Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Several old books and porcelain statuettes were positioned on wall-mounted shelves. A tall, narrow window between the two beds was framed by floor-to-ceiling faded blue taffeta drapes tied back by brass hooks shaped like a rose.

  A faint early-morning light was visible through the lacy curtains covering the window.

  “Is it dawn? Already?” Noora asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “Goodness, I’ve kept you awake all night! I am so, so sorry.”

  “It was good … a time much needed for both of us.”

  How could that be possible? Noora wondered, when all she did was consume Ahna’s food and talk about herself.

  “Now we will both be able to get some sleep,” Ahna said with a comforting smile. “Good night, ma chérie, and good rest.”

  CHAPTER 56

  CITY OF LOVE AND DANGER

  On a misty gray Parisian morning, Moustafa walked out of his dreary hotel. Miserably, he trudged along the narrow sidewalk on the Rue de something-or-other, a name he never bothered to remember, because he never imagined that after six months, he would still be looking for the Fendil girl! He didn’t know how many fruitless days and nights he had spent walking the streets, taking the Metro from one end of Paris to the other. Moustafa was nearly out of money and out of hope.

  Soon he would have no choice but to find a job. Who would hire him without a carte d’identité? Unless he worked in a Middle Eastern restaurant as a dishwasher. The thought of taking such a job sickened him. When he was a kid, he knew how to pick pockets. He was very swift and never got caught. But that was ages ago, and he was sure he had lost the touch. The one good thing about working in a kitchen was that he would surely get free meals. But while he was busy in a hot, greasy kitchen, the girl could escape in a limousine to the airport.

  Moustafa trudged along the street, where wealthy tourists shopped. She had to still be in Paris. Allah would surely guide him. Otherwise, the Almighty One would have given him the need to leave the city. He was sure of that. He stopped at the window of a small bistro and stared at his reflection. If anyone he knew saw him, they would not recognize him. He had straightened his hair and had it dyed an auburn brown. But he was still bothered by the feeling of nakedness above his lip. He had to remain disguised. As soon as he found her, he would grow his mustache back again. He turned away and continued his walk, looking for a place to buy cigarettes.

  At a magazine kiosk near the entrance of the Metro station not far from the luxurious Hotel Le Crillon, Moustafa nearly dropped his change when he spotted the slender figure, only a few feet away, heading toward the hotel. That same posture. Tall and proud. He was not mistaken. It was the girl! To his surprise, she was not accompanied by a man. She was strolling arm-in-arm with an old woman who had very white skin and yellow-white hair. The woman walked with a heavy limp and she supported herself on an umbrella that she used as a cane.

  Moustafa followed the pair. Why was the sharmouta with an old woman? When he was not more than six feet behind her, he suddenly realized there was no way to catch the girl. He could not just reach out on a busy street and grab her. She would surely scream. He could say she was his wife who deserted him.

  As he followed, the old woman suddenly turned and stared straight into Moustafa’s eyes. He recoiled. There was something strange about that woman. She turned back to Noora and ushered her up the steps of the hotel. His heart racing faster, faster, he ran after them. A doorman stopped him.

  “Are you a guest?” he asked in French.

  “Pardon?” Moustafa watched the two women over the doorman’s shoulder as they made their way into the lobby. “Laissez moi passer.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but if you are not a guest …”

  “Yes, yes! I’m meeting someone for tea!” he told the doorman in broken French. Since when did anyone have to be the guest of a hotel to enter its lobby?!

  “Under what name?” the doorman asked.

  “What do you mean? But that is personal, excusez moi!” Moustafa said, trying to imitate a Parisian accent. He was not wearing an expensive suit, but with his navy blue trench coat, he could very well look like an important actor or poet. “I am meeting with a very important person,” he added with authority, wishing he had a handkerchief to wipe away the sweat above his lip.

  “Je regrette, monsieur,” the doorman said. “Unless you give me a name of the person you are meeting, I can’t let you inside.”

  Khara f’weshak! Moustafa wanted to spit at him. But he had to be careful. “It is obvious you don’t recognize who I am.”

