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LIGHT OF THE DESERT
By Lucette Walters AuthorHouse Copyright © 2007 Lucette Walters
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4259-7749-8
Chapter One NOORA
JULY 22, 1972
On a desert dawn, Little light shines on ...
Yasmina Fendil rose from her bed, pushed her feet into her handmade baboush leather slippers, and stretched out her pregnant stomach. She had at least four more weeks to go, but she was anxious to hold the baby in her arms. Little Light-she remembered the dream song. She should tell her mother about it, Yasmina thought, making her way to the adjoining room. Most dreams had a message, but those of a pregnant woman had to have special significance.
She opened the door to her mother's bedroom and peeked inside. Beneath a silver satin comforter, Sultana Marietta, a petite woman in her late fifties, was snoring, her wiry gray hair spread wildly around her pillow.
Yasmina decided to let her mother rest.
The two women's bedrooms were connected by a nursery. Yasmina looked up at the blue-domed ceiling with painted white clouds and touched the dimmer switch. Tiny specks of stars brightened gently and changed hues as they sparkled overhead.
Yasmina's son, Nageeb-Gabriel, was asleep. They had recently celebrated his third birthday, yet it didn't seem so long ago that she was pregnant with him. She watched her firstborn and smiled. He probably had the longest, blackest eyelashes in the Middle East. And he was smart. Inshallah, if God willed, someday he would be an architect and a real estate developer, like his father. Carefully she replaced the blue satin down comforter he had kicked onto the floor. She bent to kiss him, but decided not to risk waking him.
Silently she returned to her bedroom suite and opened the glass doors to her verandah.
Lowering herself on a chaise longue, she sank into the billowy mounds of cushions. She had experienced mild abdominal discomfort during the night, and her ankles were swollen. She propped her legs up on two thick pillows and marveled at the deep, royal blue blanket of sky, dotted by sparkling stars. She inhaled the cool, fragrant air, sweetened by the rose bushes and plumeria trees in the garden below.
She knew that the day before, she had stood in the kitchen longer than she should have. But a good molokhieh took hours to prepare, and she could not disappoint her husband. The tasty spinach-like leaves that grew along the Nile were sent weekly from Egypt to Yasmina's kitchen. She had chopped the dark green leaves very fine and slow-cooked them in chicken broth seasoned with garlic, onions, coriander, cumin, and other spices fresh from her mother's herb garden. The mouth-watering aroma that wafted out of her kitchen every Friday drew the entire household, like children to candy.
As the stars faded with the indigo of night, Yasmina tried to remember her dream. She had a strong sense that this baby would not be a boy. The thought of a baby girl made her happy, even though she knew her husband would be disappointed. He wanted Nageeb to have a brother.
She dozed off. When she opened her eyes, she spotted a shooting star. Its brilliance lingered just as the brightening sky announced the sunrise.
A warm liquid flowed out of her. No, this could not be ... her water bag? Too soon. The contractions, if that's what they had been earlier, were mild. Certainly there was no need to worry or alarm anyone. But five minutes later, the next contraction became more painful.
"Ummy, Ummeee," she called out to her mother. No one answered. She began to breathe methodically, the way her mother taught her during the first pregnancy, but at that moment, she could not recall what else she was to do-except beg Allah for the pain to subside. She tried to relax before attempting to reach her mother's room, but the next cramp was long and acute, and Yasmina couldn't help but cry out. "Help me, ya Allah!"
Still no one heard. She checked her watch, determined she was not going to panic. Babies didn't just fall out, she reminded herself. It could take hours. But five minutes later, the cramps returned and they were unbearable. She felt great pressure, as if the baby was pushing down.
She screamed again. The maids were far away, in their living quarters downstairs by the kitchen, on the other side of the mansion, and her mother was still not responding. The only one who would come to her would be her little boy, and she did not want him to see her in such a state. All she could do now was pray.
"Ummy ... Ummy!" Sure enough, Nageeb stood by the open glass door, holding his favorite blanket.
"Go call Nana. Please ... Run, ya ibni; run, my son," Yasmina begged.
Nageeb rushed to his mother, placed his little blanket on her stomach, and ran back inside.
Finally, Sultana emerged on the verandah wearing a long white cotton nightgown, her silver hair matted and in disarray. Her sleepy eyes grew wide when she saw her daughter was about to give birth.
Less than an hour later, Sultana, who-by the mercy of Allah-was a midwife, cut the umbilical cord. "Hamdallah!" Yasmina's mother thanked the Almighty.
