Before reaching the bridge, Justine swerved off the road onto the long driveway leading to the visitor’s parking lot, where she could expect to find a ranger or someone who could help, whose presence would stop the chase. No other cars sat in the lot. The lights were off in the center.
The road looped to the right then circled the parking area in back of the visitor’s center. The bare-tired pickup was swerving side to side, following much too close to Justine’s bumper, and way too fast. When Justine realized she was drifting too far right in the loop, she jerked her car to the left, fishtailing a little on the ice. So close behind, Ricardo, too, misjudged the turn. He must have slammed on the brake, a tragic choice, because as Justine watched in horror, the pick-up skidded in a rapid forward thrust, the metal pole extending down from the picnic shelter ripping off his side mirror a heartbeat before the old truck. Ricardo and his passenger, and the shepherd careened sideward right on through the sagging chain-link fence, and took unobstructed flight over the edge of the gorge into a nose-heavy dive aimed into the Rio Grande River six hundred and fifty feet below. She could hear their screams. Oh my God! No! No!
Stopping nearby, Justine stared at the hole in the fence. She had witnessed the entire catastrophe through her rear-view mirror. Pressing the gearshift into park, she called 911. Then she screamed and screamed, after which her head fell upon the steering wheel as she began to sob.
CHAPTER 38
MARCH 1ST, 1930, VENCE, FRANCE
ALDOUS HUXLEY, fellow writer and long-time friend of D. H. Lawrence, came to visit Lawrence the day before he died of tuberculosis.
“Hux. Good man. Come to visit your dying friend?” He could hardly talk, and began almost immediately to cough violently. His pale face flushed slightly as he coughed.
“Don’t try to talk, old friend. This may not be the end. You’ve been through rough times before.” Huxley watched his friend with deep sadness for he knew that indeed this was the end. That’s why Frieda had cabled him.
Lawrence nodded weakly, pulling his light lap blanket up over his chest. “So these quack doctors say. Maria with you?”
“She’ll be along.”
Lawrence nodded again, his vivid blue eyes faded to powder, his skin nearly white. “Brewster was here. Talked of our Etruscans.” Another hacking cough, blood coming up with the phlegm.
“Brewster’s a good man. You’ve been fortunate with friends, Lorenzo. Better than you deserve. None as good as I have been though.” As Hux suspected, he still knew how to solicit a narrow grin.
“Been lucky for sure. Now I need to ready myself. The Etruscans and the Red Man get it right. No more Hebraic monotheistic hogwash for me. We all live and die together in this vast universe. Coyotes, deer, mountain lions, possum.” He burst into another violent coughing spell. Hux rested his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder while he struggled to continue. “Me. Just wrap me in a warm blanket, Hux, and let Mother Earth take me home.”
“Sounds like a good journey, old friend. Have you spoken to Frieda about it?”
“Tried. I did. She gets hysterical. Given to that vapid German Protestantism, you know. Wants to ship me off to Heaven. I told her, ‘Hell is my likely destination.” He spoke in a mere whisper, a wheezing sound lingering beneath each word.
“I’ll meet you there!” Hux laughed wholeheartedly. Lawrence joined in until his coughing put a halt to the pleasure. “Say, I brought you my latest essay, “Vulgarity in Literature,” part of a collection. I want to know what you think.”
Lawrence grinned again. “About me?”
“Now don’t go thinking everything is about you . . . but yes, partly. And who could be a better reviewer.”
“I’m sorry, Hux . . . ,” his voice trailed off.
“What are you sorry for? You owe me no apologies.”
“I was a damn harsh critic, Hux. My comments on Brave New World.”
Hux walked to the bed and placed his hand on Lawrence’s shoulder again, “Always some truth in your words, my friend. I cherish the thoughts of the most interesting man I have ever known.”
Lawrence’s eyes moistened, shifting to an expression of affection and gratitude. “Stay in touch with Frieda, please, my friend. She doesn’t know it, but she’ll need you.” Hux nodded as Lawrence began to cough and retch, fear clouding his eyes. His nurse rushed into the room with a shot of morphine.