  The doorman appeared more suspicious.

  “I am expected, and I am late. I am with l’Alliance Française.”

  “If you give me the name of the person you are meeting, I will gladly have someone escort you.”

  “I have never been so insulted! I will call the Alliance. And you … your job is in jeopardy!” Moustafa reached for his cell phone and pretended to dial while marching away down the sidewalk. His cell had been out of service for months, but it gave him a sense of importance.

  What shit luck to have some idiot stop him! He ran around the corner, looking for another entrance to the hotel. He had never had such a problem before. He could hire someone to beat the shit out of that French bastard. He found the back entrance, and in minutes, he was inside the hotel.

  Edging his way closer to the lobby, he saw the pretentious doorman out on the sidewalk with his back to him. He was welcoming a group of well-dressed men getting out of a limousine. Moustafa peered into the restaurant, where classical music filled the air and guests were being served tea. She was not there. Did she take the elevator upstairs?

  At that moment, he could do nothing with all these people around. He had to follow her, find out her room number, if that’s where she stayed. She was probably staying in a suite. Bitch! Surely she could not be registered under her own name, since she was supposed to be dead! He should have carried some chloroform. He should have been prepared. How expensive was chloroform and where could he get it? He began to imagine what he could do with her if she were unconscious—and he was alone with her in his hotel room.

  For the very first time, he realized he had no desire to return her to her father. He would keep her. His body shuddered at the thought.

  “What are we doing up here?” Noora asked as Ahna Morgenbesser guided her out of the elevators to the mezzanine.

  “I wanted to look at one of the suites, in case we should stay here someday,” Ahna said.

  “Stay here? But why? Your apartment is prettier than any suite in this hotel.”

  “Well …” Ahna chuckled, “it’s just because it’s home.”

  “Yes,” Noora smiled. “Home is always better.”

  “But I’m still curious about those presidential suites. Aren’t you?”

  Noora shrugged.

  “Dignitaries, presidents, celebrities stay here, you know,” Ahna said, but she noticed that Noora’s clear eyes were darkening. Perhaps her young companion had stayed here with her family. But it was not right to ask and evoke any more painful memories. “They know me here,” Ahna explained. “Sometimes, when there is a special need, they hire me to bake some of their pastries, marzipan figurines, and pièces montées.”

  “Pièce montée? What’s that?”

  “The traditional French wedding cake.”

  “Ah, yes. I’ve seen them. Cream puffs mounted like a mountain and held together by a thick coat of hard candy, right?”

  “Yes. Actually enrobed in luscious, delectable candy. You have to pull out the cream puffs without destroying them.”

  “It would seem rather difficult to cut into hard candy to get to the cream puffs,” Noora said.

  “Ah, oui. But that’s the idea. First challenge of married life,” she chuckled. “Once I had to bake three hundred cream puffs. What a chore that was. It took forever to assemble it. I had to bring all the cream puffs and assemble them right on site—at the Meurice Hotel in thei
r grand ballroom. Well, I don’t mean to sound vain, but it was the prettiest and tallest wedding cake I ever made.”

  Noora smiled. “You must have a special touch, for a luxury hotel to hire you for their wedding cakes.”

  “Yes, it is an honor. The money is good too,” she said. “But my specialty is still the black forest cakes. Baking comes naturally to me. But I used to sculpt delicate roses and pansies … Everything edible.”

  “Out of sugar?”

  “Out of marzipan.”

  “I love marzipan.”

  “Well, I used to mold ballerinas and other marzipan figurines. I can still make them, but it’s difficult now that I’m old. Arthritis, you know … Too bad it’s a forgotten art. I’m honored they still call me with cake orders. The head of food and beverage is an old friend,” Ahna said, standing by the elevators, trying to distract Noora. “He invited me on many occasions to show me one of their presidential suites. They have three that they recently redecorated, I believe …”

  “The head of food and beverage invited you to see one of their presidential suites?” Noora asked, trying to understand Ahna’s story.

