Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  Kelley Karlton was nominated for the screenplay adaptation. Noora Fendil was dead.

  Her hair had grown down to below her shoulders, and her blonde streaks had grown out. She had been so busy with the movie production and entertaining her dear friends Annette, and sweet little Annou, she had not bothered to take the time for her hair. Kelly Karlton could bleach her hair a Marilyn Monroe blonde, and have it cut much shorter. No one would be paying attention to her, and she could wear sunglasses like Jack Nicholson. Oh no, that might bring more attention. She could wear tinted glasses to be on the safe side!

  She remembered that every year, her father liked to watch the American film awards on television. Would he recognize his own daughter if he saw her on television? Even with her disguise? Impossible. But if she were to ever let her father know she was still alive, it would be by her own choice, not by having her deception suddenly revealed to her family in public.

  The next day, she waited until she knew Ian would be at his office. She dialed his number while standing in front of a store on Rodeo Drive, admiring an exquisite black evening gown in the window. It had a low neckline, but not plunging, and delicate golden straps.

  When she apologized, saying she would not attend, Ian laughed. “Last-minute jitters, huh?” he said. “Honestly, I hate all that Hollywood hoopla. This is different! You’re being honored for your work!”

  “If I could ask you to please understand,” she said. But she knew she would have to give him a solid reason.

  “Roz just brought our lunch … I have my accountant here … Let’s talk about it tonight, okay?”

  “Yes …, of course,” she replied. She had called at a busy time. She should have waited until that night to explain.

  She went inside the store to ask the price of the gorgeous black gown. She would tell Ian she would meet him at the post-awards party and maybe she would wear that dress. Let’s see if it looks right on me first, she thought.

  Five thousand dollars? Noora thought, walking out, minutes later. That’s insane. The saleslady bragged about the designer. Noora had never heard the name. The gown was certainly well-made, but a price that high belonged on a wedding dress. She couldn’t imagine purchasing a pricey dress for a party, and certainly not when so many people in the world were starving.

  She was about to walk to her car in the indoor parking garage down the street, when her cell phone jingled.

  “Aloha!” Jaqui’s voice chimed the moment she answered. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine … And you?”

  “Great. What’re you going to wear?”

  “For what?”

  “The Awards!”

  “Oh … Yes, well, as a matter of fact …” She wanted to say she wasn’t going, but didn’t think it was the right time. “I’m … not sure …”

  “All the best designers are pouring in, calling on Setchka’s agent constantly. They want her to wear their creation. Only a year ago, if she dared to even ask for the price of their gowns, they’d laugh at her. Now they’re begging her to wear their designs for free! Isn’t that ironic?”

  “Yes, it sure is, Jaqui. Where are you?”

  “We’re still on Kauai …”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Setchka and Alan, her son.”

  Thank God, Noora thought. Are those two getting … serious? “That’s wonderful, Jaqui; say aloha to them for me.”

  “I’d let you talk to her, but she ran to the beach with Alan to catch some waves and hopefully get a little tan. We’re flying back to L.A. tomorrow. She’s getting excited about attending the Awards! It’s not my thing, but I guess I’ll have to go too!”

  “You might win!”

  “I already did! We have much to be thankful for.”

  “Indeed … How does she like Kauai?”

  “She loves it! It’s a good thing, because she’s going to spend more time here with me! Alan too. There’s a nice little school here in Hanalei …”

  “Wait a minute, Monsieur Jaqui, what are you trying to tell me?”

  “We were both going to tell you before anyone …”

  “What! Tell me what?”

  “I proposed right on the beach last night at sunset, facing Bali Hai. And they both said YES!”

  “Oh my God! I am so, so happy for you! All three of you!”

  “Thank you! You’re our angel, you know that … Listen, Setchka saw a dress at that corner boutique store between Rodeo and Wilshire. You know where it is, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll give you the style number. I can e-mail a picture … Would you mind going to see it? She put it on hold, it’s under her name, but that was a week ago. She wants you to see if you like it before she decides to buy it.”

