Two From Isaac's House

by Normandie Fischer

  He hadn’t arrived by the time she’d finished both the cappuccino and the pastry. She ordered a second coffee. She pushed the bowl of sugar packets three inches to the right, then across the table to the left. She stared at the drying foam on the inside rim of her cup. Her stomach rebelled against the acid in the coffee. She ordered a water and drank it quickly.

  Numbers on currency blurred as she rifled for correct change. She lingered through the center of town, pausing to watch the pigeons near the Fontana Maggiore. Maybe Tony had been delayed, and she’d find him somewhere on the way to meet her. Maybe he’d come to the convent. On that thought, she quickened her pace.

  25

  TONY

  The sun raked the sand, sending diamond reflections to blind him as he half crawled, half stumbled west toward what he hoped would be the highway. Bahir had known this nothingness would kill him if the bullet didn’t. He could still hear Bahir’s voice shouting at him to run even as Bahir’s finger pulled the trigger. In mid-turn, Tony had felt the bullet slam into his shoulder, knocking him forward until his head connected with rock.

  That was hours or years ago. When he awoke, everything seemed to throb or ooze.

  Pain coiled behind his eyes and sank talons into his shoulder, across his chest, down his spine, but he had to staunch the dripping blood if he wanted to live. It wasn’t much; no blood spurted from an artery. He reached up with his left hand, barely touching the area, but that was enough. The knife blade of pain twisted, nearly knocking him out again. The bullet must have hit a bone. But he lived.

  He needed a sling. Bahir’s hatta wa’ gal couldn’t be sacrificed. It might keep him from frying. If only he could lie down and sleep. He yearned for blank, black peace. But it might take longer to die than he was willing to wait.

  He tripped on a pile of stones, the beginning of heaped scree near the base of a cliff. The fall scraped his usable arm and an exposed section of flesh on his side. Damn. Everything hurt too much to move. And what was the point? Behind his closed eyelids, red points danced, crooked ladders floated, and the light burned.

  Death was welcome to have him.

  But what if death weren’t oblivion, and instead he would be held accountable? Was he ready? Would he make it into heaven, if heaven existed?

  He pushed onto his knees, struggled to stand, and almost lost his balance trying to protect his useless arm. Okay, he had to keep walking. He might find water. Was this way east, away from the road? It looked like it, but the whole sky had grown hazy—or was that his eyesight? Surely it was just a pink sky. Storm warning? No, only in the morning.

  It might have rained somewhere, maybe around that outcropping of rock. Maybe he wasn’t far from Ain Musa, the Spring of Moses, that place where Moses struck the rock and got water. Weren’t Bahir and Sami headed to Wadi Musa for some meeting or other? Maybe water was near. He repeated the thought, holding to it like the vine he used to swing on near the New York cottage. He knew that vine would hold him even when his mother said it was fraying, said he’d better watch out or it would surely break, only one thread there holding it, better watch out, see I told you so.

  That wasn’t such a good comparison after all.

  He yanked the hatta lower on his forehead. No burial shroud this, not if he could help it. His nose must be blistering by now, his lips were cracked and swollen, his tongue felt as if it filled his mouth. He’d stopped the blood from the little cut on his wrist, just pushed on it for a few minutes, but his shirt still absorbed trickles from his shoulder and sweat from his pores.

  He avoided a tamarisk thicket, a brittle undergrowth of brushwood that would punish him if he fell in it, and pushed his feet across the sand and rock. He slipped as a loose piece slid beneath him, stone chipped by the relentless sun, by the extreme temperatures that emptied this desert. Oh, some hardy creatures might call it home, the creeping kind, the predatory kind, the ones that would finish him off if the dripping blood didn’t.