  “Yes, he’s a wonderful man with impeccable taste. But perhaps we should do the proper thing. Let’s go back downstairs,” Ahna said, pushing the down button. “I’ll see if he’s not too busy. I knew his father since my husband A’iim was alive.”

  The elevator doors opened back down to the lobby. Ahna continued with her chatter, trying to keep Noora distracted, especially from noticing the man in the navy blue trench coat. Seeing him in front of another elevator, Ahna quickly pressed the button down to the lower level. The elevator doors never seemed so slow. She hoped the man had not seen them. He was definitely following them. The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside. The man had turned, and it was possible he spotted Noora, just as the elevator doors closed. He didn’t have a mustache, like the man Noora described, and his hair was light brown, not black, but the intensity of his eyes alarmed Ahna.

  They descended to the next floor. “I don’t want to worry you dear,” Ahna said, “but …”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’d like to go home, if you don’t mind.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Just a little dizziness.”

  “Would you like me to take you to a doctor?”

  “No, just take me home. I’ll be fine. It happens.” The elevators opened to the street level. Ahna rushed Noora to the rear doors and out to the sidewalk. She motioned to a passing cab.

  Moustafa emerged from the elevator and looked out. Through the glass doors of the rear entrance, he spotted Noora on the sidewalk as the old woman was hailing a cab. He couldn’t run after them, because he would attract attention to himself. A security guard stood by the revolving doors. Cursing under his breath, Moustafa made his way carefully, passing the security guard and heading through the revolving doors. When he stepped out on the sidewalk, Noora and the old woman had just gotten into the cab and it took off. Moustafa rushed after them. When the traffic slowed at the corner of the main boulevard, Moustafa found a cab.

  After a good half hour of inching through the slow traffic, the cab he followed stopped near the Levallois Metro entrance. Finally. He was starting to worry that soon he would run out of cab fare—enough money for a few dinners, he thought, but it was going to be worth it. He found the girl. He hopped out of the cab, paid the driver, and when he looked up, he saw the women’s cab leaving. He lost sight of the two women in a crowd that spilled out of the Metro station onto both sides of the street. They must have gone in one of the shops—which one, he couldn’t tell. What was she doing in this part of Paris, with these working-class people?

  A group of thirteen or fourteen-year-old girls was coming out of the Metro. Innocent virgins living in the area, probably ready to be corrupted, Moustafa concluded. The Fendil slut could very well be connected to a wealthy bordello, and the old woman could be a cover or maybe a retired owner. He stood by the window of a bakery, pretending to peruse the display. He peered inside. Noora was not there, and neither was the old woman.

  He checked every entrance on the block. How could they have disappeared so fast, when the old woman looked like she could hardly get around? Many of the buildings along the street had large wooden doors. They would open into courtyards and apartments. With his coat sleeve, he wiped the sweat from his brow. If he waited long enough, she would have to come out.

  Where did she go? “NOORA!” Moustafa yelled. “Noora Fendil!” People were staring at him.

  “What’s the matter, monsieur?” a middle-aged woman asked, frowning at Moustafa.

  “Excusez moi,” Moustafa blurted, out of breath. “I am looking for my wife …”

  “Con de Pied Noir,” he heard a man say behind him.

  Moustafa understood the French slang “Black Foot,” which stood for an Arab or North African. An Arab cunt? Was that what this stupid stranger, that French ibn kalb, called him? Moustafa turned on his heel. The man who insulted him was rushing to the Metro entrance and disappeared down the steps.

  Parisians! He loathed them. Loathed them all! Yeh-rak deenhom… kollohom! May their religion burn! All of them! Moustafa cursed under his breath, feeling his blood rise to his head. Infidels! He wanted to chase after that man and knock his teeth out.

  More people were staring at him. He sauntered across the street to escape their attention, and entered a boulangerie, closing the chiming glass door behind him. Past a long line of customers, he spotted the back of the old woman as she made her way beyond a tall glass pastry counter. What luck! Allah guided him there. Shokran ya Allah. Moustafa was not mistaken. Noora must have gone ahead of the woman.

