Promised Land

by Martin Fletcher

  He knew she’d approve.

  When he heard the tap on the door Peter couldn’t help glancing at Diana. He felt a shiver. Was it delight? Regret? Or anticipation? Or dread at his next move, one that could destroy his family and hers? Maybe it would be smarter not to answer the door.

  He moved slowly, adjusting his belt, running his hand through his hair.

  On the other side of the door, Tamara was thinking, maybe he isn’t here. Maybe he forgot. She was ready to turn and flee. The flying egret flashed through her mind as the door opened and there was Peter. She thought, he looks so serious.

  He closed the door behind her and watched. Silently she took off her jacket and draped it over a chair. She wore a white high-collared blouse with a tight gray skirt, as if she was going to her law office. Keeping up the pretense, a step toward deceit. She turned and hesitated. Uncertainty, tension: What did a good woman do? A good woman about to become a bad woman.

  Peter gazed into her eyes, as if he was amazed she had come. With good reason, she thought, yet she found herself leaning toward him, until, as one, they moved into each other. Peter embraced her, and she rested comfortably against him and in this way they stood, silent, snug, her chest against his thin shirt, his against her flimsy blouse, each feeling the other’s pounding heart, their touch and tightness saying more than words ever could.

  And then, at last, Peter’s lips found hers, and her sweet softness, yielding all the promise and hopes of the years, surrendered with a passion that grew with every passing second. Fifteen years of longing sweetened every sense until Peter felt giddy and had to steady himself with an arm on the entrance table.

  Tamara held him, and smiled. She took him by the hand and turned, as if to say, Come with me.

  In the bedroom, standing, they kissed more, passion and impatience now overwhelming them. Peter’s hands rose to Tamara’s breasts and one by one he unfastened the buttons on her blouse, while she opened his belt. Their lips still joined, Peter pulled off his shirt and held her against him, unclasping her bra. At last their lips parted and he looked down and gently kissed each breast, sinking to his knees, as if worshipping her, while Tamara threw her head back in ecstasy. She could barely breathe as his lips brushed her belly, his tongue flickering against her, his hands cupping her breasts. She tore off her skirt.

  Looking up, Peter peeled down her panties. Tamara stepped out of her shoes and stood naked before him. She had never felt so beautiful, so proud, so majestic, like a noble egret settling its wings. It seemed to her now that this was where she belonged. With this man, who had loved her quietly, truly, with no reward, for so long. She took him by the hand, raised him to his feet, and opened his pants. They kissed again, harder now, urgently, he caressing her, from her shoulders to the small of her back, her skin warm and soft, and then, grateful, every nerve of his body awake, lower and lower until he clasped her bottom with both hands and pulled her against him, and she felt his hardness against her belly. Shivering with pleasure, she leaned back, away from him, and looking down, with no shame, pulled his shorts over his erection and down to his feet.

  She held him, her head on his shoulder, chest to chest, hip to hip. In the far distance a warning sounded in Peter’s mind, only to be silenced by the rapture building inside him. Tamara’s body was at once firm and soft, empty of guile and full of promise. Peter tensed to pick her up but Tamara placed a finger on his lips as if to quiet him, and with the slightest pressure on his shoulder turned him around, inspecting him. His muscled, lean body, his chest fluffy and dark with hair, his buttocks slim and … She trailed her fingers across his scars and murmured, “You are a fighting man.” These were their first words.

  Her finger rested on a mottled purple patch below his right hip. “What is this from? And this?” A wine-red indentation in the shoulder, the width of a finger.

  “A burn. A bullet. One German. One Arab. From another life.”

  Tamara completed the rotation, a little smile on her lips. She brought her mouth to his chest, and toyed with one nipple, and then the other. But Peter couldn’t wait. He had a sense of time evaporating, he wanted her, needed her, now.

  “My body may have a fault or two, but you, Tamara, you are perfect,” he whispered as he moved her to the bed. Lying by her he trailed his fingers along every ebb and flow of her, silken and thrilling, kissed her eyes and her throat all the way down to her thighs, wondering and exploring every inch of her flesh, until he found her very center, her revealed core, and there he lingered.

