“Your uncle?” The woman gave her a surprised look. “Was he expecting you?”
“I wrote, and when I didn’t hear again, I decided to come find him.”
“Oh, dear. I’m afraid I don’t remember seeing any letters with your name on them. And now you’ve come all this way when he’s away at one of the sites.”
“He’s… he’s not here?” Rina clutched her bag. “He wrote before I left the States. We were going to meet up this summer. In Europe.” She was babbling, but Adam couldn’t be gone. Not now. “He said he’d come after I finished my Italian course, but he never wrote back to me in Italy to set a date.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what happened.” Her sympathetic tone almost did Rina in. “I’m sure if he’d gotten your letters, he’d have answered you. But if he didn’t know you were coming...”
Deflated, Rina nodded. It was either that or weep, and she didn’t want to cry here in front of this very proper woman.
Ms. Barden took out a notepad. “Tell me where you are staying, and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I hear from him. I haven’t been able to reach him on his cell phone. The site is in rather a remote area, you see.”
She cleared her throat. “A landline?”
“I’m afraid there’s not one. But he’s due back next month.”
Next month? “I don’t suppose I could go wherever he is?” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.
“No, it’s best if I contact him first. I’ll send a note by courier. Just leave your address.”
“When—”
“I might know something in a couple of days, perhaps by Thursday or Friday. It is too bad that we cannot yet afford satellite phones on site.”
Disappointment seemed to be the particular plague assigned to her this year, and she tried, she really tried, not to let it infect her. While trying, she found and logged on to the hotel’s computer and sent an email to Acie, saying that Amman knew nothing, had no extra bodies lying around, and that she awaited her uncle here in Jerusalem at this lovely hotel, The King’s.
She hoped the contact would pacify Acie. Auntie Luze would have to wait until she was out of the Middle East.
Daylight resurrected misery. Memories floated into consciousness, tightening her chest and making her head feel too big for her skull, as if a fury screamed to be loosed. Tony watched with brilliant eyes and reached out a powerful hand to touch her. The hand came closer. She couldn’t take her eyes from it, waited to feel the caress of those long fingers, the cool touch on her cheek, her neck...
She opened her eyes. The hand would never reach her, and she couldn’t remember enough, because there hadn’t been enough, not enough time, not enough words, not enough of anything.
She splashed water on her face and smoothed her hair. The light above the mirror threw shadows under her eyes. They had to be shadows, unless they were cadaverous reflections of her mood.
It had come to this. Death peopled her dreams and now stared at her from the mirror.
She had to shake off this self-pity. Uncle Adam would be back as soon as they could find him. She was in Jerusalem. That ought to mean something. Maybe make-up would help her self-esteem. Maybe. But that meant shopping.
She headed to the pharmacy she’d seen on the next block. Once she’d bought what she needed, she returned to the hotel to dab the cream under her eyes and blush up her cheeks, then she headed out to explore the old city.
Two elders in suit jackets that didn’t match their pants smoked hookahs on steps outside the Damascus Gate. One of the men wore a white kaffeiya around his head, the other a Turkish fez. Neither looked at her. She’d picked this ancient gateway to the old city because of its beauty and its access to the Arab souk.
Women in black flowing robes with net bags for their purchases made her conscious of how hot she felt in her short sleeves, how sticky her back had become, how sweat beaded on her chest. What must they feel, wrapped like that? Were they immune to discomfort or merely resigned?
She wandered up a narrow street, peering in booths and into shops, listening to the high-pitched conversation of two women in front of a brassware merchant. Suddenly, the staccato of gunshots hit the air, the clomp of running boots, shouts. A barefoot boy, no older than ten, tore out of an alley and sped around her, dodging into a door to her left. Seconds later, two policemen appeared and shouted something at the women. Frowning, the women said, “La, la,” which sounded like “no.”
Rina ducked her head, hoping the men wouldn’t ask her, hoping they didn’t speak English. One approached.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” she said in answer to his words.
“The boy, did you see where he went?” He waited a moment. “No one was hurt by his rocks, but they might have been. We need to catch him, teach him a lesson so he’ll stop trying to mimic the older boys, the ones who really hurt people.”
“You shot at him?” she asked, appalled at the thought.
“In the air only, to make him stop.”
She felt the stares of the two women, the intent watchfulness of them and the policemen. She swallowed. “No.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “No, I’m sorry, I didn’t see anything.”
He watched her for a moment. He knew. Of course, he knew, but what could he do about it? He turned away.
She glanced back at the women, not smiling, not aligning herself with them. No, that was a lie, too. She’d chosen, perhaps wrongly, but he was only a boy.
Was she a traitor then? Would Uncle Adam have wanted her to speak? He would call the Israelis her people, tied to her historically if not culturally. Tied by the faith of their fathers. But how could she feel Jewish when she didn’t even remember attending synagogue? If Mama had taken her, it had been before she’d gotten sick, and Rina had been a young child then. Certainly, there was nothing to Auntie Luze’s faith if she could quit being an Episcopalian because of some silly squabble that didn’t have anything to do with God. Jewishness, though, didn’t seem to be tied to membership, but to family—and to the promises of God to his people.
