Evidence? Justine mused, staring out the kitchen window, observing her ravens arrive. The trees were bare by now, yet the morning sun turned the few remaining leaves and blades of grass into a sparkling tray of jewels. The familiar birds, in turn, slowly lifted one foot and then another, as though examining the bottom of their webbed feet for clinging snow. Earlier in the morning, she had left a small bowl of cat food and the usual granola for her regular guests. Everyone is looking for “evidence”—the ravens, Mike, the Mexican priest, Scott, the Catholic Church investigating the miracles of Kateri. Myself in search of Lawrence. Evidence to confirm beliefs, evidence to substantiate theories, evidence to persuade, evidence as proof . . . what were the ravens looking for? If they’d found snow on their feet, would it have changed their behavior?
The pursuit of evidence can be touchy, even disastrous. Justine looked down at her cold coffee and walked to the microwave to warm it up, then snuggled up on the couch. She involuntarily recalled a situation in pursuit of evidence when she was in graduate school at the University of Chicago. She had joined a team from Arizona State investigating an isolated Hopi tribe at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The team leader had convinced the tribe elders to submit to DNA testing for the tribe, an exceptionally rare permission, promising that the samples would be used to investigate the unusually high incidence of diabetes. That really was the intent of the testing, she was sure of it. Well, as it happened, the samples were not considered private or sacrosanct at the University and they were used for many dissertations. When tribal members discovered this violation, all hell broke lose and they filed suit. While she had nothing to do with the promise of privacy or the violations, her name had appeared in the suit as one of the team members. Fortunately, when Justine applied for the position in Santa Fe, the Hopi project did not come to light. She was already “notorious” enough.
Lawrence didn’t need evidence to draw quick conclusions from experience. His senses were instinctual, intuitive, almost physical. Justine knew he sought refuge from the world in nature. On Lobo Mountain. What he found there enabled him to burst forth as an artist, write Lady Chatterley’s Lover, find love with Isabella, an exotic Egyptian woman of maturity and empathy.
What else have I learned? She wondered, staring at her watch. She was due to meet Judy Lynn at the courthouse in less than an hour.
PART TWO
SIX WEEKS LATER
DECEMBER 17, 2010
CHAPTER 32
ALBUQUERQUE, NEW MEXICO, DECEMBER 17, 2010
JUSTINE WATCHED A STRIKING man of Mexican descent move confidently between parked cars in front of United arrivals at the Albuquerque International Airport. His swagger and broad shoulders, buckskin-toned felt hat pulled part way over his deeply tanned face, reminded her of Amir. She unconsciously moved her tongue to moisten her lips as a broad hand urgently reached for the door handle of her car. Amir asked frantically, “Have you heard the news? About Tunisia?” No greeting, no kiss, no other endearments.
“I have,” she replied, startled but not surprised by the directness of his non-greeting. “On the radio on my drive down. Tragic.”
“I shouldn’t be here,” he declared impatiently, paleness seeping into his temples. “I shouldn’t have come.” His nostrils flared as he threw two duffle bags into the back seat and climbed in beside Justine.
“I want you here, Amir.” She leaned over, expecting a kiss.
Amir took a deep breath and turned, staring into Justine’s golden eyes. A tired smile moved to his mouth, slowly growing into a wide grin; his eyes darkened, flashed with desire. He hadn’t seen her for more than six months, since the day she left Italy. On that very day, he was taking his own flight back to Egypt, back to his job at the Egyptian Museum. He leaned over and met her lips with his; each experiencing a taste of intense pleasure, like dark chocolate.
They held the kiss interminably; she could feel the nervous tension drain from his body, aroused to a new sensation. She pulled away reluctantly, reaching out to caress his cheek just as a traffic cop knocked on her window, aggressively waving her on. She released the brake, shoved the car in gear, and pulled away from the curb. Turning onto University Avenue and heading for Interstate 25, she finally asked, “What really happened, Amir? What have you heard?” She handed him a bottle of Evian.
