Light of the Desert Read online

  Her tall, broad-shouldered daughter stood by the old wooden board, chopping a mound of molokhieh leaves. Her thick ponytail and curly black hair bobbed up and down as she worked. Farid Fendil had mentioned that he preferred lamb to chicken with his molokhieh, and of course, for Yasmina, nothing could be more important than pleasing her husband. The lamb was already cut up and braising on the stove.

  From the beginning of her daughter’s third pregnancy, Sultana worried about Yasmina’s health. During the first months, she had experienced severe morning sickness. As she grew heavier, it was clear that at times, her discomfort became nearly intolerable, yet Yasmina hardly ever complained. Today, her face was more pale and puffy, and her ankles were so swollen, they looked like tree trunks. During the past few months, Yasmina had developed a strong appetite for salty and spicy foods. Sultana had warned her daughter about the dangers of toxemia, but Yasmina could not control her cravings.

  Sultana often reminded herself that above all, it was the will of Allah, and Allah had been good to her. Yasmina, in truth, was not a great beauty, and Sultana had worried over her prospects for a good marriage. Her gentle disposition had, hamdallah, attracted a very good husband—a man she could compare to a prince or pasha of every Middle Eastern girl’s dream.

  Yasmina had not conceived after almost five years of marriage, and Sultana was aware of gossip starting around town—some families were planning to introduce their daughters to Mr. Fendil. Farid had told his wife he was confident she would eventually give him children and, like his father, he would not take on a second bride. To further show his respect for his wife, he invited her mother to live with them permanently.

  Prior to marrying Yasmina, Farid had been a playboy who enjoyed the high life around the world. After their marriage, he continued to travel on business, and undoubtedly engaged young women who provided him with sensual pleasures. When he returned home, however, his arms were always filled with lavish gifts for his wife, and she, in turn, always had a feast prepared for him.

  Farid Fendil had grown up in Egypt. During the sixties, as the regime of Gamal Abdel Nasser became more repressive, the young real estate developer had resettled at an oasis in a remote corner of Jordan, where opportunities abounded. Farid Fendil fulfilled his dream of building Al-Balladi, his new “homeland,” a modern city of marble and glass buildings, with mansions surrounded by lush gardens.

  Sultana knew her son-in-law was especially proud of the mosque he had designed. He had commissioned the best craftsmen to build it. Made entirely of limestone and hand-carved blocks of crushed crystals, the monument sparkled beneath the desert sunlight and cast an opalescent glow under the moon. Admired by princes and traveling dignitaries, Farid’s mosque appeared to be blessed by the Almighty’s hand.

  Sultana watched Yasmina, who was vigorously mincing the molokhieh leaves finer and finer. She worked with a crescent-shaped makratah with alabaster handles, the same type used by their Egyptian ancestors. She rocked the sharp blade back and forth at least a hundred times. She could have minced everything in her French food processor in a matter of minutes, but she had to do everything the traditional way—as if her husband would know the difference.

  Sultana brought a chair to her daughter. “Bass ba’ah! Enough! At least sit down and take a load off those poor swollen ankles!”

  “No woman can cook sitting down,” Yasmina said. “You’re the one who taught me that, remember?”

  “I taught you many things, but I didn’t teach you to kill yourself fixing a meal. No man is worth that!”

  “I’m almost finished.”

  Sultana shook an index finger at her daughter. “Your pasha can live without his favorite feast for one Friday!” When Yasmina didn’t look up from her work, Sultana noisily pulled the chair back to a corner of the kitchen, plunked herself into it, folded her arms, and stuck out her tongue at her daughter.

  The maids stifled their giggles. Sultana usually could cajole her daughter with a little humor, but this time, Yasmina just shook her head and went on with her cooking.

  Abdo, Sultana’s adopted son, walked in carrying a wooden box of shoe polish and brushes. He was followed by little Nageeb. Sultana wondered if perhaps she could get Abdo to distract Yasmina on some pretext.

