“The wheezing is normal,” the nurse said impatiently and left the room.
Noora pulled her chair closer to the bed. She felt a deep sense of sadness as she watched Ahna in her sleep. But why should she feel sad, Noora wondered, when Ahna was on her way to recovery?
“Ghizella …” Ahna murmured.
“What?” Noora bent closer to hear. Ahna mumbled a few words in German. Was she having a bad dream? Perhaps it was the medicine. “Ghizella … I hear the music … I hear it now …” Ahna whispered in her sleep. “It is …”
What music? A pleasant dream, apparently.
“Beautiful …” Ahna whispered. She was even smiling, while a teardrop oozed out of her left eye.
Gently, Noora patted her wet temple with a soft tissue. At last she was sleeping soundly. She hoped the nurses wouldn’t wake her to check on her, the way they used to do with Ian.
Noora was startled out of her sleep when she heard Ahna. “You’re still here?” Her eyes were wide open.
“Ahna!” Noora smiled, so happy to see her awake and even looking calm and rested. She even had rosy cheeks. Noora glanced up at the clock on the wall—almost two hours had passed. “How do you feel? Better?”
“Yes,” Ahna replied. “My chest doesn’t hurt as much.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” Noora said. The morphine was finally working.
“Go home, ma chérie, you need your rest,” Ahna whispered. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
“You are such a dear. But you must go home and sleep in your own bed.”
“I wanted to stay with you.”
“There is no need. I am fine.”
A nurse walked in and mumbled something in French that Noora didn’t quite understand.
“They want to check my vital signs,” Ahna explained. “Ask if they can get me a bedpan; I don’t think I can get up.”
“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle, there’s not enough room …”
“Oh, sorry,” Noora said. She could speak French pretty well now, but she didn’t know how to say “bedpan.”
Ahna spoke to the nurse.
“Yes, I will get it, but if she’s not a relative, she can’t stay,” the nurse said decisively in French.
“She is my goddaughter,” Ahna responded firmly.
“Bon, d’accord. I’ll be back,” she said and left the room, mumbling again. “Mais quand même, ‘ya pas assez d’place pour tant de monde…”
“Parisians. They always have to complain. But she is getting me what I need. And you, ma petite, get some sleep. Do bring me my pink housedress. I think it’s hanging behind my bedroom door.”
“Yes, of course. Is there anything else I can bring?”
“Inside my armoire, in the bottom drawer, you will find underwear. The blue cotton ones we bought at the Printemps.”
“Yes, good idea. But I am not sure I should leave you alone tonight.”
“Yes, darling,” Ahna answered, smiling gently. “It is already so late.” She waved a hand. “Go home, ma jolie. Oh … one more favor. Inside my armoire … on the bottom drawer, under the lingerie, you will find my diary. Would you bring it? I have been wanting to talk to you about it,” she said. “And take a cab. Don’t walk alone at this hour.”
“Yes, all right. I love you, Ahna,” Noora said at the door.
The nurse returned, entering the room, brushing Noora as she passed her. Swiftly, she lifted Ahna’s backside and placed a bedpan beneath her. Noora turned away at the door, to give Ahna her privacy.
“I love you, ma chérie,” Noora heard Ahna say. Noora left reluctantly. She made her way down the corridor to the elevators, feeling an urgent need to return to Ahna’s bedside. She saw another nurse open Ahna’s door and walk inside. It was obvious they would not let her stay. She would call early in the morning and ask Ahna if there was anything else she could bring her.
CHAPTER 59
A SHADOW ON THE RIVER SEINE
As Noora walked down the hospital steps and out onto the sidewalk, she breathed the warm night air. The weather report had predicted rain, yet the sky was clear and she did not remember seeing such brilliant stars in Paris. She was satisfied that Ahna was in good hands—even if the nurses were rather stern—and it was all right for her to go home and sleep for a few hours. The pulmonary specialist was due back at eight in the morning.
