Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Remembering his red tie with the golden MOFHAJ emblem embroidered in the middle, he quickly removed it and thrust it in his coat pocket.

  Trembling, he searched for another airline.

  The agent at TWA’s counter was kind to him and told him the flight to Paris now had several cancellations popping up on computer screens. Moustafa figured people would not want to fly soon after news of a plane crash. He told the attractive young ticketing agent that he had to join his family in Paris because his father died and he had to board the next flight. Due to the plane crash, the young agent was becoming more flustered, as the line of nervous travelers was rapidly growing longer and longer behind Moustafa. Busy printing out a new ticket and trying to figure out why her stapler was not working properly, she scarcely listened to Moustafa, and didn’t ask for his passport.

  At sunset, Moustafa’s flight finally took off to Paris. Once they were airborne, most of the passengers were grasping their armrests, apparently uneasy about flying. Moustafa moved his lips in prayer. He was in the fifth row, in coach. Khamsah, five, was a good number. Traditionally, it brought protection, at times even luck.

  When his flight landed in Paris at seven in the morning, Moustafa had a severe headache and was drenched in perspiration through the lining of his suit. He walked down the entryway and gateways, down the escalators where Youssef had stopped him only two days before—just outside the revolving doors leading to the baggage claim area.

  He had cursed Youssef, and now Youssef was gone. Allah bless his soul. Allah Akbar. God is great. Where are you, Youssef? Where I could have been! Moustafa’s entire body jerked from a severe shiver while he waited in the long line to have his passport stamped. He had to focus on the present and set aside Youssef’s tragedy. He had other worries. What if the passport agent up ahead questioned him? What if someone on the plane did report him missing? What if they knew he had deplaned and suspected he had planted a bomb?! No. His passport was in order, and the names of the passengers on the flight could not have been announced so soon. Could they? Slowly moving forward in line, he wondered how many hours had passed since the crash. His partner was probably in the bowels of the Atlantic or maybe even parts of him were floating on the surface of the ocean—being devoured by sharks. Blood had gone up to the tip of his head, and he knew his cheeks were flushed. Drops of perspiration tickled as they flowed down his temples, and he wiped them with his coat sleeve. He probably had a fever. His entire body jolted at the sound of his passport being stamped.

  He walked out and followed other travelers, his stomach practically in his throat. This time, he wouldn’t mind having a tall glass of whiskey on ice. He breathed deeply and felt relieved to be out of there, until thoughts of Youssef returned. He shuffled down to the baggage claim with nothing to claim.

  Making his way out of the busy airport like a sleepwalker, he stood gazing blankly at the cabs and shuttle buses lined along the sidewalk. Somehow, he found himself in a cab, heading for Paris.

  He asked the driver if he knew of a small, inexpensive hotel, not too far from Le Crillon Hotel—if that were possible. Luckily, the Asian driver knew his way around Paris. He said that he used to be a professional chauffeur in Taiwan. Or was it Thailand? The cab driver stared at Moustafa through his rearview mirror. Moustafa probably looked pathetic.

  “Are you okay, monsieur?” the cabbie asked with a thick accent.

  “My French is miserable like me,” Moustafa said, hoping to enlist sympathy. “Speak English?”

  “I speak English. Oh yes, yes. Where you from?”

  Moustafa had to reflect on that question for a moment. “I’m from … London. My mother was British, actually,” Moustafa lied. “My fiancée was … she was on that airplane that crashed.”

  “No! The airplane that left from New York and …”

  “Yes, yes.” Moustafa hung his head. “Alas yes, it is horrible.”

  “The one that happened just yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Moustafa said, starting to cry real tears.

  “I just heard it on the radio. It’s all over the stations,” the cab driver said.

  Moustafa wondered if anyone would describe him to the police and say he was a possible suspect. Did anyone know what caused that crash? Moustafa didn’t dare ask the driver.

  “I’m very sorry, monsieur,” the cabbie said, glancing again at his passenger through his rearview mirror. “It is horrible!”

