But today, she would witness the Balloon Rally up close. While the giant Albuquerque Balloon Festival was more famous, Justine decided that the unfolding palette of the Taos Rally would do just fine. The event was organized by a non-profit group of citizens who work all year to sponsor nearly fifty balloons in flight. As she drove, she stretched her head toward the windshield to keep track of the floating parade, quickly concluding that this sight probably exceeded the larger festival, since the setting against the Sangre de Cristo range was unparalleled.
Justine parked in a large field across from the launching area, noting a greater number of balloons still on the ground, firing up. In various stages of readiness, the blazing torches filled dozens of inflatable heavy silk balloons, flames rising from generators in the center of the baskets. A few riders surrounded the gas generators, holding on to the outer rims of the baskets to escape the heat. Supporters on the ground encircled the immense globes, holding ropes to keep them steady while they filled. The crisp mountain air a sharp contrast to the escalating heat and expanding balloons.
Justine had dressed warmly, layers of sweaters topping her Napa Triathlon tee shirt; her hair spilled out of her favorite orange and black ball cap imprinted with “San Francisco Giants.”
More and more bobbing balloons of every color and size colored the sky. What an exquisite site, observed Justine, I wish my mother could see this. She’s such an aesthetic; the combination of light, mountains, and balloons would surely bring forth a new painting or poem. The thought of her mother Lucrezia drew her thoughts back to the Marin county fair her family attended when she was a young girl. Color and music and costumes. And rides. She’d loved the animals, especially the lambs, reminding her of the baby llama and angora rabbits at the Wool Festival earlier this month. Sheer delights.
Thoughts filling her, she turned slowly, holding her Canon camera, taking photos from all angles. A balloon adorned with a giant Tweety bird rose, surrounded by excited children in warm, hooded coats. Another boasted an advertisement for Harley Davidson, one announced “Fiesta,” but most were uncluttered by commercialism.
A young girl, arms hanging loose in a demeanor of defeat, entered her camera frame. Taya. Justine lowered her camera and ran toward her.
“Taya!” she shouted to the girl who had not yet noticed her. “Over here!”
“Miss Justine,” the young girl answered weakly, turning away.
Justine grabbed her by the shoulders, rotating her body so they faced each other. “What is it?”
“Nothing . . . ,” Taya said, “Oh, nothing.”
“It’s not ‘nothing,’ Taya. I know you. You came here for a purpose. Let’s sit down.” They sat on the grass on the eastern side of the grounds, backs to the rising sun. Justine’s mind raced, imagining every possible problem, crisis, tragedy. Had she flunked out of school? Broken up with Ricardo? Been kicked out of her own home? Further abused by her brother? She didn’t imagine what she was about to hear.
“I think I’m going to have a baby, Miss Justine.” Her voice was flat, without affect, eyes down. The clouds over the Sangre de Cristos darkened, foreboding trouble for the balloonists if they flew east.
Justine could feel the blood drain from her face. She shivered as though a cold wind had enveloped her. She stared at Taya, observing pain move through the girl’s eyes, tightness in the small muscles near her mouth. Tension stiffened her slight body.
“Who’s the father, Taya?” asked Justine, reflecting painfully on Taya’s earlier description of Shilaw entering her room at night, forcing himself on her. However, this was not the best first question.
Now it was Taya’s turn to be shocked. “What?? What do you mean?”
Justine softened her voice. “Ricardo or your brother?”
“Miss Justine, please. Ricardo. I think.”
Justine swept Taya into her arms, stroking the girl’s hair as she started to sob.
“I promise, Miss Justine. Ricardo hasn’t touched me since we talked last time at your house. Since I jumped out of the car . . . it must have been before.” She trembled in Justine’s arms, pulling away, looking around to see if anyone was watching.
“Are you sure?”
“I haven’t had my period for two months, I’ve been throwing up.”
Justine just nodded. “Have you been to the clinic or told your parents?”
