The Tenth Song

by Ragen, Naomi

  She washed her hands in the bathroom, then dipped the pita into the hummus. Her stomach growled with joy. Before she knew it, she had finished off the entire contents of the tray, leaving behind empty plasticware. She licked the honey off her fingers.

  A bath did sound good, she thought. The tub was chipped but clean, she saw, wondering if there would actually be enough hot water. She turned on the taps. The hot water came in immediately, so hot she pulled her hand away. She lit some candles and shut off the lights, pouring in some bath salts and some perfumed oil. Shedding her sweaty airplane clothes and underwear, she slid softly beneath the bubbles.

  It is so quiet here, she thought, closing her eyes. There was only the sound of the wind through the mountains and the call of some evening birds. The water was so soft, like cream, smoothing her dry, aging skin.

  She found her mind wandering in darkness until it finally stopped, settling down in a quiet spot of indifference.

  The towels were scratchy and thin, but clean and dry. Her skin felt like silk as she slipped on her pajamas and crawled beneath the clean sheets. She felt she shouldn’t fall asleep too easily: that it would betray her anger and frustration. But as soon as her eyes closed, she drifted off.

  20

  The noise that woke her was a bird’s deep-throated call.

  Light was streaming through the old curtains, turning them to bronze. She put on her slippers and bathrobe and wandered toward the front door, opening it. She gasped.

  There was the sea surrounded by red mountains beneath a red-gold and lavender sky. She stumbled along the gravel path to where a cliff edge gave one an unobstructed view of the entire area. Blackbirds unfurled their long, graceful wings, floating effortlessly in flocks from cliff to cliff. A family of gazelles grazed, the females nursing their babies, the males polishing their antlers as they nibbled on vegetation. The faint strains of Zen music drifted down to her. She walked up, curious to see where it could be coming from. Just above, on a small plateau that jutted out from the mountainside facing the sea, there was a large circular tent. People must be inside, she thought, doing yoga, or practicing Chi Qong as they took deep breaths and feasted on the view. It must be lovely, she thought, cleansing your mind and heart each morning, then filling it with such a view!

  Voices drifted down to her. Praying? Chanting?

  She pulled her bathrobe around her more tightly, suddenly self-conscious, making her way back to her caravan. In the morning light, it looked, if possible, even worse. But for some reason, that no longer bothered her.

  She unpacked her clothes, wondering what would be appropriate. Even though it was the height of winter, here it seemed like spring. The full sun in a blue sky—something she wouldn’t see in Boston again for at least another few months—had warmed the cold night air. For some reason, she found herself amused by that, the idea that all the people she knew were freezing, and she was warm.

  She took out her jeans, then hesitated. What kind of community was this? Were they like the ultra-Orthodox who obsessed over how pants outlined a woman’s crotch and behind (they did the same to men, but no one seemed to mind about that), outlawing them for women, calling them “men’s clothing” and an “abomination”? A place which had multivolume rule books on everything from the proper length of a woman’s sleeves to the colors she could wear? And if so, should she care?

  She sat down on the bed, the jeans in her lap.

  She wasn’t here to be polite—or to be recruited. She was here to rescue her misguided daughter and show her the way home. While she was doing it, why should she care if these obviously manipulative strangers on a hilltop in the middle of the desert approved or disapproved of what she was wearing or anything else about her?

  She pulled on the jeans, topping them with a sweatshirt that read: THANK GOD FOR NOT MAKING ME A MAN. If they are religious fanatics, that should certainly press their buttons, she thought with cheerful maliciousness, girding herself to do battle.

  She walked down the path defiantly, but people simply looked at her and smiled, calling out: “Boker tov” or “Shalom.” The men and women both wore sandals, long tunics over pants, and hair coverings: the men, bright knitted helmets that she realized must be stand-ins for the little crocheted skullcaps worn by most modern Orthodox men; the women, turbans or scarves.

  Not a single person wore black.