  Abdo went to his usual corner in the kitchen near the garden door, sat on a footstool, and pulled up another one for Nageeb. Together they began polishing Farid Fendil’s shoes with a soft, worn cloth. Sultana knew Abdo would have preferred to spit-shine the shoes, the way he did when he was an orphan in Cairo. But Yasmina didn’t like the idea of spit-shining, and Abdo respected her wishes.

  Five-year-old Nageeb took pride in helping his “Uncle Abdo,” the young man he now preferred to call “Big Brother.” Sitting next to Abdo, Nageeb was earnestly making a mess of his hands with polish that matched the shiny black of his thick curls.

  Abdo stumbled into the Fendil family by pure chance. Sultana, an experienced midwife, had traveled to a rural village several miles outside of Cairo, to assist a frail young mother in childbirth. Following the birth of twin boys, Sultana—who usually did not charge for her services—left with many gifts of thanks from the family. But the greatest gift of all, one she had never expected to receive that day, was Abdo.

  On that memorable day, Sultana had decided to ride back to the train station in an arabeya hantour, the horse-drawn carriage, the preferred Egyptian alternative to taxicabs. When the coachman took a shortcut through an alley, Sultana saw a strong-looking man whipping a frail young boy with his belt. She ordered the driver to stop but he refused.

  “It is not for us to interfere,” the coachman said, urging his horse away from the scene.

  “Stop now!” she screamed.

  “That is his uncle,” the driver said. “He owns the biggest shoe store, around the corner. That boy is nothing but a retarded orphan.”

  “Nothing but?” Sultana couldn’t believe her ears. When she saw the boy looking up at his tormentor as if trying to beg forgiveness, her blood began to boil. The child’s pleading eyes were all she needed to see.

  As the driver slowed the horse to turn at the next street corner, Sultana jumped out of the carriage and ran back to the alley.

  By the time she arrived at the scene, she thought the boy was dead. The man was still lashing at him with his leather belt. The child was not moving. She jumped on the man’s back and grabbed his hair in both fists.

  “Ibn el kalb!” she screamed, calling him a son of a dog as she yanked his hair. “I’ll pluck out every strand of your filthy hair if you don’t stop!”

  “Get off, you hag!” he shouted, apparently shocked that a woman could possibly be attacking him. “I’ll have you arrested and thrown in jail. Indecent woman!”

  When she jumped off, greasy gray hairs were stuck between her fingers. Sultana was so disgusted by the sight, she growled like an angry camel.

  The man backed away and hurried to his store, evidently unwilling to tangle with a madwoman.

  Sultana lifted the bleeding boy in her arms, while a crowd gathered in the alley. To her surprise, they all cheered.

  Abdo never had to see his miserable uncle again. Sultana took him home and nourished him back to health. She later enrolled him in one of the best private schools, and in fact, he proved to be quite an intelligent boy. She knew he would have a bright future; she would make sure of that. But she hoped when it was time for him to marry, he would always stay close to her and Yasmina.

  Sultana stood up. “Abdo, talk to Yasmina. Tell her she must put her feet up.”

  “Abdo, tell Mother I’m almost done,” Yasmina said.

  Abdo looked up sheepishly at Sultana and shrugged his shoulders.

  The pans Noora had stacked up high crashed to the floor again. “Come, ya benti ya Noora,” Sultana said. “Let’s pick some roses from our garden.”

  “Yes, Mother, that is a good idea,” Yasmina said without looking up from her work. “I promise I will have my feet up by the time
you return, if you promise to come back with a nice bouquet for tonight’s dinner table.”

  In the garden, Sultana was delighted by the beautiful choice of flowers that had seemingly bloomed overnight. “We’ll pick your mother some of those big, bright peach-yellow roses,” she said. “Okay, ya habibti? But let’s not take too long.”

  “Look, Nana, pretty!” Noora squealed with delight, pointing at a bright red rose, attempting to pick it.

  “Careful! Don’t touch that one. Too many thorns …”

  Too late. Noora pricked her index finger and thumb. Blood gushed out of both fingers.

  “Ya setti! Um Yasmina!” A maid ran out of the kitchen, waving her arms frantically. “It’s Mrs. Fendil! She … she fainted!”

  Noora was crying with pain and fear as blood dripped from her fingers to her pink dress.

