He didn’t lose his temper when she informed him that the production was running over budget. He approved most of the footage sent to him daily in Los Angeles. He had dictated memos, transcribed by Roz, that he found the rough-cut scenes moving. He even used the word passionate. His suggestions and the few changes he had made were good ones, and Jaqui had even agreed.
They were finally flying home to Los Angeles, where Jaqui had scheduled the other difficult task: post-production.
Jacqui was sitting several seats in front of Noora, with Setchka and her son.
For Noora, making Ahna’s Coat had been a gift from “The Source of All There Is,” as Um Faheema would have said. It had changed Noora’s life in ways she could not have imagined. There were moments when she had wondered if she could survive the emotional ordeal. At first, she had been frightened, not just because she was a neophyte in the situation, but she had been generally anxious, even imagining that the man who had attacked her in Paris would return. Or any one of those men who would, no doubt, show no mercy. Somehow, after she had spent a night battling her personal demons, after she lost her anxiety on the set and no longer looked to the security guards to keep her safe, she found she had become much more confident. She had been able to get through the difficult sixteen weeks of filming in Poland, without total exhaustion.
The crew had been pushed to the limit, at times working seventeen-hour days, six days a week. But somehow, everyone seemed to remain in high spirits and didn’t appear to resent Jaqui, the “slave driver” director who was putting them through it.
To everyone else involved in the project, it had been what Ahna would have called a mitzvah. Jaqui had said it too. It had been a good omen—even though many described it as the hardest job they ever had.
Jacqui Amstern had been tireless, and demanded accuracy in every scene described in Ahna Morgenbesser’s original manuscript. He also seemed intent on finding out from Kelley Karlton everything she knew about Ahna herself.
Jaqui was nothing like the Hollywood directors Noora had interviewed in Los Angeles, or those she had heard about who screamed and embarrassed the cast and crew on location. When a scene wasn’t working, for whatever reason, Jaqui walked away, took time for himself, and returned ready to shoot the next scene. When someone forgot his or her lines, Jaqui calmly took the actor aside and returned later, ready to start again.
According to his bio, Jaqui Amstern was born in Poland in 1938, and had spent some of his younger years in Paris, where he studied with prominent film directors in the sixties. He was considered to have been a part of the “Nouvelle Vague,” the nostalgic era of the “New Wave.” She noticed throughout the production, how passionate and dedicated he was to his work. It was uncanny how beautifully he captured Ahna’s story from her writing. And Setchka too; watching her, Noora could almost believe that the younger Ahna was standing before her.
Noora closed her eyes. Her job was pretty much done, she figured. It felt good to just relax. She checked her watch. Almost seven more hours before they would land in Los Angeles. With luck, she could get some sleep. She pulled up the armrest of the vacant seat next to her so that she could stretch out.
“Hello … is someone sitting next to you?”
Noora looked up. There was a childlike essence to Jaqui, a boyish look to his demeanor. Removing the small pillow and blanket from the empty seat, she smiled. “Please, sit down.”
Together, they sat in silence. She should perhaps ask him how he felt now that the location shoot had finally ended, but she remained quiet. He seemed to want to talk, yet he too remained silent. He gave a few deep sighs, and appeared on the verge of saying something. But he didn’t.
She turned to the window. “Look at that star. Isn’t it beautiful?
“Looks like an airplane,” he said.
“Is it?”
They watched together for a while. “My goodness, it is a star,” he said, leaning closer to her, to get a better look out the window. “It’s beautiful.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked up. “You remember the scenes when Ahna poisons the food of the guards who had tortured the children?”
“Yes, of course,” Noora replied, turning to him, puzzled. How could she not remember them?
“And you remember when the prisoners are talking about the death of the guards?” His slight musical German accent had become more pronounced.
“Yes,” Noora said. She also remembered that he had insisted on adding something to the screenplay at the last minute.
“The Germans believed both guards died of heart attacks,” Jaqui said. “But we, the children …” He stopped.
