She hoped by then she’d have a fait accompli, an exhibit bolted together and imbedded securely on the floor of the Red Sea.
By the time she was finished with the first statue, her fingertips were raw. Though she’d covered her face and worn a cotton cap, the cement dust adhered to her sweat-dampened neck, and the itching between her breasts meant it had crept down with the perspiration. It was time to stop.
As if on cue, Charlie strode in. “Hey, you. It’s six o’clock. Time to call it a day!”
“How do you like her?” Joanna pulled off her goggles and mask and felt the cool air on her face. “I’ve just now finished her.”
“She’s a beauty. I see you’ve already attached the head.”
“Yes, but the cement needs to set. By tomorrow, she and her sister will be ready to go down with the fountain.”
“Good, then all we’ve got left is the mother. Any ideas for her? You could ask Hanan to pose.” The tentative note in Charlie’s voice revealed that even he didn’t much care for the idea.
“She’s not really what I have in mind, but let me think about it.”
“Why don’t you think about it at the Sun Bar? The others will have arrived by now, and you look like you could use a few cold ones.” He scratched a bit of powder off her chin. “And a shower too.”
“Ya think?” She brushed her shirt, sending a cloud of cement dust into the air. “Sure, a cold beer or two is just what I need. Meet you there in half an hour.”
*
The Sun Bar was already busy when Joanna arrived. Though it was still bright afternoon, the end-of-the-day drink was such a well-established custom that half the hotel population showed up and the bar was always full.
The artists’ table was also already occupied by most of the project artists. Someone had left a knapsack on the floor by the table and its straps lay dangerously underfoot. Joanna stepped over them carefully, then nudged them with her foot back under the table and sat down.
In a circle made up of Yoshi, Sanjit, Japhet, Faisal the Saudi, and Rami the Moroccan, Khadija sat hunched over her lemonade narrating the story of the attack on her sculpture.
“The bastard,” the Congolese Japhet said. “Are they sure they know who did it?”
“Of course they’re sure,” Khadija shot back. “Didn’t you get the same message from the committee that we all got?”
Japhet shook his head.
“Well, they said it was George. In fact, I knocked on his door this morning to confront him, and he was gone.”
Charlie, Marion, and a moment later, Gil arrived and added more chairs, and they all sat elbow to elbow. The handsome young man who was their usual waiter hadn’t bothered to take orders and simply brought half a dozen glasses of beer. Along with the others, Joanna reached for one of the glasses.
“What was he so upset about, anyhow?” Yoshi asked.
Sanjit opened his hands, as if displaying the obvious. “The work was critical of Israeli soldiers. Probably he didn’t like that. He’s an American, after all.”
“Maybe he’s Jewish,” Faisal suggested. “That would explain a lot.”
“Not necessarily,” Colombian Eliezar said. “I’m a Jew and I think Khadija’s work is spot-on. All she did was portray what happens every day in the West Bank. And even if it didn’t, even if it was propaganda, which it isn’t, the proper reaction would be to lodge a protest with the committee, not smash the work.”
“What are you going to do now,” Rami asked. Can you bring the statue up and put another head on it?”
“No, I’m going to leave the work as it is. The smashed head of one of the Palestinian women is a bigger political statement than the work itself could ever have made. The work is done and I’m done. I’ll let people’s reactions speak for themselves.”
“There’s no way to predict anyone’s reactions. There are way too many works in the exhibit, and each one tells a different story,” Yoshi said. “I’m just glad my dragon is done and I can stop worrying about it.”
“Everybody is finished now, nicht?” Marion said. “Except for Joanna.” She turned to the side. “How goes it? Do you need any more hands?”
Joanna shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m almost done too. All that’s left is to find a model for the mother. I need a really striking face to go with the girls I already have.”
“What about that actress who was taking care of you?” Yoshi asked. “That Kaia woman.”