Taya shook her head and kept shaking it. “No, no . . . .”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Justine said gently, pulling a Kleenex out of her pocket to wipe Taya’s face. “We’ll go to the clinic and make sure.” Justine held out her hand, helping the girl up. The two women walked toward her car; Justine gazed upward one last time. How hopeful and optimistic was the sight of balloons swelling the sky, like giant pans of bread. Now, all she could feel was trepidation, a sense of foreboding for the young woman by her side.
CHAPTER 28
THE IMAGE OF A LETTER from her great grandmother to D. H. Lawrence flashed into Justine’s mind. A letter her mother had given her before she left Italy. A child conceived by a man who was not your husband in a time when secrets could portend life and death. Those burdened with them lived out their lives holding on to lies, in quiet desperation, avoiding truths that might have set them free—or might have aborted any freedoms they currently possessed.
Apparently, Isabella had made a copy of her own last letter to Lawrence, although Justine had not found the original among the Lawrence letters. But she knew it, or some form of it, had been received since his last letter indicated he knew about the child. Thoughts of Isabella’s dilemma, tragedy really, flooded her mind as she and Taya got into the car and set out for the Northern New Mexico Birth Center.
OCTOBER, 1929, FIESOLE, ITALY
Dear David,
As I awoke this morning I imagined you beside me, watching me sleep with those all knowing blue eyes. I often dream of you, my love. In my dreams, you read poetry to me, touch me, gaze at me with curiosity; or we are walking side by side, holding hands like an old married couple.
I have learned so much about the world from you, David. I name each bird now: buttonquail, grouse, corn crake—and notice a swan by the lake. Poppies, violets and many roses. I pay attention to each child who frolics by, looking for the wisdom you see there. When I write poetry, I stop at each word and inquire, is there a better one? I ask more questions, although they are rarely answered.
I have news, David, and I have delayed telling you. I am with child. Your child. It happened during your visit in July while Ahmed was in Egypt. Nearly four months now. I know you are not well and I don’t want to worry you. Are you angry, my love? Write and tell me you are pleased. Once you spoke of wanting a child, but knew it was not to be.
My husband does not suspect and it will remain that way until the end of my days. He will be a good father, David, even if he is not my true love.
Don’t be too hard on Frieda. She is loyal and has stayed with you, all the while longing for her own three children. She takes care of you when you are ill. I know you say she is difficult, but find forgiveness in your heart, if you can . . . she admires you so.
The trees are golden now and a few of your favorite flowers linger on. Everywhere I look, I think of you, I touch my growing stomach and smile. This child is ours, David. Please take care of yourself and return to me soon.
With love, your Bella
Justine had few actual words from Isabella herself. Other than this letter, just a poem or two, a few notes on photos, a family recipe. Most of what she knew about Isabella came from Lawrence himself.
CHAPTER 29
THE SAD NEWS OF Taya’s pregnancy washed over Justine like cold rain. Curling up on her living room floor in front of the crackling fireplace, the scent of pinion logs floating into the still chilled air, she had to wonder if she hadn’t failed as the young girl’s mentor and friend. Tears moistened her eyes as she gazed at the distant mountains, once frosted with aspen gold, now gray and white, like the
mane of an aging lion.
Freshly inspired to find new clues about Lawrence and Isabella, she dealt out his letters like a deck of fragile cards. She sought the passages she had highlighted in Italy—those that told her what he had found in Isabella that captivated him so, that allowed him to be himself with her. She had read these letters through many times, but none more reverently than now. Her eyes skimmed the words formed with lyrical exactness, searching for those telling phrases. One of the earliest love letters, in February of ’28:
Your presence in my life is the fresh air of the mountains I love so well. What is it that you are feeling? . . . When first we met I felt an instant and holy sympathy and that is how we connect to those who are meant to reflect our lives back to us. That is one way we express ourselves---by instinctual sympathy with those to whom we are drawn, as I was immediately drawn to you, dear soul. The meaning of this intuitive connection may never be fully revealed. Never have I been in the presence of a woman who allowed the quiet space inside my chest room to flourish uninterrupted.
