Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  “Oh? That’s odd. Maybe I should be afraid of you.” The gun went down to her side. “That’s better.” He dismounted. “I feel a lot more cheerful without that gun pointed at my face.” He tied the horse to one of the poles holding the tent. Then he went to the fire and rubbed his hands briskly. “It was warm when I started out, but I’m chilled through.”

  This confession of vulnerability surprised her. She moved closer and he got the first good look at her. “Oh, my.” She tried to remain stern faced but had to smile. “I don’t know what to say.” He looked to his right and at the sky, perplexed. “I get lost, I find myself in the middle of the desert with night coming. Miraculously, I reach a campfire. A woman greets me and threatens my life and then when I see her face in the firelight . . . I’m not going to pretend I’m not surprised.” He looked around and smiled sheepishly, as if he yearned for a third party to share this event.

  “Excuse me,” she said, “I’ve got to leave you on your honor. I hope you won’t try anything.”

  “Don’t leave! Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to choose one of the lambs and slaughter it.”

  His expression changed to one of alarm. “Slaughter? Are you serious? Why? Are you expecting someone?”

  “In my culture when you shelter a stranger, you’re responsible for his welfare. It’s a duty to get the best that you have and prepare it for him. I’ll roast a nice baby lamb.”

  He held up his hand. “I can tell you with every assurance that isn’t necessary.”

  “It may not be necessary, but I must do it. That’s part of the reason I’m here. To do what has to be done.”

  “No, no, no. Wait a minute. Suppose you got the lamb. And suppose I could bear watching you hack up the poor animal. How on earth are you going to cook it?”

  “I would truss it and build a spit and roast it over this fire.”

  “Wouldn’t that take hours?”

  “Possibly. I’ve never done it before. I mean the roasting part. I’ve done the killing many times.”

  He stepped back and shook his head, deciding how to handle a woman who had killed many times. “I won’t be here long enough to wait for such an ambitious meal. I’d like—if you allow it—to have a few hours of sleep and then be off at dawn. And there’s another thing—”

  “What’s that?”

  “How could the two of us consume an entire lamb? It would be so wasteful. Just offer me something warm—a cup of coffee—and I’ll feel well taken care of.”

  She had lost the advantage. What he said was absolutely true. “Well, if you’re certain you can’t wait . . . it would be wasteful.”

  “I can’t wait. And it would be wasteful. You have my word.”

  He sounded relieved and she thought about how she must appear to him. Impractical and silly. He was probably an Englishman who privately considered them all savages. She began to feel a dull resentment. “Are you English?”

  “Half and half. My mother’s English. My father’s Arab. We live in Jerusalem half the year. I’ve been at Cambridge for several years, so I sound English. I try not to pick up the accent but it creeps up on you. I probably resemble my mother. And you . . . ?”

  “Oh . . . I’ve been told I resemble my great-grandmother, but I can’t be sure. She’s dead.” She wanted to ask more questions, but saw the fatigue on his face and remembered that he wanted to sleep. “I’ll make the coffee.”

  She sat, legs crossed, near the fire and waited for the little pot to bubble over several times, handed him the filled cup and watched until he took the first sip. Then she arranged the long skirt around her legs and became very busy tracing on the ground with a stick. There was no wind and the light had turned an opulent purple. Breathing became pleasurable as humidity seeped into the air.

  He sat on the ground, his long legs bent—he was quite tall—gripping the tin cup and looking out at the scene with narrowed eyes. He had a large head even though his hair lay flat, and a broad forehead. There was a noticeable bump right below the bridge of his nose. He might have been described as rugged except for his long eyelashes and remarkable silky hair.

  “I don’t suppose you’d tell me anything about yourself.”

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  He threw his head back and grunted. She saw that when he moved his head quickly his hair moved back all in one piece. “Well, without knowing anything, I can tell you you’re wrong. You could start by revealing why you’re here doing something so”—he was choosing his words carefully so as not to insult her—“different.”

  Her stick was busy making tic-tac-toe grids in the ground. “I’m building character,” she said sarcastically. “I don’t want to be just another spoiled rich girl.”

  “There’s no chance of that happening.”

  “Why not?”

  “A spoiled rich girl wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to kill and truss a lamb. A spoiled rich girl would have let me starve.”

  He was laughing at her and momentarily, she hated him. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said. “There’s an extra cover.” She pointed to a corner of the shelter. “But you have to promise me that you won’t do anything to . . . I’m offering to share this tent, but you’re honor-bound to respect my hospitality.”

  “I will, of course. I wouldn’t harm you. I’ll sleep over here.” He indicated a space at the foot of the fire, perpendicular to her space. Before she got up she undid her hair, which was held in a ponytail by a wide rubber band. It fell over her shoulders and she was aware that he was staring at her.

  He finished his coffee quickly, dragged the sheepskin over, and stretched out. When he was settled, she lay down, too.