  He’d had no food except the airport peanuts, with only orange soda and Nescafé to drink. Oh, and the soda and canned beans in Amman. How many hours ago? How long would that keep his legs moving, his brain functioning? Across the hills, someplace to the northwest, was water, down in the valley, deep down, deeper than he was now, but no life was in it. The Dead Sea. A good name for it. Dead, death, except for the minerals they could pull out of it. The last time he’d seen the Dead Sea, it had shimmered silver and red against the orange of the cliffs, the sunset reflecting on its surface. A different kind of light was there, intense, baking, all sharp contours and vivid colors.

  And to the south, how far to Aqaba and the coast?

  What had he done wrong? How had he failed?

  The craziness of it—a minute’s distraction and here he was, almost a dead man. He’d broken the rules, toyed with fate out of boredom, surely out of stupidity, and now Rina had to be wondering what had happened to him, why he hadn’t come to see her.

  Curious, Bahir giving him the chance to survive. Bahir hadn’t fired straight. Bahir, one of the best marksmen ever, was too good to have missed. So why was he still alive? Either Bahir was a sadist who wanted to think of him dying slowly, agonizingly in the merciless desert—and Tony couldn’t, wouldn’t believe that, not even when Bahir had every right to despise him—or he was still Tony’s friend, despite the denial and the anger.

  “Habibi, mit asfe, I’m sorry. And Sami, I wouldn’t have hurt you like this.”

  He collapsed on the sand and began to weep, then forced the tears to stop as he remembered the water waste. He tried to get up, stumbled forward on his knees, finally pulled himself to his feet. He couldn’t pause. He remembered his parents’ prayer, the names they used to implore the unspoken Name. He remembered that they’d written the word, the unpronounceable, as G-d, never God. He hadn’t. Because he hadn’t taken Him seriously before, had he?

  And now, here he was, imploring their G-d, HaShem, with whom he needed to get right if he were ever to get out of here. Especially if these were to become his final breaths, this his final resting place. And so he spoke his father’s words. “HaShem, Elohim, G-d Who saves, save me. Have mercy, I implore You, on this one who deserves no mercy.”

  He whispered to the heavens and trudged on, walking, still westward.

  Even as the sun ebbed, the heat baked everything. Soon though, when the sun finally hid its face, the desert temperature would plummet to just above freezing. If he weren’t dead before midnight, dawn would see him a corpse without a miracle.

  “HaShem.” This time, the name was a croak. And nothing more came. Only the thoughts. The plea in his mind.

  His parents used to talk about divine intervention, divine right, divine everything, believing the Tanakh as though it were real. All those stories about prophets roaming around in places like this, maybe even in this place. How come none of them got sunstroke? They hadn’t carried a tent to hide out in either, had they? So what did they do?

  Ravens. There was a story about ravens feeding somebody, but no, that was by some brook. No brook now. Elijah, that’s who it was. HaShem took care of Elijah in a tough spot. And the wanderers. Forty years, their shoes never wore out. Moses hit the rock. Got water.

  Manna. Water. Quail for the people of the Book. The people of Elohim, of HaShem, of G-d: Israel.

  Chosen, and always attacked. Hated because of that choice.

  What had his father said? The enemy always tried to crush us because of Messiah? Destroy the people of G-d to destroy the promise of Messiah.

  Never worked, did it? Never worked. Wouldn’t work.

  He could use a raven or two. Or water from the rock. Or water made fresh instead of bitter.

  Wonder if Moses really talked to G-d? Forty days without food or water, and here he was, dying after less than one.

  For a glass of water right now, he’d do anything. Maybe that was how Jacob tricked his brother—was Esau so hungry that he’d die if he didn’t eat? Rotten trick if that were the case.
>
  If he ever got out of here, he would never take water for granted again. A bath. Cold water lapping all about. He bet those guys started hallucinating about day five or six. Wouldn’t take him that long. Maybe he was hallucinating now.

  Adonai, are You listening? Do You hear my cry? Avinu Malkeinu, our Father in Heaven, I beg of You, have mercy.

  He stumbled again and fell on his face. Death charmed him, and he was too tired to care. He had no idea how far he’d come or how long he’d been out here, but in a short while darkness would shroud everything. Maybe if he moved more against that big rock and pulled the hatta over his shoulders, maybe it and the rock would warm him, and he’d survive the desert night. Or maybe not.