  “It would be my pleasure. But it’s not up to me. If she likes it, she should have it!”

  “She wants you to see if first, because she trusts your opinion, and if you think it’s the right dress for that type of event, I’m buying it for her. Please don’t tell her!”

  The evening gown Setchka had chosen was indeed beautiful—classy, yet simple, an azure vision in delicate silk. She punched in Jaqui’s cell phone number but there was no answer. She left a message on his voicemail: “Hey, Monsieur Jaqui, about your fiancée … I have to say … she’s not only a gifted actress, she has a pretty good sense of style! I put it on hold for you. Call me. Aloha, you devil!”

  She walked back up the sidewalk on Rodeo Drive, toward her parked car. On her way, she stopped at David Orgell’s, to admire the crystal Lalique swans in the window. She had seen them at the Lalique store in Paris. She looked up, and someone inside the store caught her eye. The young woman stood at the counter, talking to a salesman. Zaffeera? Her heart began to pound. She felt unsteady. It couldn’t be … Next to her was … Michel? Impossible! Steady, girl, just inquire about the crystal swans and look closer. It’s not them. This guy’s hair is longer than Michel’s, she thought, venturing cautiously into the store. She removed her sunglasses.

  They were both leaning on the long glass-top counter, looking at porcelain china. The man—could it be Michel?—wore a black butter leather jacket and dark trousers. It was Zaffeera! She stood next to him, to his right, wearing a perfectly fitted navy blue suit. She lifted her left hand and gently caressed his back. Perfectly manicured fingernails, that same pink-mauve polish that she always wore—Zaffeera’s signature, long acrylic nails and polish!

  Noora recognized the ring. Her “Forever”-shaped, ribbon-design ring with the diamond that glinted under the store’s recessed lighting. The motion of her hand on his back, proclaimed he was… hers?

  She approached the couple, ready to say something: Zaffeera! Is that you?

  Something like a loud nervous chuckle got stuck in her throat, and she couldn’t utter a sound. An explosion of feelings rocked her. Her heart hammered, as she watched the couple talking to the salesman. She fled, hurrying out of the store. A moment later, she returned, knowing she had to be sure, one way or the other. They were now walking away from her, guided by the salesman toward the back wall, where a large selection of bone china was on display, beneath bright recessed lighting. She saw Zaffeera’s profile as she briefly turned her chin up to Michel and smiled at him. The way she moved her head … The way she looked at him … Her hair was thicker, longer, a richer color of brown …

  Noora jerked away, turning before Zaffeera could spot her from the corner of her eye. They shouldn’t recognize her from the back … She had been through so much, they would not know or suspect it was her … She began to walk toward them, where they were looking at porcelain platters on the back wall. The salesman picked up a hand-painted platter.

  Zaffeera exclaimed, “Michel, chéri, il est superbe ce motif!”

  Zaffeera’s voice! The same affectation—the fake-sophisticated way she used to imitate the Parisian accent.

  Noora rushed out of the store. She hurried away, down the sidewalk, crossing the street, just as the lig
ht changed, nearly getting hit by a honking car. She retreated to the sidewalk.

  “Michel chéri?” Zaffeera had said. Since when?! Since … since she got rid of me! Noora turned back toward the opposite side of the walkway where the pedestrian light blinked red. She kept walking, down toward Wilshire Boulevard.

  Something inside had ignited, and her heart pounded faster. Her blood rushed to her head, and she felt ready to explode.

  The fog that had enveloped her mind began to burn away. Everything that had remained hidden for almost seven years became as clear as the bright lights illuminating the store’s displays, and as crisp as her vision of the two of them!

  How could I have been so blind?!