  She trembled at his touch, rousing and insistent, her eyes clenched, her hands balled into fists. Her breath came in loud gasps until she arched, rocked, and finally shuddered to rest in his arms.

  He could hardly believe it. Tamara … he overflowed with tenderness toward her. Everything that didn’t make sense before now did. He gently entered her as the words slipped from his mouth: “I love you.”

  Tamara sighed and shifted to receive him, gripping him with her arms and legs. She breathed words he couldn’t hear, but when he put his ear to her lips he heard what he longed for: “Peter. I love you too.”

  He hadn’t loved a woman since Diana, and Tamara hadn’t loved a man for a decade. They were like two drifting branches that reached the waterfall together, and swept over entangled and dripping, crashing into the cauldron below. She fell off the bed, he pulled her back and took her from behind, she collapsed and he pulled her on top, he couldn’t get deep enough and she couldn’t get enough of him. She came first, then he did, then they rested, gasping and laughing, and did it again.

  Spent, they fell silent, lying back against the headboard, holding hands. With a deep sigh Tamara slipped down and laid her head on Peter’s chest, her long hair sprawled across him. He rearranged her locks so that they lay by her shoulder, and he stroked her neck. She was hot and sweaty, and every few seconds her body shook, squeezing out every last gram of pleasure. Her mind was blank, her hand quiet on Peter’s groin.

  And then came the reckoning. Tamara took long gulps of lemon juice while Peter smoked half a cigarette before they spoke. “Now what?” he said.

  “You do have a way with words,” Tamara said. She added, “Nobody must know. This is our secret.”

  And then, “Let’s not think about it. Enjoy the Now.” For right now, Arie did not exist for her.

  He did for Peter. His thoughts were a jumble, but uppermost was jealousy. How could Arie have been so lucky for so long, to have such a beautiful, sexy, glorious wife? And he doesn’t even love her. He sighed. Although he inhabited a secret world, he could not lead a secret affair with Tamara. In the end they’d be found out anyway. Better to take the initiative. She must divorce Arie and marry him. For all they knew, Arie would be happy to divorce Tamara; their marriage had long been a sham. The problem with Arie would not be his nonexistent love for Tamara, but his pride.

  Under Tamara’s warm touch his brother receded, he felt himself growing hard again. They kissed, she gripped his buttocks as he held her by the waist, he wanted to make love to her forever, he didn’t want to come. But he did, loudly, and fell asleep in her arms, while she dozed with a smile on her face.

  Tamara could not remember when she last felt so relaxed, so deeply content, so full. She rested her hand between her legs. Moist, so deeply sated. She drifted in and out of sleep, trying to prolong the moment, the joy of holding Peter’s naked body. As he breathed, long, deep, safe breaths, she fought her own sleep, wanting to enjoy the feel of him, the beating of his heart, the powerful arms and legs, like a big strong baby in her arms, his chest rising and falling, his breath tickling her cheeks, his sweet smell of sweaty pleasure. She never wanted to leave this bed, she wanted this moment to last forever.

  * * *

  “Oh!” Rachel caught her breath and closed the bedroom door.

  Tamara shot upright. She looked at Peter, at the door, back to Peter. “Peter!” She jabbed him, shook him. “Peter.”

  He stirred, groaned.

  �
�Peter, Peter!”

  “Yes, my love?” His hand searched, fell onto her belly. He snuggled against her. “What time is it?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Twelve thirty.”

  “Lots of time. Come back to sleep.” He shifted, settled, and slept. “Peter!” Tamara jabbed him again. “Wake up. I think someone’s here.”

  Peter tensed, and in an instant was on his feet, with his finger to his lips. He whispered, “Why?”

  “I think someone opened the door. And closed it.”

  Peter slipped into his shorts and pants, pulled on his shirt. He padded to the door, strained to hear, took a deep breath, and pulled it open. He heard sounds in the kitchen, tiptoed there. Diana was sitting on the floor, looking up at him. “Daddy, I don’t feel good. I miss Mummy.”

  “Mummy?” he said, bending down. He looked up at Rachel. “What happened?”