  26

  THE SHEPHERD

  Vultures circled overhead, watching, waiting for something to die. The shepherd stirred the coals with a long stick and placed his small coffee pot on to boil. He drew his cloak tightly around his shoulders in the morning chill. One of the great birds soared lower than the rest, then beat his wings upward until he fit neatly into the rotation.

  The coffee tasted bitter on the shepherd’s tongue. Two more birds joined the patient group. The prey must be large. It couldn’t be any of his flock, could it? He’d left his eldest in charge. He hoped the boy hadn’t let another get away. The two he’d rescued, the ones that had brought him from camp, rested nearby, so what could it possibly be?

  He broke off a piece of flat bread and dipped it in the coffee. His wife would have the foule ready by now. He could almost smell the fava beans and garlic, taste the lemon and olive oil on his tongue. The climb down the wadi would take two hours, but he could make a late breakfast with some of her fresh coffee, or better yet, tea with the foule and with the bread made this morning, not yesterday’s leftovers.

  He emptied the coffee dregs and strung the small pot and cup across the donkey’s back. Leading it and the two goats, he headed back up the dry river bed toward camp.

  Black wings intruded into his vision. Anh, he shrugged. The goats and the foule could wait a few minutes more.

  27

  RINA

  She tried not to panic when Tony wasn’t in class Tuesday or when he missed the review on Wednesday and Thursday. She hesitated to go out in the afternoons in case he called. She tried to study. Fortunately, that effort put no strain on her preoccupied brain, because by now she knew the material well enough to pass, and achieving honors wasn’t a priority.

  Time became a weighted cloak dragging at her shoulders. She felt bowed down and stooping, and her head developed a dull and persistent ache. She picked up several fairy tales in Italian and waded through them. Her vocabulary list grew, and she spoke accolades to herself. She wished they made her feel better.

  At five o’clock on Thursday, she rang Mae’s doorbell. “Come in!” shouted several voices, in Italian and almost in chorus, from different parts of the house. She peered around the door, assuming that all those bidding her enter meant what they said. From the kitchen she heard one of the twins cry, “Vieni qui! Come here, Auntie’s playing barber!”

  “Rina, hey. Look at us becoming beautiful.” Mae waved from a kitchen chair where she sat swathed in several towels, hair scattered over her and the floor. “Acie is making her fat sister comfortable by bringing the beauty shop to the house.”

  “I may switch to becoming a stylist. Or maybe stay as nanny.”

  Mae grinned. “I think you won’t last as nanny either—”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah, honey, you’ll end up with babies of your own. Big, handsome, dark-eyed babies.”

  “Is this prophetic? I hope you’re including a husband.” Acie tugged the comb through her sister’s hair, checking for uneven lengths. “Sorry,” she said when Mae complained. “As for the other, who knows?”

  “Anybody who’s been watching you and Nicco knows.”

  “You’re imagining things.” Acie’s blush darkened.

  Rina figured she’d crawl out of her skin if she had to listen to much more of their chatter. “Could we talk, Acie? As soon as you finish, I mean.”

  “Just a last snip.” Acie laid the scissors down and surveyed her work.

  Mae caught up the towels. “You two go up front. I’ll put on the tea, and the boys can sweep this up for me. No, no, they’re quite good at it.”

  Rina plopped down on the couch. “Have you seen Tony in the last few days?”

  “Tony? No, why? Should I have?”

  She brought a hand to her lips.

  “Tell me,” Acie said.

  Maybe she was making too much of it. “He was supposed to meet me Monday and didn’t.” She knew her eyes showed the strain of worry. She’d seen the dark circles reflected in the mirror. “He hasn’t been in class all week.”

  “Maybe he’s sick.”

  “Too sick to phone and say so?”

  “Maybe he’s too sick to notice.”

  “That’s a scary thought.” Or too sick to get to the doctor. Too sick to call for help.