Swigging the water, he mumbled, “A young Tunisian street vendor set himself on fire. He’d been denied a permit to sell his goods—more than once—and when he set up his stand without a permit, a woman policeman yelled at him—then slapped him. Slapped him, Justine! The humiliation! He couldn’t take it any longer.” Amir’s eyes were moist.
Tears moved down Justine’s cheeks. She audibly gulped. “What will happen now?”
“I don’t know . . . this could be the trigger . . . it could ignite the whole Middle East. Our countries are powder kegs. You know about the tensions, the turmoil. My work with Wael. You’ve witnessed it yourself, haven’t you? The religious tension. The constant state of emergency. Young men picked up on the streets without reason. The broken economy. But, who knows, the tragedy might just blow over, just like every other insult. People turn away, go on with their lives.”
“Can they be so complacent again? What will it take?”
“I need to get on Facebook as soon as I can.” His shoulders slumped as he settled into the passenger seat; he hadn’t shaved for two days, his rumpled sports jacket and sweater gaped open over his hairy chest, all of which, combined with his determined expression, added to his rugged sensuality.
North of Albuquerque, pools of sand and sparse vegetation escaped from under scattered layers of melting snow. Justine observed a few dozen graceful mustangs race across the frozen landscape. Wild by nature, fenced by man, these magical animals, silken manes and tails sailing into the crisp evening air, came to a wooden fence, a barrier topped with barbed wire. The herd split themselves into two halves, each turning to sprint in the opposite direction, like a flock of starlings. She wondered if the mustangs expected to be free at the end of the race or were playing a game—a game they knew they couldn’t win.
He looks so tired, Justine observed now, yet will he be able to sleep? “Can you nap while I drive?” she asked.
“Not likely,” he said, shaking his head as he leaned forward to turn on the radio, spinning the dial to catch the news in mid-sentence:
. . . Tunisia. This morning Mohamed Bouazizi, a 27-year-old shopkeeper in Tunis, set himself on fire after a squabble with a policewoman, onlookers say. More than a hundred witnesses stood in horror as Bouazizi slowly sat down in the middle of the road and poured gasoline on himself. He paused only briefly, mumbling inaudibly before he lit the match. No one moved. People stood transfixed, unbelieving. A woman ran from the crowd screaming ‘help him, help him.’ She was later identified as his mother. What would motivate a young man to take his life in this horrible way? What will happen now? Across the world . . .
Amir turned off the radio. Tears flowed down his whiskered cheeks. “What pain could cause a man to take such drastic action? The pain will spread, Justine. Throughout the Arab world, we will feel what Mohammed felt. Take up his fight.”
Justine was quiet for several moments as she considered his words. Pain. Arab world. Take up his fight. “We’ll get on line as soon as we’re home.”
“Yes, yes. I must do that.” He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes.
What is he thinking? Feeling? Talk to me Amir.
His head rested on the passenger seat, eyes closed. A classic Arab face. He is praying, she realized, reflecting on his deep faith and the courage it took to sustain beliefs when you’re in such a minority, for Coptic Christians now represented less than ten percent of the population of Egypt. If trouble comes, his family and thousands of others will be in grave danger.
North of Espanola, past Ohkay Owingeh, they began the climb into the Rio Grande Gorge. Amir opened his eyes, turned to Justine, managing a smile.
“Where were you?” s
he asked, her voice soft, coaxing.
“In prayer, Justine. I asked God for guidance. The road ahead will be difficult. People will be hurt, many will probably die. I don’t know if freedom is even possible in Egypt.” He took another deep breath, slowly releasing it. “I’m feeling the altitude, I think,” he said. “How high are we?”
“About 2300 meters, seven thousand plus feet. It will take a few days to adjust.” She reached out to brush a black curl from his perspiring forehead. “We’ll be home soon,” she said.
For the last half hour of the drive, they were quiet; she turned onto highway 110, shortly pulling into her driveway, wheels crunching on fragments of snow sounding like millions of saltine crackers.