There were no taxis. Since the hospital was only a few blocks past the Pont de Levallois, she decided to walk. It would do her good. Reaching the bridge, Noora passed a pair of young lovers, holding each other and kissing. They appeared so in love. As she walked on, Noora felt weighed down by sadness—and envy. A little anger even. “Michel,” she whispered.
She stood in the middle of the bridge and watched a small boat chug along the Seine, passing below the bridge, slowly disappearing. She breathed in a gentle wave of sweet perfume—possibly from the young woman she just passed with her lover. The couple had walked away, the sound of their footsteps disappearing with their shadow into the darkness. “Michel,” she whispered again, and turned to resume her walk, eager to get away from her thoughts and memories. She heard rapid footsteps and turned. A dark figure loomed above her.
“At last you’re mine!” the swarthy man said, grabbing her by the shoulders.
She was paralyzed. It was that man who had attacked her before … in Alexandria! The man from London! She pushed him away and tried to flee. He grabbed her again, pinning her against the low cement wall of the bridge and pushing himself against her so hard, she felt trapped.
“Aah, I knew you didn’t die,” he whispered excitedly, his foul breath nearly asphyxiating her. “You fooled them all! Even your father. You did not fool me! They think I’m dead like you, and now you’re MINE!” He pulled at her hair so hard, she cried out in pain. She struggled to push him away, but he pressed her harder against the cement railing, the weight of his body imprisoning her. “You won’t get away this time!” he breathed in her face. She tried to scream. He put his hand to her mouth and squeezed hard. “If you scream, I’ll stab you. I have a knife.”
She slammed her knee up hard against his groin. He stumbled back, cursing. Furiously, he threw himself at her again and grabbed her neck. She managed to pull one of his hands away and bit it as hard as she could.. He screamed and let go long enough that she was able to climb over the railing and let herself fall into the river. Moments after she reached the surface of the cold water, Moustafa was right on top of her, grabbing her. They thrashed about in the water. She kicked him, desperately trying to free herself and get to the surface to breathe, while he held on to her for survival. They both sank under the water.
The memory of the day her father attempted to drown her flashed—she saw Moustafa glaring and nodding along with the other men. “I denounce you!” her father’s voice of the past rang back through her brain …
In a sudden rage, Noora kicked her assailant, who was struggling to climb over her, to get to the surface. Breaking free and reaching the surface, she gulped some air.
NO MORE! she cried through the core of her soul.
She saw his hand reaching out to her. She grabbed his head as if it were a ball and thrust it down. Underwater, he took hold of her and desperately attempted to pull himself back to the surface. Noora kicked and shoved him away with a thrust of both feet.
Reaching the surface again, she swam in rapid strokes, downstream with the current. When she turned, she saw beneath the dimly lit bridge, a hand grabbing at the air above the surface, then his head. “Help me!” he begged in Arabic. His voice echoed as the current pulled him away. For a few seconds, she heard him coughing and gasping for air. Then nothing except the rippling sounds of the river.
The current grew stronger, pulling her downriver. She swam sideways until she could make it closer to the edge of a dock. She held on to a metal bar to catch her breath, and realized it was the bottom rung of a ladder. She struggled to climb, but the steps were too far apart and she didn�
�t have enough strength to pull herself up. Trembling fiercely with exhaustion and cold, she held on to the steel step, to catch her breath. She looked around. Ahead she saw cement steps rising from the bank. Above, on the dock, she spotted a stumbling figure waving a large, gleaming bottle—probably a homeless drunk. Slowly she swam to the steps and managed to lift herself and climb up to the dock.
The drunk came closer to Noora. She wanted to run but he was barring her way. Her chest was heaving and she could barely feel her legs.
“Hey, whore, got a cigarette?” the drunk said in French, approaching close enough that she could smell him. When he reached out to touch her, she smacked his face with the back of her hand. He stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Laughing loudly, he began to chase after her.
Noora managed to make it to a dark corner where she could catch her breath.
“Where are you?” the drunk sang. “Yoo-hooo! Ta jolie chatte, montre-la moi!” He chortled as if playing hide-and-seek.