  “She had money with her. A dowry … to get us started … My loved one and her money went …”

  Silence on the part of the driver.

  “Don’t worry. I have plenty to pay you. And I have credit cards, of course …”

  “Oh, no, no, I was not worried about that,” the cabbie said. “Just very sorry. Very sorry.”

  “I need to go to a little hotel that doesn’t cost too much. I want to shower and maybe rest a little before I see the family. I can’t think too good right now.” It was true; he felt like a clump of slimy flesh. “Her mother, her brother … they live near Le Crillon Hotel. But I just need to be alone and think …”

  “I know a nice place. The manager is my friend. He’s from my country. He give you good discount.”

  “I am most grateful, mon-see-oor …”

  Moustafa checked into a hotel on a side street behind the lavish Meurice Hotel. A small bed-and-breakfast, sandwiched between newly renovated buildings in a narrow alleyway, the structure seemed to be awaiting demolition. The lobby was filled with incense smoke emanating from a miniature Thai temple propped on a stand near the checkin counter. Moustafa was in the right part of town, and the room was a good 70 percent cheaper than the luxury hotels. He was glad to be far from the airport.

  Finally alone inside his dreary hotel room, Moustafa hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door and sat down on the edge of the bed. Gripping the remote control, he stared at the tiny television set. It seemed every channel announced the crash. Didn’t they have anything else to broadcast?

  Why did Allah spare his life? Praise to Allah. Allah Akbar, God is great. He turned to the window. Through the yellowed lacy curtains, all he could see was a gray wall. He curled up in the fetal position on the frayed brocade comforter covering the saggy hotel mattress, and immediately fell into a deep slumber.

  Moustafa’s eyes popped open. All was dark in his room now, except for the flickering of the television set. He could feel he had a high fever. His throat was dry and sore. He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand, displaying 7:30 in the evening. He peeled off his clothes, dropping everything on the floor. Wrapping himself in the comforter, he staggered into the bathroom to get a drink of water.

  Shuffling back to bed, he slipped under the covers, trembling uncontrollably and wishing the hotel provided a terrycloth robe. Nothing was provided, no armoire, not even a dresser—just a chair and a small table. He glanced at the television set. Pictures of the passengers who had died on the crash were scrolling down at low speed, with the names below each photograph. A sad song played in the background. Why did they have to play that mournful music?!

  He forgot about his fever and everything when he saw his own picture on television. He jumped out of bed and kneeled in front of the small screen. Dumbfounded, he watched the other faces as they scrolled down. Moustafa waited, holding his breath to see if his picture would reappear. Was it someone who resembled him? Perhaps he was delirious.

  He found the remote and returned shivering to bed, pulling the covers to his chest. He flipped to another channel. Two television announcers were talking to each other about the crash. He flipped again, and the next channel was scrolling down photographs of the victims. There it was! Along with others, a copy of his own passport picture, on television, for millions to see! The announcer spoke rapidly in French, and Moustafa couldn’t understand what he said. He switched to a Middle Eastern channel, but the announcers spoke Persian. He switched to an English-speaking channel and waited, watching the screen while his mind swirled with sho
ck and questions. Awhile later, his picture appeared again, this time with his name.

  Moustafa Abdel Gamal Samak (34)

  It scrolled down fast, but fast enough for him to see that they even had the nerve to show his age, and they misspelled his last name.

  They made a more serious error. He was alive. He must call and let them know! He looked around the four walls and held his head in his hands. Am I losing my mind? He reached for the phone. He had to contact the sheik in New York. He lifted the receiver, then placed it back in its cradle. The sheik should be grieving for me by now, Moustafa thought. He must have heard the news. What about Youssef? They did not display his picture. Did Youssef leave the airplane too? Did he chase after Moustafa when he couldn’t find him on the plane? Moustafa’s chest was heaving. No, Youssef was on that airplane. Youssef was dead. Moustafa barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting.

  When he opened his eyes again, the sun had not yet come up. He automatically turned his head to the television screen, where names were scrolling down without pictures, in alphabetical order. He saw his name again, in black letters.

