The next night, in the maid’s cottage near the pool, Gamelia performed oral sex on her mistress. Despite every orgasm Zaffeera reached, still she did not feel the type of satisfaction she needed.
She began to think about the new chauffeur. Not that she wanted to, but her mind kept drifting back to the young driver. She had noticed his shoes: enormous. His gloved hands on the steering wheel seemed large and strong, revealing he had to be well-endowed.
The Amir family’s original chauffeur had suffered a stroke and was on a long leave of absence. Michel’s father hired the young man while the old driver was recovering.
On her way back to her room, with curiosity getting the best of her, Zaffeera went to her father-in-law’s office and found the new driver’s employment file, below a small pile of papers on Mr. Amir’s desk.
The new chauffeur had a German-sounding name: Friedrich Meinecke. How did one pronounce such a name? She would have to ask him, the next time he drove her to the shopping mall. Perhaps it would be a good way to start a conversation. A handwritten note on the bottom of his application said, “Nickname is Fred.”
It appeared “Fred” had worked as the personal chauffeur to some British dignitary during the past eight years. His driving record, according to the second page of the application, appeared flawless. A photocopy of the young man’s international driver’s license was stapled to the file. Usually, no one looked good in their passport or driver’s license photographs—yet in the copy of that picture, he looked like a movie star.
Excellent manners, excellent driving record. Speaks English and has moderate understanding of the Arabic language, Zaffeera read. She never paid attention to employees. But that driver—with the tailored navy blue uniform and crisp white shirt—was hard to ignore. It could be dangerous, of course, but it was nothing more than a fantasy.
Fantasies are fun and would make her frustrating life less boring, Zaffeera thought, carefully replacing the file exactly the way she had found it. Climbing the stairs back to her lonely suite, Zaffeera was glad the French cook had gone out that evening to visit a relative.
Alone in the house, she locked her door, breezed to the dresser by the window, and turned her mother-in-law’s picture face down. Staring at the black velvet backing of the silver frame, she picked it up again and focused on the young Michel. He was so cute when he was a boy. Soon she would give him a son who would resemble him. She wished she could cut his mother out of that picture. She opened the dresser drawer, threw the picture inside, and banged the drawer shut.
CHAPTER 54
FALSE PRETENSES
Michel drove up to the house on Bel Air Road in the new black four-door Mercedes he recently leased. He was to meet with the owner of the property, along with the general contractor. He would need to rent a house for a year—a quaint hacienda perhaps, like the ones he saw south of Olympic Boulevard. Nothing too extravagant, just something comfortable for him and Zaffeera. The location would be close enough to the Bel Air mansion he was designing.
Zaffeera had expressed the desire to own a second home in Los Angeles, but that would depend on whether he got the job.
She returned to Al-Balladi because she had been ill, apparently experiencing some female problems. He noticed she had been pale and often tired. There were times when he could have sworn she was pregnant. She would put on some weight and then lose it. Perhaps it was from her female problems. Or dieting? She never talked about it, and he hesitated to say anything. Michel realized he did wish Zaffeera were pregnant. A baby would be a blessing. He liked his wife. But he could never love her. If she gave him a child, perhaps in time, he would grow to love her in some way.
The thought of having a baby girl made him smile. Contrary to what he had believed early in the marriage, he realized that he would not name their baby Noora. There was only one Noora, and she was forever in his heart. The baby should have her own name, her own identity. If they were to be blessed with a girl, and if Zaffeera agreed, maybe they would add Noora as her middle name, in honor of her aunt.
Why am I thinking about Noora now? I have to focus on this meeting, and I’m running late. Suddenly, he felt the need to drive fast—wherever his car would lead. He liked to speed down the Pacific Coast Highway with the windows down and loud music on the radio, to drive his grief away from his mind. He was glad Zaffeera was back at Al-Balladi. They had cried together for Noora before they were married, and after, but he had to stop grieving in front of Zaffeera. Soon after they were married, she had reminded him that it was against Muslim laws to mourn for those who were “done with this lifetime and back in Paradise.” Obviously, she needed to get on with her life, and he was not helping. Lately, in fact, it seemed to make her jealous if he mentioned Noora’s name.
