Beloved Gomorrah

by Justine Saracen

  “Is it good?” she asked, rolling her shoulders with obvious relief.

  Joanna inspected the inside front, nodding. “Looks fine. Picked up a lot of detail too. More than I’d hoped.”

  “Thank God that’s over.” Marion dropped down onto the bench and vigorously scratched her legs. “That itch has been tormenting me for half an hour.”

  “How long before you can pour the concrete?” Charlie asked. “I want to see our first figure.”

  Joanna laid the two pieces horizontally on the worktable. “Tomorrow, first thing. That way we’ll be sure that the entire mold will be dry. Can you come tomorrow morning at eight?”

  “Sure. The earlier the better. I’ve promised to help Gil put his locomotive in place in the afternoon. It’d be great if you could be there too. Are you up to diving again?”

  “Should be. I’ve got to stop by the diving center tonight and buy a new mask and wetsuit. The last one got cut to pieces in the hospital, remember? Then tomorrow, while we’re on the dock, I have to get my fins back from the Hina,” she added with forced neutrality.

  Marion stood up. “Okay, I go now to my room to take a shower, but somebody has promised me a beer.”

  “Beer it is,” Charlie said. We’ll meet you at the Sun Bar in half an hour. I could use a shower myself. Joanna, can you take care of the cleanup? I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Go wash your smelly bodies. I’ll be fine here.” Joanna waved them away and turned to study her first casting. It was good, really good, and now she could stop worrying about it. She dried her hands on a towel.

  With the satisfying success of the first casting, she tried to plan the remaining figures. But her thoughts wandered obsessively toward an actress whose kiss tasted of sherry.

  *

  “I think we’re done here,” Joanna announced early the next afternoon. She hit the switch, cutting the power to the miniature concrete mixer that had been grinding away on the workbench. The special marine concrete with its additives of silicone, fiberglass, and powdered coral had slowly filled the mold of the female figure. She and Charlie had poured extremely carefully, but if any bubbles rose to the surface, she’d catch them at the sculpting stage.

  “Now let’s make sure we don’t get any leaks or splits,” she said, wrapping strips of duct tape around the mold at intervals and wedging it upright between two stools.

  Charlie checked his watch. “Hey, it’s only one o’clock. We’ve got plenty of time to get to the dock for some of the drop-downs.”

  “What was the schedule today?” Joanna asked. “Weren’t they bringing down Khadija’s work, too?”

  “Her group went in this morning. Gil’s is scheduled for two o’clock.”

  Joanna washed powdered concrete off her hands and forearms then reached for the towel. “The whole city is filling up. Poor George. Looks like he’s stuck with his narrow slope.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I forgot to tell you. George is out.”

  “What?” She held up the damp towel, noting that it needed laundering. “Out of what?”

  “Apparently he barged into a committee meeting yesterday and started shouting at them about discrimination, racism, what have you, and when they tried to get him out, he popped one of them in the face.”

  “Ohmygod!” Joanna exclaimed. “He’s lucky they didn’t put him in jail. What happened then?”

  “I don’t know the details. I suppose they simply hauled him out of the building. But he’s definitely out of the exhibit now.”

  “Too bad.” Joanna wiped off the worktable with the soiled towel. “All he had to do was compromise a little. Now he’s got all that airplane junk to get rid of.”

  Charlie shrugged. “Guys like George don’t know how to compromise. For them it’s win or lose.”

  “Yeah, I know another man like that,” Joanna muttered as she slid her diving sack and new wetsuit out from under the workbench. “Which reminds me. I need to stop by the Hina and get my fins before we dive.” For the second time, merely naming Kaia’s boat gave her a faint shiver of pain.

  *

  The dock was hot under the midday sun, but Joanna scarcely noticed. On the drive over, she had worried that the Hina might be out on the water for a day of fishing, but already she could already see that it was docked, with its stern facing in.

