All this high-maintenance work on her appearance was for him, so that he would love her. Instead, he was interested in buildings! But he did sleep in her arms the night before, and they did have their entire life together, she tried to console herself yet again.
*
Noora walked out of Straub Hospital and stood at the intersection. She eyed the colorful red-and-white awning of the restaurant across the street where she had had lunch with Roz. It would be a nice change to eat something other than hospital food, she thought. Perhaps eating at a restaurant by the beach would help her feel less tense.
When she left Mr. Cohen, he was resting with a vaporized oxygen mask.
She noticed a taxicab waiting at the curb and thought, why not?
At the Moana Surfrider’s porte-cochère, a valet opened the cab door for Noora. She climbed the steps to the hotel and took in a deep breath of the sweet-scented open-air lobby. The fragrance of plumeria mixed with the ocean breeze reminded her again of Alexandria—and Michel. One of the valets looked at her and smiled. “Aloha! Welcome back.”
“Thank you … Ma-halo,” Noora replied. Did he recognize her? It had been two weeks, yet it had felt like a year since she had enjoyed dinner there with Mr. Cohen … and that wonderful pianist.
Noora remembered the caesar salad she had with Mr. Cohen. Her mouth watered; but a small line had gathered at the front desk of the Verandah Restaurant, and every table appeared occupied.
She would wait for that same table, not far from the pianist.
“It’ll be about a twenty-minute wait,” the hostess said regretfully.
She checked her wrist—Mr. Cohen’s watch was running slow. On her index finger, she wore his wedding ring. She had made it tighter with a thick piece of adhesive tape—keeping it for her employer while he was in the hospital.
“Is there a public phone nearby?”
“If it’s a local call, you can use this one.” The gracious hostess pointed to the white phone next to her.
“Thank you.”
Noora began to dial. She would have to make sure and say she was Miss Kelley Cohen, Mr. Cohen’s daughter. She could have said Mrs. Kelley Karlton, she had married a Karlton, but her maiden name was Cohen. They knew at the hospital she wasn’t married, but if the social worker asked, Noora was prepared to say she was divorced. That’s why it was easier to say she was Miss Cohen. She should have been Mrs.…
“I didn’t get your name,” said the hostess.
“Amir, ” Noora said watching the phone, lost in her thoughts.
The hostess checked the appointment book.
Why did I say Amir? “My goodness,” Noora said, quickly replacing the receiver in its cradle. “I’m sorry, I meant to say …”
“We do have you…” the hostess said, looking at the name written on her ledger.
She picked up a menu, ready to escort Noora to the Amir table.
“I’m so sorry. I meant to say Cohen … Cohen,” she laughed nervously. “I made a mistake … I … was busy dialing …”
“Cohen? Oh, I thought you said …” the confused hostess said.
“Sorry. Last name’s Cohen,” she repeated definitely. “I don’t mind waiting. I need to call my father. It’s local; he’s at Straub Hospital.”
“Oh sure. Just dial nine first.” The hostess turned her attention to the next waiting customer.
Noora looked away and ran a finger down the scar on the right side of her face. She was tired, hungry, flustered, and most of all, she was embarrassed. People were waiting, and she was taking her time, confusing the hostess. She hurried down the steps away from the verandah toward the open court under the banyan tree. What impelled her to say Amir? She probably needed nourishment—like a hearty bowl of chicken noodle soup and vegetables. Fool Medammes—fava beans and pita bread would’ve been better, but never mind. After dinner, she must get some rest. Fatigue and stress could play tricks on one’s already fuzzy brain.
For years, she had enjoyed thinking of herself as “Mrs. Amir.” She had written it in cursive and drawn flowers around it while doodling on her school notebooks—but that was a lifetime ago, and she had to focus on the present!