  The past came crashing before her eyes. That night in London … the disco. The girl in the blonde wig! Manicured nails—stroking the wig … Same pink mauve polish … The London taxicab, Zaffeera telling the driver to take them to … Where … Where? What was that name? Noora! You must remember! All this time … It was … ZAFFEERA! Zaffeera who … must have … drugged me? The Velvet Cave! That’s what it was called! The chocolates she gave her earlier that day! They had an aftertaste, but she didn’t want to disappoint her sister, and she ate them anyway … How odd she’d felt soon after … She remembered Zaffeera’s behavior on the plane going home … Oh my God, Zaffeera wanted Michel!

  As she quick-stepped her way back to her car, her hands shaking with anger, Noora picked up her cell and dialed Ian’s phone. “Mr. Cohen … Ian!” she said the moment he answered.

  “Whatsa matter? You okay?”

  “I shall definitely accompany you to the Awards, if the invitation stands.”

  “Atta girl!”

  “Can we go to the Hamlet tonight?”

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “I’ve got a story to tell you.”

  “Really? Whose?”

  “Mine!”

  CHAPTER 72

  THE REVELATION

  Zaffeera lay in bed, staring at the bedroom ceiling of her father-in-law’s Al-Balladi mansion. Her menses were three days late, and she hoped this time, this time … Don’t get your hopes up! she warned herself. Thoughts of what she would name him danced around her. She could name him Nageeb Michel Amir. Or Gabriel Michel Amir? Gabriel had been Nageeb’s middle name. Perhaps she should name him something that rhymed with their last name … How about Zaffir Amir? Zaffir Michel Amir?

  Michel was already downstairs in his father’s office, still in his robe after his morning swim, working on some kind of a blueprint, no doubt. For someone else’s house. That’s all he seemed to be doing these days—designing homes and studying blueprints, instead of playing in bed with her! It wasn’t as if he needed the job or the money. His father was a very successful man, and his mother had been a wealthy Egyptian woman who had left her fortune to her only son.

  But she shouldn’t complain … too much. Last night, he had made love to her. He had actually, and finally, made the first move! It wasn’t exactly what she would call acrobatic, long, and lustful sex, but it was better than his previous attempts, when she had been the one making advances. She could tell he was trying to please her. Poor guy, he was so shy in bed. She finally admitted to herself, he just didn’t know much about pleasing a woman! Although it was true he had gone to school in Paris, the most romantic city in the world, he had spent his time probably surrounded by dull professors, studying architecture instead of the art of sex.

  One thing was for sure: She wasn’t going to torment herself, worrying whether he loved her or not. He had married her! She knew he didn’t have a mistress. She checked and rechecked his appointment book, his receipts, dreading the possibility that there might be another woman. He was so handsome. Everywhere they went, especially in Los Angeles—where there seemed to be more beautiful women than men—they all stared at him. She could see them from the corner of her eye, from stores to restaurants, from Beverly Hills to New York! If they only knew that her handsome husband, with the hard bronze body, was better at choosing jewelry than performing in bed. She stared at the Tiffany tennis bracelet he had given her in Beverly Hills last week. He had also chosen the most exquisite and delicate fine French porcelain china for the new home they were going to lease for a year. When he took her to that store, David Orgell, and showed her the china he had liked, Zaffeera almost had an orgasm right there. Michel had impeccable taste. He was the one who had found the right house for them: a simple but functional five-bedroom house with a pool; near Rodeo Drive, practically walking distance to her favorite designer stores and popular restaurants. Oh, but if he could just fuck better! And didn’t anyone ever tell him that there was something more than the archaic position—and something called foreplay?! If she could just run downstairs, right now, and rape him! The thought alone gave her a sudden, uncontrollable shudder. To have sex right on that soft, hand-woven Persian rug in his father’s office, or better yet, on Mr. Amir’s butter-leather couch! Perhaps Michel felt uncomfortable having sex with his wife in his father’s home. She couldn’t blame him for that. I’ll bet that’s what it is, she thought, floating across the room to her puffy boudoir chair. She sat in front of the mirror, fluffed up her hair, and applied lip liner and strawberry-flavored gloss. But what about when they were at the hotel in Beverly Hills? And Hawaii? She wasn’t going to analyze that now. Because right now, she might be pregnant.

