by Gerry Belle
Mounting her small donkey and allowing her feet to dangle over his sides, she nudged him on with her calves, and taking up the one rein that looped into his ragtag halter, Zhara steered him down the cobbled road.
She set off at a good clip, tapping the wiry-haired rump of her ride with the olive switch she’d been handed by the donkey-boy, and headed for her favorite place, the Monastery. It was a good seven-hundred feet straight up a steeply-winding trail of enormous stone blocks that had been carved into the red cliff. One side had a perilous drop down what would have been several stories in a modern high-rise.
Since unrest in the Middle East had lowered the number of tourists to Jordan dramatically, Zhara had the trail to herself after the first several hundred feet. Occasionally she’d pass a winded hiker, usually bent double and gasping for breath. Basilio and Beatriz trailed leisurely behind her, both old pros at handling the donkeys they’d been assigned. Beatriz’s short legs barely reached the bottom of her donkey’s belly, let alone dangled just inches from the ground the way Zhara’s did.
Sometimes Zhara had to lift her feet up so that they didn’t scrape on the edge of the step her donkey was clambering over at the time. She let her donkey take his time, trusting his nimble hooves to get them to the top safely, and instead, turned her gaze to the never ending series of breathtaking views that rolled away into the distance each time they breached a flat area with a view between the towering red canyon walls.
Once at the top, Zhara dismounted from her donkey and left him with an attendant to one side of the open air cafe. Ordering a bottle of water, she relaxed, gazing out in wonder at the majestic edifice of the Monastery’s soaring front. Beatriz and Basilio, after also securing their donkeys with the attendant, wandered down to the front of the structure and began exploring its many nooks and crannies.
The climb up to the Monastery always had Zhara stunned with the beauty of the area. Several times she had stopped to gaze out over the layers and layers of rose-hued canyons falling away into the distance. It was far more beautiful than the Grand Canyon, to her at least, and she never tired of it. Heaving a deep sigh of contentment, she turned her face up to the sun and rejoiced in the heat, peace, and awe of one of the world’s most incredible locations. This had been just what she needed.
Basilio and Beatriz came to join her, chattering happily in Spanish about the wonders they’d seen. All three had a Coca-Cola and a small plate of mezza, consisting of assorted Middle Eastern snacks. The sun beat down mercilessly, but to them it was just part of the wonder of the location. Luckily, they’d all worn hats to protect themselves from the merciless sun.
Zhara didn’t usually notice the tourists around her unless there was something memorable about them. Today, she had several memorable specimens of less-than-favorable human-beings to observe.
First, had been the oddly matched couple who had come into view several minutes apart. The woman had arrived first. Ten minutes later the man had dragged himself over the last stone step, staggered to the restaurant, and fallen gratefully onto one of the many benches.
From there, things went downhill. The couple bickered bitterly over what was safe to eat as the man gasped for breath. The husband, a balding donut of a man, had earned some admiration from Zhara in that he’d managed to make the climb at all. The wife, a slender stick of a woman, appeared almost preternaturally none the worse for the wear.
As the couple perused the menu, the wife could be heard chastising the husband for his choice of sugary beverage and frosted cupcake treat. She ordered water and a pack of dehydrated banana chips. Zhara hated her already. Over the next half hour, as Zhara, Beatriz, and Basilio finished their own Cokes and selection of mezza, the berating wife never let up.
Beatriz muttered, “I really don’t like that woman and feel very sorry for the husband.”
Basilio added, “He’ll probably die of a heart attack on the way down and soon be out of his misery anyway, mama.” Zhara could only snort in agreement. It was true, the husband was still red-faced and panting slightly even after the thirty-minute rest.
Having had enough of a rest, Zhara wandered over to her donkey and mounted him. She enjoyed meandering along the trail that ran even further into the crevasses behind the Monastery. Most tourists didn’t venture that far into the site, but Zhara enjoyed the tranquility and quiet the back trails offered. Basilio would trail along behind her as he enjoyed the scenery and riding the donkey. In Bolivia, they hadn’t been wealthy enough to own a donkey and to have had one would have been a great privilege. Riding one now was a joy like no other. Beatriz agreed to remain in the shade and wait for them. They set off at a good clip and disappeared into the hills, leaving behind the still bickering couple.
An hour later they returned, sun-flushed and grinning from the adventure of navigating some especially tricky footing with their intrepid four-footed friends. Leaving their donkeys with the handler, they stumbled towards Beatriz, dozing quietly in the shade and flung themselves down onto the hard-seated, but greatly welcome, benches. Gesturing for the attendant to bring them water and food, the two regaled Beatriz with tales of their adventures and the ruins they’d explored.
Taking the cue from Beatriz’s slight cock of the head, Zhara turned to see several of the people from the hotel at the Dead Sea had also joined them on the high perch of the Monastery.
The weedy backpacker, Ralph Johnson, was busily scribbling notes in his well-thumbed notebook. He was bright red in the face and though having drunk two bottles of water, that now lay helter-skelter on the small table in front of him, still continued to perspire freely, rivulets of sweat running down his face and neck and soaking his dingy cotton t-shirt in a slovenly-looking manner.