  For Abigail, that was both a relief from her worst fears as well as an unsettling fact that demanded more investigation she would have happily forgone. Black would have made everything so simple and clear-cut, relieving her of any responsibility to be fair and open-minded.

  The community was small, she realized, the concrete-block houses and tents few and far between, spread over the mountaintop. Just beyond the last group of houses, one could already see the encroaching desert that lay like a vast backyard, inscrutable and overwhelming in its wildness.

  Her stomach began to grumble demandingly, insisting on food. The easiest thing, of course, would have been simply to knock on Ariella’s door. But since Abigail had practically chased the woman away and slammed the door in her face without even bothering to say thank you for the wonderful dinner, she felt awkward about asking for more favors.

  She saw a young man getting into a pickup truck. “Excuse me,” she said, wracking her brain for the Hebrew words . . . “Selicha . . . ?”

  He looked up at her, taking his hands off the steering wheel.

  “Are you one of . . .” she began, then thought better of it. “I mean . . . do you . . . live here?”

  He nodded, unsmiling.

  “I am a mother, the mother . . . of . . . Kayla Samuels is my daughter.”

  A slow smile spread over his face. “Shalom. We like Kayla very much.”

  “So do I,” she wanted to shout, “and you can’t have her!” Instead, she controlled herself. “Can you tell me where I can buy some food? I mean, where do you all eat?”

  He pointed back in the direction from which she had come.

  “There is a kitchen and a dining room. After prayers, there is breakfast,” he said in the swift Hebrew of the native. She was surprised she could understand almost everything.

  “Prayers? Tefillot?”

  “Yes, we pray together in the mornings, afternoons, and evenings.”

  A chill went up her spine.

  “Do they make you pray before they feed you?” she asked him in English.

  He examined her, his eyes wide. “Make us?” he repeated in English. “Mah zot omeret?”

  She blushed. It was the Hebrew equivalent of “What the hell are you babbling about?”

  “I just wanted to know if I’ll also have to pray before I can get some food.”

  He shrugged, amused, shaking his head, then started the engine, pulling out and starting down the road.

  Well, he wasn’t very nice, she thought, oddly relieved. Maybe he hadn’t read the cult handbook on how to treat visiting parents. She wandered back. It couldn’t hurt to check out the food. After all, they couldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to. Besides, they all seemed to really like Kayla. It would make sense for them to treat her mother well in the hope that she’d go away, leaving her daughter and lots of American dollars behind.

  “Mom!”

  She turned around. A young woman was running up the path. She had a head of wild red-gold curls tied back with a green bandana and wore a turquoise blue Bedouin galabia, embroidered with tiny red sequins. When she walked, there was a lightness to her steps that made it seem as if she were dancing to some unheard music. Her face was tanned dark gold, but even so, you could still make out a hundred freckles. Except for that, she looked like a goddess in some Italian Renaissance painting.

  “MOM!” Kayla reached out, taking her mother’s hands in hers and squeezing.

  “Kayla!”

  Abigail longed to reach out and enfold her taut young body, banishing the distance between them, but Kayla made no move to come closer.

  They s
tood there, studying each other silently.

  “You look so different,” Abigail finally said, smoothing down Kayla’s hair.

  “Is that a bad thing?” Kayla smiled.

  “No. You look like you did in high school, like your natural self. I always thought that was more beautiful than the beauty-parlor hair,” she said, surprised to be voicing something she had always kept to herself.

  Kayla looked surprised.

  “Oh, so you two have found each other?”

  It was Ariella. This time she was wearing a bright orange shirt and a long, purple skirt. On her head was a long, elaborately tied purple-and-orange head scarf. Her smile was bright. “Good morning! What a great shirt!” She pointed at Abigail. “I’d love to get one! Are you feeling better now?”

  The woman’s getup was ridiculous, Abigail thought, but somehow, it suited her. She looked exotic and ageless.

  Ariella turned her attention to Kayla. “So, are you shocked?”

  “No.” Kayla shrugged, grinning. “I knew she’d come.”