  The night had turned quite cold, so they both inched closer to the fire. When everything was still, she became excruciatingly aware of him. It was the kind of intimacy that was so extraordinary she felt keyed up. She was lying on her stomach, arms folded under her cheek. He was stretched flat on his back, which seemed too trusting a position even in sleep. One arm was arched over his head with the fist grazing his forehead. His hair fell back, straight and soft like a child’s, but otherwise he looked big and substantial.

  She could have reached out and held his hand, which was tempting. Suppose that entire arm were around her and she could sleep in the crook of it, her face nestled against his chest? The idea of being held—it had never occurred to her—was so enticing that she had to clench her hands into tight fists under her to keep from reaching for him. Finally, exhausted and overwrought, she drifted into a half sleep.

  A little while later the dogs barked. He was up in an instant, and she heard the click of a gun and that made her jump, too. She hadn’t known that he had a gun. She went behind him and grabbed his wrist, holding his arm from the back. “No. You mustn’t shoot. Please. The flock will scatter.” For an instant she allowed herself to lean against his broad back. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but there was a feeling of giddiness and relief, as if she had accidentally stumbled on a beneficial secret. She let go of him.

  “The dogs were barking.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s out there?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t shoot yet.” There was another loud bark and a howl. She took hold of his arm again. He looked down at it and she let go.

  “You’re trembling.” He put an arm around her shoulders but she shrugged him off. “Are you afraid?”

  “What if I am? Who knows what’s out there. It could be a panther or a wolf. I’ve heard of panthers being in the desert.”

  “I’m not saying you shouldn’t be scared. I’m glad to hear you admit that it’s dangerous.” The barking stopped and the dogs came back and arranged themselves around the fire. He put his gun on the ground. “I couldn’t sleep very well,” he said softly. “I’ve never slept with a strange woman before.”

 
“I haven’t slept with a man.”

  “I don’t dare bring up the question of why you’re really here. You’re an educated young woman. If you need a job, I can persuade my father to give you one. He has the Weber Electrics franchise. Do you know the building on Jaffa Road? There’s no reason for you to be out here in the wilderness. Suppose a real criminal found you?” He spoke quickly, as if he had been saving his objections.

  “I’m here because I want to be. No one put me here.” His assumptions were irritating.

  He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to understand. “Why do you want to be?”

  “To prove that I can take care of myself.”

  “I see.” He didn’t see.

  His tone was so patronizing she went back to her spot and sat down, preparing to sleep again. He might as well have called her a liar. Or a fool. “Good night.”

  He sighed. “Good night to you.”

  Wasn’t he going to say anything else?

  “Whose idea was it for you to do this?”

  “I told you.”

  “I know what you told me, but somebody has brainwashed you and given you gospel law and you’re petrified of deviating from it. If it were your own idea, you’d be more practical. The first thing on your mind wouldn’t be the finer points of hospitality. You’d be thinking more of your safety.” He sat up. “You’ve got to be a little more practical.”

  “I didn’t hear myself ask for advice or sympathy. I’m doing fine.”

  “Nobody said you weren’t doing fine. But I’m worried about you.”

  “It was you who was lost. It was I who rescued you. You were going the wrong way, remember? You’d have been chilled into pneumonia or died of thirst or been mauled by an animal. Oh, I forgot . . . you did have a gun. Do you know how to use it?”

  “I’ve shot game, but I’m sure you could shoot rings around me.”

  “I’ve been shooting since I was seven.”

  “Terrific. What’d you shoot, your teddy bears?”

  “Very funny. Targets.”

  “And when did you become the big killer of lambs?”

  “Nine.”

  “And you loved every bloodthirsty minute?”

  “Oh, no. I hated it. I had nightmares over it.”

  “That’s a relief,” he said, vindicated. He lay down again and she could hear him arranging his skimpy cover.

  Again there was silence.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you had a gun?” she said accusingly. “You pretended to be afraid of mine when all along you could have brought out yours.”

  “That’s right!” He sat up as if she had just proved a crucial point. “You never ordered me to put my hands up and you never asked if I had a gun. Two mistakes. That’s what should have been on your mind, not fixing me the meal of a lifetime. Suppose it hadn’t been me? Suppose it had been a real thief?”

  “Who said you were in charge of my welfare?” Her voice was unexpectedly loud and one of the dogs cocked its head, looked from one to the other, and growled mildly.

  “Huh. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You were determined to be responsible for mine. Remember?”

  He had her. “C’est bien,” she said crossly.

  “She speaks French, too!” He lay down again with a sigh.

  She knew she wasn’t going to go to sleep, but what was the use of arguing with him? He was right—she had been careless, but only because it was obvious he wasn’t a thief, and she wasn’t about to admit that. “What does it matter? You didn’t kill me and in the morning you’ll be on your way.”

  She waited for him to keep arguing over her safety, but he was silent. Please say something more. He was breathing steadily. She would have liked to talk to him all night.

  She awoke first and stopped to study his pale sleeping face. The brows and jaw and mouth were those of a man, yet his early-morning pallor made him look innocent. There was a deep sculpted niche right above his mouth that she hadn’t noticed. Ultimately, it wasn’t his looks that intrigued her as much as his openness. He was free to do or think anything he liked.