Adam said they came from the priestly line of Levi. Her own mother, Rina Levinson—the first Rina, without the Lynne—had been a daughter of Levi, a follower of the God of Abraham, and of Isaac and Jacob, who became Israel when God renamed him.
Interesting that Jacob was a patriarch—faithless as a young man and also a schemer and a liar. Why did the Bible mention all the foibles of its heroes? Perhaps it had to do with perfection, that one can’t relate to someone else’s. Or maybe it was to show something about God and love and forgiveness. She wished Adam were here for her to ask.
Then there was the other side, the Arab side. Tony’s side. And the Muslims, children of Abraham they called themselves, but through Ishmael, Abraham’s first-born by his concubine—instead of Isaac, the child of his wife, the child of God’s promise.
Tony had said he wasn’t a Muslim, and he’d seemed so American—and so blue-eyed. Had he considered himself from Ishmael’s house merely because he was Arabic and, she assumed, Christian? She found it hard to believe all this mess started from one man’s lack of faith, the house of Ishmael versus the house of Isaac. But that’s what Adam had said in one of his letters when he’d been so disgusted by new violence in the city. He’d written of Abraham and the Promised Land and the disobedience that had made Ishmael. Now look at the result, he’d said, a meaningless comment at the time, but no longer. Here she was, in the midst of that mess, with no Adam, no Tony, and no answers.
She stumbled over a rough stone as these thoughts twisted her to anger. She’d like to kick at something or someone. But as quickly as it flared, the anger died, leaving her empty and surprised to find herself in a narrow, dark street, deeper in the souk.
Meandering through the market alleyways, she saw only a jumble of colors, noises, people, some imploring her to buy, holding out leather bags, rolls of silk, tin jewelry, or glass beads, grinning, toothy. Slowly, rows of gleaming brass, the pu
ngent smell of newly tanned leather, the aroma of strong coffee from a café pulled her into the present. She fingered a brass candlestick, replaced it, slid her hand over other items.
From another doorway, a smile over white teeth and from dark eyes caught her. The shop owner was probably in his thirties, with almost black hair and a small black beard. When she first stopped to admire some of his brass pieces, he nodded. As she picked up an intricately modeled pitcher, he spoke. “Is it not very beautiful?”
“Yes, very. You speak English.”
“And French, Hebrew, and Arabic.” He bowed with a flourish.
“You studied them all in school?”
“Some in school, some at home. My mother is Lebanese. But I need many in my work.”
“I can see you do. It just startled me to hear English spoken here in the bazaar.
“Then let us enjoy speaking together. May I get you something to drink? A soda perhaps?”
She knew better, yet out came a “Thank you.”
“Many here speak English.” He handed her a glass bottle. “But, of course, it is not our native language, so I like to practice as much as I can. I am helping to teach my son, who works with me on holidays.” When she picked up the hem of a long dress to study the embroidery, he said, “That is made by Bedouins. Very beautiful, yes?”
“Very. I can’t imagine being able to make something like this—or wearing it, for that matter.”
“No, only the country people, the peasants and the old ones, still wear the long dresses. Your Western clothing is very popular with people like my wife, who would never want to wear anything else. Excuse me, I must see if that gentleman needs some help.”
He greeted the other customer. Whatever the man said sent the shopkeeper scurrying behind a curtain. The customer had spoken in Arabic, although he could have been European, with his black hair well-trimmed and eyes that almost matched the gray of his sport coat, an expensive-looking tweed, a bit much on this hot day. That was probably what made him seem out of place: the clothes—loafers, khaki pants, button-down collar, and jacket—seemed American Ivy League. Maybe the man was another transplant. Maybe another...
A handkerchief waved in front of her face. She sniffled and swiped at her tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’m all right now. Thank you anyway.”
The man nodded. “It is nothing.” So, not American, not with that accent. He folded the square into a small triangle and replaced it in his pocket as the shopkeeper pushed aside the curtain, returning empty-handed. After a brief exchange and some head shaking, the man left the shop and crossed the street.
“I am so sorry, miss. I may be of further help to you now?”
Ignoring the urge to run, she picked up a small carved box.
“You wish to purchase? It is very fine work, from Nablus, a small family business. They will be so pleased that you like the box.” He wrapped it carefully in newsprint.
She gave him the unfamiliar bills. “I think this is correct?”
“And here is your change. Visit again, miss. I will be pleased.”
No, thank you, she decided as she searched for a way out of the alleys. This was not a place she wanted to see again, at least not while memories surfaced so easily.
Interesting, but the man with the gray jacket seemed to be heading in the same direction she was. She noticed him three streets away from the souk and then a block from her hotel. It made Jerusalem suddenly feel much more like a small town.
Which, of course, it wasn’t.
Her uncle’s office exerted a pull on her thoughts. Thursday seemed such a long time coming with only walking and eating and sleeping to occupy her time. Because who could concentrate on reading? Not she.
