“I thought the church was north of Antonio’s.”
“Not at that time. The church sat in the parking lot in front of the Red Cat. The cemetery too. Story has it that all roads, tunnels, from both directions ran to the cat house. Father Martinez was a well-known womanizer, leaving many progeny in the community. Part of Taos’ rich heritage.” Judy Lynn guffawed sarcastically.
“Some story. But why the Red Cat.”
“I don’t really know. In the basement, right in front of the tunnel entrance, is a mammoth fireplace, big enough for a major conference center. Some big doings went on down there.”
“Could that have been the bank?”
“I don’t think so. Not really on the plaza, and not that big. Hey, wait! You called me. What’s up??”
Justine had almost forgotten why she called. “I’ve been followed. An old Chevy full of boys, and I know one of them: a young man named Ricardo.” She explained Ricardo’s connection to Taya and his probable motive.
“Ummm. Could be serious business. Tell you what. You call the Chief of Police, a friend of mine. Name’s Paul Martinez. Good man. Tell him all about it and ask his advice. Okay?”
“Will do. Thanks, Judy Lynn. I’ll let you know what happens. Please get back to me about that old bank.”
Justine stood in front of the giant Mexican mirror in her dining area, brushing her hair and straightening her collar. Her Mac sat on the table behind her, ready for the Skype conference with Amir. At 10:00, it was pitch dark outside; 7:00 a.m. in Cairo. How long had it been since he had seen her? Nearly six months. She wondered if her appearance had changed? Longer hair; more tan. Oh my god, I’m as nervous as a cat! She turned and opened her computer, staring into the scene saver, the photo of Lawrence’s cabin.
She’d decided not to tell Amir about being followed, although she was sure of it. She certainly didn’t want him to get on a plane and come to her before he was ready—before his planned visit. No, she would just tell him about Lawrence, the job, Taya.
The Skype screen buzzed from an incoming call. She answered and enlarged the scene. There he sat in a cramped office piled high with newspapers and books. A single bulb hung overhead. He looked macabre, ghastly, the light and shadows giving his face a morgue pallor.
“You look great!” he said, his face transformed as he smiled and winked at her.
“I wish I could say the same for you, my friend. Are you getting any sleep?”
“A little. As your favorite poet, St. Vincent Millay put it, ‘I’ve lit the candle from both ends.’ Exciting work.”
“My candle burns at both ends,” she corrected and grinned. “It sounds as though you’re feeling satisfied, successful. It must be going well with your rebellious young friends.”
“Well, as you know, I’m a Greek aficionado. Last night I told them how the Greeks got democracy and how they lost it.”
“Very helpful! Did you also bring those thoughts into the 2lst century?”
Amir laughed. “But of course! They do listen. We talked about institutions, the rule of law, participation, economic freedom. You know, Egypt never experienced an Enlightenment. Even though these ideas are appealing, they don’t know how democratic systems could work. And, then there’s the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“Ah yes, the Brotherhood. After nearly sixty years of oppression, don’t you think they’re bursting at the seams to take control?”
“You can’t really blame them.”
“No . . . .”
His comment gave her pause. No, you couldn’t blame the Brotherhood for wanting to burst forth after decades of oppression. Many of them are professionals. Well educated. Organized. But what is behind Amir’s statement? Is he buying their propaganda that they’ve become moderate? She was ready to ask, then realized that his safety might be at stake. Perhaps he is being extremely cautious with what he is willing to say on-line.
After a long pause, Amir ventured. “How is your hunt going, Justine? What are you finding out about your great-grandfather? How’s the job? The house?”
She was relieved to let go of the Brotherhood conversation, and proceeded to describe her frustration with her new job and her two trips to the Lawrence ranch. Taya. Judy Lynn. The key.
“A key? To what?” Amir loved mysteries, that’s what made him a clever archaeologist.
She smiled. “Judy Lynn thinks it’s a safe deposit box or post office box. Could be lost manuscripts. More letters. Who knows.”
“Be careful, Justine. You know, you’ve gotten yourself into trouble before. . . .” The lights went out behind Amir and she heard a voice tell him they needed to close and hide the computers. “Got to go, Justine,” he said lightly. “I’ll e-mail you later in the week and see you before Christmas.” The screen went black.