In the dimly lit cabin, Noora watched the shadow of his profile. He appeared more intense, as if trying to shake away something on his mind.
“But we, the children,” he said firmly, “we believed it was an act of God.”
For a moment, she thought that making the film had driven him temporarily insane. It was quite a few minutes before he spoke again. As most of the passengers around them slept, and the plane cut across the night sky, 39,000 feet above the Atlantic, Jaqui told his story.
Jacqui Stern, born July 8, 1935, was one of the children Ahna had saved from the concentration camps. “I added the A-M in the beginning of my last name, in honor of my savior, Ahna Morgenbesser,” he told Noora.
In 1944, Ahna Morgenbesser had killed the woman cook in the kitchen and managed to smuggle food to the children. Jacqui was nine years old. In her diary, Ahna had described poisoning the two prison guards who had tortured several of the children. Their death remained a mystery. No one knew it had been the heroic act of Ahna Morgenbesser herself.
After Jaqui became silent, Noora realized her mouth was still agape. She turned to the window and rested her knuckles beneath her chin, for her mouth refused to close on its own.
There had been some subtle signs that Jaqui had been somehow connected to, or had known Ahna Morgenbesser. But Noora had not considered the possibility of such a coincidence.
The faint morning light had begun to show, and from the airplane’s porthole, she watched the formation of the clouds below—pale violet, fluffy, cotton-candy clouds. As the plane flew west, catching up with the sun, purple and hot pink hues began to form on the horizon.
“Well, I’d better get back to Setchka. She’ll wonder where I am,” he said with a smile. He unbuckled his seatbelt and gave her a kiss on one cheek and then the other. Noora responded with a warm hug. They sat sharing a warm, friendly embrace. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the proper words. Closing her eyes, she felt almost as if he were still the child he had spoken about, the child Ahna had saved.
“Thank you …” she managed to utter. “Thank you so much …”
When they broke away, he looked at her, blinked away a few stubborn tears, and smiled. “Try and get some sleep. Thank you.”
When the sun rose and the flight attendants came down the aisles to check that seatbelts were buckled in preparation for landing, Noora remembered Dweezoul’s words: “There is no coincidence … There are no accidents …”
CHAPTER 69
AN INVITATION
“Yes …” Michel replied after Zaffeera ended their phone conversation saying, “I love you.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I find my way back to the hotel,” he said, and added rapidly, “I do too, thank-you-goodbye.” He pressed the “End” button on his cell phone.
How was he to respond? He didn’t really love her.
He drove out toward the exit gate of the Burbank Studios. He had just attended the most positive meeting he’d ever hoped to have. An in-house studio attorney who was referred by Mr. Attai’e (the client whose Bel Air house Michel had nearly completed) had referred the potential client to Michel. He was grateful for the opportunity. The house he was to bid for was in the posh “Beverly Hills Flats,” where Zaffeera wanted to live.
Perhaps it was time to leave Al-Balladi. He had nothing left there—exc
ept sad memories. Perhaps Zaffeera would not mind moving to Los Angeles.
It wasn’t fair to leave Zaffeera alone in his father’s mansion, far from her family. She never complained about that. She never complained about anything, which sometimes concerned him. There was something about her that he couldn’t quite comprehend. She was always so quiet. And perhaps … secretive? He never really knew what Zaffeera was thinking—unlike Noora. Maybe she was just very shy. But more than that … What? He didn’t know. He did like her intelligence—she had a great sense of logic too, and organization. She took care of him, bought his clothes, sent them to the cleaners, and she even took care of his business files. At first, he thought she could assist him in his new business. But no, now he didn’t think that would work. Living together, working together … sleeping together. Definitely wouldn’t work. When they were in bed, he could tell she wanted affection … a great deal of it. She wanted sex; perhaps because he had been traveling so much. But it was difficult for him to make love to a young woman he didn’t love! They had never really talked about having children, but he knew it was time … Time to start a family, and focus on their future. Perhaps then, after they had a baby, he could learn to love her. They say love grows. He hoped so.