Joanna avoided her glance. “I’m not really in touch with her at the moment. Besides, her husband is her agent, and he’d never allow it.” She chuckled bitterly. “Or he’d demand royalties.”
“What a shame,” Yoshi said. “Her movies are big, even in Japan. She has a face that could start a Trojan War.”
“Mmm,” Joanna murmured noncommittally. What would the Japanese think of Kaia’s next movie—the crappy propaganda film for which she was learning her lines at that very moment? Suddenly, Kaia’s own assessment of the Hollywood life came back to her, and she was disgusted.
The handsome waiter was back with another tray of beers and a few glasses of the bar’s dreadful local wine. “Thanks, Hassan,” someone said, handing the glasses around the table and dropping a large bill on his tray.
“You know, maybe I’m a little giddy because my work’s all done, but I love this group. I love this bar.” Sanjit smiled and frowned in rapid succession. “Is that naïve?”
“Naw,” Charlie said. “I feel the same way. This place is like a little United Nations, without the bickering. Wouldn’t it be nice if there was a whole city like this?”
“A lot of cities aspire to be that way,” Gil said. “Big ones like New York, London, Berlin, Paris.”
“Mumbai to some extent,” Sanjit added. “On a good day.”
“Tokyo?” Yoshi thought for a moment. “Well, it wants to be cosmopolitan, but it’s not really. The Japanese keep to themselves around foreigners.”
“Weimar Republik, Berlin,” Marion added. “But look what happened to that.”
“What happened to it?” Sanjit asked.
“Nazis.” Marion knocked back the last of her beer.
“Oh, right. Sorry, my German history isn’t so great.”
Charlie shook his head. “Seems like there’s always Nazis. I mean extreme nationalism, us-versus-them forces lurking in the recesses, everywhere.”
Yoshi nodded. “Skinheads, religious fundamentalists, racial purists. Something in the human heart afraid of the ‘other.’”
“That’s what I love about our underwater city. It’s full of the ‘other,’” Gil said, unusually talkative.
Marion laughed. “That’s what the purists hate, too much ‘other.’ They call it Sodom and Gomorrah.”
Joanna started to get up from her seat but caught her foot in the strap of the knapsack on the floor. “Whose bag is this?” she asked, holding it up. It was heavy, filled with books or something.
No one answered.
The waiter was just coming back with another round of drinks. “Hassan, I think someone left their stuff here. Maybe you should take this to the bar in case someone comes back later. It’s sort of in the way here.”
“Yes, miss,” he said, collecting the empty glasses onto his tray, then hooking the knapsack over his shoulder.
Joanna turned back to the group. “As I was saying, it’s damned difficult to keep an open society. Marion’s right. The Weimar Republik was about as liberal as it could get in early twentieth-century Germany, but it fell apart. That undercurrent of resentment and racial arrogance just seeped out, like a disease. I don’t know what—”
The boom was deafening. Then came the chaos of screams, cries for help.
The center of the mayhem seemed to be the serving bar, now a heap of splintered wood and, beside it, scatterings of bloody limbs and scraps of clothing. Something hideously round still rocked on the floor and Joanna looked away, nauseous. Blood trickled from her forehead into her eye and she became aware of t
he bright pain in her scalp. Finally, realization dawned.
The knapsack, the tray of glasses, Hassan.
The glass fragments had exploded outward in a deadly sphere, slicing into whatever they hit. Beside her, Charlie grimaced, holding his forearm, and Marion too grasped her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. The others at the table were just moving from stupefaction to fear and trying to get out of the booth. She wasn’t sure whether she fell herself or whether the others had pushed her, but she found herself on her knees among glass shards. Charlie grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to her feet again. Not daring to look toward the carnage at the bar, she hurled herself toward the door along with the fleeing crowd.
Chapter Nineteen
Joanna woke up at seven, unrested after a fitful night. She sat up and rubbed her face, and the sudden sharp pain from her scalp wound reminded her of the previous evening. She had fled, along with all the others, to the periphery of the hotel, returning to the square in front of the bar when the police and ambulances arrived.