The over-the-top honeymooners were standing in the distance staring up at the richly-carved front of the red Monastery. The heat, for once, keeping the two from groping each other in public.
“They’ve been here for about ten minutes,” Beatriz said. “They gulped down a bottle of water and could be heard saying, “they needed to get back to their room so they could shower - together.” The older woman rolled her eyes and then snickered as the two lovebirds headed for the narrow gulley of stone stairs and began their descent.
The gangly figure of Ralph Johnson could be seen disappearing before them down the trail to the descent. The honeymooners stopped for a second in the shade of a towering spier of rock and kissed each other deeply, then fingers entwined, continued on.
Easing herself up from her leisurely position, Zhara initiated the move to leave. Taking one last look around, she tried to cement the beauty of the place in her mind. Walking slowly towards the attendant who held the donkeys, she almost ran into the stick-woman from earlier. “Watch where you’re going,” the woman snarled. “What is wrong with all you fat people who can’t stay upright after a little workout?”
Zhara, shrugging it off, simply said, “Sorry,” and walked on towards her donkey.
“Oh my Gawd!” the woman huffed, “You’re riding one of those poor little donkeys, too! Here, Bernard, there are some other overweight people who are riding donkeys. Maybe you can go down with them,” the woman snarked out a cruel laugh.
Her husband, the blighted Bernard, grimaced in apology towards Zhara and Beatriz, and then let his eyes wander in yearning towards the donkeys.
“Come on,” Zhara said, winking at Bernard. “We’ll see if there’s an extra beast of burden.”
Bernard hastened towards them, earning a snort of derision from his wife, who huffed and stomped towards the trailhead. She disappeared from view within moments.
It took the group a few minutes to sort out that there was indeed an extra donkey. Basilio helped his mother mount, then aided Bernard. Zhara had already slung one leg over the donkey she rode and was waiting patiently for the rest. One by one, they set off down the steep trail. Bernard wailed occasionally in fear as the donkey jarred him forward on the woolen saddle and his eyes found the stories deep crevasse alongside. T
o Zhara, that steep drop was part of the fun. To Basilio and Beatriz, raised in Bolivia and used to heights, it was just par for the course.
The group halted several times to look at the stupendous views and Bernard, coming out of his terror for a few seconds would say, “Wow! That really is beautiful. Coming up I couldn’t see anything because I was too busy keeping up with Karen. She was an athlete you know.”
Zhara didn’t know, but she was also pretty sure she didn’t want to know more, either.
A gnarled upright figure on a donkey trotted into sight. Zhara knew instantly who it was as the huge sun hat was unmistakable. Mrs. Nettlepoole, cane in hand - and occasionally used to whack her donkey into a better clip during the climb - simply nodded to the group and sailed past them. Jordan really was a small place when it came to tourist sites.
All of the sites were, more or less, aligned along one highway that ran through the center of the country and none were more than an hour or two apart. It made for recurring meetings of various tourists as they took in the wonders of the Hashemite Kingdom.
Zhara’s group of four had descended about two-thirds of the way when they came to a knot of people standing in one of the narrowest parts of the trail. None of the group seemed to want to give way and all were staring over the side into one of the deepest, craggiest parts of the crevasse.
“What’s going on?” Zhara asked a bystander.
“Someone fell,” he said breathlessly. “We heard a scream, then nothing. You can see a body, if you peer over the side.”
“Geez,” Basilio said in disgust under his breath, as hikers snapped photos of the body sprawled below.
“Who is it?” Zhara asked. “Have you sent for help?” The small crowd shifted nervously. “You haven’t, I take it?” Zhara asked.
“No, we haven’t. We didn’t know which way to go,” one young woman wearing a purple straw hat said defensively.
“Well, go down! You’re closer to the bottom than the top!” Zhara snapped, and one young teenage boy looked at her then loped off back down the trail.
“Who is it?” Zhara asked again.
“No one knows for sure,” the young man said over his shoulder. “A tall skinny woman.”
“What’s she wearing?” Bernard asked, his face suddenly pale as he swayed on the wool saddle of his small donkey, dwarfing the sturdy beast with his bulbous middle.
“Ummmm, a red tank top and khaki hiking shorts, I think?” said a woman from the front of the group.
“Oh my gawd. Oh my gawd!” Bernard screamed. “I think that’s what Karen is wearing. Let me see,” he said, hurling himself awkwardly from the donkey’s back. Basilio, having thought and acted quickly, caught and steadied the rotund man before he could fall. The huddled group of tourists, seeing his unsteady gait, dispersed away from the edge, lest his bungling walk send them to their demise as well.
“Lay down on your stomach,” Basilio ordered the sweating man. “Easier to put your head over without the rest of you following.” Seeing the sense to that, Bernard followed the advice and wallowed onto his knees and then to his stomach. Basilio steadied him by holding his calves.