  Rachel could not look him in the eyes. Her lips began to move but no sound emerged. At last she managed, “Tea?”

  “No, thank you.” She saw us. He took some biscuits from the cupboard and put them on a plate. “Here, darling,” he said, putting the plate on the floor by Diana. “Was she crying at school again?” he asked Rachel.

  She nodded, her eyes everywhere but on him.

  He picked Diana up and held her close, whispering into her ear, soothing her. But she struggled to get out of his arms, to reach the biscuits.

  Peter walked back to the bedroom and closed the door, looking grim.

  “What is it?” Tamara was sitting on the bed, dressed, holding her hand to her throat, her eyes wide. “Who is it?”

  He wouldn’t mention Diana crying for her mummy. It would be too hurtful. He tried to smile but failed. “Well, some secret. We’re busted.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Your mother.”

  Tamara’s face went from white to red. This couldn’t be happening. Her mother! She had no idea what to feel. Or say.

  “Whatever happens,” she said finally, “after giving birth, this was the best moment of my life. Thank you, Peter.”

  “So formal. This is just the beginning. Anyway, what do you mean, whatever happens? We need to hold hands, go out there, and face your mother.”

  “No. Oh, God no! Not yet!”

  “Well, she’s out there. We can’t hide in here.”

  “We can. We can. Get under the bed, I’ll get in the closet.”

  “Good thinking. Maybe she’ll leave and forget all about it,” Peter said.

  “Yes, yes. She has a horrible memory.”

  “We can just deny it. Deny is always the best response. She can’t prove anything. No photographs.”

  “I have to talk to her,” Tamara said, standing up.

  Rachel called through the door, her voice more quavering than usual, “I’ll go then, Peter, put Diana to bed. Bye-bye.”

  Tamara flew through the door. “Ima, wait, don’t go.”

  Peter sat on the bed and sighed, torn between Tamara and the thought of poor little Diana. How could he make her understand that they all missed her mother, but they had to get on with their lives, they could never bring her back?

  He looked at the door, feeling sheepish. Best let Tamara handle her mother.

  And then he thought, wait. I’m forty-two years old, I’m deputy head of the Special Operations Division of the Israeli Secret Service, and I don’t have to be afraid of Auntie Rachel.

  RACHEL, MOSHE, and ARIE

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  December 1966

  For the first time ever, Rachel missed her bus stop; she only realized when the driver turned on the radio news, which startled her from her reverie. But then she welcomed the extra time as she walked home before seeing Moshe.

  At first she had been bewildered by the sight of Tamara and Peter sleeping in bed together. Were they sick? Then she had seen their clothes on the floor, their underwear even, which had all but sent her into shock. She had closed the door as quietly as she could, and backed away as if in a trance. She had wanted to leave immediately but couldn’t leave Diana alone, so she had made tea while she thought what to do. Her hand had trembled so much she thought she would spill the water as she poured. What did she just see? What did it mean? And then Tamara had caught her by the arm at the door, and sworn her to secrecy. It was true that Peter was a most charming man, and Arie was a terrible husband. And this was Israel, not Egypt, she wasn’t stupid, she knew what went on. But still—brothers. This could only end badly. Very badly.

  And shouldn’t she tell Moshe? She had never kept a secret from him in her life, nor he from her. Maybe it was best to stay out of it. As she turned the last corner and walked to her building, she still hadn’t decided.Ya Allah! She stopped in her tracks. Arie’s car was at the door. Did he know? Why had he come?

  She hurried home, to hear Moshe’s raised voice. When he was excited he almost shouted, it was his way. She heard “Russia” and “stupid people.”

  “Hello, Rachel,” Arie said, kissing her on the cheek and taking her bag. “Save me from Moshe.”

  “Save us all from the government!” Moshe shouted. “Really, it’s true,” he continued where he had left off, barely acknowledging his wife. “Every time the army attacks Syria or Jordan in retaliation for a terrorist attack, the truth is we provoked it. I’m telling you, our government wants war.”

  “Every time?” Arie said. “Oh, come on. Why would we want war? We want peace, to grow the economy, it’s in terrible shape, that’s what we want.”