Every table under the banyan tree was occupied. Noora decided to return to the lobby area. Passing the elevator doors with art deco motif, she caught her reflection in the mirrors that framed the elevator doors. No makeup, dark circles under her eyes, she was a mess. She tucked loose strands of hair behind her ears. For the first time, she was glad to have light-colored eyes. With lighter strands of hair, her olive skin gave her a tanned appearance, and with the proper foundation, no one would guess she was from the Middle East. Perhaps she should streak her hair lighter … then she might pass for an American—a California girl. One thing was for sure: With short blonde hair, she did not look like the old Noora.
Standing at the lobby entrance, the smell of savory dishes from the nearby buffet just beyond the potted palms wafted straight to her nostrils and her stomach growled, demanding food. She peered into the restaurant. She would wait ten minutes more and ask again for the same table where she had sat with Mr. Cohen.
But the whiff of food was beckoning—and that wonderful piano music she could hear from the lobby made the ambiance feel heavenly. Yet something felt wrong. She couldn’t figure out what. Perhaps she was still uneasy about having said “Amir.”
She decided to head back to the restaurant and take the first available table. She walked back to the polite hostess, who informed her that a table would be ready for her in just about ten minutes. To keep her mind off food, Noora stopped and admired Tiffany’s exquisite window dressing. She felt as if eyes were bearing down at her. She shuddered, remembering the dreadful man with the frightening eyes and the bushy black mustache who chased her in Alexandria. There was no way he would know she was in Hawaii!
Michel stood by the buffet table, perusing the trays of Japanese dishes, and the colorful variety of international specialties. He stopped in front of a huge bowl of caesar salad. As he began to pile his plate, he looked up and saw a young woman in a yellow dress walking beyond the partition of potted palms that separated the lobby from the restaurant. He craned his neck to get a better look. The attractive young woman was far from view now, but he had caught a quick glance—a glimpse of her profile and the way she walked.
Standing behind Michel, Zaffeera wondered what on earth he was trying to see that would nearly cause him whiplash. She followed her husband’s gaze and also caught the girl’s figure, just as she disappeared to the right, down the hall.
This time, it was not architecture that Michel was watching. It was a woman! Something hissed inside her, like a gush of boiling lava about to erupt—How dare you look at anyone but me! You’re a married man. You should be ashamed! Zaffeera wanted to shout. She felt a sudden need to grab his face with her two hands and run her nails down his cheeks until he bled. He was looking at another woman—on their honeymoon!
Michel returned to their table without even waiting for her. He seemed totally preoccupied. She loaded her plate with a mound of lettuce. That was all she would eat.
Returning to his table, Michel gazed absently at the ocean and the colorful catamarans gliding back to shore. He was thinking about the girl beyond the palms, beyond his reach. A profile though barely glimpsed. That same regal walk. That ballerina back. That slight wiggle, even. And the base of her neck. Like Noora’s when she had her hair up in a chignon. The girl he couldn’t see had very short hair —Noora would never have cut hers, and that girl had lighter hair. They say when you often think of someone, you think you see them everywhere.
You are married now, he reminded himself. God, what have I done?!
A waiter asked him something.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you care for a drink?”
“Straight vodka,” Michel said. “Thank you.”
Zaffeera arrived at the table. The waiter helped her to her seat. She gave Michel a reproachful gl
ance.
“Would you like some wine?” Michel asked, hiding his face behind the long wine list.
“No, thank you. I’d like a Coke with a slice of lime, please,” she said to the waiter. She studied her husband. He seemed off in some world of his own. A world that excluded her. And he was drinking. A true Muslim does not touch alcohol. He spent too much time in France, drinking too much wine, no doubt! What else did he do in his spare time? Zaffeera wondered, feeling a painful stab of jealousy.
Ten long, silent minutes later, Zaffeera excused herself and headed to the ladies’ room. At least Michel had politely risen when she stood up. She walked straight with a slight sway, just in case he was watching.
They had made love twice. Twice! She pushed open the door to the restrooms. The second time they had sex was better. I must be patient. He just needs practice, lots of it. She entered one of the bathroom stalls.
