“She’ll be all right,” Noora heard the doctor say.
“I’m … fine, really,” Noora explained, embarrassed. She must have fainted. One of the nurses sat next to her, holding her hand. Another gave her a glass of water, which she sipped. “I’ll be all right, really,” she assured them.
“Don’t worry, Miss Cohen. These things take time,” the doctor said.
“I’m sorry,” she blushed, “I’m so sorry.”
“I suggest you go home and get yourself some rest, all right?”
She nodded.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Dr. Ferguson said, stepping into the waiting elevator.
She watched as the elevator doors closed and took him out of view. But I have no home, don’t you understand?
Noora walked down the stairs and out of the hospital, crossing the street to the small park shaded by an enormous monkey pod tree. So beautiful, she thought, sitting down under one of its wide, protruding branches. She leaned back against the trunk, closing her eyes. She remembered what Dweezoul had told her: Sit under a tree… It will bring you peace and energy. She needed every ounce of energy. Some peace would sure help too.
“Should I have stayed in the desert? At the wonderful village?” Noora asked a white pigeon that ventured close to her feet.
Perhaps Mr. Cohen would have had a heart attack … and perhaps Annette would not have met Docteur Alain … She had to trust that there was a reason, a purpose behind everything that happened to her, she thought as she watched the pigeon take flight, its wings flapping so gracefully, white feathers against the blue sky. So pretty. So free. She dozed off.
She awoke feeling she must have slept a long time. She actually felt refreshed. Walking back to the hospital, she spotted a little health food store.
Night had fallen as Noora stood by Mr. Cohen’s bedside, applying a poultice of fragrant herbs on his forehead. She massaged his arms and hands, humming the same hymn that Um Faheema had sung to her.
A tear rolled down the side of his eye, to his temple and onto the pillow. “I love you, little girl,” Ian Cohen whispered, looking up at Noora with eyes filled with gratitude.
“I love you too, Mr. Cohen,” Noora murmured.
Two days later, Noora finally had a fax machine. Doris helped Noora set it up in the small conference room near Mr. Cohen, and Noora called Roz, who wasted no time faxing script pages for Mr. Cohen to edit and approve.
“If anyone at the studio finds out about Mr. Cohen, we’re deep in elephant manure,” Roz wrote Noora in her memo. “Rumor has it he is in Haiti with a very young woman. I don’t know where they got the Haiti part, when last week it was Hawaii. It’s like a broken telephone around here. Of course, working for Mr. Cohen means total confidentiality. Fortunately, the writers are satisfied with the recent changes you mailed …”
They are? Noora couldn’t believe it.
“Not that they have a choice in the matter. Mr. Cohen’s words are as good as gold.”
Noora was astonished. If they knew I was the one who made the changes without his approval, God knows what they would do.
“Keep up the good work, Ms. Karlton,” Roz concluded in her memo to Noora.
What did Roz mean? Did she suspect Noora was the one making the changes?
CHAPTER 49
SAVING SHAMSAH
Farid Fendil decided to pick up his daughter from school in the white Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible. He arrived fifteen minutes early, before the long line of Mercedes four-by-fours and SUVs queued to pick up the other children.
A sharp bell rang out. Four women, clad in long black dresses and sleeves, with their heads covered by the traditional veil, opened the tall black wrought iron doors, and the little girls walked out in a procession, two by two. Farid Fendil was surprised. The children used to burst out of those doors chattering and giggling as they ran to their parents’ cars or chauffeured limousines. Now there was no talking. It had been a long time since he picked up his daughter from the private elementary school, Farid realized.
He could not help but wonder, was the change due to the sheik’s Men of Faith, Honor and Justice? They were everywhere these days—enforcing old traditions and religious observance in the town, which had once followed a more westernized lifestyle.
He spotted Shamsah walking outside and squinting in the sun, probably searching for Abdo, her usual ride. At the sight of her father, the surprised Shamsah screamed with delight, then held her hand to her mouth.
