No More Lonely Nights (18 page)

With fumbling movements, Dominique placed the phone back in the cradle. She held the cold object on her lap and stared straight ahead like a sleepwalker. She wanted to leave. Now. Never come back. But as she considered her alternatives, envisioned the consequences of leaving, she realized it was too soon.

You’ve made a mistake. Don’t make it worse!
She had to be cunning, more cunning than Anton. She had to plan carefully, to look after herself. “Be smart,” Marie had said. What was the smartest thing to do?

She could try putting aside more money, but whatever meager amount she could save would last only a short while. She would have to ask Solange for money. If only she could call her! But telephone communications in Egypt were primitive. Dominique would never get through on the first try. The operator would have to call back. And what if Anton or his mother were home by then? A wire wouldn’t do either; it would cost far too much to explain everything. And she
had
to explain everything so that Solange would be as outraged as Dominique. A letter would be best. In the meantime, though, every instinct told Dominique that she had to conceal from Anton what she had learned.

Dominique bolted up decisively. She would write the letter and mail it before Anton or his mother returned. And she would warn Solange to send her response to Dominique in care of the bank. After everything else he had done, Anton would hardly shrink from opening her mail.

Dearest Dominique,

The turn of events you have described is, of course, disastrous. I had such hopes for your marriage to Anton and your new life in America.

As you requested, I have refrained from contacting his family here; however, I am most anxious to discuss this with them as soon as possible. It is inconceivable that such fine people could have known about his past. This is a matter I cannot leave unresolved.

It distresses me that I can be of no help to you. Foreigners’ assets here are more closely watched than ever, and we are now forbidden to send any money out of the country. In fact, cash withdrawals at banks are limited to an amount that barely enables me to cover my household expenses.

You will have read that the British spent the month of June evacuating the Suez Canal Zone. No one knows what the Nasser government will do next. Our friend the deputy minister fears for his position, as he is considered one of the “old guard” and not well looked upon by some influential members of the new regime. Extremists in the government are urging the president to nationalize the Canal, which, as you know, would be perilous. Britain and France would almost certainly go to war to defend their access.

Cousin Rene’s textile manufacturing plant was nationalized right after you left. He was promised compensation, but the terms are laughable. In exchange for an operation which brought him millions a year, he has been given Egyptian government bonds with various terms of maturity. In effect, they have stolen the factory. Rene hopes to emigrate to France, but the government has told him he must continue on at the plant to train the new director. He and his family will be arrested if they try to flee.

For the first time, I, too, am uneasy about my prospects here. I have insisted that Nanny go to her sister in France. But I suppose I will die here. I don’t wish to leave, despite everything. As long as I remain, I believe I’ll be able live as I always have. It is those foreigners who seek to leave who fall under government suspicion.

I hope by the time you receive this letter you will have found a solution to your dilemma. Divorce is a drastic measure and one to which our family has never resorted. I know that what Anton has done seems heinous, but reflect carefully whether you wish to be a divorcée. Life can be difficult for a woman alone, most particularly for a woman without financial resources. Sometimes even the worst of husbands can smooth a woman’s way in the world. I gather that you fear no physical threat from Anton. You might consider at least waiting until the November cotton sale. Since that takes place overseas, I feel confident I will be able to forward him the profit to which his shares entitle him (I regret now that I did not put them in both your names, but, of course, it is the husband who manages the money). Perhaps that will make your life with him easier.

I know this is not the answer you were anticipating and that the situation appears hopeless, but if you could view it through my eyes, through the perspective of greater experience, you would perhaps understand why I am not certain that divorce is the best solution. I know that things are more liberal in America, but I must remind you that divorce is still considered a disgrace among our people—a last resort born of desperation. I beg you not to act with your usual impetuosity.

Love,

Your mother

Dominique reread the letter twice as she leaned against the partition in the ladies’ room. She had shut herself into the little stall, wanting no interruptions from curious co-workers. Now, in shock, she kicked down the toilet lid and collapsed onto the seat. She was stunned by the hatred—the sheer, desperate hatred—for Solange that boiled through her. With trembling hands, she tore the thin paper into tiny pieces, clutching the debris in her fists. Overwhelmed with despair, she closed her eyes.