Justine sat staring into the blank screen for several moments. Security police? Hiding computers. Black out. He is in real danger—anything can happen in Egypt. She closed her computer, stood up, stretched, and headed for the bedroom. She temporarily lost her balance in the hallway. As she caught herself, tears streaked her cheeks. Amir could be arrested, tortured, disappear. Her mind reeled. She knew that sleep would be hours in coming.
CHAPTER 22
BEING ALONE IN THE WILD helped her to think. When she pondered the dangers facing Amir, her heart pounded and echoed inside her head. She had resisted and rationalized her feelings for Amir for several years now. Like her mother, she was determined to not get drawn into a culture that suffocated women. Justine wondered how much longer she could remain vague about their future.
Bill Haller had shown her the way to the Hawk Ranch and beyond, to Lobo Canyon. As president of The Friends of D. H. Lawrence, he had taken her under his wing, helping her to understand even more about Lawrence’s idiosyncrasies, his moods, and put his outbursts of rage into perspective. Bill was forgiving with genius, as were others in Taos. “D. H. lived in a different world,” he’d insisted, “a world that few of us ever see.”
Once again, Justine turned her low-slung Prius onto the deeply potholed road that ended at the barbed wire fence surrounding the abandoned Hawk property. Sunday morning: the land as quiet as a cemetery, except for the low rustling of cottonwood and aspen, a gentle breeze crawling in from the west. She parked and walked twenty yards along the faux fence line to where it had collapsed, entangled in grass and fallen branches. The ranch was accessible, although few knew it. An old wooden ranch house sat within sight, a rusting tricycle and two unraveling wicker chairs on the porch as though waiting for their owners to return. She imagined Lawrence sitting in that old chair, bouncing the two-year old Walton Hawk on his knee, each keenly eyeing one another. Both possessed that unfiltered power of observation most often found in young children.
This morning she would follow the path taken often by Lawrence, sometimes with Brett on horseback, other times with an Indian guide, but most often alone with just his walking stick to visit his neighbors, the Hawks, and ride up toward Lobo Canyon. They were good friends, indulgent of his moods, helpful during that first harsh winter on the mountain. He was drawn here, she knew, by the wildness of the place, the cream copper cliffs, dense forest, secret gullies. The promise of unknown dangers. Surely he conjured up plots for his prose, lines for his poems, during these sojourns into the mountains.
Nagging thoughts nudged at Justine’s consciousness as she jogged past the cabin and headed across the meadow toward the rise leading to the canyon. Amir. The key, Judy Lynn, the threatening young men who had trailed her in the truck. Even though she’d tried to contact Amir the following day, she hadn’t any luck. Then, yesterday, a brief e-mail, cheery and lacking in any substantial news. He can take care of himself, girl!
Across a vast open meadow of red wild spinach and cactus she ran, spotting a dry man-made reservoir at the foot of the mountain. Trees were closer together now, slowing her down, forcing her to weave in and out like a thoroughbred in a steeple-chase. Justine paused at the crest of the hill, turned and extend
ed her arms to the sky, stretching the muscles in her back, her eyes following the nearly cloudless sky arcing toward the towering cliffs to the northwest. The cliffs were nearer now, close enough to see small caves poxed into the smooth ruby rock.
This place reminded Justine of the day she and Amir were in search of circular tombs in the caves of the Maremmia in Italy. Reliefs were carved into the walls—angel wings, grotesque faces with swollen lips, animated snakes winding around the base of rocks. They made love for the first time that day, pressed against the tufa cliffs carved into a frozen sea by wind and water millennia before. The mauve hues of those mountains so like these cliffs on Lobo Mountain. Her body quivered.
Justine turned and continued the ascent, more slowly now; her heartbeat quickening with excitement as she climbed toward the high canyon that few ever saw—a spot untouched by progress, by centuries past or present. Finally, feet wide apart, she stood on the rim of the canyon, reaching for her water bottle tucked into her fanny pack. Justine stared at the mountain behind her, water trickling down her neck, cooling herself against the searing sun. Sweat crawled along her hairline as she wiped her hand across her neck and up into her damp ponytail, shifting her eyes to gaze into the canyon ahead. It must be more than nine thousand feet here, she thought, breathing deeply and adjusting her pack for the descent.