  Abigail fumed. Did she think this was a big joke? Or was she once again, and as usual, thinking only of herself, expecting the entire universe—or at least her hapless parents—to magically adjust reality into a more congenial and accommodating place for her capricious and changing needs?

  “We really need to talk, Kayla. Alone,” she said pointedly.

  “Ariella, I’m sorry . . .” Kayla apologized.

  “Of course, no problem!” Ariella nodded. “You two spend all the time you need together. Kayla, I’ll have someone cover your chores. You need to be with your mom.”

  Abigail watched as Kayla reached out and hugged Ariella with all the warmth that had been missing from their own greeting.

  “Come,” said Kayla, leading the way.

  21

  “Where were you? When did you get back? Did you really expect me?” Abigail said breathlessly, trying to keep up with her daughter’s hurried pace. “And where are we going now?”

  “I don’t want you to miss Rav Natan. He usually speaks at nine thirty. I’m still at the dig at that time, so this is a real treat for me.”

  Abigail stood still. “The only person who I am interested in listening to is you, Kayla! You have a lot of explaining to do!”

  “I know. But you’ll understand more of what I tell you if you sit through just one class. I promise you.”

  Abigail shook her head firmly. “I’m not going anywhere. That’s final.” She saw her daughter’s face fall, the light go out. “Look, honey, I’m exhausted. I haven’t even had breakfast yet . . .”

  “Of course. I’m so sorry, Mom. I’ve forgotten what that long flight is like. And that jet lag! Forgive me? Come, let’s sit in the dining room, and I’ll get you breakfast. We can talk then. Anyhow, Rav Natan gives another class in the late afternoon—the one I usually go to.”

  They walked slowly side by side, Kayla allowing Abigail to create the pace. “It’s down there, the house with the blue flags.”

  It was on the side of the mountain that overlooked the most magnificent view, so that the house itself, its concrete slabs and ugly metal shutters, seemed to disappear from the picture. Inside, it was surprisingly homey, with hand-painted wooden paneling and large, framed oil paintings of scenes from the Bible done in the manner of Chagall. An Arab chef with a black-and-white kaffiyeh around his neck was arranging a small buffet table, laying out salads, cheeses, yogurts, and warm, crusty breads.

  “Where do I pay?” Abigail said, filling her tray.

  “It’s not a hotel, Mom! It’s a home. You’re my guest. Our guest.”

  “So, how does this work? It’s like a kibbutz?”

  “Well, maybe, a little. But more like—”

  “And the way people dress. That Ariella and her son Ben Tzion. What’s their story anyway?”

  “Ariella is one of the most wonderful people in the world, Mom . . .”

  “I wasn’t being derogatory. It’s just . . . those turbans! Those colors!”

  “She’s a convert. Just a small-town girl from Montreal who went to visit a friend in Alaska one summer, as a lark. She had a summer romance, and wound up marrying a local boy from Anchorage who turned out to be an abusive drunk. She divorced him, and they had joint custody, until one day he took Ben Tzion out for a drive and smashed up the car. Ben Tzion was only three. He nearly died—you can still see the scars! That’s when she decided to take her son and flee, going underground. One of the families that sheltered her was a rabbi and his wife, who talked to her about the Holy Land. She got on a plane and came, fell in love with the country and with Judaism. She and her son converted. She’s been here for five years.”

  “And the ex?”

  “Finally got the car crash he was looking for. He took his second wife and baby with him.”

  Abigail shuddered. “Horrible.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. Here, have something to eat.”

  They sat quietly, eating, drinking coffee and tea made with garden herbs. Abigail felt herself grow warm and drowsy and satisfied.

  “That soft white cheese was excellent,” Abigail said, yawning. Even though she was no longer hungry, she spooned a little more on her pita. “What kind is it?”

  “Lebanah. It’s low-fat, and made from goat’s milk. We make it right here in our dairy.”

  “You raise goats here? You have a dairy?”