Farid Fendil climbed out of his Rolls. Paying no attention to the surprised teachers, who obviously did not expect to see him there, he lifted his little girl by her waist and turned her around. He hugged her and kissed her cheek.
“What’s the occasion, Abuya?” Shamsah asked her father. “Is everything okay? Is Abdo ill today?”
“No, Abdo is fine,” he said, opening the door for his daughter.
She hopped in the car, and with her father’s help, she freed her arms from the straps of her backpack. “Thank you, Father. But … is everything all right?”
“Yes, of course,” Farid said, putting Shamsah’s backpack in the back seat.
“Aren’t you working today, Abuya?”
“Am I not allowed to spend a little quality time with my own daughter?” Farid said with a smile and a wink.
After a ten-minute drive, he pulled up in front of the posh Triano outdoor French café.
“Father! This is wonderful!” Shamsah squealed as they were shown to a table under an umbrella.
“They just opened this restaurant. They used to be very popular in Alexandria, long, long before you were born. I have tried to get them to open here for five years. They just relocated, and I wanted us to be the first to try their specialty.”
“You are the best in all the world!”
“I am going to see to it that I am a good father,” he said, forcing a smile.
“And Mother, does she know I am here with you?”
“Mother does not need to know everything. They have your favorite chocolate éclair,” he said. “They have fondants, you remember, like the ones in Paris? And petits fours. Oh my, they will have to roll us out of here,” he chuckled, burying his face in the tall menu.
Inside the Fendil mansion, Yasmina went to the kitchen and out to the courtyard to greet Shamsah, who was expected home from school at the usual afternoon time. She found Abdo polishing yet another one of her husband’s cars—a fire-engine-red Lamborghini Countach. Abdo had told her that Abu Farid purchased the sports car, which just arrived from Italy. But Yasmina couldn’t care less about the car. She was puzzled.
“Where is Shamsah?”
“Abu Farid picked her up from school today. He wanted to surprise her,” Abdo said joyously.
“Whaaaat?! And you let him because you had to polish his new car? You let him pick her up without telling me?!”
Abdo was surprised by her sudden outburst. He thought Yasmina would be happy that her husband offered to fetch his daughter from school and spend a little time with her. He had not expected her angry reaction.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, looking abashed. “I am sure they’ll be back soon,” he added, glancing at his watch.
“Take me to the school right away!” she screamed, spotting the regular family white stretch limo. Abdo ran after Yasmina to open the door for her.
When the Fendil limousine arrived at Shamsah’s school, all the children had been picked up, and the campus was deserted. Yasmina ran inside the school.
Abdo had never seen her in such a hysterical state. He began to sweat, and visions of the ordeal with Nageeb flashed through his mind. His stomach felt queasy.
Yasmina burst out of the front doors of the school, followed by two seriously worried teachers. They turned paler as Yasmina yelled louder.
“But Mrs. Fendil, it was her own father who picked her up, not a stranger …”
“Abdo was supposed to pick her up and no one else! Don’t you people follow instructions?”
<
br /> Inside the limo, with the windows closed so that Yasmina’s hysterical cries could not be heard, Abdo punched in Farid’s cellular number.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Abdo said to Farid, who answered his cell phone after the second ring. “Mrs. Yasmina would like to know if Shamsah is with you,” he said rapidly, keeping his voice down. Listening to the receiver, Abdo nodded. “Mrs. Yasmina asked because there is a piano lesson she has to attend this afternoon …” He listened, then smiled. “Thank you, I will tell her,” he said, then closed the flap of his cell phone, just as Yasmina was running back to the car. Finding the doors locked, she became irate. Abdo pressed the unlock button and jumped out of the car to open the back door, but Yasmina climbed in the passenger seat. “Why did you lock the doors?! Why? What is going on? Oh my God!” she yelled, slapping her own face and banging at the dashboard with both fists. “Oh my God!” she screamed as Abdo ran to climb behind the wheel. Within seconds, he was speeding down the boulevard.