  MOUSTAFA GAMAL SAMMEK

  This time, they spelled Sammek correctly. Beneath his name, there was no mistaking. He read:

  YOUSSEF ABDULLAH SAMMEK

  It was confirmed. Youssef was on that plane.

  They say that when people die suddenly, their soul cannot admit that they are dead. They continue to roam the earth, like ghosts.

  “But I am alive!” he said, looking around his hotel room. “I left that airplane … I did not die!” He wanted to go out on the street and smoke a cigarette, drink something, eat, talk to people on the street, and see if they would respond—do the things men do when they are alive. But he was too sick to go out. He looked down at his arms, at his trembling hands, and weakly pinched himself here and there. Ya satehr. I am not dead, God protect me, I am among the living.

  He chanted, “In the name of Allah …”

  He kneeled on the floor and faced the window, putting his forehead to the musty old carpet. “Allah Akbar! Allah granted me life so I can find the wicked woman. For this, I am grateful. For this, I promise on my own life, I will see to it that the slut gets the punishment she deserves. God is great!”

  *

  “It is terrible,” Ahna said. “More innocent people dying. They’re not saying what was the cause of that awful crash. Maybe it is too soon to tell.”

  Sitting in Ahna Morgenbesser’s easy chair in her cozy living room, Noora held herself upright like a stiff plank, worrying that perhaps she knew someone on that plane. She had watched some of the names they scrolled on the screen. Instinctively, she checked for the name Amir, and luckily, no such name was shown. She waited until

  they scrolled down to the letter F, to see if any family member had been on that flight, and to her relief, there was no one she knew. Thank God. She prayed silently for the victims of the crash, and turned away from the television set.

  Her own troubles were small by comparison to the latest news, but she could not stop thinking about what happened in Bel Air. She had betrayed Ian. Again, her life was in turmoil. Again she was on the run, wondering where she would live. She had felt the need to be loved, even for a brief moment, and the scent of Kennilworth’s cologne broke down her defenses.

  Only small-minded people blame others instead of themselves. How could she lose her head over something so silly, even though the scent reminded her of the man she would always love? The man she would never have again—without some miracle. She didn’t deserve a miracle; she had kissed other men. Why had she done that? Was she given something stronger than champagne? How naïve. How stupid could I have been?! She must try to remember what happened that night, however painful. When she was in Eilat with Nageeb and recovering from her injuries, she knew he hadn’t told her everything. He said there were photos of her. What kind of photos and who took them? Did Michel know? She betrayed Michel, she dishonored her father. Nageeb died protecting her. Why do I hurt those I love most? She remembered dear Um Faheema, who had given her hope; Noora missed her terribly. The lump in her throat grew larger and she fought back tears.

  Could Michel still be in Paris? His hotel was near the Louvre, maybe a Metro ride away from Ahna’s apartment at Levallois. What was the name of that hotel? she wondered, feeling dizzy. How could she have forgotten? Michel must have graduated by now—and left Paris. He could have already met … and married someone else. Someone faithful.

  The velvet couch felt soft under her fingers. Could she sleep here tonight? Would it be wrong to impose on Annette’s grandmother? She did invite her …

  “You look so pale, my little dear,” Ahna said.

  Noora looked up. She did not see her when she returned from the kitchen.

  “You don’t have to watch that channel.”

  “Oh … That’s fine.”

  “I keep the television on all day,” Ahna said. “For company. But all they have today is news of the plane crash. I am so glad you are here.” She smiled at Noora and waddled back down the narrow hall.

  “Would you like a piece of cake?” Ahna asked, returning with a decorative silver tray.

  “Perhaps a small piece, thank you. It looks wonderful. I really didn’t come here to disturb you.”

  “Not at all. I am pleased you are here.”

  “How very kind of you. If I may be of any help,” Noora said, wishing she could just curl up on the old soft couch and forget everything.

  “You had a long trip,” Ahna said, cutting her cake. “Ah, J’ai oublié la carafe de chocolat au lait… ”

  Noora understood. Ahna had forgotten the carafe of hot chocolate. “Allow me, please,” she offered, standing up.