Around the corner from the hotel lobby, inside Tiffany’s, Noora leaned against the glass case and admired the display of perfumes. A saleslady showed her the new fragrances for men and women, explaining which ones had a “gift with purchase.” But Noora was not listening. She wanted to return to the restaurant, eat, be lulled by the piano music, watch the ocean. Had ten minutes elapsed?
Noora stood at the restaurant entrance.
“We have a table available right here.” The hostess pointed to a table near the buffet, in a corner by a palm tree.
Nice and private, Noora thought. “Thank you,” she said.
“It’ll be just a minute; they’re setting it,” the hostess said.
“Thank you. Where’s the ladies’ room, please?”
Noora entered the powder room and caught her reflection on the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall facing the entrance. She noticed her wrinkled dress. She had slept in it. Luckily, she did not need to impress anyone.
Noora looked for an empty stall. From her cubicle, she could see the person’s feet in the stall next to hers. Pretty pumps, Noora thought. Is there a Bally shoe store in Honolulu? Noora could no longer afford such luxurious footwear—that was long ago, she thought in Arabic. While sitting on the toilet, Noora bent a bit more to see the shoes better. Didn’t she once have a pair like those? The shoes weren’t Bally. They were Ferragamo. Definitely. Those had much higher heels than the ones she used to have. Perhaps she should ask the girl. Would it be impolite if she inquired?
Noora unlocked her door and headed to the basin. As she washed her hands, she listened to the piano music that wafted in through hidden speakers. Drying her hands, she removed the wet adhesive tape she had wound around Mr. Cohen’s ring and wiped the band clean. She noticed there was an inscription inside his wedding band. She was not going to read it; it was his personal property, and he trusted her with it. He must have loved the woman he called Bevvy very much. Perhaps she and Ian didn’t have anything in common, but one thing was for sure: They had both lost a loved one. Tears welling in her eyes, she slipped the ring on her middle finger, and inserted a small dry piece of tissue paper. I must stop feeling sorry for myself, she thought.
The toilet flushed again. If she didn’t get back out there, the hostess might give her table away. She would wait a little longer, hoping the girl with the pretty shoes—the pretty, expensive shoes—would come out of that stall. Never mind, she could never afford them anyway.
Roz said she would call her this evening. Noora was to fax more changes. This time, she had even risked changing some of the dialogue. The hostess would probably prefer to give that table to two people instead of just one. It was time to return to the hospital before Ian started calling for her.
Zaffeera opened the door to her stall. In that instant, and from the corner of her eye, she glimpsed at a familiar-looking back and part of a profile, as a girl in a yellow dress left the ladies’ room, closing the door behind her. Was that the same girl Michel had been staring at?
Zaffeera approached the sink and stared at the mirror.
No. It could not be. She looked at the exit door then turned back to the sink, turning on the faucet at full force, splashing water on her face several times.
Now look what you’ve done, you idiot! She would have to reapply eyeliner and pat some heavy foundation under her eyes. The eyeliner, she had realized too late, was not waterproof, and with the humidity, her eyes started to look as if she had dark circles!
She carefully patted her face with one of the cloth towels from the wicker basket on the counter. Would the vision of Noora keep haunting her forever?
She continued to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Everyplace we go, it’s like the ghost of Noora is following … May Allah curse her soul! Zaffeera thought, her eyes glaring furiously at her reflection.
She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I must relax.
I must already be pregnant!
She smiled. So what if he looks at another woman? I’m the one who sleeps with him. Every night—for the rest of his life! Wait until I give him a son. He will surely adore me.
Leaning his chair back against the column, Michel gazed at the ocean. A waiter placed a glass of wine on the table.
“Thank you,” he said, looking up. From the corner of his eye, he caught the girl’s lean figure just as she was gliding through the restaurant and out to the hostess’s desk. He looked in shock at the familiar figure. The young woman’s back was to him. She stopped and talked to the hostess. Other people waiting for a table barred his view for a moment. If she would only turn a bit so he could see her. He had to go after her and see her up close.