Noora understood he said something about her… whaat? Pretty pussy…cat? He wants me to show him what?! Noora found an empty wine bottle right by her foot. She picked it up, ready to smash it over his head if he dared to venture a tad closer.
Searching for her, the drunk turned around like a dog chasing its own tail until he stumbled and fell, his wine bottle rolling down the dock, and off it went, splashing into the river. The drunk pulled himself up, screaming, “Ma bouteille!”
While the drunk cried over his lost wine bottle, an approaching barge cast enough light for Noora to make out steps leading up to the street.
When she finally reached the pavement, Noora remembered her purse. She must have dropped it when she was attacked on the bridge. She didn’t think it fell in the river. It should still be there on the bridge, unless someone took it. Clutching her heaving chest, Noora made it back to the bridge, thinking how crazy she was to return to the same spot where she was attacked. But her wallet and the keys to Ahna’s apartment were in her purse. Courage, the words of Um Faheema, rang back to her mind.
She searched beside the railing. There it was! Because it was zipped up, nothing fell out. Thank you, God, Noora thought.
The bridge was dark now. Some of the streetlights must have automatically been turned off. If she ran, she would warm up, she told herself. But she was exhausted and feared she might faint right there on the sidewalk. She managed to make it back through the deserted streets, and finally found herself a little more than a block away from Ahna’s apartment building. Raindrops rapidly grew to a downpour. When she finally reached the front door, Noora leaned against it. She coughed and gagged; she had to get inside and get warm. With luck, she could make it up the stairs to the apartment without being seen. With trembling hands, Noora fumbled to find the keyhole in the dark. The lock resisted. She took a deep breath. The door will open if I relax and take it slow.
There were no pedestrians on the street and only a few cars swishing by on the wet pavement. She jiggled the key again, trying hard to hold her hand steady, and the door finally opened. Noora had lost her sweater downriver. She also lost her shoes after she fell off the bridge. Or was it before? Silently, she closed the street door and climbed the stairs, breathing as quietly as possible, but her teeth were stubbornly chattering.
Luckily, there were only two apartments per floor, and the neighbors in the apartment across from Ahna were hardly ever seen. She could barely fit the key to Ahna’s apartment because she was trembling so hard. Her vision blurred. Oh God, please, help me open that door! Noora prayed, and the words of her assailant rang in her ears: “Help me!” he had screamed. Did anyone sober see them? The door opened, and Noora stumbled inside. Ahna and Noora had left the heater on, expecting to return from the hospital that afternoon, and now the apartment felt toasty. “Oh, thank you, God!” Her body continued to tremble fiercely now. She locked the deadbolt and placed the chain on the groove. She let herself drop, exhausted, on the vestibule rug. But her clothes were wet and sticking to her. Ahna’s knitted afghan looked inviting, hanging on the coat rack by the console. With great effort, Noora managed to remove her wet clothes and grab the afghan. She wrapped herself in it and curled up next to the heater by the door, her body refusing to move one more muscle.
When Noora opened her eyes, her body was like a blob of jelly. Did I faint or fall asleep? she wondered, mustering enough strength to lift herself up. She picked up her wet clothes and hung the afghan back on the rack. She stumbled her way to the bathroom, only a few feet down the hall, and patted rubbing alcohol on her cheeks. It stung where she had been scraped, but she kept on. She gargled with diluted alcohol. She wished she could sterilize every part of her body that the man had touched. She poured some more alcohol on a clump of cotton balls and breathed in deeply, forcing herself to tolerate the sharp sting that ran down her nostrils to her throat. She had bruises all over her body. “This too shall pass, this too shall pass, you’ll see,” she repeated to herself. The grandfather clock on the hallway chimed twice. The small clock in Ahna’s room followed, also ringing twice. Noora turned on the bathtub faucet, but she couldn’t wait for the warm water to fill the tub. She hopped in the hot shower and allowed the steam to warm her aching muscles.
Wrapped snugly in two thick bath towels, Noora stopped in Ahna’s room. Checking behind the door, she found the robe de chambre Ahna had requested. She picked the soft pink cotton housedress from the hook, folded it, and placed it on the small table by the front door, so she would not forget it.