The silver Jaguar ahead of him honked, jarring him out of his reverie. He realized traffic had been stopped for a while. What could stop traffic for so long on a normally quiet residential street?
Ahead of the Jag, a young lady was standing next to a bright red convertible, talking to the driver. Michel drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Whatever was going on up ahead would delay him by a few more minutes. Couldn’t the driver have the courtesy to pull over to the curb? Wait. That young lady. With short blonde hair. Like the one in Honolulu …
He ran a weak hand through his hair. It’s not possible. This can’t go on, he thought. I see Noora everywhere. I can’t help myself. I must face it. I need psychotherapy.
Sitting pretentiously in his gleaming Maserati Ghibli, Kennilworth Cohen ignored the honking.
“Why won’t you say where you’re going?” he asked.
“I’m going to the hotel.”
“The Hotel Bel Air?”
“Yes,” Noora said, glancing nervously at the honking car.
“By yourself?”
“I am delivering a package.”
“Who for?”
“I believe we are stopping traffic.”
“I’m sure you do that often. Hop in.”
“No, thank you. I like to walk.”
“C’mon. It’s a fun car!”
“Ghiblis are great cars indeed, but I planned to walk. Good day.” She turned away to resume her walk.
“Wait! There’s no sidewalk. Very dangerous. You’ll get run over!” He hopped out of his car, rushed around, and opened the passenger door. At least five cars were backed up now, all of them honking.
Michel found himself blowing his horn along with the others. He stopped. Just because the car in front of him was honking, and the one behind, and he was running late, didn’t mean he had to be rude. He cracked his door open, watching out for oncoming cars. He craned his neck for a better look at the girl, who was climbing into the red convertible. The driver made a rapid and dangerous U-turn, passing Michel’s Mercedes. His head blocked Michel’s view of the girl.
Stop looking at girls, Michel chided himself and shifted into gear. The traffic was moving again.
At the parking entrance of the Hotel Bel Air, Kennilworth sat in his car and tapped nervously on the steering wheel while listening to Madonna on the radio. At least twenty minutes had passed. How long did it take to deliver a package? He should have gone with her. Ian had become so secretive about everything; perhaps the girl honestly didn’t know anything.
Several tourists were jabbering about his car and taking pictures. No, it’s not a goddamned Ferrari! Idiots. But how did his stepfather’s maid—or assistant, or whatever the hell she was—know his car was a Ghibli? She couldn’t have seen an emblem on the rear of his car, because someone stole it and he never got around to replacing it. His stepfather must have told her.
When Noora announced to the hotel manager that she was there to deliver a package for Mr. Gianni, from Mr. Ian Cohen, she was asked to wait in the lobby. She sat on a wing chair and watched the parade of people. She was told to deliver the package to the actor in person. Her attention was caught by the beautiful arrangement of peach-c
olored roses and pale pink lilies. The flowers’ sweet fragrance transported her back to her grandmother’s garden. You have to live in the present, a voice said, as Noora opened her eyes. She had almost forgotten about Kennilworth. She wished she hadn’t accepted his offer to ride in his car. She remembered Nageeb had a similar red Ghibli Spider—their father gave it to him on his eighteenth birthday. It felt good to sit in Kennilworth’s car, actually. She had, for a brief moment, closed her eyes and lost herself amid the distinctive smell of the leather seats … Abdo would have been horrified to see how Ian’s stepson shifted gears and how he handled that car—it was criminal.
Why couldn’t she just call Abdo and let him know she was alive? Her eyes welled. She turned her gaze to the crackling fireplace nearby in the lobby. It would endanger Abdo if she tried to contact him. She could never get in touch with him. She would not jeopardize the caring relationship he had with his adopted family, and especially with her father.