“Hux . . . wait.” Lawrence reached to his table, fumbling for an envelope, which he handed to Huxley, a letter addressed to Lady Brett. “Please don’t forget. Mail it for me?”
Huxley nodded and turned away, tears brimming his eyes.
CHAPTER 39
Taya opened the door. “Ricardo was my baby’s father, Miss Justine! And my brother is dead too.” Her eyes were red, her nose runny.
“I know.” Justine stared at Taya and waited, letting herself droop in submission.
“The police have been here.”
“Yes. The boys were driving fast. And the road was icy.”
“Did you lead them over the cliff? Into the gorge?”
“Oh my God! Of course not!” She paused and squinted her weeping eyes, reaching out to touch Taya’s shoulder. “I pulled into the Visitor Center to get help, but it was closed.” Justine felt stung by Taya’s accusation, but quickly realized that Taya needed to find a cause, an explanation, someone to blame. She stood still.
“Justine,” said Sharon, stepping up from behind her daughter and laying her hand on Taya’s shoulder. “Please come in. Join us. Have something to eat,” she said as she approached her visitor and whispered into her ear, “she’s taking it very hard, so am I. My only son . . . life is but the flash of a firefly.”
Justine blinked, pain sweeping her chest, and grasped Sharon into her arms. Taya watched helplessly as the two women cried and comforted each other. Sharon held Justine at arm’s length and said simply, “You have a good heart, Justine. I know you weren’t responsible.”
Taya stepped aside, then silently followed Justine as she walked into the room full of mourners. The younger woman motioned to her mentor—the only Anglo in the room—to a chair near the corner of the living room. In a nearby bedroom, the body of the maimed young man was laid out on his bed, his body fully covered. When the medics had pulled the men out of the twisted truck at the bottom of the canyon, the injuries had been extensive. Grandmother Thelma sat in a corner of the room rocking back and forth, “. . . good heart . . . good heart . . . good heart . . . .”
“Tell me what happened,” Taya demanded, her voice flat, without tenderness or feeling.
Justine described the incident as well as she could, attempting to suggest more of an accident than a chase. “I know that if I hadn’t pulled off into the Visitor’s Center, if I had just kept going.” She paused. “I would do anything not to hurt you, Taya.”
Taya reached out, but drew her hand back before it touched Justine’s cheek. “I should be with Ricardo now . . .” she said, letting her voice drift off. She closed her eyes.
Justine was silent, waiting respectfully until Taya took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “I was surprised that your brother and Ricardo were together,” she said, allowing the comment to hover in the air between them.
Taya turned toward Justine and spoke sharply. “I don’t know why they were together. They hated each another,” she insisted, her eyes narrowing, as though she thought Justine should have an answer.
Justine stalled, permitting her eyes to move from one mourner to another, watching with fascination, though not surprise, the almost stoic expressions. She had witnessed similar gatherings among the Hopi. Acceptance came sooner to grievers who were certain of the fate of their fallen family members. On the fourth day, they would wrap him in a favorite light blanket and lay him gently into a shallow grave from which he would be welcomed back into the arms of Mother Earth, and his soul would be released into the spirit world. She felt a wave of envy. “Perhaps they shared a common goal,” she finally said.
�
�A common goal?” Taya asked, her face twisting in puzzlement. “To stop you from seeing me—teaching me to stand up for myself?”
“Perhaps so, Taya. I’m sorry.” But is that enough? What else might have brought these natural enemies together? Peyote? Penitents? I didn’t want them to die because of me!
“I’m sorry that God let them die. They couldn’t accept that I was getting stronger. Making my own decisions. Maybe I should have been more careful, less strong. It was me who broke with tradition. I was wrong.”
Justine reached out and patted Taya’s hand, touched her cheek. “No, Taya, you were right to assert yourself. It’s not acceptable to be treated like a prisoner, or to have little to say about your own body.
Sharon was listening nearby; it was written all over her face that she knew that her son had violated Taya. Clearly, the pain was almost more that she could bear, for she hadn’t told her husband. “You did good, Taya,” her mother said in a whisper.