In her room, Noora turned on all the lights and the little heater by the bed. She quickly dressed in a warm sweater and slacks. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep away the horrible ordeal she just experienced, but suddenly she felt unsure. What if that man followed her home? But he couldn’t have. He begged for her help. He held on to her as if he could not swim. Did he fall off the bridge or dive after her? Why?
The concierge’s husband was a policeman. The building should be safe, she told herself. Fully clothed, she crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She turned to the clock on the nightstand—2:30 AM. “At last you’re mine”—his words rang eerily in her ears. That man who had chased her in Alexandria was still after her. Even Ahna had asked about him, but Noora thought naively that he had given up. She had sailed the Mediterranean, nearly killing herself reaching the French Riviera. She had traveled to Paris, New York, and Los Angeles. And to Hawaii … How could he have found her? Was he actually searching for her, hunting her down? She tried to think. Where? On a crowded street somewhere? After all this time? All these years? She drifted off to sleep.
I’m proud of you, a voice said in Arabic.
“What?” Oh my God, is somebody here? She clutched her blanket. She had locked and chained the front door. Ahna’s pale visage appeared briefly at the foot of her bed. Wearing the pink housedress, she was smiling down at Noora. Her skin and the dress rapidly grew darker, darker … It was Um Faheema!
Noora woke with a start. She turned to the digital clock on the bedside table. Six twenty-five? She jumped up, her heart racing. Could she have been asleep for four … four and a half hours? Did the phone ring awhile ago or was she dreaming? Ahna always kept the ringer low, so it did not disturb them in their bedrooms.
Noora felt weak, and her entire body ached as if she had been whipped. She wished she had enough strength to fix herself a pot of café au lait.
She would have breakfast and something hot to drink at the hospital.
Thank God she found her purse on the bridge, she thought, smoothing out the blanket on her bed. The assailant did not want her money. He wanted her! Quickly, she slipped on her socks and tennis shoes.
She had to tell Ahna what happened. No, she should wait. Then again, perhaps it was best not to say anything at all. She packed Ahna’s robe, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a change of underwear. Was there anything else Ahna needed? She punched the buttons on the phone and dialed for a taxi.
When Noora ran down the stai
rs to wait outside for her ride, she ran into the concierge, who was mopping the wet floor, mumbling to herself. The woman looked up at Noora. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” she said firmly.
“Bonjour, Madame,” Noora replied.
“Ou est Madame Ahna?” the concierge asked, barring Noora’s way.
“She had to stay in the hospital for one night,” Noora said, wishing the woman had not asked. “She’s doing much better.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She just had a nagging cough, but she is better. She’ll probably come home today.”
“Are you a caregiver or are you a relative?”
“I am a friend of the family,” Noora replied.
“Are you Jewish too?”
Noora was stunned by such an unexpected question. She looked out and spotted her taxi, pulling in front of the building. “Well, no, but we are cousins,” Noora replied and rushed outside.
Noora walked into the lobby of the hospital before seven o’clock and rode the elevator to the third floor. The air conditioning made her sneeze several times. She would not catch a cold! She would keep warm, drink a hot beverage as soon as she saw Ahna. She had to be strong and remain healthy to take care of Ahna. Before reaching the nurse’s station, a young nurse stopped her.
“Oh, ah, Mademoiselle … just a moment,” she said. “Please, wait here.”
Noora thought, What now? I can’t even walk down the corridor? Was it too early for visitors?
Another nurse appeared and rushed up to Noora. “We tried to phone you …”
The news was too hard to bear. The hospital official had to take Noora to another room. Noora sank into a chair and broke into sobs.
Ahna had passed away during the night.
“Non, NON! Ce n’est pas possible!” she wept.
CHAPTER 60
THE DIARY OF AHNA MORGENBESSER
They buried Ahna in Nice, in the same cemetery as Uncle Khayat. Not far from his grave, in fact, beneath an old olive tree, and not more than a half hour from Annette and Alain’s home, so that Annette could visit her grandmother anytime she wished.
Light of the Desert Page 52
