Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  “Come, let’s go inside,” she heard him say finally, his words drifting into her ears like music.

  Zaffeera took her time in the bathroom. She would have preferred it if he had torn off the wedding gown and thrown her in bed. Be cool, she thought, control yourself. The first night was always the one couples remembered most. She was going to make his wedding night memorable.

  After her shower, she rubbed her entire body with a pheromonic lotion she had ordered from abroad and had read so much about its effect—the fragrance alone was supposed to drive the groom wild in bed. Oh, I can’t wait! She slipped into her long, white, thin satin nightgown.

  A renowned beautician from France had been flown to Al-Balladi the day before the wedding, to do the expert hair extensions. He spent four hours painstakingly adding strands of human hair by intricately weaving the strands with Zaffeera’s own. Zaffeera removed the last pins that had supported her tiara, and gently combed her hair. The hairdresser had done a superb job. Michel would never know that the thick, silky hair was not all hers, when he ran his fingers through it. As for the hair on her body, it was gone. Her skin was still tingling from the hallawa, the wax job she had endured the night before. There would be no way Michel could possibly resist her hairless, silky skin. But what about her small breasts? He did not have to see them. Nothing to worry about, she thought as she inspected her reflection on the floor-to-ceiling mirror. Look at you. You never looked so good. Wait till he tastes your lips … and the rest of you!

  The hotel’s Imperial Honeymoon Suite had separate his-and-hers bathrooms, located on opposite sides of the bed. She wondered if he was also taking a shower and changing into something more comfortable, preferably into nothing.

  When she opened the bathroom door and made her grand entrance, she found him sitting at the edge of the bed, facing the door to his bathroom. He had his back to her and he was still in his tux?! Staring at the floor, with a newly opened bottle of champagne in one hand and an empty glass on the other. He filled the glass.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Zaffeera asked, as she slowly moved closer to his side of the bed. She prayed he would look at her and get aroused.

  He jumped to his feet, turned to her, and smiled uneasily.

  She glanced downward, then at him. To her dismay, there was no sign of any bulge. This was a catastrophe. Gently, she lifted the bedspread and held a pillow awkwardly. She slid between the white satin sheets.

  She did not remember if it was a tradition, but it seemed a family custom that the bed sheet for the honeymoon night be blue. It was to bring luck for the bride to conceive a male child. Zaffeera wanted white sheets, so he could better see that she was a virgin.

  “You look very nice,” he said.

  She smiled. It was about time he gave her a compliment.

  “More champagne?” he asked, looking a tad drunk.

  “I’d better not, thank you,” she said, pulling the comforter to her chest. An awkward moment passed. She couldn’t stand it anymore. What was wrong with him? Didn’t anybody tell him what to do? She hid her face in her hands and began to sob.

  “What’s wrong?” Michel asked, dumbfounded.

  “Forgive me.”

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head, her hands hiding her face.

  “It’s those men, isn’t it? They talked to you too?” Michel asked.

  She was about to say something about Noora, how she missed her, how she regretted … what would she regret? No, too dangerous to make him think of her. She was crying because she wanted sex! Right now. Give it to me, I’m starving, can’t you see? She wanted him! And he wasn’t getting a fucking clue!

  “Did they have their women talk to you?” she heard him say.

  She looked at him with surprise.

  “I knew it!” He jumped to his feet, paced a moment, and then sat back down next to her.

  There was a box of tissues by the bedside. Michel took it and placed it on her lap.

  “Men?” she asked, taking a couple of tissues.

  He looked embarrassed. He put the box back on the nightstand. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s just that it’s so hard …” Zaffeera said.

  “Hard?”

  “I just wish my brother … and my sister … were with us …” she said, her tears cascading now. She hoped the waterproof stage makeup she ordered all the way from New York would not fail her. The makeup finally arrived the day before the wedding. Otherwise, she would never have been able to allow her tears to fall so freely.

  Finally, he reached across the bed and held her in his arms. She felt dizzied by his scent—a mixture of cologne, soap, and fresh sweat. She put her arms around him and hid her head against his shoulder. His muscles were wonderfully firm.

  He patted her on the head. “It’s all right.”

  She didn’t like the gesture. She wasn’t a dog.

  “I’m in such pain,” she cried, longing to rub against his vital part.

  He pulled away from her. “I am too.”

  What did he mean? Was he still in love with Noora? How could he be in love with a dead person?

  “I am grateful we have each other, and that we are friends. We have much in common. We share the same grief. In time … time heals, they say.”

  Zaffeera was ready to explode. Friends?

  She cleared her throat. “Friends?” She busied herself folding her tissue and patting her nostrils.

  “Yes,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  “You could say we are … friends. But now, we are also married,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “It was a nice wedding.”

  “We made our families happy,” she said.

  “But … I would have preferred to hold your hand instead of your father’s. We were in that stifling room surrounded by those … religious fanatics. I don’t understand why your father would allow them around. And that … sheik.”

  She shrugged. She was not prepared for this type of an evening. She couldn’t respond, sitting up in bed, holding a tissue crunched tightly in her hand.