She had waited five weeks for the letter in her hand. Five weeks with a husband she despised. It had been endurable only because she had been sure that help was on the way. She had counted on Solange. Now Solange wouldn’t help! But the final blow, the most wounding, was that Solange seemed to assign some blame to Dominique. The letter’s closing line stung. “I beg you not to act with your usual impetuosity.” Was it impetuous to want to leave a liar and a swindler? Was Solange so afraid of disgrace that she would ask Dominique to endure the marriage? There
had to
be a way to get money out of Egypt. Dominique opened her clenched fists and looked at the tiny pieces of paper in her hand. A dull, gnawing pain started in her stomach. She clenched her fists and huddled close to the wall, her teeth chattering. It was hard to think logically. Rocking unconsciously to and fro, she tried to regain control of her emotions. She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm herself. In. Out. A few more breaths and she was able to think more coherently.

Where could she go? How could she start a new life with less than two hundred dollars? Today was Friday, so she could take her entire check and decamp. But even that would add only fifty dollars to her meager savings. What she needed was a place to stay until she could save more. But the idea of even one more day with Anton was too detestable to contemplate. On the other hand, if she left, he would surely make trouble for her at the bank. He would insist that she stay with him until November as insurance for the payment of her dowry.

She had to leave San Francisco! And that meant she had only one possible refuge. Her sister, Danielle. But Danielle had a family now. What if they didn’t have room for her? Dominique jumped to her feet. She would call right now and ask.

Moving with frantic haste, she jerked open the door of the stall so hard that it crashed against the wall. Oblivious to the noise, she rushed from the ladies’ room. When she reached her desk, she realized she was still clutching Solange’s shredded letter. With a vigorous swipe of her hands, she brushed the bits of paper into the trash. Only after she sat down and picked up the phone did she hesitate. What if Danielle refused? What if she, too, advised Dominique not to divorce? And how would Danielle’s husband, Ronald, react? Impossible to say. The last time Dominique had seen him, she had been thirteen. Only a sketchy image of him remained in her memory—a swaggering American naval officer with sunshine blond hair. Her sister had met him in Alexandria just after World War II, at a time when all Americans had been regarded as heroes. They had fallen in love and married quickly. Danielle had been eighteen, young by American standards, but just the right age for marriage in Egypt, even among Europeans. Then they’d gone back to America, where Ronald had entered the field of advertising.

Now, as Dominique sat at her desk, her hand frozen on the telephone, she realized that so much time had passed that she couldn’t predict what sort of welcome she might expect from either Danielle or Ron.

Suppose, though, that she simply showed up in New York. They could hardly refuse her a place to stay for a few nights. Dominique was confident she could find a job as quickly as she had in San Francisco. That was the way to do it, she decided boldly—present them with a
fait accompli
.

Dominique carried her valise to the phone booth of the New York Port Authority bus terminal and closed the door on the cacophony of the station. She dialed Danielle’s number, her stomach fluttering with anxiety as she waited for the call to go through.

“Hello.” A weary male voice came over the telephone line. It didn’t sound like anyone Dominique knew.

“Hello, is this the Marks residence?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes, this is Ronald Marks.” More inviting this time, with a note of expectation.

Dominique made her voice as pleasant as possible. “Hello, Ronald, it’s Dominique. How are you?”

There was a pause. “Oh, hi. Okay I guess.” His voice sank, his disappointment almost palpable. “You want to speak to Danielle?” He didn’t wait for a response.

Dominique heard him lay down the receiver. In the background, a child cried. “Danielle!” the man bellowed. “Phone!”

The receiver clanked a few more times, then Danielle, sounding short of breath and harassed, said, “Hello?”

“Danielle, c’est moi,”
Dominique automatically reverted to the language they always spoke together.

“Dominique! How are you!” The fatigue in Danielle’s voice was replaced by excitement.