At the entrance to Triano’s sidewalk café, with its bright blue-and-white awning, a limousine pulled to the curb in front of Farid’s shady table. Clad in a gray western suit and red tie with the golden MOFHAJ emblem, a chauffeur jumped out of the car and ran to open the passenger door. Sheik Abdullah Kharoub proudly emerged, with his usual sense of pride, and in his traditional white gallabeya and headdress. He walked straight to Farid, while his men stood by the car.
Farid saw the sheik coming and frowned.
“We are pleased to see you and glad you kept your appointment,” the sheik said.
“It is my pleasure to see you, Sheik Abdullah,” Farid said. He rose and gave the man a kiss on both cheeks.
“It appears we have a difficult time keeping an appointment with you lately, Mr. Fendil,” he said.
Farid returned to his chair, next to his daughter, but waited for the sheik to sit first. “I have been busy with the construction of the resort at Sharm El Sheikh, as you might imagine.”
“Of course. I hear positive reports, hamdallah.”
“Hamdallah, praise to God, it is coming along. But there is so much work yet to be done.”
“Yes,” the sheik nodded. “Of course. Hamdallah.” He motioned to one of his men and a chair was pulled up next to Farid.
Without looking at Shamsah, the sheik continued to address himself to Farid.
A gallabeya-clad waiter rushed in and brought a demitasse of hot Turkish coffee and a tall glass of ice water on an ornate silver plate, then disappeared.
“If there is any uncertainty, due to the fact that you have postponed your appointments with us on several previous occasions, let me assure you, my first wife is quite good and experienced in the matter. The procedure, performed by herself, has been known to be painless. And quite successful, praise be to Allah. There is never to be a moment of concern. Allah is there to watch over the protection of our children, and the safety of your daughter is ours as well. We are looking forward to this initiation, God willing,” he said with authority, even though his eyes were now blinking rapidly and he did not once look Farid Fendil in the eye. “It is a joyous occasion for the women. Of course, a relief for us, and without a doubt, an honor for your daughter’s future husband.”
“Of course,” Farid nodded, straightening in his chair.
“I have to go on an extended trip soon,” the sheik said. “I trust, as God wills, that it will be done upon my return.”
Shamsah leaned over to look at the sheik and his entourage. “Are you talking about me, Father?” she asked with a degree of concern in her voice.
Farid squeezed her hand then patted it in a comforting manner. “Please. Enjoy your éclair, ya benti anah.” He turned to the sheik. “I have news, Sheik Abdullah,” he said, inching closer to the sheik’s ear to make sure Shamsah would not hear what he was about to say. “My daughter has already been circumcised.”
The sheik immediately stiffened and looked straight into Farid’s eyes. “What do you mean?”
“It has already been done.”
“Done?”
“Yes.”
“And when might that have been?”
“When she was a little over a week old,” Farid replied matter-of-factly.
The sheik appeared surprised, and in fact angry.
“It has been an automatic procedure for our newborn daughters,” Farid said, looking steadily into the sheik’s eyes.
“What do you mean, Mr. Fendil?” He straightened. “At birth?”
“Not at birth. Ten days after. In our family, it is done the same time they have their ears pierced.”
The sheik leaned forward and glanced over at Shamsah, who wore tiny gold earrings with the traditional turquoise stone. “Who performs such a ceremony?! And I don’t mean the piercing of the ears,” he said, glaring sharply at Farid Fendil.
“My wife’s mother, as I told you. Our midwife,” Farid Fendil said. “The respected Madame Sultana, may Allah bless her soul, and may she rest in peace. My mother-in-law was the renowned midwife of her time.”
“Perhaps as a midwife only. I was never informed otherwise.”
Suddenly, Farid Fendil didn’t care whether the sheik believed him or not. “She was actually an authority in the field of clitoridectomy,” he said, nodding with a slight smile, “if you’ll pardon my use of the medical term.”
The sheik’s face turned red. “I see,” he said, putting a hand on the table and rising from his chair.