Once Bernard had wriggled near the edge, Basilio, ever the patient helper, said, “Wiggle forward till you can see. If it’s Karen, you need to stay steady and back away so that you can help the police when they arrive. Ok?”
“Ok,” Bernard gasped, nodding his head in agreement. Then began a slow rolling, humping crawl forward that reminded Zhara of some elephant seals she’d seen once on the beach in Big Sur. They could move surprisingly fast for such rotund beings.
Within a few seconds he’d managed to hang his head out over the edge of the dusty red ledge and before long a strangled howl of grief began to emanate from the prone figure. Nothing moved but the great hump of his back as Bernard, realizing the figure below really was his wife, slumped into gelatinous dismay and wailed out great mournful moans of shock and bereavement.
After a few seconds, Basilio managed to get Bernard to back away from the cliff edge and rolling him over gently, propped him up against the granite block behind them. Tears rolled down his face and he gasped out softly, “It’s her. It’s her.”
Within a few minutes, a group of uniformed officers arrived and the tourists were brusquely ordered to the cafe at the bottom of the trail. Bernard had given his wife’s name, age and other pertinent information and been practically lifted onto his patient donkey by Bernard and Beatriz. Basilio simply handed the rein of his donkey to his mother and walked off down the steeply stepped trail, leading an almost comatose Bernard upon his dutiful donkey beside him.
It took the police two hours to get back to them at the cafe, though only Beatriz remained to greet them. Having taken one look at Bernard’s now snow white face and lack of response, Zhara had hired a carriage and they had returned to the hotel to call a doctor. The disgruntled police arrived with a great slamming of car doors and stomped into the hotel, only to be hushed and shushed by an entire army of hotel staff.
Zhara, not liking the coincidence of two rather abusive spouses having been killed within a few weeks of each other in populated tourist areas, had dug out the now rather crumpled card for Inspector Jaber, the detective who had looked into the death of Jill Clark’s husband, Ahmad Aboud, and called the detective to see if he had any interest in looking into the death at Petra today. He’d arrived half an hour ago.
Having questioned Zhara, Basilio, and a now calmer Bernard Crowly, as he’d finally presented his full name to them when he’d had to give the detective his wife’s name. Karen Crowly had been a professional athlete intent on competing in the Olympics as a marathon runner until a knee injury had taken that hope away. Since then, she’d recovered, but her bitterness over the lost hope of gold had driven her deeper and deeper into a bitter funk.
Bernard, though, had clearly loved his wife and though she’d constantly derided him, was heartbroken at her death.
Inspector Jaber had nodded brusquely after taking their statements and released them. Rather than go to their rooms, Zhara had wrangled them all to the bar for a stiff drink.
Now, sitting in the bar’s glass-fronted lounge, she could see Inspector Jaber intercept the furious police officers from the scene. Beatriz straggled in behind them, caught a glimpse of Basilio’s concerned face, and headed straight to the bar. When the Detective raised a hand to halt her, she simply waved one small hand towards the group he’d just finished questioning and received a small nod of approval that she join them.
Basilio had already ordered a bottle of water for her and helped his mother into a chair with concern. “Oh, stop fussing. I’m fine! It was actually quite entertaining. The tribal police are very brusque and used to people cowering before them it would seem. My experience with the brutality of police in Bolivia made it so they didn’t seem all that scary. I don’t think they were used to being thwarted. Poor Inspector Jaber! I don’t think they’ll take lightly to being sidelined in an accident of this magnitude,” Beatriz said, an expression of satisfaction on her face.
She patted Bernard Crowly’s hand and said, “I’m so sorry for your bereavement, Bernard. I suppose my enjoyment of the police’s frustration is inappropriate. It’s just that in Bolivia, my home country, any time you can thwart the police, it is a cause for celebration.”
Bernard simply nodded and attempted a weak smile of understanding. “Karen would have enjoyed it, too,” he mumbled, then quietly began sobbing again into the cloth napkin Basilio had furnished him with earlier.
After a long nap, a hot shower and a swift check in on the sleeping Bernard Crowly, Zhara descended the stairs to the terrace restaurant and ordered a light meal. Dusk settled slowly over the many-toothed mountain ranges that marched away into the sunset like the rows of terracotta soldiers in the tombs of the Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huang in Xi’an, China. Each mushroom-like mountain looked the same, but were actually unique just as the soldiers were. The successive ridges turned the vision at dusk
into a magical playground for the imagination.
Zhara was sipping an after-dinner port when a shadow fell over her table. Turning to look upward, she was not surprised to see the tall form of Inspector Jaber. “Please, join me,” she said, motioning to the tray of sweets the waiter had placed on the table for her perusal.
The inspector folded himself into the opposite chair, muttered a gutteral order to the hovering waiter, popped a sweet into his mouth, and settled back with a sigh.
“Long day?” Zhara asked, already knowing the answer.
“Hmmmm,” was all she got as an answer.
Rather than be put off, she simply leaned back and enjoyed her drink, also nibbling occasionally on one of the sweets from the tray. Eventually her patience paid off.