By then, Charlie and Marion had both determined that their wounds were superficial, and so all three made statements to the police but declined to go to hospital. Traumatized and agitated, they stayed together in Charlie’s room until nearly midnight when, emotionally drained but reassured, she and Marion went to their own rooms.
Now, by the cold light of morning, she wondered what the fallout would be. How many had been killed and…oh! The image of Hassan’s dismembered body flashed in her mind, and she shook it away, forcing herself to think of more mundane things.
The committee. Would they delay the opening of the exhibit or change the rules? The only way to find out was to carry on and wait for official announcements. She dragged herself into the shower, dressed, and went down to the workshop.
By eight she was laying out the tools for the day, determined to work, at least until exhaustion caught up with her, probably some time in the late afternoon. Fifteen minutes later Charlie marched in from the doorway, holding up an English-language newspaper.
“Three dead,” he said. “Hassan and two other Egyptian workers. Nineteen cut with flying glass, three seriously, but no other fatalities. And it looks like they identified the bombers.”
“Really? That’s incredible. It only happened yesterday.”
“Yeah, the bar manager actually knew them, fanatics who used to stand outside the bar and insult the patrons. He saw them pass through with the knapsack earlier but didn’t notice that they’d left it behind. The police arrested them in the middle of the night and they confessed. They were proud of it, the bastards, even though all they killed were their own good Muslim countrymen.”
“Not so good if they worked in a bar. But that means they left that bomb specifically at our table.” She dropped her voice to a murmur. “For us.”
“Yeah, looks like.”
“My God.” She exhaled horror, pressing her hand against the Band-Aid at her scalp line. “What about the others in our group?”
“Seems like only the people on the left side of the table got it. You and I and Marion.”
“And you? How are you feeling this morning?”
He patted his upper arm where the thickness under his shirt suggested an improved bandage. “I’m fine. You look like hell, by the way. Not the cut but the bags under your eyes.”
“Yeah, I can feel them. But no one ever died of baggy eyes. I wonder if this will affect the project.”
“I can’t imagine it. Way too much money’s already invested, and now the world is watching. I think they’ll just put security all around. And that reminds me, I got this from the office just now. A letter from the committee.” He handed over an envelope that had already been opened.
She glanced at the front and saw it was addressed to both of them, but Charlie didn’t wait for her to read it.
“They’ve offered you George’s site, the one on the slope. I think we can work with that, don’t you? I mean, the fountain can go at the bottom and the statue of Lot’s wife on the slope above it. That’s in keeping with the story, too.”
She perused the letter briefly, nodding. “Lot’s wife. I always hated that Lot had a name and she didn’t. But yes, you’re right. The slope’s fine. Do they want us to confirm?”
“It would be the polite thing to do. I’ll go and call them now and get it out of the way.” He turned toward the door.
“Thanks for taking care of that,” she called after him. Brooding for a moment on the irony of the tragedy, she fished around in her pocket for a dust mask and clicked on the sander. The hum of the sander motor and the grinding of the stone muffled all other sounds, providing a comforting white noise she’d grown accustomed to.
What could the assailants have possibly found so offensive in the underwater project that they wanted to kill its artists, half of whom were fellow Muslims? Was it simply the reactionary’s fear of the new, of things damaging to their tradition?
Or did they have a real beef and no one was listening to them? She tried to think what the anger and resentment might be about, but it all seemed so complex that she tired of it and focused her attention instead on smoothing the arms of Astari.
They would be covered with live coral within a year, but something in her wanted to start off with the girl in all her beauty. Not only the head, but also the hands were cast in dense, smooth stone and would resist growth longer. Let lovely Astari have more time to remain herself before nature claimed her. The hair, too, would be swept back, as if by an underwater current. As she sanded, she began to hum something vaguely resembling the chorus of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.