Don’t you wish you could see, you filthy old man, ibn el kalb. Hyppocrite. Farid Fendil politely brought his palms together and rested his hands on his lap. “May your voyage be a good one and in good health, inshallah.” He made no attempt to rise or kiss the sheik’s hand.
The sheik grunted, cleared some phlegm from his throat, and marched back to his waiting limousine.
“They make the best chocolate-covered marzipan,” Farid said as soon as he heard the sheik’s limousine drive away. He took a deep breath. “You know, besides éclairs, Noora loved chocolate-covered marzipans.”
Shamsah looked shocked, and paled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Mother said we should never mention her name in your presence.”
“Why?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know …”
“It’s all right to talk to each other about what we feel.”
“I am not sure why we could not mention her name. I think because … because it would bring … grief.”
“Why don’t we order some chocolate-covered marzipan in honor of your sister …”
“Yes,” Shamsah said, smiling now. “Noora loved chocolate-covered marzipan. Thank you, Father …” A frown returned on the child’s face. “What did these men want, Father?”
“Business,” Farid answered with a shrug.
“I thought they wanted something from me, Father.”
“No, nothing from you, ya benti. They just want from me.”
Abdo’s limousine arrived with a screeching halt in front of the restaurant. Yasmina stormed out of the car.
“Shamsah! My baby. Wa’a layah. Ya Allah! Ya benti anah! It has befallen upon me. Oh God, my daughter!” She grabbed Shamsah, kissing her all over her head and crying “Thank God!” She threw her husband a hateful stare while pulling her daughter closer to her. She covered her daughter’s head with her hand and pulled her back to the waiting car.
“But Mother, Father and I were having a nice conversation. I haven’t finished my dessert. They’re bringing us chocolate …”
“We have better pastries at home,” she said with clenched teeth. Wrapping her arms around her child, she shielded Shamsah from any possible harm.
Abdo stood by the limo, looking at Farid. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry … I didn’t know what to do,” he said, silently articulating each word so that Abu Farid could hopefully understand him.
Farid nodded. “It’s all right,” he said.
Abdo nodded politely and climbed back in the car, l
eaving Farid alone to watch his family drive off.
Late that night, Abdo tapped at Farid’s door.
“I’m sorry. Forgive me for coming to you at this late hour. But I am left with much confusion … I need to ask your permission,” Abdo said.
“Come in,” Farid said. He was sitting up in bed, reading a passage from the Koran, his bedside lamp burning next to him.
“Mrs. Fendil wants me to accompany her as a family member …” Abdo said.
“Where?”
“Well, I do not wish it, but she wants me to travel with her … She needs a man as an escort on her trip … with the children …”
“Where, Abdo?”
“Switzerland. She did not want me to tell you, but …”
“It’s all right, Abdo.”
“I’m so sorry. She says the best schools are there for Shamsah. And Kettayef. I could not leave without telling you,” he said sadly.
Farid put the heavy book down on the nightstand. Sitting at the edge of his bed, he hung his head low, and remained in that position for a long time.
“Is there anything you would like me to do?” a very uncomfortable Abdo asked.
Farid Fendil slowly looked up at Abdo. “Do whatever Mrs. Fendil wants. They do have better schools for Kettayef. And it is safe there … for Shamsah,” he said. Then he whispered, almost to himself. “There, she should be safe.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just be with them, always.”
“I will never leave them; you have my word of honor,” he replied. As Abdo turned to leave, Farid Fendil called him.
“Yes?” Abdo stopped at the door.
“Thank you, my son.” He rose and shuffled over to Abdo, embracing him and kissing him goodbye, twice on each cheek.
CHAPTER 50
ANNETTE’S LETTER
“Look, you’ve got mail,” Noora said, setting down the envelopes sent by Sam, Ian Cohen’s butler.
He pushed the mail away, sending a few envelopes to the floor. “Get me outta here!”
He hated rehab and seemed to put all his energy into complaining, instead of getting well. But the physical therapists said he was progressing. However, he was still forgetful, and at times, he seemed confused. The doctors assured Noora that it was par for the course.
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