  “This is a fertile, self-sustaining little world, tucked away inside this awesome desolation.”

  The penny dropped. “It’s a commune, right? These people are hippies. And this rebbe . . .”

  “Rav . . .” Kayla corrected her, rolling her eyes.

  “This Rav Natan . . . he’s your guru?”

  “Mom! These sixties concepts! Really. I feel like I’m on a rerun of Happy Days.” She fidgeted with her paper napkin, tearing it into tiny pieces, which she then rolled into bunches that turned into flower petals. “Origami.”

  “Very pretty. Do they have belly-dancing classes here too?”

  “MOM!”

  Abigail smiled, and suddenly Kayla broke out into peals of laughter.

  “I guess it does sound pretty crazy. Pretty sixties-flower-child. I never thought about that before, how you with your cultural biases would view it. I should have realized.”

  “Don’t be so dismissive.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom, it’s just . . . I was born two decades after the sixties. I can’t relate to any of that. All I know is what I’ve experienced here.”

  “And what is that, Kayla? What have you experienced here?” Her tone rose, her face growing hard and tense. What did her privileged daughter who had been given everything have in common with these unfortunates?

  Kayla looked around at the startled faces turned in their direction. “Mom, if you’re finished eating, maybe we could take a walk and find a more private venue?”

  Abigail put an irresistibly beautiful apple into her pocket and got up. “Let’s go.”

  They walked silently toward a deserted spot behind a group of tall trees.

  “Look how angry you are, Mom! Already! We haven’t even been together twenty minutes! Why did you come at all if all you are going to do is criticize? You could have done that in an angry letter. All it would have cost you was a stamp.”

  A furious, bitter retort rose to Abigail’s lips, full of condemnations and accusations and expressions of deep disappointment. Not useful, she told herself, feeling Adam’s steady hand grip her shoulder. She took a deep calming breath, then swallowed hard. “You’re right. Please forgive me. It’s just that . . . with all that’s going on in our lives right now . . . it wasn’t easy leaving your father. I feel guilty and upset even being here.”

  “How is Dad?” Kayla asked, suddenly less sure of herself.

  “Devastated. He is under charges that could put him in jail for life, and could cost him—us—everything we own. Shoshana could lose her home . . .”

  “What?” />
  Abigail nodded. Let her get this through her head, she told herself, mitigating her own misgivings about destroying Kayla’s newfound peace and happiness. It couldn’t be helped. She was part of this, part of this family. “Anything purchased with money from the proceeds of these money transfers is liable. Your father gave your sister and her husband a considerable amount for their down payment. Your college tuition also. It would all have to be repaid to the government.”

  Kayla slumped, her back rounding. “I had no idea.”

  “No? What did you think?”

  “I thought . . . I just . . .” She took a deep breath. “Look, the truth is I don’t think I ever let myself think about how much was at stake, or what was hanging over your heads. I guess I was hoping that they would have so little evidence the whole thing would just collapse, like a house of cards.”

  “That was what we were hoping for too, of course. But in the meantime, they now have a witness.”

  Her heart sank. “Who?”

  “That lawyer, Christopher Dorset.”

  Kayla was silent, gnawing her lip. “What possible reason could someone like that have to lie?”

  “What? So you think he’s telling the truth? You don’t doubt your father, do you?” Abigail asked sharply. “Is that what’s really going on, Kayla? Is that why you ran away?”

  “I’d rather jump off this cliff than find out Dad’s guilty, Mom. But be real! The circumstantial evidence is overwhelming! Dad admits he transferred millions, got millions in fees, met with the hedge-fund operator, in both Boston and Europe. And the hedge fund was unquestionably a cover for terrorist operations; the British have already closed it down. There’s no question they made direct transfers to vicious organizations that are responsible for horrible crimes, for the deaths of hundreds—Israelis, American soldiers . . .” Her voice shook. “Gregory Van has disappeared. Apparently, Van and his fund were under British Intelligence surveillance for months when Dad stepped into the picture.”