His death solves a problem for both of them, but admission will be slow in coming, then short-lived. How will they cope in the long run?
Tears welled up in the young girl’s eyes as she began to sob. Justine wanted to hold her, but it was not time yet. She began to cry. Their grief emanated from a different source. Taya cried for her family, her confusion about her own efforts to liberate herself, and her uncertain future as a single mother. Justine wept for Taya and for herself, the misery she felt from participating, even as a victim, in the death of two young men. What could I have done differently? If only . . . if only . . . .
“It was terrible, Amir! They just slid into the gorge, dropping a thousand feet.” A sob caught in her throat. “There wasn’t anything I could do.” Justine had called Amir on the night of the accident, explaining the horror of the event, then the visit to Taya’s family, her deep sense of guilt.
For a long time, Amir was quiet, letting her talk, get it out, all the pain and self-recrimination. “It wasn’t your fault, Justine. They, at least Ricardo, had been following you for a long time. You told me about the day at the tunnel, how persistent he was then.”
“I know. I know. But I’m not sure Taya will ever be able to forgive me. Or that I can forgive myself.” Phone in hand, Justine walked into the kitchen and picked up her tea, stared out at the moonlit sky, the orb like a hall monitor waiting for her next move. She sat down in front of the shimmering fire. “How are things going on your side of the world?” she asked gently, in a tone that let Amir know she had regrouped and was ready to move on. For the moment at least. “Tell me all of it.”
She could hear Amir take a deep breath as though preparing for a physical trial of some sort. “It’s moving forward. Our Facebook pages had more than a half million hits today, Twitter is chattering around the clock. We’re getting close.”
“Close to . . . ?”
“The revolution. The revolution when the current regime will be ousted from power.”
“What about the police? The army? Will they let it happen?”
“They may have no choice. We will be a million strong. But I think Wael is overly optimistic.”
“That would be extraordinary, almost unbelievable.”
“We have reason to believe the army could be with us. They’re quite different from the police, you know. They’re respected and have the interest of the country more at heart while the police are blood-thirsty henchmen—carrying out the wishes of this abusive regime.”
“If the army supports a revolution, watch out. They have much to lose by democratic reforms.”
“I know you’re right, Justine. We’ll be careful.”
CHAPTER 40
CAIRO, JANUARY 25, 12:45 P.M.
THE WEATHER WAS CRISP, cool, and clear. Smog found low quarters and narrow passageways, the sand-beige glare now tinted with azure blue. A surprisingly beautiful day in Cairo. Tahrir Square was quiet, a pregnant stillness hanging in the air. After days of growing tension, the air felt remarkably calm.
A dozen scattered cars circled the perimeter, yet the Square itself was empty. To the north, the Egyptian Museum opened its doors. A half dozen tourists stepped out of the Hilton in concert, and turned left toward the Museum. Across the avenue to the south sat the giant government building and the administration building of American University, both closed for the day. Directly east, on the corner across from the university, sat a bustling Burger King, colorful with young people.
Nearby mosques, of course, were open on Fridays. Throughout Cairo, men gathered well before noon for the most important prayer day of the week. Row upon row of Muslim men knelt on green and red mats in long alleyways around the Square, facing east toward Mecca. The rhythmic calls of Imams chanting Koran surahs blared from strategically placed loudspeakers. On the street leading north from the Burger King, a few men and women, seemingly oblivious to the mood of worship in nearby alleys, went about their daily lives, selling newspapers. The smell of flowers and foul beans, thinly sliced lamb and roasted corn drifting through the air. Parallel worlds, parallel lives; neither embarrassed by the other. A typical Friday morning in Cairo.