So much is here, Justine realized once more. Comparing his feelings for Isabella to Lobo Mountain. She, somehow, reflecting his life back to him. Her allowance of the quiet space inside him to flourish uninterrupted. Later, he referred to the tenderness she evoked in him, reminiscent of his comments on “the tenderness of reciprocity.”
Another:
Your body gives me heat and sustenance, you feed my very being. I have never experienced such tender fire. Intimacy without feeling you would own me.
Tenderness again, and that idea that she doesn’t try to own him, to possess him. And later, after returning from Germany with Frieda:
I needed to escape the interminable Prussian atmosphere of possessive, insistent women—except for you, my love, who never lays claim to my soul and therefore owns it. I am not afraid of you; I am not afraid when I’m with you. Women are capable of causing men agony and you have no such will, my love . . .
Justine stared into the fire with enhanced clarity. Lawrence had found a unique love with Isabella—one that afforded him the freedom to be himself while also becoming less anxious, more self-assured. This self-assurance was not arrogant, nor egotistical—charges that had earlier been logged against him—but relaxed and natural. Capable of tenderness and sympathy. Justine liked this man who was her great grandfather. She smiled to herself and gently gathered the letters into her arms, imagining the easy relationship her great-grandparents surely had with each other.
CHAPTER 30
APRIL 15, 1927, NEAR FLORENCE, ITALY
“Do you believe in magic?” she asked, the petals of her green silk skirt moving gently with each step, as though part of the verdant landscape. Tiny pearls trim the hem like miniature moons.
“Doesn’t everyone?” He grinned, bending to poke gently at one of the purple spring violets carpeting the meadow behind Hotel Mirenda. In the distance, Fiesole perched high above the plain, Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore’s ochre crown popping up from the center of the Renaissance city of Florence.
She tilted her head, ebony hair falling free, her confining Cloche hat intentionally left in the hotel parlor. Isabella’s lively black eyes gazed into his. “Not everyone, I would think.”
“How would you explain the glory of this violet. See the velvety lavender hue. I would paint it. Or the way your eyes sparkle when you dare me. Magic.”
Isabella refused to swoon to his compliments. “Science, religion, don’t they explain most things? Things that others call magic?” She pulled her black lace shawl across her bare arms. A modest flapper.
“Poppycock. Both rob life of its mysteries, its magic,” Lawrence said definitively. He was often definite. Defiant. Standing even more erect, he straightened his gray tie.
She didn’t mind. “Are you playing with me, Mr. Lawrence?” Isabella leaned forward and caressed the violet with two fingers, as though the touch of her warm skin might wilt it.
“Of course. But I play with the truth.”
“But whose truth? What is truth?” she asked.
“Truth . . . ,” he paused. “Truth is fidelity, fidelity of perception, knowing that an observation is real, even if instinctual or intuitive.”
“I understand your unique instinctual sympathies. Yet perception is personal, is it not?” She gazed at the horizon as though lost in thought. Certainly the perceptions of her native Egyptians differed from those of the Italians, from all others she had met.
“It is personal, as everything is. The individual experience in communion with nature. Nature presents itself as the only real truth. Everything else is make believe.”
She grinned in that sideways expression of enchantment, full lips turning ever so slightly upward at the corners. “I can accept that, David. Yet some would say that magic, that truth, come from Allah.”
“Ah yes. Allah. By whatever name we call our god, I’ve come to consider him disinterested. Take the two of us. Is he sitting up there or wherever,” Lawrence motions broadly to the heavens, “pondering our fate? Saying to himself, ‘umm, I wonder what I will do with this heathen couple?’”
Isabella took no offense. She laughed fully—that dancing laugh that delighted him so. Then she turned as though to confront him, instead reaching out to touch his cheek as she had the violet. “You are a strange man, David Herbert Lawrence. I am beginning to treasure you, even if you are an infidel.”