  “That’s what you want. What Eshkol and Meir and all those other blockheads care about is more land, and an excuse to take it. We send a tractor into a demilitarized zone, the Syrians shoot at it, we bomb their gun position, and so it goes. Each time—”

  “Is that what you’re going to write? How do you know? We want peace. You’re like a propagandist for—”

  “Me? All I want is for people to know the truth. And the truth is—”

  “The truth is terrorists are crossing into our country, killing our farmers, mortaring the kibbutzim, laying land mines in the fields, and we have to stop them. That’s the truth.”

  “That’s what the government wants you to think. You’re a sheep, you believe everything they say.”

  “And what every other journalist thinks and writes. Why should you know better…?”

  “I’m making some tea, would anyone like some?” Rachel put in when she could, with a higher-pitched voice than usual. She retreated to the kitchen, heaving a sigh. How could she look Arie in the eyes again? She knew now she couldn’t tell Moshe, knowing him he would blurt it out. But what was Arie doing here, talking politics with Moshe, or rather, arguing? Even in the kitchen she heard every word.

  Moshe was beating the table: “In Samua last month, that Jordanian village, we killed fourteen Jordanian soldiers, we blew up at least fifty houses, and why? Because three of our boys died when they hit a land mine in the Hebron hills. Now the Jordanian army is on alert. Don’t you see, one thing leads to another, we never miss an opportunity to create bigger clashes, and soon we’ll have a war crashing down on us. It’s my duty to write about it. All you do is read the hacks who spout the government line.”

  “Where do you get your information from? The Arabs? The Russians? You’re playing right into their hands. You’re helping them.”

  “Me, are you crazy? My own son, Ido, is in the infantry, a captain, they’re the ones who cross the borders at night. Do you think I want to help the enemy? I want him to come home in one piece, we can’t sleep we’re so afraid for him.”

  “How is Ido?” Arie said, his voice softening as it always did when he talked about Tamara’s little brother. “Does he come home at weekends?”

  “When he can. If he does, all he does is sleep. He doesn’t tell us anything, and he shouldn’t. We write about what we know, but there’s much more we don’t know. We’re in a low-level war that will explode, mark my words.”

  “Give Ido my love. He’s a real
fighter.”

  “And Estie. Two children in the army, God help me. She’s in intelligence. Arie,” Moshe said, placing his hand on Arie’s forearm across the table. “Believe me, when I write about Israel, I write only the truth, for their sake. All I want is for them to come home safely. I want peace. And then maybe, your children will not have to fight. I hope not.”

  “Me too, Moshe. Tamara and I pray for Ido and Estie, they are the best of the best. How old are they now?”

  “Ido is twenty. And Estie is twenty-two. She signed on for three more years, she’s an officer too.”

  Rachel brought in the tea, and some biscuits. “We ran out, Arie, this is the best I can do.”

  “Thank you, Rachel,” Arie said, looking down. “I do love to visit.”

  Moshe sensed something. “And we love to see you. But you never said why you came, I just went on and on. Because I’m writing a column on this. Forgive me. Is anything wrong, can I help?”

  “Well, there is something I wanted to talk to you about, apart from war and peace.”

  Rachel froze. She didn’t want to hear this. How long had this all been going on for? Tamara had said it was just once. She didn’t know what to believe. “I’ll just clean up in the kitchen,” she said. She went to close the door but couldn’t help herself and left it ajar, listening, her heart aflutter.

  “Tamara,” Arie said.

  Rachel’s heart sank. She felt the blood draining from her face.

  “I can’t really talk to her about this. Or anybody. It’s strange really, everybody I meet wants something from me: money, a job, an introduction, advice, help, it’s always give, give give.”

  Moshe began to say, well, you have so much more than anybody else, what’s wrong with giving, but stopped himself. Arie never spoke like this. He should listen, not comment.

  At the door, Rachel strained to hear. Her hand shook. Was this the end of her daughter’s marriage?

  Arie went on: “And yet the people closest to me, who I love most: you, Rachel, my brother, Tamara, you never ask for anything.”

  Moshe nodded gravely, arms folded, waiting.