  Would she be able to talk to Kaia? Did she even want to? What would she say? But upon approaching the yacht, she realized the questions were moot, for Bernard Allen was on the stern deck. In baggy shorts and khaki shirt, he stood with his back toward the dock. Jibril worked next to him, coiling some plastic rope.

  “Good afternoon,” she said as cordially as she could manage.

  Bernard spun around. “What do you want? I told you to stay away from my boat.”

  “Your boat doesn’t interest me. I just want my diving fins. I forgot them when…when I left.”

  He raised his hand, waving her away. “I haven’t seen them. You must have lost them someplace else.”

  Joanna stood her ground. “No, I’m sure they’re here. The last time I used them was from your boat.” It galled her to say ‘your’ boat. “Could you look around a bit?”

  “No, I couldn’t.” He did an about-face, terminating the discussion. Not bothering to look back at his crewman, Bernard climbed the steps to the main level and entered the salon, the doors hissing closed behind him.

  “I found them, miss,” Jibril said, alone now on the stern deck. “I put them in the locker.” He knelt and rummaged through the equipment locker, and in a moment he had both bright-yellow fins in his hand.

  Joanna stepped tentatively onto the boat as he held them out. “Thank you, Jibril.” She took them from him and tucked them under her arm. “How’s Kaia?”

  “She’s not here now,” he answered noncommittally. “She went to the village.”

  Joanna nodded. “Ah. When she comes back, please tell her that I was here and that I…just tell her I was here.”

  “Yes, miss.” He replied in a monotone and returned to coiling his rope.

  *

  Joanna quickened her step, to get away from the Hina as fast as possible. Charlie waited for her at the end of the dock and was loading their tanks and flotation vests into one of the inflatables. She braced herself on the dock post as she struggled to force her weak leg into the tight new wetsuit, but when that was accomplished, the rest slid on more easily.

  Charlie zipped her up from the back and she stepped into the inflatable. It did feel good to prepare for a real dive again, and once she was in the water, the stiff wetsuit would loosen a little too.

  They motored the few hundred meters toward the barge that held the final piece of Gil’s exhibit, and as they pulled up alongside it, they slid on vests and tanks. Glancing up at the barge, Joanna could see that the locomotive was encased in half a dozen large, heavy-duty balloons. Gil stood in front of it already in full diving gear and waved a greeting.

  “Balloons?” Joanna called out.

  Gil patted the closest one. “The only way to control the descent,” he called back. “Once we get it over the track, we’ll release them.” He laughed. “So watch your toes.”

  Charlie tied the inflatable to one of the barge ladders and he and Joanna dropped into the water. Joanna floated, checking Charlie’s location and her own buoyancy. Gil jumped in from the barge, and the three of them watched as the crane operator lifted the locomotive from the deck and swung it out over the water.

  Joanna followed the motion, amazed at the precision with which the operator seemed to be able to direct the heavy machine, cranking it down centimeter by centimeter. Though the heavy load swayed and turned in the air, it stopped moving when it touched the surface. At that moment, she deflated her vest, dropped to a depth of ten meters, and watched the massive object descend toward her.

  In fact, the balloons were a good solution, for they inhibited the rate of descent of the locomotive just enough for the crane and the two technicians to direct it. Two
other divers already waited in front of the station, and she joined them while Charlie and Gil helped to guide the huge machine sideways onto its track.

  When its wheels were at eye level, she and the other six divers took hold of them to steady them. It edged downward a centimeter at a time until finally the steel wheels barely touched, the rails. At a signal from Gil, two of the balloons were released and the locomotive dropped.

  The coral sand flew up in a cloud for a moment at the impact, and when it settled, Joanna could see that the wheels were solidly in place. She turned to the diver next to her, whoever it was, and shook hands. Gil paddled around the locomotive, releasing the remaining balloons one by one, and though his mouthpiece prevented him from smiling, Joanna could tell he was relieved and happy. She hoped his luck would spread.