Justine opened the back car door, grabbed one of Amir’s duffle bags and made for the house, slipping the key out of her slacks pocket as she walked. Amir followed closely with his computer bag and backpack, careful to keep his balance on the splintered wooden stairs and uneven flagstones. It was cold, stars sprouted in the raven-colored sky from an encircling rim of purple mountains. She had left the porch light on; automatic floodlights flashed boldly as Amir reached the bottom step.
Inside, they briefly stood facing one another, as though seeing each other for the first time. Justine lifted one eyebrow, as though to ask, “What now?” She couldn’t be sure where his mind and body were. In Tunisia? Egypt? Enmeshed in desire for her body? She waited.
Amir smiled broadly and dropped his luggage where he stood. Taking her in his arms, he kissed her fully, languidly, inhaling all of her like a sizzling feast, nuzzling his nose into her smooth neck, under her lavender-scented hair. His body warmed as he pressed against her, she responding with a tingling desire she had not known with anyone other than Amir. She released herself into his arms. I am so needy . . . how I want him. Oh my god, it’s been so long.
Amir lifted her into his arms, his eyes scanning the room, this strange house. Justine pointed toward the bedroom, then rested her head on his chest, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat.
He gently laid her on the bed, removed her shoes, kissing her neck as he unbuttoned her blouse, one button at a time, she pulling his sweater over his head, his hair flaring wildly around his eager face. He kissed her mouth; her searching hands grazed across his taut belly. Then he grabbed her with a force that surprised her, caught her off guard, vulnerable. They made desperate love, a breathy rhythm taking over, seizing them with orgasmic release—intense, lusty desire consuming them both.
Moments later, Amir’s breathing steadied and slowed. He didn’t move. Soon, she realized what had happened. He’s asleep! Quivering with the pleasure of her own satisfaction, she watched this beautiful man fast asleep on her stomach. How I’ve looked forward to his sumptuous body, musky aroma—his penetrating dark eyes. She allowed her mind to wander, recalling the years that brought them to this day. Their relationship, their doubts, the conflicts.
It was still early and she wasn’t sleepy. Gently rolling Amir’s head to the pillow, Justine slid out of bed and tucked him under the quilt. He mumbled, then resumed breathing deeply again.
Justine watched him sleep for a time, then pulled on a pair of faded jeans, sweatshirt, and headed for the kitchen to make some dinner. He’ll be hungry when he wakes, she reasoned. Extracting two marinated filets of chicken from the refrigerator and grabbing a couple of sweet potatoes from the woven basket of vegetables, she placed them in the oven and cut up a salad.
In her office, she turned on the computer and pulled up a YouTube video on the Tunisian incident that had been posted by a bystander. She forced herself to watch Mohamed burn, his features contorted and blurred, the painful hysteria in his eyes unmistakable. She could almost smell the stench of burning flesh. He stared straight ahead and she felt as though they made direct eye contact. She slammed the computer lid closed and sat shaking, stunned by the immediacy of the tragedy. So intimate, so close. What does it mean when millions of people can witness such an experience first hand—and feel so helpless? If I had been there . . . yes, if I had been there I would have done something. Why didn’t others?? How could anyone stand back and do nothing when confronted with such a tragedy?
Something, the terror probably, raced her mind back to Zachariah’s violent murder in Cairo, his throat slit by a Brotherhood member during the burning of a Coptic Church. Her regrets arose, not from her affections for Zachariah, the man who had kidnapped and abused her in an attempt to keep the contents of the codex from coming to light, but for his brother, Amir, and grandfather, Ibrahim. Her thoughts lingered on the glorious man asleep in her bedroom and the tragedies he’d endured, including the murder of that beloved grandfather who had helped her escape Cairo with the codex on her lap. If she hadn’t found Mary’s diary . . . .
Justine was shaking as she opened her e-mail and addressed a message to her father. “Dad, You must know about the Tunisian suicide by now. What will it mean? Amir just arrived. Love, Justine.”
By eleven, dinner was cold, Justine was in her well-chosen nightgown—warm enough for a Taos winter, clinging and sensuous enough to be inviting. She crawled into bed beside Amir who hadn’t moved since 8:00.