  “Are you afraid of … because it’s our wedding night?” Michel asked awkwardly.

  “Oh, no.”

  He rose with his back to her. He stumbled, caught himself, and sat back on the bed, staring at his shoes.

  Zaffeera realized he must have had more to drink than she calculated.

  He ran a hand through his wonderful, thick, dark hair, then removed his bow tie and his cummerbund. He loosened his collar; he still had his jacket on.

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t do anything.”

  Do anything? “Well, there is one thing I’d like you to do.”

  “Yes?”

  “You can remove your jacket,” she said coyly.

  He removed his jacket, tossed it on the nearest chair, and removed his shoes. He moved around Zaffeera’s opposite side of the bed, fell in, and stretched out.

  There was an endless, awkward silence. Zaffeera took a deep breath and looked away. He took her hand and toyed with her ring.

  “You have pretty hands.”

  “Thank you … Thank you for the most beautiful ring I ever saw.” Their eyes met and held there for a long moment, for the very first time.

  Michel let go of her hand. He looked away and closed his eyes. “I’m tired,” he said, rising from the bed. “I’m going to freshen up.”

  She heard Michel in the shower as she sat in bed, feeling numb. If he was washing, did that not mean he was planning on having sex?

  Twenty long minutes later, they lay in bed. Three feet apart.

  Patience. We have an entire life, she reminded herself, turning, facing Michel. He wore light gray cotton pajamas. Pajamas! Tops and bottoms, plus he pulled the covers to his waist and he lay on his back, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

  “Is anything wrong?” she had to ask.

  He turned to her and rested his head in his hand. “I wish
I could go for a run.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” she said without moving.

  “I can still hear the music downstairs,” he said, while sitting up in bed.

  “They must be having fun,” she murmured.

  He lay back down and propped his pillow behind his head.

  “They may be partying till dawn. If they see us jogging, they may wonder …” she hinted.

  “It’s those men,” he whispered.

  “I beg your pardon?” Zaffeera whispered back.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the light?”

  “No.”

  He got up, flicked on the lamp on the nightstand, walked to the balcony, came back in, stood by the window staring out, paced again for a bit, walked to the nightstand, switched off the light, and lay back in bed, leaving Zaffeera totally confused. The candles had already burned out, except for one. The last flame flickered and sputtered, struggling to stay lit.

  Zaffeera was angry. She hadn’t expected such behavior—especially on their first night. She’d been sure that as soon as they walked in, they would timidly approach one another, perhaps experiment a bit by kissing gently, softly. He would kiss her again until he couldn’t resist her anymore. He would unbutton her wedding gown, lift her into bed, both naked finally, and they would devour each other and climax together. A hot, furious, simultaneous climax. But she should make sure they would be in the middle of the bed, the one she would stain after he entered her, so she could prove her virginity to those men and to everyone. She would kiss him again. No, he should be the one kissing her. Together, they would remove the proof-of-virginity sheet, carefully fold the blood stain. While she would shower and make herself pretty again and ready for another round of lovemaking, he should be waving that sheet from the banister, where the guests below would be whistling, trilling ululation, and applauding.

  She had imagined every luscious moment. But no, he had to go out on the bloody balcony and get drunk, and she had to cry, wasting precious time, just so that he would finally show some compassion.

  “I should tell you what happened,” he said.

  “Happened?”

  He took a deep breath. “The guy downstairs, the one who married us…”

  “The sheik?”

  “Yes. He … t-took me aside, said that …” Michel stuttered.

  She had seen the sheik whisper in Michel’s ear during the festivities, and when the two of them walked out of the grand ballroom. She had figured the man gave Michel an envelope with a check for a wedding present.

  “You would never believe what he asked me to do.”

  “What …?” Zaffeera said, inching her way closer to Michel. “What did he say?”

  He was silent.

  “Tell me, please.”

  “They said tomorrow there was going to be a luncheon in our honor.”

  “It’s for the out-of-town guests. They don’t expect us to show up. Besides, our flight leaves at two o’clock, right?”

  “Yes.”

  She lay near him, facing the ceiling. “It’s going to be a wonderful …” she wanted to add honeymoon, but changed her word to “trip.” For some reason, she felt too embarrassed to remind him it was their honeymoon. She hoped he would correct her. She waited. He didn’t say anything. “What did the sheik say?” she asked, trying to move past the uncomfortable moment.

  “He said he would have one of his men phone from downstairs, to signal that they were all waiting. I should go down to the mezzanine and stand by the banister, and …” He stopped.

  “And?”

  “There’s something wrong with that man. And his entourage.”

  “They have been tremendously supportive to my father and our family during this time …”

  “But what they asked me to do was appalling. Humiliating. Not only to me, but to you,” he said, turning away from her.

  “What did he ask?” she said, inching closer to him.

  He turned back to her and put his arms around her. The flickering flame on the last candle finally sputtered out, and now there was total darkness. She had to hold on to her breath so that she would not appear too anxious.

