell.
Noora was not sure what Mr. Cohen expected of her. It had all happened too fast, as if destiny was thrusting her ahead, somewhere, but she didn’t know where or why. Mr. Cohen had refused to take no for an answer. It was clear that he needed her. She remembered an Arabic poem her grandmother used to quote: Elleh maktoub fel gebben, ye shoufou el ein—“what is written on the forehead can be seen in the eyes.”
In the eyes of Ian Cohen, she saw an honest plea for help. He offered her a job. She would probably live in his luxurious lifestyle. How bad could that be?
“You must follow the journey of your destiny,” Um Faheema had said. This journey was all too uncertain. She missed Um Faheema more than ever now, and Dweezoul, and even Saloush the goat.
The bellman opened the door. She followed as he entered the lavish penthouse suite. She was relieved when Mr. Cohen pointed to another room and informed the bellman where to put her one small piece of luggage. He sat wearily on the couch, when the bellman left the room, closing the door behind him.
“I’ll be in meetings starting at six o’clock in the morning. I’ll be back at six in the evening. At six thirty you can come with me to see the rushes. They’ll bring sandwiches.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, wondering what he meant by “rushes.”
He pulled himself wearily off the sofa, loosened his tie, and slowly removed his jacket. His sleeve was stuck in his cufflink. She hurried over to assist him. After hanging his coat in the closet next to the front door, she stood uneasily a few feet away. He pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills and tossed five of them on the cocktail table.
“Get yourself a raincoat, and maybe a nice dress,” he said, then turned and trudged to his room. “I’m gonna take a shower. I’ll knock on your door when I need you,” he said and walked to his room, closing his door.
Noora stood in the living room, wondering. What did he mean by that last comment? If he did expect any sort of intimacy, she would fly back to France. She entered her room and locked the door. At least there was a lock. She immediately slid beneath the luscious down bedspread of the queen-sized bed. She did not touch the money he tossed on the table. Why would she need a raincoat? How cold could it be in New York at the end of May? So far, they hadn’t discussed a salary, and she didn’t feel at ease taking his money. She wondered what Annette would have said if she had seen all this money tossed at her by a man who wasn’t a father, or even a husband—or … boyfriend? He must have ulterior motives, even if he was a sick man. She would undress and shower after he left for his meetings … Her eyelids could no longer stay open.
She dreamed of Alexandria. Beautiful San Stefano Beach Club. On the marble terrace, where everyone used to dance. Dweezoul was standing by the banister, fiddling with his transistor radio. It was a new gadget, much larger than the one he carried around at the Bedouin village. Annette was dancing with Docteur Alain Demiel. But when he turned, the young doctor was Nageeb, and he danced with her to the tune of Sarah Vaughn’s “Broken Hearted Melody.”
“Where is Michel?” Noora asked her brother.
“He can’t be here.”
“Why?”
“He is ill,” Nageeb replied, twirling Noora as they danced. He was twirling her around and around until she felt dizzy.
“Stop,” she said. “When can I see him?”
He stood and stared at her with a smile and a nod. “Not for years. But don’t worry, it’s up to the patient …” She heard the roar of an airplane flying in, getting close, too close. Nageeb shielded her. She looked up and they both laughed at the sight of a small airplane dropping hundreds of candy bars wrapped in shiny golden paper. Like children, they ran after the candy. She looked closer and realized the candy was inside little crystal bowls wrapped in white tulle, with long strings of silver ribbons. She was dressed like a bride, but with no veil. Someone was coughing loud, louder. Suddenly everyone was gone and she was in the desert, her dress soiled, the helicopter burning in the distance.
Her eyes popped open, and her heart was racing. She was drenched in perspiration. The room was dark, except for a shaft of light that came from the bathroom door she had left ajar. She realized she was at the Plaza Hotel—in New York. The green lighted numbers on the nightstand clock showed 3:33 AM. Still wearing Annette’s blue dress, she rose out of bed and walked slowly to re-orient herself. What a weird dream she just had. Her dear grandmother used to say dreams were filled with messages, she thought, opening her door cautiously. She ventured out into the living room. On a table by the window was a huge basket of fruit. If she could dig into the cellophane without messing up the wrapping, perhaps she could grab an apple or a pear. The floor lamp next to the tall window was dimly lit, and Noora was startled to find Ian Cohen sitting on a loveseat, reading a script. He looked up.