  The maid rushed back inside, screaming, “Ya Allah! Ya Allah!”

  “Abdo!” Sultana screamed.

  He was already running to Sultana in the garden with Nageeb in tow, and lifted the hysterical little Noora in his arms.

  “Ya okhti anah!” Nageeb cried to his sister. “I fix it, don’t cry. I can make you better!”

  Abdo whisked the children back through the kitchen and into the house.

  Sultana could hear Noora’s cries echoing down the hall when she kneeled to help her daughter, who was lying on the floor. Looking at her closely, she saw a deathly pallor. She felt Yasmina’s pulse. Faint. “Telephone that BRITISH HOSPITAL!” Sultana yelled.

  The nervous head maid had difficulty dialing the rotary phone with her trembling fingers.

  “Get them to bring that truck with the red lights!” Sultana implored.

  Ambulances were a new development in their town. Sultana hated their flashing lights and shrieking sirens—now she was begging for one.

  In the early morning, at the new Al-Balladi Hospital, while Farid Fendil was still trying to figure out if the Koran forbade a cesarean section, Yasmina’s labor pains had become unbearable.

  After thirty-two hours of labor, a sheik she had never seen before had summoned a few men from the mosque to sit with Farid and pray for his wife—who was, by that time, begging him to let her die.

  Sultana had never experienced such tragedy. Her own daughter! She had successfully assisted in natural childbirths with probably more than a hundred young mothers. It was time to convince her son-in-law to give in to modern medicine and sign the necessary hospital papers. She took him aside and pleaded with him to allow the doctors to perform the surgery. When he still hesitated, she told him she would sign the papers herself. The sheik overheard and told her severely that it was the duty of the husband to consent to anything that had to do with his wife’s medical condition, and not a woman, even if she was the mother.

  She ignored the sheik and turned to her son-in-law. “If you don’t give the English doctor permission to perform a cesarean section this minute, I will hold you responsible for my daughter’s death, and so will Allah!”

  The British doctor received permission to perform the surgery.

  Later that day, the newborn baby girl was presented to her exhausted mother. Yasmina weakly held her third child to her breast. The scrawny, wrinkled infant finally stopped howling when she locked her gums onto her mother’s nipple, sucking with all her might.

  Yasmina wearily watched her baby while Sultana stood nearby and gave silent prayers of thanks to the Almighty for sparing her daughter’s life.

  Yasmina spoke to her mother for the first time since the operation. Her voice was low and frail. “She has eyes like sapphires … Farid chose the name Zaffeera.”

  “She’s a very strong little girl,” Sultana said. She frowned, wondering if her daughter would be too weak to establish a good motherly connection with that child.

  Sultana remembered a disturbing dream she had experienced the night before. She had found herself in the desert, searching for her lost wedding ring, and came upon a wrinkled old woman sitting cross-legged on the ground, in the shade of a date palm. The stranger wore the long, traditional black dress and veil of the desert Fellahin. She looked sharply at Sultana and shook a long, crooked finger. She said something unpleasant, even frightening. When Sultana woke from the dream, she was relieved to find her wedding band still on her finger. But she couldn’t recall what the strange woman had said, except that it sounded like a warning.

  Now as she stood by her daughter’s bedside, Sultana remembered. “Beware of hidden evil …” the woman said in her dream.

  No, Sultana thought, flatly rejecting the superstitions of her ancestors. If a baby was loved and tenderly cared for, that child would no doubt grow up to be loving in return.

  She had another serious concern: Farid Fendil. She had yelled at him. In front of that sheik and the other religious men, no less. But didn’t they realize that if Mr. Fendil’s wife had not survived, his young children would have grown up without their mother? Nevertheless, she was sure the sheik would tell Farid to reprimand her—possibly even throw her out of his house. He expected women to remain subservient and never raise their voices in the presence of men. But to her surprise, after the sheik and his entourage finally left the hospital, Farid praised her for her courage and for assisting him in his decision.

  Farid and Sultana stayed in the hospital until the doctors assured them Mrs. Fendil was recovering well and would soon regain her strength.

  The five-pound baby girl with the powerful lungs was doing quite well too.