Meir continued to be the perfect concierge and helped her find her way to Ben Yehuda Street when she ran out of comfortable hot-weather clothes. She returned laden with two light, airy sundresses, a pair of white jeans, three short-sleeved cotton shirts, and a new broad-brimmed straw hat, a larger version of the squashable one she’d been carrying.
Finally, it was Thursday. She waited until just after lunch to head over to the Institute. The oppressive midday heat baked her head and shoulders even with the protection of the new hat.
Miss Barden greeted her with compassion. “I’m so sorry, Miss Roberts.”
“You couldn’t reach him?”
“One of the young women working with him has returned. It appears Dr. Levinson left the site to visit a colleague and plans to use a portion of his vacation time to do some research. She is sorry she didn’t think to bring any mail with her. He will have written to advise me.”
“Did she mention how long he’ll be with this friend?”
“No, but he has several weeks’ vacation coming to him.”
“Several weeks,” she repeated.
“He won’t use it all. He wouldn’t do that, especially if he planned to meet you later.”
“Will you let me know as soon as you hear from him?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll probably tour a bit while I’m waiting, but you can leave a message.”
“As soon as I hear something.”
The sun shone as it had on her walk here, but she couldn’t feel it. She longed for good news, please. Just a tidbit? A snippet?
Please?
35
TONY
Tony drifted in and out of consciousness. He remembered a cool hand, a feminine voice, low music like a soft carpet of sound playing in the background. There was pain at times, especially when hands belonging to the voice changed his dressings. Then there’d be a caress to his forehead and something that knocked him out. “Rest is your best healer. Sleep now.”
Eventually, he woke to sun filtering through gauze curtains and a gentle shuffling at the side of his bed.
“Today, I think you are well enough for food,” the slightly accented voice said. “This will do you good.”
She cranked the bed up, eased a couple of pillows behind his back, and spread a towel below his chin. As she spooned broth into his mouth, he noted the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and lips, the gray-streaked black of the hair she wore pulled back from her face. Her deep brown eyes were set wide in her face, giving her an almost Slavic appearance. Though she wore a simple shirt and pants, she carried herself with quiet elegance. But it was the voice that attracted him. Its timbre reminded him of his mother, who’d spoken with that same low, musical cadence.
“I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.”
She smiled. “No, I don’t imagine you do. It is Gila, Gila Cohen. They brought you here so that I could help you heal.”
Ah. Gila meant joy. That seemed about right for this gentle woman.
Rina. The name was a sigh in his heart, a whisper in his mind. Because Rina also meant joy. He momentarily shut his eyes and flashed a prayer that this particular coincidence meant something good and true. Please, Lord.
Bright paintings of huge flowers hung on the otherwise stark walls, very Georgia O’Keefe. Squinting, he decided they had to be reproductions.
“Where,” he asked, “is here?”
“Arad. We are just outside the main city. My husband, Ben, is an archaeologist, you see. He manages the site at Tel Arad.”
A drop of broth landed on Tony’s chin. He used the edge of the towel to wipe it with his good hand. “And you do the doctoring?”
“I’m a nurse practitioner. I do whatever is needed to help. We take in those who, for whatever reason, should not be found in a hospital.” She poured water into a glass, inserted a straw, and lifted it toward his lips. “There are some who must be hospitalized, but I manage others who merely need rest and care. Dr. Eshel oversees the work at the hospital. He also visits here as needed.”
“Ah.” His head fell back against a pillow.
She waited before setting the spoon back in its bowl. “Rest again. I will come back soon.”
When she returned, Tony was wide awake and wanting
more answers. He doubted she could give them. She did provide a phone.
He punched in the number and left the required message. The phone in his hand rang moments later.
Zif’s greeting held a hint of laughter. “So, you are yet with us.”
“It appears I’m hard to kill.”
“Armored skin. A good quality to have. But for now, you must regain your strength. We will speak again when you are well.”
“I need a few answers, if you have them. Such as word from the camp.”
His cousin hesitated before clearing his throat. “I am sorry. Your friend Bahir was last seen at the hospital where he tried to visit you. He was accompanied by your good friend Achmed. When they discovered you were gone, there was some broken equipment, I understand. Bahir has now vanished. It is rumored that you regained your strength and went after him.”
Bahir. The name hit him squarely in the gut. If only he’d been able to rescue Bahir. “Achmed, I suppose?”
“We believe so. He would have wanted to use this to rile his troops. We think he plans to send people to hunt for you.”
“Ah, yes.” Of course he would. Achmed would never allow someone to best him. “What about the others?”
“We’re still trying to track down Kamal. You are safe for now. Someone tried to access your secured files, but the system worked as designed, and they were disabled. I assume you had nothing else on your computer? And nothing stored on your phone?”
“Nothing. But Bahir said they found out about me through a phone call Paola had made or was in the process of making when they captured her. You know she had a pill?”
“I didn’t. Thank you for telling me. We knew her body had been found and her apartment ransacked.”
“She told me something of her story. I’m glad she has found peace.”
“Yes.” Tony heard a sigh, and then his cousin said, “Just concentrate on getting well. Then we will bring you in and discuss what’s next.”
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