Glorious. The excitement of discovery pulsed in her veins, as though she were the first to capture this view, this land. But so many had come before: for thousands of years the Indians explored and hunted here; then trackers like Kit Carson, and alien visitors like Lawrence honored the land, this sanctity of nature. The Hawk family lived here for nearly a century. Yet it looked so pristine, untouched.
Justine found a ledge near the bottom of the canyon wall and sat down, drawing an apple from her pack and biting gratefully into the crisp, refreshing orb. Delicious, cooling. She sat quietly, closing her eyes, breathing deeply, clearing her mind to a meditation state. She stretched out on the warm stone, using her fanny pack for a makeshift pillow. Soon, she was asleep. A deep, dreamless sleep.
How much time passed? She had no idea. Allowing consciousness to seep back in like a lazy creek filling with the first spring rain, eyes closed, she mentally scanned her body. The warm stone and her body had melted into one. The air was still. A soft cacophony of sounds—a breeze rustling leaves, the flapping of a hawk’s wings soaring above. Breathing. My own? She realized in that moment a presence, a nearly inaudible purr. An unfamiliar wild, earthy fragrance. Her face, heated from the unguarded sun as she slept, was now in shadow.
She slowly opened her eyes. Unnervingly close to her face, wide almond eyes of gold stared back at her. The outsized stranger’s clear eyes expressed a tenderness, a calm embedded in wildness. Curiosity. Justine felt his warm, damp breath moving in and out across her flushed face. For several moments they breathed almost in concert, the rhythm coming as naturally as she and Taya running in tune with one another, or lovers moving synchronistically as one.
The mountain lion arched its back in a stretch, the two prescient beings regarding one another. Justine felt no fear, nor an impulse to move, mostly just a reverence for this magnificent animal. She moved only her eyes, slowly, feeling as though she was in a spell, hypnotized by this powerful, yet unthreatening, predator. After licking its paws one at a time, the tawny lion turned and lumbered further down into the canyon. His steps were deliberate, silent, as though he, too, hadn’t wanted to disturb their intimacy. He glanced back, just once, finding Justine’s eyes. She nodded.
MID-OCTOBER, LOBO MOUNTAIN, 1923
Lawrence feels the strain on his slim frame, muscles contracting, pressing to cooperate with their master. Relying heavily on the walking stick, he grasps it desperately, his knuckles white. Spruce and balsam scent his climb; water trickles from a small spring, soon to be enhanced with the runoff from an early snow. He is intent on making this climb alone one more time before he, Frieda and Brett leave for Mexico. He cherishes these sojourns alone, rare as they are. He thinks uninterrupted, words bubbling into his mind, taking form. The necessary journey for a writer, immersed in sensuous nature, the ultimate inspiration for art, fermenting before he takes pen into hand.
Lawrence understands his own restlessness, his need to move on, to find the next unfamiliar experience. Yet here life sings of surprises, so he returns again and again.
Suddenly, two Mexican men carrying guns approach. Guns. Why? he shouts silently. He knew the answer, yet wished he didn’t. Men are the most dangerous of animals.
What is he carrying? Lawrence asks himself as the men near. Yellow. A calf? An old yellow dog exhausted by the hunt?
The men smile gently, as though they were quite innocent of any wrong doing. The natural way of men. With guns. A mountain lion, long and slim and yellow, across the buckskin shoulder of the larger of the two men.
At first, they don’t speak of it. Lawrence can’t speak of it.
“Caught her in a trap,” one of the Mexicans says, smiling foolishly, “this morning.”
His friend looks at the lion, and back at the stranger. Expectantly. Lawrence walks forward and lifts the cat’s beautiful, round head. So perfect in its symmetry, he thinks. Dead eyes, with perfect little Chinese fans for lashes. Limp ears.
They walk on and Lawrence says nothing. He looks up into the blood-orange cliffs and spots her lair, a little cave. Where she’ll never walk again.