  “You know where he lives?”

  “I think I can remember. He pointed it out to me once, but you know what these streets are like.”

  Mae waddled in with the tea things. “I’m off to take a lie-down. The boys will join me.”

  “You sure?” Acie asked.

  Mae waved over her shoulder and called to her sons as she left the room.

  “He told us about his landlady and her daughter. If he’s sick, they’re there.” Acie’s smile seemed forced as she poured the tea.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Me?”

  “You look exhausted.”

  “I’m probably drinking too much caffeine. I never thought it affected me, but Mae says it’s because I’ve been having coffee on top of a cup of tea with her every time she brews any.”

  “And now more with me? Perhaps we should take up herbal teas.”

  “They upset my stomach.”

  “Then?”

  Acie’s eyes crinkled behind her lenses. “More wine before bed?”

  “Your own uppers and downers. Good move.”

  “That’s about it. We’ll see what happens.” Nibbling at a biscuit, the other woman peered over her glasses and then asked in a tone of mild curiosity, “You straightened things out with your fiancé yet?”

  “Jason?” Rina didn’t want to think about him. She certainly didn’t want to talk about him. About them. The elephant in her closet.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help wondering. The thing with Tony and all.”

  “Tony?”

  “You know, falling for him.”

  She studied her half-empty cup. “We’re just friends.”

  “Right.”

  “We are.”

  Acie’s brows arched above her glasses, and she made a tsking sound. “If you say so. It seems to me your feelings have changed, and if they have, you ought to mention it to the guy back home. If I’m missing something, and things haven’t changed from just friendship, then you don’t need to worry about it, but how can they not have? Changed, I mean. Am I making any sense at all?”

  “Not much.”

  “As I said, it’s not my business.”

  “Well, it’s just that...” Rina set down the cup and stared out the window. She didn’t know what she expected to see, other than the small garden that had just begun to produce, but the answer slid from her lips as if it weren’t going to stay covered up another moment. “He makes me feel ways I shouldn’t.”

  “Because of the fiancé.”

  “Jason. Yes.”

  “I thought so. Tony has sexy eyes, and I’ve seen them looking at you like he wanted you for dessert.”

  “Acie!”

  “Well, I have.”

  Rina braced her forehead with both palms. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I like him, you know,” Acie said. “There’s something about him I trust.”

  That brought Rina’s head up
. “That’s a voltafaccia, isn’t it?”

  “An about-face? Cool word.” Acie grinned. “I suppose it is, and I can’t tell you what changed things, except that when we went dancing, he was so protective. It seemed a sign. And Nicco thinks he’s the real thing.”

  “Nicco’s vote counts?” At Acie’s secretive smile, she said, “Tell me.” And did her best to listen and make appropriate friend noises.

  She breezed through her exam. The grade didn’t matter, but doing well buoyed her spirits. For a few minutes.

  Deciding to tackle the problem of Tony’s whereabouts, she turned right instead of left outside the school, heading toward what she hoped were his rooms. It took a few passes before the door looked familiar enough for her to brave a knock.

  No one answered. The landlady was probably out, Tony in bed with the flu or something. Or maybe he got called out of town suddenly. She wasn’t going to wonder what being called away might mean. After all, what did she know about oil engineering? He could have valuable contacts in Italy, people he had to see on a moment’s notice. Maybe some oil rig was about to turn over in the middle of the Persian Gulf, if they had them offshore over there. Or maybe a fire had broken out in one, and he had to run off to find out something and hadn’t had a chance to telephone or write another note, and he was going to call soon, maybe even tonight. There could be a thousand perfectly good explanations.

  She grabbed a slice of onion and spinach pizza to give her taste buds a lift even as the rest of her flagged. Heading across town, out of the center city, she quickened her pace until she realized how far she’d gone, and then she caught a bus back up the hill. That took care of a few idle hours and allowed her to sleep past dawn the next morning. At eleven, she tried knocking at his rooming house again.

  The landlady opened the door.