  The kitchen was long and narrow, with a small gas stove and a fridge snuggled between the sink and counter. It also had a large, seemingly new oven. A small table with a chair next to the window that faced a courtyard told a story—of a woman who must do a lot of baking, but spends most of her time alone.

  Noora returned to the living room with an ornate Limoge pot that emanated the inviting smell of hot cocoa, and she placed it on the coffee table. Ahna poured the beverage into matching cups that looked like small cereal bowls with handles.

  Noora inhaled the warm aroma and closed her eyes as she sipped. The hot beverage felt good as she slowly drank. But she had to put the cup down. She set it on the delicate, crocheted doily in front of her. As she did, she suddenly burst into uncontrollable sobs—right in front of Ahna Morgenbesser, and she could not stop.

  When Noora’s sobs finally subsided, Ahna rose from her chaise with some difficulty and reached for a box of tissues on a shelf near the upright piano.

  “Please … forgive me,” Noora managed to say.

  “It is good to cry,” Mrs. Morgenbesser said, handing her the box of tissues. “It does not look like you have done that in a long time, ma chère Kelley Karlton.”

  “My name is not Kelley … It is Noora … Noora Fendil,” she said miserably, and without really meaning to, she told the truth about herself. She could not stop talking until she had told Ahna everything she remembered—from the dreadful day her father tried to drown her, to the helicopter crash—the Bedouins, the man with the mustache who chased after her in Alexandria—about everything that had happened, until she met Annette on the beach. She also told Ahna about her relationship with Ian Cohen. “I didn’t trust him at first, but after we returned from Honolulu, and he was recovering, I felt that Mr. Cohen and I had built a certain bond. A trusting friendship.”

  By the time Noora had finished pouring her heart out, Ahna’s cake had been eaten, and another pot of hot cocoa had been poured. The old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed four times. Ahna Morgenbesser sat in silence, not once interrupting Noora’s monologue.

  Finally, when she was sure Noora was done, Ahna spoke. “Dear child,” she said, “you have kept so much pain inside your heart. So much pain for so long. In the end, nothing can b
e more gratifying than to reveal the truth of our life.”

  Noora blew her nose and breathed deeply. “Sorry. I am so sorry.”

  “There is no need to ever be sorry, Noora … Your name. Does it have a meaning?”

  “In Arabic, ‘noor’ means light. That’s what my name was supposed to mean.”

  “Indeed it does. And now,” she said, rising, “I have a hearty poulet à la reine. I think you need a little nourishment before you go to sleep.”

  “Oh no, I could no longer impose.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  “Thank you so much,” Noora said with another deep sigh. A heavy load seemed to have been lifted, and Noora was indeed famished. Ahna’s delicious cake had been devoured hours before, and she was hungry again. But she was embarrassed for taking so much of Ahna’s time and hospitality.

  “The man you described with a mustache …” Ahna asked, after Noora finished her chicken à la reine. “The one in Alexandria. You first saw him in London, you said?”

  Noora nodded.

  “Where do you suppose he is now?”

  “Where? I … I don’t know,” Noora answered, surprised by the question. “I would certainly have no clue. I tried to forget about him after … after I went to America. Certainly he must have given up … It’s been more than a year. He could never find me. He must think I’m still in the Middle East somewhere.”

  “One would assume so,” Ahna said with a frown. She rose. “Come, I have something to show you.”

  Down the hall, Ahna Morgenbesser opened a door. Separated by a carpet with water lily designs, two single beds with flowered bedspreads stood on opposite sides along the walls.

  “It was Giselle’s room,” Ahna explained, standing at the door. “Giselle, my daughter; Annette’s mother. Annette grew up here. They shared this room. Annette could not stay here after her mother died. It was too painful for her. If you don’t mind sleeping here, the room is yours.”

  Noora felt that she had stepped into a corner of a country French garden—like a Monet painting. “It’s lovely,” she said.