  “He said after our wedding night, I must save the sheet … wave it from the banister … as proof I married a … virgin. Forgive me. I did not mean to sound disrespectful.”

  He remained motionless. Zaffeera was silent.

  “I should’ve told him to go to hell. Sorry. I don’t mean to swear. I was just too shocked.”

  “They will think I’m not a virgin.”

  “If he should get near me again, I swear I’ll punch him.”

  Obviously, he did not hear what she said. “I’m afraid my mother had to go through that. I’m not sure. But I do believe so.”

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, removing his arm from her and rolling on his back.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” she whispered.

  “But that’s terrible! We read about these things, and watch documentaries on television … I don’t want to sound naïve, but we’re not like that; we don’t come from that cloth. We’re educated.”

  “I know.” She propped up her two pillows, folded her arms, and stared up at the dark ceiling. “But what can we do? It’s the old custom.”

  A sudden flash of lightning, followed by a deafening sound of thunder, made Michel jump. In that split second, the entire room lit up.

  “Are you afraid? I mean of the thunder?” he asked.

  “No. Well, to tell you the truth, I am.” It started to pour. “I’m not used to thunder. It’s very unusual,” she said. But she was more afraid of not having sex on her wedding night than of the stupid thunder!

  “Unfortunately, I haven’t spent enough time here to know. I’m looking forward to building the house. When we get back, I’ll work on the scale model. I can’t wait to show you those books I ordered on Frank Lloyd Wright. I want to build a house like ‘Falling Water,’ but I’d also like to have a major waterfall facing the great room …”

  “The great room?”

  “Yes. The living room. I know a guy who builds incredible waterfalls. There’s also a couple of houses in Los Angeles I can’t wait to see …”

  Lightning struck again. This time, Michel caught Zaffeera hiding her face in her hands.

  “You are scared.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her face hidden. “I don’t remember the last time we had such a terrible storm.” If she showed fear, surely he would have to hold her in his arms and protect her. At last, he did. He held her tight. Delicious.

  Zaffeera woke up with a start. She felt the chill of the air conditioner, and looked to her left. Michel was asleep, his back to her, softly snoring. It was after four in the morning, according to the digital clock on the nightstand. The rain had stopped. She must have dozed off in his arms. How could she have allowed herself to fall asleep? She stepped into her white satin, marabou-trimmed slippers and padded to the glass door. A crescent-shaped moon began to appear through dissipating clouds.

  This was truly a disastrous night. Dawn was imminent, yet they still had not made love! At least the storm had subsided.

  Silently, she made her way to the bathroom, brushed her teeth again, combed her hair, freshened her makeup, put drops in her eyes, and rubbed on some more of the love potion that had so far been worthless. She returned to bed and slipped back between the sheets. Slowly, she approached him. “I’m cold,” she whispered as she snuggled closer to him.

  Half-awake now, Michel put his arm around her. With one hand here, another there, one thing led to another, and before he knew it, he was on top of her. She helped him pull down the elastic band of his ridiculous pajamas. His early morning hard-on felt like a baton. How exquisite, she thought, closing her eyes. She guided him, and with a short squeal from her and a groan from him, he jerked back and forth a few times and exploded inside her.

  A moment later, he fell on his back, leavi
ng her wondering, Was that it?

  But they did it! She had felt the brief, sharp pain, but she was too excited about the act of lovemaking—was it lovemaking? She didn’t even reach orgasm. A warm liquid oozed out of her. He had to have been a virgin. What a disappointment. What a lousy lay. Never mind. They had a lifetime to practice…

  In the meantime, how could she convince Michel to wave the bloody sheet, and show them all that his lovely bride had indeed been a virgin?

  *

  Zaffeera called her mother from the privacy of her bathroom and spoke softly, to make sure Michel would not hear. The first thing she did was assure her mother that all was well and they were very happy.

  “Michel and I, however, feel rather embarrassed about … you know, about his having to stand over the banister … and wave the bed sheet. He refuses to do it. Says it’s disrespectful.”

  She could tell her mother was shocked by what Zaffeera told her.

  “Who would ask Michel to do such a barbaric thing?”

  “The sheik, Mother, the sheik.”

  “But Zaffeera, they must have been joking. Men, between themselves, they can be quite crude. As long as what they talk about is not repeated to the women …”

  “Michel said the sheik was quite serious. Michel and I have grown close. He talks to me … He told me about this embarrassing thing because he did not want me to hear it from other sources …”

  “You have a good man, hamdallah. I am sure your father would feel the same way. We are lucky to have respectful husbands. I will discuss this matter with your father. Don’t worry, my daughter.”

  “I love you, ya ummy anah,” Zaffeera whispered close to the phone. “If you don’t mind, however, I will put the bed sheet in a large Tiffany box—it is our own embroidered sheet. I’ll write ‘special for Mrs. Yasmina Fendil, the bride’s mother’ on top of the box, so you won’t mistake it for a wedding present. I’ll have the sheet with proof of my virginity delivered to your attention at home. Would that be all right with you, Mother?”