  The thought that in a few minutes he would go on his way and leave her alone made her feel desolate. The fact that he had been concerned about her safety and indignant over her carelessness made her peculiarly happy. But that wasn’t the whole of it. She felt the stirrings of sexual longing. In the night she had put her arms around herself, idly caressing her own shoulders, but she had wished it were his hands on her.

  He moved and she jumped and went to revive the fire to make breakfast. If he was going, let him go quickly.

  “Good morning. What are you making that smells so good?” She was moody out of self-defense and kept her head down, stirring the little pan of batter. He turned slowly and took a deep, appreciative breath, then pointed to the tent. “That was our shelter? Without the fire we would be stiff by now.” He sat down and she handed him a filled cup and a bread cake smeared with honey. “Thank you.” He squinted and took a good look at her. “Are you angry with me? Did I say something to offend you?”

  “No. I’m trying to feed you quickly. You wanted to be on your way early, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t want to be, but my parents will be worried.”

  “I’m sure.” She pursed her lips, determined not to say anything she’d regret. What she wanted to say was, Please don’t leave me. She made herself busy well away from the tent, but he came looking for her.

  “You’re a remarkable girl.” She shrugged. “Can I do anything for you before I leave?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you might need help rounding up the sheep.” He looked out over the flock and shook his head. “You really know how to keep them together.”

  “The dogs do most of it.” She went and took a canteen out of an elaborate fitted backpack that straddled the donkey.

  “That holds all your possessions?”

  “Yes. My father had it sent to me from Switzerland. Everything fits in. They do a lot of camping in the Alps, I guess.”

  “Yes, they do, but it’s recreational. Nothing like this.” Her eyes veiled over. “I’d better be on my way.” He put out his hand. “Thank you for everything.”

  “Here. Take this canteen. You’ll need it. I have plenty of water.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “It was nothing,” she said coolly.

  “Oh, yes, it was.” He took one of her hands in both of his. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to leave, too. This is no place . . .” She shook her head to stop him. “You don’t have to stay here.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You don’t. You may choose to”—she didn’t answer—“but there are other ways to gain self-reliance.” Seeing she was very sober, he smiled. “We could run away to London. Jump on my horse.” She gave him a fierce look. “Well, you wouldn’t dissolve, you know.” She remained silent. “Sorry. It sounds as if I have no faith in you, but that’s not true.” He let go of her hand and she watched him mount his horse and start off.

  When he was well out of sight, she sat down with the extra bread cakes and fed the crumbs to one of the dogs. Tears came into her eyes and spilled over the animal’s mangy fur. Two other dogs tried to nudge their way onto her lap. She still had six days before another shepherd would come and relieve her. There would be many hours to figure it all out—why she felt so horribly disappointed to see him leave. She looked around at the overwhelming monotone. Brown everywhere. You don’t have to stay here. It was a silly thing, but until he said it, she had never considered that she had a choice.

  The directrice of L’École Française was little over five feet tall but no one would have believed it. Two attributes gave the illusion of height. She wore only white or black dresses or suits, simple high-heeled pumps, one important piece of jewelr
y, and a disarming loose chignon on top of her head.

  More effective than her fashion sense was her insight into human character. She knew when to go with the moment and when to stick to the letter of the law. This afternoon, she had decided—rather impetuously—to go with the moment.

  “Yes, monsieur.” She stared appreciatively at the handsome young man. He was freshly shaved and his shirt was crisply ironed and his tie knotted just right. “How may I help you?”

  Before he spoke he gave her a generous smile. “Madame.” He lingered over the word. “I would like your permission to have a visit with my cousin. I’m here only for two days and I’d be sorry to miss seeing her.”

  All her sensory antennae went up. “It doesn’t seem too much to ask.” She returned his smile. “Who is your cousin?”

  The young man curled in his broad shoulders and took a significant breath. “The most beautiful girl in your school. The girl with the green eyes.” He smiled and looked wistful, as if he were being poetic, when she knew damn well he was being devious.

  Eh bien, she’d help him out. “Ah, you could only mean one girl . . . Nijmeh.” I should have known—he looks delirious.

  “Yes, but please, if you could just not say anything to Nijmeh just yet. I’d like to surprise her.”

  “Aha . . . yes.” This whole thing smelled higher than a week-old fish, but it was audacious. And inventive.

  “If I wanted to take her for a cup of tea, would that be against school policy, madame?”

  The directrice pursed her lips and made a little noise to indicate that it was a foolish question. “Why would anything as civilized as a tea between two caring cousins be against school policy? Our senior girls must only sign out properly and return before six, when we have our own supper. Of course, I’m assuming that you will be discreet and not expose her to anything deleterious.” Her look warned him of unspoken horrors should he renege on this promise.

  “Of course. And I’ll see that she’s back at the proper time. Please, not a word about who is here to see her.”