  With half a tank of air left, she allowed herself the pleasure of exploring the train. The steel locomotive and cars were too small for a diver to enter, but he had put a series of dummies inside them near the open windows. The effect was a bit disarming, for, unlike the standing statues at the station, the seated passengers gave the impression of being trapped and drowning.

  She paddled away and made a quick round of the developing exhibit, enjoying the pleasure of a real dive again, then returned to the train station. Gil was still photographing his technicians at different locations on the locomotive. When she was finally low on air, she signaled to Charlie that they should surface, and they motored back to the dock.

  The whole operation had taken over an hour, and as she tugged off her wetsuit and put on shorts and tee shirt over her bathing suit, she felt the pleasant kind of tiredness of having completed a good dive. Only after she hefted the steel air cylinder onto her back for the trudge back to the car did she sense real exhaustion setting in.

  They hiked together along the dock, and as they came within sight of the Hina, she forced herself to look away. She refused to let Bernard insult her again. But movement on the lower stern deck caught her eye.

  Kaia, waiting for her.

  Joanna stopped in front of the yacht, her heart pounding, while Charlie gave a quick wave and diplomatically continued on.

  Kaia smiled with sorrowful warmth. “How are you?”

  “I’m all right. Back working.” She hated the banality of their conversation. “You?”

  “Struggling. I miss you.”

  “Really? Why don’t you visit the workshop?” The question seemed obvious in retrospect. “You can come any time.”

  Kaia shrugged ambiguously. Was she afraid of Bernard or of Joanna’s expectations? Both thoughts made Joanna slightly nauseous.

  “Too much going on. I’m sorry.”

  I’m sorry. Joanna hated that expression. I’m sorry is what women said when they dumped you. “I understand,” she answered, the sickness in her stomach spreading to her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  “I told you not to come around my boat,” a male voice called out. Bernard Allen stood on the upper deck, his mere elevation lending him authority.

  Kaia cringed visibly, and Joanna unconsciously took a step back. She thought of a dozen things she could shout back at him, but none of them would change the anger or the longing that roiled inside of her. “Well, good-bye, then. Take care,” she said impotently, and continued along the dock to the shore. The weight of the steel cylinder on her back forced her to hunch forward, in the posture of defeat.

  She had been through so much in the last two weeks, but at that moment, for the first time, she felt like breaking into tears.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As Charlie turned the car into the parking lot of the hostel, Joanna tried to shake off her depression. She was a scientist and a sculptor, she told herself, chosen from among hundreds to contribute a piece of art to a major exhibit. Moping around like a lovesick teenager was ridiculous, and she deserved a good slap in the face for it. Charlie, ever the diplomat, said nothing, but his gentle silence only added to the embarrassment.

  They unloaded their diving equipment from the trunk, set aside their tanks for return to the dive center, and hung their dripping wetsuits on the outdoor rack along with the others. As they passed the hostel office, Charlie waved her on. “I’m going to check for mail.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Joanna mumbled, and climbed the stairs to her room. Maybe showering and shampooing the salt out of her hair would help her pull herself together. She let herself into her room and kicked off her sandals. Her shirt was soaked through and she hung it up on a hanger, then changed out of her bathing suit.

  Someone knocked. “Joanna, it’s me. Let me in.”

  “Just a minute.” Throwing on jeans and a dry shirt, she opened the door. “What is it, Charlie?” She couldn’t keep the irritation out of her voice.

  Charlie stepped in, unfazed. “A fax came in from the museum. Hanan was holding it for us especially. You want to read it or shall I?”

  She dropped down onto her bed, energized by the news. “You read it. It’s your baby, really.”

  Charlie pulled up the only chair in the room and unfolded the fax.

  “Nigel made some remarks at the beginning, about problems with a few of the words, etc. But let me jump to the translation itself.”

  This is the testimony of Astari, first daughter of Lot, who is kin to Abraham and the father of my child Moab. I swear before the One God it is the true account of the destruction of Gomorrah and our flight from it as God’s chosen family.