Lawrence thinks that in this shallow world there is room for him and the mountain lion. Perhaps fewer humans. “Yet what a gap is left in the world by the missing white frost-face of that slim yellow mountain lion.”
CHAPTER 23
“WHAT’S A MIRACLE?” asked Justine as she and Giovanna pounded the pathway arcing into the foothills just south of the University of New Mexico campus.
“Do you mean my definition or the Vatican’s?” Giovanna asked without taking her eyes off the alternating light and dark moving across the landscape. The path curled upward toward the south, then twisted to the west. The rising sun at their backs cast giant shadows stretching as they moved.
“Let’s start with yours,” said Justine. Her breathing was smooth; she realized she had acclimated to the elevation.
“Well…let me make a distinction between mine and the Vatican’s. They are more demanding of evidence, and rightly so. For me, I intuitively consider the many miracles attributed to the Blessed Kateri and say to myself: yes, this is a miracle. You are asking about the Blessed Kateri—right?”
“Yes, Kateri, specifically.”
“Well, the major criterion is being saved from death by a prayer to Blessed Kateri—or another person or saint. A doctor has to certify that there is no other explanation. That the person would have died without the saint’s intervention. Saint nominee in this case.”
“Of course. Is there a special miracle being considered in the Blessed Kateri’s case—or many?”
“You’ll remember from my book presentation that the Blessed Kateri died from complications from self-flagellation in 1680. There have been many miracles since—all sorts of them—including the miracle at her own passing when, within fifteen minutes of her death, her horrible smallpox scars disappeared. Then, the blue blanket she’d wrapped herself in was used to perform miracles for others. But the most recent miracle under consideration is of a six-year old boy named Jake Finkbonner who fell and cut his lip on a metal fence in the closing moments of a basketball game. In Washington State, I think. Overnight, Jake’s face swelled up and he had a high fever. Doctors determined that a flesh-eating bacteria, necrotizing fascitis or Strep A, was actually devouring his face! The doctors had to operate daily to remove the damaged flesh.
Justine was startled, her eyes growing into round discs. “I’ve heard of such things, but didn’t know they were for real.”
“They’re for real alright. Doctors said they couldn’t save him…that there was nothing they could do. So a family friend, Reverend Sauer, asked his congregation to p
ray to the Blessed Kateri on Jake’s behalf. The priest chose Kateri because of her facial scars and Indian heritage – Jake is half Lummi Indian. The prayers started coming in from all over, and a representative from the Society of the Blessed Kateri Tekakwitha went to the hospital and placed a pendant of Kateri on Jake’s pillow. The very next day, the bacteria stopped growing and Jake recovered.”
“But you said it’s already been four years. Doesn’t that mean they’ve rejected the miracle?” Justine asked.
“Not necessarily. The Vatican doesn’t accept miracles lightly—the way they did in the Middle Ages—they investigate for years. We are waiting.” Giovanna stopped running and turned to Justine. Her breathing was labored. Beyond the rise in the mesa now, they couldn’t see the campus.
Justine stopped, standing in place to stretch, “Did you send your book to the Vatican investigating committee?”
“I did; the group is called the Congregation of Saints. A copy was also sent to Pope Benedict XVI. I received a letter of receipt. I’m hopeful and excited. But canonization comes slowly, if at all.” She sat down on a gathering of gray stones framing the drainage pipe.
Justine sat down beside her. “I had something amazing happen a couple of days ago—it felt like a miracle to me.”
Giovanna stared at Justine, leaning forward with her hands on both knees. “What?”
Justine told Giovanna of waking up on Lobo Mountain with the mountain lion gazing into her eyes. “It felt as though I was staring wildness—life—in the face. Exhilarating …then he just stretched and walked away.”
“You were alone?” asked Giovanna, a soft rebuke intended, “You should know better!”
“I was. And, yes, I know that isn’t wise. Bill taught me as much. ‘Don’t go into Lobo Canyon alone,’ he’d insisted. He also taught me how to know if lions or bears were close—tracks, scat, claw marks on logs—how to enlarge my stance if I needed to fight. But really, no one could have taught me how to deal with a lion a few inches from my face.”
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 13