Only recently Michel had found out that Zaffeera’s mother had gone to Switzerland several months before with the two younger children, Kettayef and that darling little Shamsah. When Michel asked about her family, Zaffeera explained that her mother wanted to be close to her children, even if they were in the best boarding schools in Switzerland. Who could blame her? She had lost her two oldest children. But still, Michel couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t told that Zaffeera’s mother had left Al-Balladi. If he had known, he would not have let her stay alone. He didn’t know if Zaffeera had friends; she never talked about any girlfriends. Apparently, she was only close to her family.
It appeared she had been close to Noora. The real reason Michel had wanted to build a home at Al-Balladi was because Noora was buried there.
After making a left out of the Burbank Studios, he screeched to a halt at the red light. He had to be more careful and not allow himself to become too emotional, especially when he was behind the wheel. Every time he thought of Noora, a deep feeling of anger churned inside him. He couldn’t help it. But he had to learn to control such feelings. In the beginning, he had felt grief. How long did he grieve? Was it three years? No, four … Now he was angry. But anger would get him nowhere, and he needed to focus on his business. That always took him away from thoughts of Noora.
The potential client, Mr. Meyer, had given him the directions, saying it was best to take a left, and two long blocks later, he would find the freeway, unless he wanted to take the Cahuenga Pass. Where was that? He was stopped at another red light before the freeway. Mr. Meyer had invited him to join him at a screening of a World War II movie that had not yet been released. Perhaps he should have accepted the invitation, but Michel wanted to call his father, who was at Sharm El Sheikh overseeing the major celebration for the opening of the new hotel and spa. He and Zaffeera would definitely attend. He knew she was looking forward to it. They could vacation at their father’s new hotel for a few more days. He hadn’t seen his father in … how long? Too long, if he couldn’t remember. And he missed him. Afterward, they would fly to Los Angeles and begin their search for a house to lease in Beverly Hills.
So many good plans lay ahead, but it was wise not to keep his hopes too high. So far, even though Mr. Meyer expressed interest, he had not yet signed or confirmed anything.
CHAPTER 70
A SMALL WORLD … AFTER ALL
One early morning in late November, Noora received a call from Annette. Alain had been invited to attend a medical convention in Los Angeles in January, and she and Annou would accompany him. They were looking for a hotel near UCLA, but Ian Cohen would not hear of it. The granddaughter of Ahna Morgenbesser was going to stay at his house with her family. He had plenty of room. The bungalow next to the pool was a large studio apartment with kitchenette and all the amenities.
At the Los Angeles airport, Noora’s heart skipped a happy beat when she spotted Annette, Alain, and Annou—her “Triple-A family,” as she called them.
Little Annou looked up at Noora and raised two little chubby fingers. Trying to keep a third finger halfway down, she squealed. “I am two … a half,” she said in English.
“We are teaching her to be bilingual,” Annette said, fighting back her tears of joy. “Oh, ma chère amie, how I have missed you!” she cried, hugging Noora.
When Noora and the family arrived at Ian’s Bel Air mansion, Annou ran inside the house. As her parents looked around the entrance in utter awe, Annou spotted the open doors to his office and ran over to Ian, who was sitting behind his desk, finishing a phone conversation. Before he could hang up and rise to greet his guests, Annou had climbed up on his lap. From that moment on, Ian Cohen was smitten with the adorable child.
Noora always felt a deep sense of happiness when she was with Annette. And today, together with Annou, they were on their way to the happiest place on earth. As they neared Anaheim, the traffic on the freeway was at a near crawl. But with so much catching up to do, Noora and Annette barely noticed.
Sitting in the back, buckled up in a child’s seat, Annou was busy playing with a new doll Noora had given her. “Why can’t Papa come to Disneyland too?” Annou whined while Noora maneuvered her car through the heavy freeway traffic.
“Papa is busy today,” Annette explained patiently. “He is a good doctor, ma chérie, and he was invited to a special medical convention at the big Université qui s’appelle UCLA. Can you say UCLA?”