  Gomorrah was a cheerful city of mixed peoples and their gods, though none but the family of Lot worshiped the One God. Lot was not a son of Gomorrah but wandered to the city on the plain from elsewhere, while my mother was native to the town and a follower of Anat. When she was given unto Lot as wife, she renounced that cult and took into her heart the One God.

  For all that my father preached, the people remained indifferent to our God, yet Lot took great offense at theirs. His righteous anger waxed with his years and yet none would hear him. And so it came to pass that he spoke of a Reckoning, of the One God’s wrath toward the idolaters, and of His avenging angels. When we looked upon their work in the ashes of Sodom, we knew he spoke true.

  And verily, after the ruin of Sodom, within the cycle of the moon, God’s angels came to Gomorrah. Lot met them at the gate and bade them come into his house. They entered in and spoke their names: Mesoch, Yassib, and Gebreel.

  We knew for a certainty they were our special angels, for they spoke of Abraham, the head of our clan, and of his supplication to God to save us, the only righteous ones. My mother fell to trembling, and Gebreel, the fairest of the angels, cast a gentle eye upon her in her distress. It was as if God’s love was in his face and God’s wrath in the faces of the others.

  While we prepared the evening bread, the men tarried in the other room whispering among themselves. I yearned to listen, for surely the matter touched us deeply, but alas, though our mother wept, our duty was to serve the men their supper.

  When we sat at table breaking bread, the people of Gomorrah came unto us with great vexation. Men and women of the city and the elders with their wives and boys. They feared the angels, who had prophesied doom already at the gate, and demanded to confront them. But Lot’s heart was hardened, and he mocked the people from the doorway.

  “This is a house of true believers, where none but the righteous shall come in. Here, satisfy your appetites on maids who have known no men, for it is better you violate their innocence than that you molest an angel of God.” Thus saying, he thrust my sister and me into their midst.

  “Violate? Molest?” One of the elders laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Wherefore do you speak of molestation? We have no interest in your daughters, but only in those who call themselves angels and who entreat heaven for our ruin. Let them come before us and explain themselves.” He spoke clamorously for Lot had closed the door.

  “Why do you withhold them? We want only to speak with them,” another shouted, pounding on the door. And lo, the door did open, but a s
hower of burning coals was cast from within and did blind him.

  The people departed then to attend the injury, and our mother drew us back inside. But there was no peace, for the angels commanded that we flee. Not from the crowd, which had dispersed, but from the conflagration that was to come. By some foreknowledge, perhaps in prayer, Lot had already bidden the servants load the donkeys. And though it was eventide, the angels were adamant and drove us before them into the hills. Hardly had we reached the heights when the darkness below became lit. We looked back and saw the fires here and there, small at first, then increasing, until the city, our home, was all ablaze. Our mother cried out and fell upon her knees, pounding the ground with her fists.

  While we mourned with her, our father did but raise his hands to heaven. “This is the wrath of the One God,” he called out. “Praise be unto him.” Beside me, my mother only whispered through her tears, “My Tiamat.”

  “Enough lament.” Lot reproached her. “Your sorrow is not meet, wife, for God has other plans for us. Just ahead is a cave where we can dwell until the punishment is past.”

  Our mother would not turn away but stared yearning toward Gomorrah. I beseeched her to come but she would not hear of it. “No, I will tarry here, for my heart is broken. Go with your father, dearest child. If more calamity falls, you must look after your sister.”

  Those were my mother’s last words to me. For verily, God’s testing of us was not done, and there were yet more tribulations. That very night God struck down my mother for her disobedience, and out of fear of Him, I submitted to my father’s will. But I could not endure to abide by him, and so by first light, I crept down the hill to seek my mother’s spirit. Where she had knelt and looked back upon Gomorrah, I found her grave, marked by a pillar of salt, and I prayed it was a sign that God had forgiven her in death. I returned to the cave holding to this consolation, but on the second night, my father did force himself upon my sister, taking her innocence as he had done mine, and I was once again in despair.