“You can be assured of that.” His vivid turquoise eyes caught the color of the heavens. He stepped closer, reached out his hand and touched her ivory cheek. Her eyes softened, shifting from amusement to adoration. Without further words, they embraced, then reached for each other’s hands, turned, and continued their walk.
CHAPTER 31
BELLS RING AND CANDLES burn all night at the Saint Jerome Church in preparation for All Souls Day on November 2nd. Taya was confined to the house so couldn’t participate. It was customary to feed and confer with one’s deceased relatives on this day, but Justine knew that the young girl would not be able to seek advice from her deceased grandmother about her choices, what few there were.
November held itself in abeyance until after the All Souls Day parade and the Day of the Dead, then arrived with little fanfare other than a light snow salting the landscape. Justine found that everything in Taos changed in November. The Community Theater goes dark; the village falls asleep until awakened by skiers at Thanksgiving. Artists, weavers, balloonists, hibernate; few tourists are found in the galleries or museums or shops until ski season.
Some Thursday afternoons she spent with Nina at the Southwest Research Center reading the news clippings from the twenties about D. H., Mabel, and friends and the short stories in Spud Johnson’s The Laughing Horse.
Her work at the Archaeology office took her into the Santa Fe offices three or four days a week, most often riding with Mike. She had fully explained Scott’s theories on the Mesa Verde migration to him, even sharing portions of the manuscript of the coming text, Winds from the North that Scott had loaned her. His response was predictable: “Bunk. The evidence is thin at best—any number of interpretations could be made based on the same weak facts. Show me the evidence, that’s what I still say.”
Mike was extraordinarily direct, conservative, set in his ways. Justine wondered if any amount of evidence would be persuasive once he had made up his mind. And, while she found most of Scott’s evidence to be remarkably convincing because it formed a coherent narrative, she also needed more when it came to the theories around religious revolution. For now, she spent some of her working hours reviewing the mountains of evidence Scott referred to in his manuscript.
Calls and Skype conferences with Amir were weekly occurrences. She yearned to be beside him now as he worked with Egypt’s youth in what they hoped would be the build up to revolution. But she knew that wasn’t possible, even if she decided to do so. She wasn’t welcome in Egypt—yet.
Justine found running with Giovanna—and occasionally with Taya whe
n her parents would let her out of the house—to be satisfying. Some days, it felt like she had a sister and a daughter. Giovanna escorted Justine to the murals of Taos history she’d painted near the city hall, explaining the history of the area in colorful forms, as though she was using a linguist paintbrush. Her descriptions of the harshness of the early Spaniards leading to the Pueblo Revolt led by Po’pay in 1680 were of the greatest interest to Justine, since they dovetailed with Scott’s interpretations of the mission of this charismatic leader—his intent to obliterate the intruders and return to their ancient ways, particularly their religious beliefs.
Justine already knew the story of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but Giovanna offered a few more insights. As the legend goes, the Virgin had appeared to the Aztec Indian Juan Diego in 1531 near Mexico City. The Indians of Central and South Americas were overwhelmed by the appearance of the Virgin on their own continent, as were the Indians of New Mexico area, ultimately a major influence in their acceptance of Catholicism. Justine and her mother had visited the Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City where Juan’s apron hangs behind glass. When the Virgin visited the poor peasant farmer, he ran to tell the story of the visit, and the Virgin’s request to build a cathedral in that very spot. It wasn’t surprising that no one believed him. In an effort to get rid of the insistent Juan, the local priest sent him back to the hill for more evidence. When Juan returned, his apron was filled with roses—which were out of season—and, as he released his apron, roses tumbled to the church floor. The priest stood aghast. There on Juan’s apron was a sketching of the Virgin in glorious color. Peering through the glass at the hanging apron, Justine saw nothing. She was fifteen then and left wondering about this thing called “evidence.”
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 18