At the edge of town, the call to Morning Prayer by the muezzin on the minaret drifted with the desert breeze.
While the maids were busy tending to Yasmina, Sultana raised the baby to the sky. The sun was now above the horizon and cast a golden aura around the baby's head.
"May her life be as easy as her birth. Allah Akk-barr!" she chanted in her raspy voice. "God is great!" She wrapped the baby in a soft, hand-woven receiving blanket and stood fussing and cooing over the bundle.
"Praise to Allah. Bless you, Mother. Bless all of you," Yasmina said to the three maids. "Now let me hold my little girl!"
"She is ugly," Sultana said, introducing the newborn to her mother.
Yasmina gazed at her beautiful baby, and looked up at her mother. "Yes ... ugly," Yasmina agreed, uttering the untruth in order to banish ill luck and envy. "She arrived with noor-light ... sunlight. If Farid approves, I would like to name her Noora," Yasmina said.
The maids put a sturdy blanket beneath Yasmina and swiftly carried her to her bed. The brass bassinet that had belonged to Nageeb when he was born was placed nearby. In no time, the housekeepers had changed all the ribbons and bows on the bassinet from blue to pink-except for the mandatory "blue bead" encased in a large solid gold medallion that dangled from a gold safety pin. The turquoise gemstone was the traditional protection to ward off evil spirits-afreets-and the dreaded "evil eye."
Nageeb, who had been kept away until his mother was ready to receive him, bounced excitedly into her room.
"Nageeb," Yasmina said, hoping he would not be disappointed, "you now have a baby sister ..."
"I want to hold her!" He climbed on his mother's bed and sat close to her.
As he held the baby in his arms, Yasmina said, "Promise me you will always take good care of your little sister, my son, and that you will always watch over her."
"I promise!" Nageeb said. "I will take very good care of my little sister." He never looked prouder.
When Sultana put the sleeping baby in the bassinet, the infant squirmed and opened her eyes slightly, revealing a flicker of turquoise blue that illuminated between her tiny, fine, dark lashes. Sultana raised the baby's head a bit more to take a closer look at those eyes. Most newborns had blue eyes, she reminded herself. But her granddaughter's were pale, more like those of northern Europeans. As far as she knew, everyone in Farid Fendil's family was Egyptian and had brown eyes. Sultana's grandmother had said some of their own ancestors who emigrated from Turkey had been beautiful, tall people with eyes shaped like almonds and pale turquoise like the Mediterranean seashores. But Sultana had always believed that the old woman exaggerated when she spoke about their "beautiful ancestors." Yet here was this baby, with those eyes. She hoped they would darken as she grew, because a child with such light eyes could bring envy or jealousy-even attention to the evil eye.
Clad in the traditional gallabeya, Farid Fendil shuffled to his wife's bedside. The housemaids disappeared silently from the room. He glanced at the baby girl, kissed Yasmina on the cheek, and turned to leave. He stopped at the door, returned to his wife's bedside, and stood gazing at the infant.
Carefully, he took the baby in his arms. He had just returned from the mosque, and needed to change into a business suit for meetings scheduled back to back in his office until sundown. Yet he did not feel rushed anymore. He took his time admiring the new bundle. He touched her tiny hands.
"So soft. Like silk," he whispered, his eyes mesmerized.
His infant daughter gazed right back at him.
"Arusah, ya arusah anah," he chanted tenderly to his dear child.
Closing his eyes in prayer, he thanked Almighty Allah.
Chapter Two ZAFFEERA
NOVEMBER 8, 1974
Sitting on the cool marble floor near the tall kitchen window, Noora was busy stacking up a tower of copper pans and bowls of all sizes, as high as she could. They eventually tumbled down, making a terrible racket. The toddler frowned in frustration, but persistently kept at it, stacking up each pan, only to watch it all crash again to the floor. Noora's almond-shaped eyes, shaded by long black lashes, remained a pale turquoise blue. Her thick brown hair already reached down to her shoulders, and every morning, Sultana looked forward to combing her granddaughter's soft curls. That morning, Sultana did not have the chance to fuss over Noora, because when she checked the calendar, she realized Yasmina was almost a week past her due date. She had to start preparations for the imminent childbirth.
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 puff y, 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!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from LIGHT OF THE DESERT by Lucette Walters Copyright © 2007 by Lucette Walters. Excerpted by permission.
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