“Fine. Fine. But, listen, I have something important to tell you.” Dominique wanted to get it over with. She was bone tired after the endless hours on the bus. She was dying for a hot shower. All she wanted was to be with Danielle and relax.

“What is it?” Danielle sounded alarmed.

Dominique blurted out, “I’ve left Anton.” She held her breath as she waited for her sister’s reaction.

“What!” Danielle’s voice was sharp, unbelieving.

“He hasn’t called looking for me?” Dominique asked apprehensively.

“No… I don’t know, we were at Ron’s mother’s this weekend.” Danielle sounded stunned.

“Danielle, I need your help.” Now the words spilled out of Dominique in a torrent. “Anton lied about everything. He’s been married twice before. He finds wealthy women and he—”

Danielle interrupted. “Where are you?” she demanded, sounding worried.

Dominique didn’t answer for a moment. Then, in a small voice, she said, “In New York. At the bus station.” Then the torrent of words resumed. “I should have warned you, but I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it, and I didn’t have anyone else to turn to! I’m sorry to be a burden, but can you put me up for a while? Just until I find a job. It won’t be long. I found one right away at the bank in San Francisco. Of course, I can’t use them as a reference since I’ve quit so sud—”

“Come right away,” Danielle interrupted her. “We sold the car so we can’t pick you up. I’ll meet you at the subway stop.”

Dominique eagerly fished a pencil from her purse. “Give me the directions.”

It was bliss to be with family again! To share fond memories and a common background. To find refuge. Now that the excited greetings, the initial hugs and kisses, were out of the way, the sisters were chattering at high speed about their lives. Their rapport was as comfortable as it had always been—as though they’d never been apart.

As she and Danielle emerged from the stale-smelling subway, Dominique paused, bombarded by impressions. People rushing by, carelessly bumping into them. Loud voices, strange accents. Car horns. High-pitched police whistles. Trucks clattering down the narrow street. And the heat. August mugginess that was a mixture of steam and diesel fumes. It came off the pavement in waves. It was at least twenty degrees hotter than San Francisco. “God, this reminds me of Egypt,” Dominique said in wonder.

“Egypt!” Danielle laughed as she bent over and unfolded a metal frame cart with wheels. She efficiently strapped the suitcases on. “Everyone here uses these for groceries,” she explained.

Dominique looked around, catching her breath. Despite the clamor, she could see that Danielle’s neighborhood was very pleasant. The street was lined with small trees planted at curbside. Elegant apartment buildings, their doors trimmed with brass, bronze, or wrought iron, rose high to create a shaded walkway. “This is nice,” she said.

“I insisted on buying in the Upper East side,” Danielle said knowingly as the sisters walked from the subway station. She fixed Dominique with a look of conviction. “It’s better to have the worst house in a good neighborhood than a good house in a bad neighborhood.”

Dominique laughed. The advice, delivered with the utmost solemnity, reminded Dominique of the young girl who had each week carefully saved a portion of her allowance. Not like Dominique, who had frittered hers away on chocolates and trinkets.

“You look wonderful!” Dominique complimented her sister.

“You think so?” Danielle preened a little. “I’ve been dieting.”

“You’re crazy!” Dominique said. “You’re perfect just as you are.”

Indeed, at age twenty-seven, Danielle was in the full bloom of young womanhood—she exuded sex appeal. With the eclectic panache of a fashion model, she played up her good looks. Her makeup was perfect, if dramatic. Her dress was tailored in all the right places to show off her figure. And even on a walk to the subway, she wore high heels. Dominique noticed men turning to stare as they passed. Doormen tipped their hats to Danielle, and even the newspaper boy, hawking extras on the street corner, stopped in mid-sentence to give her the once-over. Dominique was used to attracting attention herself, but when she was with Danielle, she was certain the focus was on her sister.

Danielle, however, seemed momentarily oblivious. She peered at Dominique, as though there were no one else on the busy street. “And you! The last time I saw you, you were a kid.” She shook her head slowly from side to side and made a clucking noise with her tongue. “I remember Mother was always so worried about how you’d turn out.” Danielle chuckled. “She must be proud of you now!”