  “The line starts back there, monsieur!” sniffed a customer.

  Why did they go through the door where workers were bringing out platters of breads and pastries? On top of the door was a sign: “Employees Only, No Admittance.” Was the bakery a front for a bordello? He walked out, searching for the alley. There had to be an entrance behind the store, where they made deliveries, but he couldn’t find the alley. They probably brought virgins through the service entrance in bakery trucks. Only Allah knew. Two older men smoking pipes at the edge of the street corner were staring at him. There was no need to panic, Moustafa thought. He would wait until nightfall. Now he knew where the Fendil slut was—inside that bakery front.

  The bakery owner, Monsieur Daniel DuFour, drove Ahna and Noora home in his truck. He helped them bring up cartons of eggs, two large sacks of flour, sugar, and other ingredients. Ahna had most everything placed on the dining room table. She checked her list carefully before bidding Monsieur Dufour a friendly au revoir at the door.

  Ahna, who reassured Noora that she felt fine again, returned to the dining room with a wide smile and the mail. “Tomorrow is a big baking day, ma chérie. I have four schwarzwalder kirsch tortes and three Hollander kirsch torte blatterteig … It’s going to be fun! Piece of cake!” she laughed, checking her mail. “Monsieur Dufour is coming back tomorrow at eighteen hours to pick up the baked goodies.”

  “I want to help you in every way I can. Whatever you may need,” Noora said, thinking that she never learned how to bake, her mother never taught her, and her grandmother only allowed her to lick the spoon …

  “I just need your company, ma chérie. I am so delighted you are here.”

  “Thank you,” Noora said. Each passing day, Ahna reminded Noora how happy she was to have her company. Noora was grateful. She needed to do something to reciprocate—but she knew in her heart there was no way she could ever repay Ahna’s compassionate and kind heart—and her hospitality.

  “I have mail for you,” Ahna sang, handing Noora a letter.

  “Mail, for me?” How could that be possible? Noora wondered.

  There was a sneaky gleam in the woman’s eyes.

  “Who is it from?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “Oh, it’s from Annette!” Noora tore t
he envelope open.

  “She called me with the news last night,” Ahna said, putting both hands together and bringing them to her mouth.

  Noora read in French: “First we were friends, now we are une famille!”

  “A family?” Noora repeated, staring at the handwritten words. “We would like you to be our baby’s godmother! We hope you will say oui.”

  “Yes! Oui, oui, oui! Mais bien sûr que oui!” Noora cried, hugging Ahna and jumping up and down like a ten-year-old.

  Ahna cried happy tears and clapped her hands. “A baby! It’s a mitzvah, a mitzvah! A blessing!”

  Noora continued to read the letter out loud, then looked up. “Almost six months and she didn’t tell us? ‘I was spotting for the first four months and feared that I would lose the baby …’”

  “Annette never shared her burdens. She probably didn’t want to burden you either,” Ahna said. Happy tears escaped from her eyes.

  “I don’t want to know the sex of the baby,” Annette wrote, “but if it’s a girl,” Noora read out loud, “we will name the baby after you …” Noora lost her enthusiasm. “Name her Kelley?”

  “We will tell her the truth. In due time. All in due time, ma chérie,” Ahna said.

  “I lied to Annette.”

  “Why don’t we make reservations for Friday! We can catch the shuttle to Nice, and you can tell her in person. Annette will understand.”

  Noora sank on the couch, holding Annette’s letter, wondering how she could possibly explain to Annette why she had not been truthful about her identity.

  “I know Annette will be the first to say she knew it all along. You will see,” Ahna said. “In the meantime, we must buy pink yarn.”

  “Pink yarn?”

  “For the baby.”

  “What if it’s a boy?”

  “It will be a girl.”

  That night, after helping Ahna organize all ingredients for the next morning’s big baking, Noora lay awake.

  Ahna said she had baked those cakes since she was a child, and she was going to be paid generously. Noora wanted to help her. She would wash dishes, go on errands, and do whatever Ahna needed, even if she objected.