“Are you Mr. Cohen’s messenger?”
She looked up. “What? Oh, yes,” she said, springing to her feet. She should have said she was Mr. Cohen’s assistant, not his messenger.
“Follow me, please,” the hotel manager said. They made their way through a long cobblestone walkway, bordered by the loveliest lilac and pale blue mums. They turned down winding, narrow paths where the bright sunlight played hide-and-seek through tall, leafy trees, and down another pathway; Noora was guided to a private bungalow.
The hotel manager knocked and waited. The door opened. A handsome young blonde man appeared. He wore a white terry robe with the Hotel Bel Air’s logo embroidered on the breast pocket. Noora recognized him instantly from magazine covers, posters, and billboards.
“Hey! Great. How ya doin’?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’ve been waiting for this package,” the movie star said.
Noora removed the large brown envelope that concealed the heavy package, and glanced at the instructions written on top. “When you get to Gianni’s bungalow, give the manuscript to him personally, ONLY. NO ONE ELSE!” he had printed with a black felt pen.
“It’s from Mr. Ian Cohen,” she said, handing the actor the thick envelope.
Now that the package was personally delivered and in the young man’s possession, as per Ian’s instructions, she would walk back to his house, eager to lose herself in some romance novel of a forgotten era.
“Thank you. I can find my way out,” she said to her escort.
“My pleasure, madame,” the manager said with a French accent, and walked away.
“Come in, come in,” the movie star said to Noora, his robe slightly open, revealing that he was nude. “I have something for you,” he murmured with a sly grin.
He walked back inside, picked up an eight-by-ten glossy of himself from the desk in the suite, wrote something on it, and inserted it in an envelope. Noora stood at the threshold and did not take one step further. The movie star returned to the door and took his time licking the flap of the envelope while lifting his eyebrows at Noora. He handed her the sealed envelope as if giving her a prized gift.
“I’ll make sure Mr. Cohen gets it,” Noora said and rushed off before he stopped her.
She wanted to toss the envelope in the garbage, but she couldn’t find a trash bin along the pathway. It was just as well, because she would place it on Mr. Cohen’s desk and say that the actor handed her the envelope, and she assumed it was for Ian. She folded it in half and put it in her pocketbook.
Noora made her way down to the pond. She had been there a month or two before, while Ian was attending a meeting. “Bevvy used to love high tea here. I’m sure you will too,” he had told her, and said she should check out the swan pond.
She had indeed enjoyed the tea and petits fours, the quiet time alone. Most of all, she had especially loved sitting under the small weeping willow, far enough from the swans not to disturb them as they glided so smoothly and elegantly.
But today, as she made her way down the stone steps, she discovered a wedding was in progress. Quietly, she took a few steps across the lawn, far enough from the ceremony.
The fairytale setting left her breathless. Hundreds of pink roses adorned the gleaming white gazebo ahead. The bride wore a long, flowing white gown, and the dark-haired groom stood by her side. At least a hundred guests were seated on white folding chairs while the couple exchanged vows.
As she rushed away from the wedding, she thought she heard someone calling: “Hey, lady!”
She remembered her sunglasses on top of her head and quickly shielded her teary eyes.
“I … am sorry,” she stammered as Kennilworth approached a little too close. She brushed a tear from her cheek, pretending to remove strands of hair. “I was detained a bit longer than I expected.”
“You all right?”
“Me?”
“Yes. You look upset.”
“Me?”
“Who else?” he answered impatiently.
“I just want to take advantage of this beautiful Sunday and walk home,” she said. “I like to walk.” She turned away and headed back out to the parking lot through the covered bridge.
“Okay, I get it. You like to walk. But you know,” Kennilworth said, chasing after her, “even in Bel Air, a pretty young woman walking alone … it’s not a good idea.”