  She tossed her lip liner on her boudoir table and rushed to her walk-in closet. Punching in her personal combination, she pulled out a box with packages of pregnancy tests. She heard shuffling outside. Quickly, she replaced the box back in her safe, and walked out to their bedroom, in her satin nightgown.

  “Guess what?” Michel said, tightening the belt of his bathrobe. His eyes were bright, and he looked like a little boy who just won his first trophy for some ballgame.

  Why don’t you remove that dumb robe so I can pull down your bathing suit, if you still have it on, and lick your body, Zaffeera thought, while you finally kiss my poor, neglected vital part!

  “Well… Ma jolie, I can’t believe it!” he said in French. “C’est fantastique.”

  Zaffeera put both hands to her mouth. He called her his… pretty?

  “Well, what?” she asked, excited.

  “I got the job! He accepted my bid!”

  “Fantastique!” She repeated his word in French. It was awful. Now he’d be working while she sat alone in that house in Beverly Hills? What if she was pregnant and needed him at home near her?

  “I heard the fax machine in my father’s office just now. There was a letter from the new client I told you about, Mr. Meyer …”

  “Yes,” Zaffeera said, removing her white satin robe, tossing it at the foot of the bed. “You mean the executive at the movie studio in Burbank?”

  “That’s right. You remember,” he said, visibly impressed.

  “Of course I remember.” She was now clad in a delicate silk and lace, barely blush, lightly transparent thousand-dollar négligée she had purchased recently from Neiman Marcus.

  “They want me to meet with them first thing Monday morning. If I leave early enough in the morning, I can make it back to L.A. by tomorrow night …” He stopped, paced for a moment, and stroked the morning stubble of his chin, thinking. “Oh, but we were scheduled to leave next weekend, weren’t we …”

  “Yes, we were,” she replied, trying to conceal her disappointment.

  “I’m sorry, ma chérie … Would you mind … finishing packing? I know there isn’t that much more to do … right?”

  “That’s right. I can finish organizing. Don’t worry, Michel.” She loved the fact that he called her his darling.

  “You’re wonderful,” he said, walking up to her. “I’d better take a shower … so much to do,” he mumbled, and holding her face gently with both hands, he smiled.

  That same smile. The one he had given her the first time she saw him, in Alexandria. So many years later, that smile had not changed. He gave her a quick peck on th
e lips. “Merci, merci!” He turned and walked to the bathroom while undoing the belt of his terrycloth bathrobe. As she started to float after him, ready to join him in the shower, he had already entered the bathroom, and closed the door behind him.

  *

  Zaffeera was furious. It was Sunday morning, for heaven’s sake. She needed him in bed, their bodies locked in each other’s arms. Why did he have his old alarm clock set for five in the freaking morning! And why didn’t he use the gentle wave sound of the new alarm she had purchased for him? “Get rid of this alarm! Sounds like a pig being strangled!”

  “Sorry,” Michel mumbled as he reached for the alarm clock by the bed.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go,” Zaffeera said, lowering her voice, putting an arm around him, just as he was about to pull the twisted sheets away and hit the shower. “It’s Sunday. The sun isn’t even up yet,” she purred.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, turning off the button and clumsily replacing the alarm clock on his nightstand.

  “Stay with me. Make love to me.” Zaffeera jumped up, catching herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her face. “I … I was having a dream.”

  “What kind of a dream?” he asked, stretching his body before rising out of bed.

  “I’m not sure … It was all … mumbo jumbo.”

  “I’ve had those. Didn’t mean to startle you. I should’ve slept in the other room so I wouldn’t disturb you …”

  “You don’t disturb me, Michel. I like sleeping next to you. ”

  “Thank you …” He mumbled, sitting up in bed, stretching his back. “I had a sudden leg cramp in the middle of the night, and I didn’t sleep much after that, and when I finally did, there went the alarm … of course …”