At 2:00 a.m.—11:00 a.m. in Egypt—a wandering hand slid under her nightgown and slipped across her bare skin, slowing along her hipline, caressing her inner thigh. Deeply asleep, Justine was initially startled; after all, she’d lived alone for many months. Amir. Then she gave herself over to relishing his sensuous touch, permitting desire to sweep again through every morsel of her warm body.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said in return, turning over slowly to stare into his darkened face, barely illuminated by the nightlight in the bathroom. “Welcome home.”
Amir grinned, bracing his head with one hand and reaching out with the other to brush a stream of dark golden hair from her eyes. “It’s great to be here, Darling.”
She smiled, slipping her hand around Amir’s neck and drawing him to her. Their lips met. Tenderly, without desperation this time. Each pulled back, gazing at one another as though their faces were new territory to be explored. A map of desire and familiarity, yet with mystery accrued by time and separation.
Amir lovingly ran his forefinger around her lips, then touched the end of her nose. She felt intense longing energize his hands, his tightening body. He drew her closer, kissing her eyes, nose, mouth, nuzzling his face between her breasts, her hair a warm drape of scented satin.
Justine responded with unfathomable, aching desire, moving slowly with his body, now charged flesh upon her own. He deftly slipped her nightgown over her head and pulled her on top of him, her hands around his waist as they rolled across the bed. He straddled her, moving his mouth again to her breasts, her soft stomach, before sliding back up along the length of her eager body. She feeling his hardness against her legs, before he entered her.
When the light of dawn first crept across the thick ceiling timbers, Justine and Amir lay spent, holding each other, talking only briefly through the events in the Middle East. When Amir jumped out of bed, Justine led him to her office computer and logged in to Facebook. As expected, the Tunisian incident had gone viral, stirring emotions across the region, especially in Egypt. Hundreds, thousands of entries cried out in Arabic: “Now is our time!” “We’ll take no more!” “We must be as brave as Mohamed!” Amir watched in silence as he scrolled through the words, finding a personal message from Wael: “Amir, we must talk. Call me.”
When Amir managed to connect with Wael, his first question was: “When are you coming back?”
“Soon,” Amir assured him. “Will the revolution happen?”
“I have no doubt. As soon as we are ready.”
“How soon?” asked Amir, excitement tightening his chest. As an archaeologist employed by the Egyptian Museum, a man in his late thirties, Amir was one of the “elders” in the movement.
“When we reach a million—a million followers on our site.”
“I’ll be
there,” Amir said confidently. “In the meantime, we’ll talk each night .”
CHAPTER 33
“DO THE RAVENS ALWAYS visit in the morning,” Amir asked, coffee in one hand, the other arm around her waist. The reunited lovers stood by the kitchen window gazing at the frozen landscape sparkling under the morning sun. Bare trees and absent vegetation announced the wintry season. Ravens circled, chattering among themselves, flapping their wings.
“They’re expecting to be fed,” she smiled, “they’re omnivorous, and would prefer mice or bats, but I’m not willing to indulge them.” Turning to grab granola out of the cupboard and blueberries from the frig, she prepared breakfast for the ravens and stepped outside in her bare feet.
“Looks good,” he called after her, pouring granola into two bowls, dividing the remaining blueberries between them.
“Cold as a well-digger’s bottom out here!” she exclaimed through the open screen door, then hurried past him to fetch her slippers. “I’ll be right back,” she called from the hallway.
Amir placed the bowls, coffee, and one banana on the coffee table and stirred the smoldering embers in the fireplace left from the night before, encouraging a blaze with a couple of fresh logs. “Tell me what you’ve learned about Lawrence,” he said, settling in for a long story. “Or should I say your great grandfather?”
“Either will do,” she grinned, staring out the bay window to gather her thoughts. Where do I start? So much to tell. “One of the stunning observations, Amir, is how many people live here because Lawrence is here: his ghost, his spirit, his memory, something.”
“Amazing. What is it now? Eighty years since he died?”
“And, eighty-five since he last lived here.” They were both silent, he processing this information, she revisiting the awe she felt each time she was explicit about these years and the presence of Lawrence devotees.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 19