Then from above, what looked like ants swarming in a rush of hunger toward Tahrir Square, streaming in from streets in every direction. The Burger King emptied on cue. Some came from the museum itself, laced around the side fences, along the boulevard from the bazaars and the classic blue and white train station. Buses drained their bulging human contents near the Hilton, along the Corniche, in front of the university. Too, they sprang from the ground, surfacing from subway stations as though rising from the dead. From all directions, hundreds. No, thousands. Muslim youth from mosques throughout the immense city. Christians from their homes and coffeehouses. Young men in Western dress—jeans and plaid cotton shirts; women, also in jeans, brightly colored rayon blouses, most wearing hijabs. They had no idea what lay ahead, but they had had enough. Enough of unemployment and low wages, living at home until the age of thirty, unable to get a place of their own, a place to bring a wife. Postponing a family, watching their friends rounded up and imprisoned without charges, barely recognizing their bruised faces once they returned to their neighborhoods with flat, unexpressive eyes.
But not today. Not today. Today, their eyes filled with resolve, bravery. Members of the gathering crowd glanced from side to side as they walked rapidly into the center of the square, surprised to find so many students, middle class businessmen, old women whose sons had not returned from the dungeons, women with burqas, others with flowing hair. Elderly men, whose media-savvy grandchildren had brought them along. Coptic Christians alongside moderate Muslims and extreme Salafists. In unison they walked, impatient to discover what awaited them.
Men in business suits and ties handed out signs and placards proclaiming: DOWN WITH MUBARAK. NO MORE EMERGENCY POWERS. 30 YEARS OF DICTATORSHIP. WE WANT FREE ELECTIONS. Banners with photos of missing men were strung up between makeshift wooden poles. Small boys, maybe between nine and twelve, waving miniature Egyptian flags. Later in the day, these same men would hand out water and set up security stations to ensure no firearms entered in the square. These orderly beginnings of the revolution appeared well planned.
By the hour their numbers burgeoned. The media went wild. Many, particularly Al Jazeera, knew that when it came, it would be on a Friday. It had to be a Friday, the day when Muslims didn’t report to work; the primary day of worship in the mosques. Several television and radio stations had been disappointed when the revolution didn’t happen a week earlier, on January 18. Late on the 17th, Wael had declared to millions of followers on Facebook that the process needed more time, more pressure. He would not call it—declare it was a “go”—until the pressure cooker was ready to explode. As it happened, it would be Amir who would give the signal to start the revolution. By the 25th, Wael was in prison.
For journalists, the delay meant another week at their computers in the nearby Hilton staying tuned to the social media, watching for inklings of evidence that D-day was imminent.
On the morning of January 25, they were ready. Room after room of the Hilton and nearby Semiramesis and Shepheard hotels were occupied with media hounds from CNN, Al Italia, the International Herald Tribune, Al Jazerra English and Arabic, Chicago Tribune, London Times.
It was 4:45 a.m. on the 25th in Taos, 1:45 p.m. in Cairo, when Justine woke with a start, sat upright in bed, and blinked. It was still dark except for a waning moon and the ever-present lights on the university campus close by. She jumped out of bed, threw on her bathrobe, dialed up the heat and turned on the television. My god, it’s cold. An exercise program, cosmetic ads, a preacher wailing about the wrath of God. Nothing about Cairo.
All Amir had said in his short call the night before: “Today, Justine. It’s today!” and hung up.
She padded into the kitchen and turned on the coffee pot. “What’s happening??” she said aloud. Just then, the cosmetic ad on the television faded, the screen went blank and the swarming colorful scene at Tahrir Square came into view. The Square was still filling with people for as far as she could see. She backed into the kitchen so as to not miss a beat, grabbed her coffee, and curled up in a reclining chair in front of the television.
Hours passed before she moved, except to dash to the bathroom, refill her coffee and grab an apple. Her eyes scanned the screen for signs of Amir. He hadn’t told her what he would be doing to spur the revolution. Is he still in his office monitoring the movement, encouraging people to get to the square? Is he in the square? Is he safe? Justine was incredibly impatient, as though it would just happen and be over. Just like that. She knew better. Not only would it go into the night, into the weekend and the days to follow, but, perhaps, even weeks to follow. The regime ran a sophisticated operation, having perfected its suppression tactics and infrastructure since Nasser led the revolution of 1952. Nasser to Sadat to Mubarak. Fifty nine years of experience, nearly as compulsive and regimented as the British and Turks before them. So, yes, the overthrow of Mubarak would not end quickly.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 22