She worked with her back to the sunlit doorway, only slowly becoming aware of a long shadow creeping along the floor beside her. It approached slowly, then stopped, phantom-like and ominous.
She turned off the sander, her heart pounding. Was it another terrorist, back to finish the job? Who was trying to hurt her anyway and why? What could she do to defend herself, and would Charlie come back in time? She slowly pivoted around to face the intruder.
The figure was silhouetted against the blinding exterior, so it took a full two seconds for Joanna to discern who it was.
“Kaia?”
“I was worried about you.” Kaia stepped into the workshop with the grace of a dancer. She wore the same white cotton pants and blue shirt she’d had on when she arrived at the hospital, and Joanna suddenly recalled the innocence and anticipation of their first day together. A time before humiliation and rejection and terror. A wave of longing washed over her.
Kaia stepped closer, hesitantly, hands in her pockets, as if she could think of no other place to put them. “I heard about the bombing and I knew the artists always met in that bar. My worst fear was that you were there.”
Joanna stood nonplussed, the sander hanging in her hand at her side, then snapped back to reality. “I was there. Uh, but I’m all right.” She touched the Band-Aid with her gloved hand. “Just a small glass cut.”
“You poor thing.” Kaia swept to her side. “First sharks and now this.” She reached out a tentative hand, then let it fall again. “You must feel like fate is out to get you.”
They stood face to face for an awkward moment and Joanna could smell Kaia’s sun-warmed skin and hair, a hint of perfumed soap. She vaguely recalled she was supposed to be angry, but with Kaia in front of her, in the corridor of sunlight that radiated from the doorway, she could think of nothing to say except, “How have you been?”
Stupid, bland remark. Have you missed me? Have you thought about me? Do you still want to kiss me? That’s what she really wanted to know.
“I’ve been busy.”
“Learning your new role?”
“No, I told Bernie I wouldn’t do it. I refused to sign.” Kaia seemed relieved to have something to talk about and spoke in a stream. “He’s back in New York now talking to the film company and his lawyers. The contract he hashed out isn’t valid without my signature, but he’s lost a lot of cr
edibility by negotiating it in the first place. He’s trying to cut his losses and save his reputation as an agent by offering them a younger actress he also manages, at a quarter of the price. The producers will probably go for it, but I don’t care any longer, I really don’t, and…well, a lot of things are changing.” She stopped for air.
Joanna set the sander down, brushed grit from a bench, and motioned for Kaia to take a seat. “I’m glad. I mean about your standing your ground. You’re too good for religious-propaganda films. I hope this doesn’t cause any great financial hardship for you.” Joanna sat down on the same bench, a safe two-and-a-half feet away.
“I’ll live. I’ve got some good working years ahead of me. And I’m about to make some changes. I have to talk to a few people though.”
They were chatting now and Kaia showed no signs of wanting to leave. So far so good, Joanna thought. She dragged her fingertips nervously through the stone dust then brushed them clean, annoyed, and clasped her hands in her lap. “So, what else have you been doing?” Damn, could her conversation be any more banal?
Kaia brightened. “Well, you’ll appreciate this. I’ve started taking diving lessons. One of those quick courses they give at the dive center, but the last lesson was in deep water. I’m pretty confident now, and I’ve even bought my own vest and regulator, just like Bernie’s. I thought you’d be proud.”
“Oh, I am. You’ll be able to see the exhibit now. That’ll be nice.”
“Yes, that’s what I was thinking.” Kaia smiled helplessly, the subject having reached its end, and then swept her gaze around the workshop. “Those are your exhibit?” she asked, glancing toward the statues of the two girls.
“They’re part of it. There’s also the fountain over there.” Joanna pointed toward the corner where the trapezoid blocks of concrete were piled up. “Once they’re below, we’ll bolt them together to form a hexagon. The bowl and air reservoir will go in the middle.”
Beloved Gomorrah Page 18