She stopped beneath the awning near the valet stand.
He touched her arm gently and gave her a warm smile.
“Thanks for your concern. I’ll be careful,” she said, turning away from Kennilworth and starting for the street.
“Let me drive you,” he said, rushing after her. “I need to return something to my father anyway.”
Kennilworth’s sports car zoomed around to the parking lot and the valet hopped out, ran to the passenger door, and opened it. Kennilworth nudged Noora firmly to his car and helped her in.
“Allow me.” He turned to the valet. “Just a moment.” Kennilworth gave the valet a tip.
“These guys work hard,” Kennilworth said, back in his car and shifting forcefully into gear. “They deserve a good twenty-dollar tip.” He zoomed down the street. “It’s nothing for me and it’s a lot for them. I see you know a little bit about cars.”
“Not really,” she said, wondering how she allowed this guy to talk her into riding with him. “May I open the window?”
“Sure. ” He was going to show her where the button was, but Noora already knew and pressed an index finger above the dashboard.
“Not too windy for your hair?”
“I like the wind.”
“How come you know so much about sports cars?”
“I really don’t.”
“Where are you from?”
“France.”
“I mean originally.”
“London. But I lived in France.”
“Funny, you don’t sound either British or French.”
“Really? I believe you passed the street,” she said.
“I was looking at you and forgot where I was going.”
Noora gave him a look, thinking of one of Ian’s favorite expressions—“full of prunes.”
“You are very pretty,” he said.
Really full of prunes, she thought.
“We don’t see many classy ladies around here,” he said. “If I seemed a little rude or pushy earlier, forgive me. I’ll drop you off anywhere you say. I just need to pull over where you won’t get run over.” He maneuvered his car to the curb; he then pulled to a wide driveway, jumped out, rushed to the passenger door, and helped her out.
“Thank you.”
“Pleasure. Again, forgive my forwardness.”
She wasn’t sure if he was full of prunes or just plenty full of hot air. One thing was for sure: He was full of himself.
Noora enjoyed the short walk back to Ian’s house. She pressed the code buttons, and Mr. Cohen’s wooden gate opened. She glanced over her shoulder across the street. Behind tall Italian pines that bordered the property, an ugly mansion
would soon be built, Mr. Cohen had told her. He was not happy about having construction workers barging into what had once been a quiet cul-de-sac. He often complained about the neighborhood going “straight to hell because of all those rich ragheads invading the country.”
Noora wished he would stop using that term—“ragheads.” It certainly was not her place to protest. You don’t bite the hand that feeds you, she reminded herself.
She rang the service doorbell. Cessi appeared, dressed in a pink suit.
“You look nice, Cessi,” Noora managed to say in Spanish, stepping inside the immaculate kitchen that smelled like Pine Sol. “Your son, taking you to iglesia today?”
“Si, señorita.”
Noora chatted with Cessi for a few moments before she walked through the kitchen and across the vestibule to Ian’s office. She placed the movie star’s envelope on his desk next to the phone. “Why, I assumed the picture was meant for you, Mr. Cohen,” she would tease him.
She felt a presence. Turning in her heel, she found Ian’s stepson standing inches behind her.
“Oh, goodness!” she gasped, startled. “I didn’t see you.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he whispered. “I’m also delivering something. My father gave me a manuscript to correct for him.” Kennilworth put the thick box on his stepfather’s chair. “I always put all the work I do for him on his chair so he doesn’t miss it. The old man’s eyesight is not so good anymore. He’s also forgetful these days.”
“Oh? Why, I wouldn’t think …”
“You might want to do the same,” he interrupted. “For sure he’ll miss it if you put it on his desk like that. What’s in that envelope?”
“It’s sealed,” she said.
Kennilworth grabbed her in his arms, gave her a passionate kiss, taking Noora with such surprise, she lost her balance. He grabbed her tighter by the waist.
Light of the Desert Page 46