“Jet-lagged, eh?” He smiled, removing his bifocals and tossing the script aside.
“Well, actually … I’m a bit hungry,” she said, trying not to look surprised to find him there.
“Me too.” He rose from the sofa and grabbed on to his back. “Ooh, I’m stiff.” Wearily he walked to the fruit basket on the desk and removed the cellophane. “Want an apple? Or an orange?”
“Either one, thank you.”
“They even have mangoes and … papayas? Who gave me that?” he asked, searching for a card. “Ah, bet ya it was the hotel manager.”
“I have not had a mango in a long time,” she said, taking a step forward.
“Here!” He tossed her a fat mango.
She barely caught it.
“I don’t know how to eat mangoes,” he said, biting into a red apple. He pointed to the phone. “Dial room service. Order anything you want. They got twenty-four-hour service. Great, huh? Almost as good as the Majestic.” He winked.
She was glad to see he was in a good mood.
“Order me three eggs, bacon, sausage, and rye toast,” he said. “There’s the menu, by the phone. Why didn’t you take the money?”
Money? “Oh … thank you … I have enough warm clothes.”
“You’ll need a raincoat where we’re going.”
Where are we going? She wanted to ask, but he walked to his room.
Room service arrived within minutes. She had ordered hot cream of wheat with raisins. When she convinced him to try some, he wound up eating the entire bowl, saying with great surprise, “This is really good. Reminds me when I was a kid. My mother used to make that every morning. I haven’t had that in a hundred years.”
She showed him how to cut up a mango.
“You slice it in the middle, then slide the two pieces back and forth, and now you can spoon away the sweet meat … like so.”
“How ‘bout the pit? You gotta get your hands full of the juice to get the pit out, don’t you?”
“No, you just pick it out with the spoon, like so, and it falls off its nest. See? Easy. Then you hold it like a small bowl and spoon the second half …”
“Ingenious,” he said.
They talked about food and the fruits they liked. He mentioned the pies downstairs at Palm Court, which used to taste be
tter. “Things have changed. Even their cream puffs don’t taste as good as they did in the seventies. Maybe they have a younger chef. I remember especially in ’73 and ’74, when I used to come here a lot more often…”
Noora noticed he often talked about things being better in the seventies. By the time they were through eating, cutting fruit, and talking, it was after five in the morning.
“I believe it is time for your medicine,” she said.
“I’m fine. I ate fruit.”
“Doctor’s orders, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He opened the bottle and popped the medicine Dr. Alain Demiel had prescribed in Cannes.
“If you would please drink water, the medicine will dissolve better.”
“Okay, nurse.”
He rose and grabbed the script he was reading earlier, then tossed it at Kelley Karlton. “Read this and tell me what you think.”
She caught the hundred-or-so-page manuscript bound by copper fasteners.
“When you leave the hotel, check messages so I’ll know where you are. In case I need you.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, rising with the script in her hand. She began to leaf through it. She had never read a movie script before.
Relieved to be alone in the suite, Noora took her time luxuriating in the bathtub—with the bathroom door locked and keeping an ear out for Mr. Cohen’s return—in case he knocked on her door.
At two in the afternoon, she decided to venture out. She left a note in the suite letting him know she had gone downstairs to shop for a raincoat.
In the lobby, she browsed through the small clothing store next to the luxurious entrance of the hotel. On the rack by the wall, she found a few London Fogs. They were too large and way too expensive. She made her way to a delightful little gift shop she found at the end of the hallway.
Annette had lent her two hundred dollars. Noora refused her generosity, but Annette insisted and swore she would not write to her (for a long time) if Noora did not take the money. With Mr. Cohen’s money, she had seven hundred dollars in her pocket. None of the cash was hers, even if it was in her possession, she reminded herself. She stood by the magazine rack and leafed through a Paris Match magazine. Already there were a couple of interesting articles on the Cannes Film Festival. There was also an article on Alexandria. She wanted to return to the suite, lie in bed, and read the entire article on Egypt while enjoying the chocolate bars with marzipan filling that she just couldn’t pass up.
Light of the Desert Page 30