He jumped to his feet and weaved his way through diners going to and from the buffet tables. He had to see that girl’s face.
He bumped into Zaffeera as she was coming out of the ladies’ room. Michel and Zaffeera stared at each other, speechless. He did not dare even move his eyes in the direction where the young woman had been standing.
“I … I was just looking for the men’s room,” he managed to say, feeling the blood rush to his face.
Noora walked out to the lobby and stood for a brief moment under the porte-cochère.
“Are you waiting for your car, Miss?” one of the valets asked.
“No … but thank you,” Noora said.
“Would you like me to call a taxi?”
“No, thank you. I … Well, I’m going to walk.” She turned left and headed for the Royal Hawaiian shopping center. There, she found a hot dog stand, and decided, why not? She’d never had an American hot dog before. With tomatoes and relish, it tasted pretty good, actually. But she couldn’t finish it.
She spotted a bookstore nearby and went inside.
“Would you happen to have anything on screenwriting?” she asked the clerk, who showed her to the back of the store. “We don’t get much call for these,” he said, “but … here we are.” He pulled out two books from the shelf.
Screenwriting for Those Too Shy to Ask, and Screenwriters and Other Strangers, Noora read.
“Silly titles, aren’t they?” the clerk said.
“I guess I’ll buy the silly things.”
Returning to the hospital with her new books, Noora heard Mr. Cohen’s voice the moment she set foot out of the elevator. “Water! Morons! Water is the source of life!” She ran to quiet him down, and the second he spotted her, she shouted. “Where ya been? They’re tryin’ a kill me!”
He lifted his head and looked at Noora with bulgy, watery eyes. His stomach still looked swollen. His teeth were soaking in a plastic cup nearby. He looked like one of the poor beggars she had seen in a souq, only his skin was a shade too white.
“Where the hell were you?”
I should never have left the hospital, Noora thought, feeling guilty.
A nurse appeared.
“Where is Doctor Ferguson?” Noora asked, while she held Mr. Cohen’s hand.
“He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Pain does not wait until tomorrow morning!” Noora heard herself say.
The y
oung nurse ran out of the room. Moments later, Doris came rushing in.
“I’m sorry, but your father can’t have anything more than a little shaved ice for now,” the social worker explained, apparently a little out of breath. “The doctor ordered that we only give him a little ice water from time to time, and nothing more.”
“Well, can I give him the shaved ice or a little ice water every now and then, or do I have to wait for a nurse to do it?”
“No you can. But please again, not too much until we hear from the doctor.”
As soon as they were left alone in his room, Mr. Cohen whispered with darting eyes, “I’ll give you all my money. I’ll give you the lead in Lord of Doom, I’ll sign the contract now. If you could just bring me a large glass of ice water.”
“Mr. Cohen, please. We’re going to get you well again. I promise you.”
She was determined to get Mr. Cohen to accept the shaved ice in small spoonfuls to keep his furious thirst quenched, even if she had to keep at it all night, and hopefully his bloated digestive tract would start functioning on its own.
Noora was sitting exhausted in her chair when Doctor Ferguson arrived shortly after eight the next morning. He wore a white shirt with thin blue stripes, and gray trousers. He was tall and his eyes were chocolate brown. For some absurd reason, Noora felt like hugging him.
The doctor was talking, but she could not concentrate. She averted her eyes, trying to listen to his words. He said something about “a central line that would nourish … bypassing the digestive system … Hyper-elementation.” Or was it hyper-alimentation? Whatever that meant.
Words bounced into her exhausted brain, medical words she did not know. Pay attention, Noora. “I’ll try to convince my father …” she heard herself say. The room began to spin.
Noora found herself on the couch by the elevators; the doctor, along with a couple of nurses, were making her smell something strong.
Light of the Desert Page 41