  “But why does the baby cry so much?” Farid inquired in his Egyptian-accented English. “Is there something wrong with her?”

  “No,” the doctor replied, smiling. “She’s just a very hungry little girl.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE BETRAYAL

  London — March 19, 1993

  Dark gray clouds rolled across the London sky as Zaffeera waited in the gusty wind at Kensington Gardens, near the statue of Peter Pan. Her collar up and hands clenched in the pockets of her black cashmere coat, Zaffeera grew impatient. I’m so hungry, I could scream, she thought, biting her bottom lip.

  Noora was a half hour late. Midterms were over by eleven o’clock, and the walk from the college was less than twenty minutes.

  What the hell was keeping that girl? The line at Hard Rock Café could be stretching halfway around the bloody block by now. Her left eye began twitching nervously.

  Nearly everything depended on getting a table by the window, where the bodyguard her father had secretly hired could see them from the street.

  She spotted him beyond a field of bright yellow daffodils. He was one of those sleazy, crazy-eyed creeps who gave her people a bad name.

  She had known about Moustafa before starting school—probably before he even knew he had the job.

  About two weeks before leaving Al-Balladi for college in London, Zaffeera had jumped out of bed after a restless night and decided to take her morning run around the six-acre property of her father’s mansion. Passing through the courtyard near the family’s sixteen-car garage, she spotted her father sitting on a bench beneath the old mango tree. Dressed in the traditional garb which he reserved for prayers at the mosque, her father seemed engaged in a discussion with an older man who was also clad in the traditional gallabeya.

  Zaffeera hid behind an archway by a pillar and leaned closer, eager to catch what they were saying.

  She recognized the man, known as Sheik Abdullah Kharoub, head caretaker of her father’s mosque.

  “… sending your daughters to a foreign country alone. It is not done.”

  Her father defended his daughters, saying they were responsible, and added something about Nageeb, who had been in London studying medicine.

  “Nageeb will be studying in Cairo now,” the sheik objected. “Your daughters must have a bodyguard.”

  What business was it of his? Zaffeera wondered. Surely her father could handle his own personal affairs. But it looked like he had caved in, saying he would find a chaper
one. The sheik insisted no, it had to be a man with the proper training.

  Her father nodded patiently, saying he would look into it. She had never seen him meekly acquiesce to someone else’s demands. And what did that sheik mean by “proper training?”

  “I have elected Moustafa,” the pompous old sheik said with finality.

  “Moustafa? Your nephew?” her father asked.

  “Yes. He is the proper man for the job.”

  Soon after the girls arrived in London, and on the first day of school, Zaffeera spotted Moustafa, the supposed bodyguard. “Proper man for the job?” The man was an imbecile. He was careless and conspicuous. She nicknamed him homar, Arabic for “jackass.”

  She had been tempted to contact the London Metropolitan Police and tell them she and her sister were being stalked by a terrorist type, then dutifully report him to her father. Wouldn’t that embarrass the sheik! But after carefully calculating the situation, Zaffeera realized she could use him.

  She noticed sometimes he carried a camera around his neck. She hoped he wore it today, ready to ogle Noora and snap pictures of her. It appeared that Moustafa had been lusting after Noora since the start of the school year. Zaffeera would use his passion to her advantage. Moustafa could provide proof that Noora was not the angelic girl her parents thought she was.

  Noora was so engrossed in planning her wedding, so absorbed in herself, Zaffeera was convinced that her sister never noticed the homar. Her strategy would be that much easier to carry out if Noora didn’t know someone from home was watching.

  Zaffeera hugged herself and began to pace. In the distance, she could see Moustafa standing behind a bench near the pond, where children were tossing pieces of bread to a family of ducks. She slowed her pace, adjusted her huge Christian Dior sunglasses, and pulled down the rim of her hat so that she could observe Moustafa unobtrusively. He should be searching for Noora, but now his binoculars appeared to be directed at her. Kids were squealing with laughter as they tried to climb on the statue of Peter Pan. Zaffeera smiled for Moustafa’s benefit, as if she enjoyed their shrieking. I’ll show him something to make his eyes pop out. Where the hell is that Noora?!