“Ew—See—Elle ai!” repeated Annou.
“Oui, ma petite Cocotte!” replied Annette.
“Is that language Franglais?” Noora asked, laughing.
“Yes, it seems that’s how we talk these days!”
“Maman, Maman, we have to come back with Papa,” Annou said in English. “I want to show him all I will see aujourd’hui!”
“Bien sûr, ma petite chérie,” Annette said.
No sooner had they parked the car at the huge parking lot and headed down Disneyland’s Main Street, than Annou announced she had to see “the dolls” first! To Noora’s relief, the line to the “Small World” ride was unusually short. It was a good time to come—midweek, mid-January, when most children were back in school, after the winter break.
While they waited in line, Noora’s cell phone jingled. “I won’t answer it,” she said to Annette, but when she saw the lighted numbers, she said: “It’s Ian! He never calls at this hour …”
He barely waited for Kelley Karlton to say hello. “You done with Disneyland yet?”
“No, Mr. Cohen,” she said. “We just got here. The traffic was horrendous.”
“Ahna’s Coat has been nominated!”
“What?”
“WE WERE NOMINATED! They just announced it! Cessi saw it on television, on her Spanish channel, if you can believe, and called Roz, who just called me in the car when I already reached the freeway!”
“Oh goodness! It’s wonderful.”
“Four categories!”
“What do you mean, four categories?” she asked as their line moved faster. Soon they were next to climb on the boat.
“Best Actress … Best Direction … and get this! Best Picture! That means ME! Oh, and I thought I’d let you know, also best screenplay adaptation … You know what that means?”
The music of “It’s a Small World” became louder.
“Oh, my God!” Noora murmured, following Annette and Annou, who were climbing onto the boat.
“WHAT? Are you still there? Are you already at the Small World ride? I can hear the music!”
“Yes, we just started and …”
“You’re supposed to start at Main Street.”
Noora turned to Annette, who had a questioning look on her face: “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she asked while Annou b
egan poking at her mother to look at the pretty dancing dolls at the beginning of the ride.
“Your Grande-mère’s film has been nominated!”
“Nominated?”
“Yes! For the awards!” Noora turned back to the phone. “Did you say four categories?”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Annette exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her seat.
“What did you say?” Ian asked on the phone.
“Annette and I are saying, OH, MON DIEU!”
“Oh my Gawd, indeed! Remember when I said I never wanted to attend Hollywood events? This is different. Forgive my French this time, but shit, WE’RE FUCKING NOMINATED!”
“I forgive you!” Noora said laughing, tears of joy filling her eyes.
“I want you to walk with me on that red carpet, so I don’t say anything indecent to that woman with the ten facelifts, asking stupid questions …”
Noora laughed as she watched little Annou’s face, her eyes wide, her mouth open. The child was captivated by the dolls jerking around under colorful lights that created dazzling reflections on their jeweled costumes.
“We’re starting to go inside now. I hope I don’t lose reception …”
“Call me when you get out of the Dolls. I’ll be waiting outside!”
“You’re … here? At the park?”
“Yes, and I know the traffic was horrendous, I was following you girls all the way, but you were too busy jabbering in your frog language,” Ian Cohen said. He had never sounded happier. “Get ready to get written up all over the place, Ms. Kelley Karlton,” Ian said before hanging up.
Noora stared down at the cell phone. Written up?
“It’s a small world after all …” Annou sang along with the music.
CHAPTER 71
THE DISCOVERY
3:00 AM—Noora was unable to sleep. How would she explain to Ian Cohen that she could not accompany him to the awards ceremony? Under normal circumstances, being nominated would be a great honor and a most exciting time in anyone’s life. But the circumstances of her life were not normal, and instead, she felt depressed. Such an event would be televised all over the world, no doubt, but perhaps not in Jordan. It was possible the fundamentalists no longer allowed American television to be shown there. She wasn’t an actress, for heaven’s sake. Who would want to bother wasting their film on her? Except for the fact that she would be right next to Ian Cohen.
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