“It shouldn’t surprise me. As an Arab and archaeologist, I’m used to lingering ghosts and myths, part of our psyche. Please continue,” he coaxed, suspending his granola in the air and shifting his frame so their bodies touched at certain curvatures.
“I’ve been to the closed D. H. Lawrence Ranch a few times—I’m taking you tomorrow—you have to see it. Bill Haller will go with us . . . .”
“Bill?”
“The President of the Friends of D. H. Lawrence. He’s passionate about Lawrence,” she said, sipping her cooling coffee, “I’ll tell you his story later. Then, there is Judy Lynn, an eccentric attorney. We’ve met at the courthouse twice.”
“And, what have you found?” He appeared surprised that after all these years the court records would have much to tell. “What are you looking for??”
“Some of our hunt is just pure curiosity . . . we’ve found Frieda Lawrence’s will. By the way, she died a very rich woman. She had stocks in most major companies—plus Lawrence’s burgeoning literary estate.”
Amir lifted his right eyebrow in surprise, but waited for Justine to continue. He couldn’t imagine Egyptians organized enough to retain such records in one place.
“As we know, she left the ranch to the University of New Mexico, conditionally as a conference center in the form of a quit claim.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘I give you what I have.’ Technically, the University should have filed a Quiet Title to assure that they owned the property outright, but we can’t find it. But there’s more. We found the warranty deed through which Mabel Dodge Luhan gave the ranch to Frieda. Lawrence didn’t want it himself—he didn’t want to own anything, and particularly, he didn’t want to be indebted to Mabel.”
“Does New Mexico recognize community property?”
“Now, there’s the rub. It does—for more than a hundred years now. But the standard belief is that this was a personal gift, pure and simple—and a personal gift doesn’t fall under ‘community property.’”
“You sound as though you don’t think it was just a gift.”
“Frieda’s biographers are of one mind about it: that it was a gift. However, in Frieda’s single autobiography, Not I, But the Wind, she said she gave Mabel the original manuscript of Sons and Lovers for the ranch. But most historians of the families say that, while there was this exchange, both women knew the manuscript was not intended to be in exchange for the ranch . . . . However, the warranty deed says the exchange was for ‘one dollar and other considerations.’ It’s that last phrase that intrigues me.”
“‘For other considerations?’” Amir rose to stoke the fire; Cairo University was printed in large letters across the back of his gray sweatshirt.
“If the ‘other considerations’ meant the manuscript, then it was not just a gift.”
“And that would make all the difference in terms of community property, right?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “What’s your intention? Do you plan to re-open the will, the probate—which took place where? In France?”
“In England actually. But Lawrence didn’t have a will. At least it couldn’t be found.” She told him the story of the family friend Middleton Murray testifying that he had seen Lawrence’s will and it left everything to Frieda. “And, no, I don’t intend to challenge the will. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t have a strong case. Too many years have passed. And Judy Lynn assures me that the statute of limitations took effect a long time ago.”
“Then, why . . . ?”
“I haven’t entirely worked that out. Perhaps leverage with the University to get the ranch reopened. If I could establish my credibility as a family member who has a stake in the proper execution of my step-great grandmother’s—Frieda’s—will, perhaps I could influence what is happening there. Rather, what is not happening. Right now, I view this exploration as an archaeologist would, Amir, digging into the past. I’m not sure what it all means yet, but I am curious about everything related to Lawrence,” she paused. “You remember I told you about Frieda’s Italian lover, Ravagli?”
He nodded.
“Frieda and Ravagli lived together here for twenty years before they were married. In ’36, six years after Lawrence died, Frieda sent Ravagli to France to have Lawrence’s remains exhumed, cremated and brought back to the ranch. You’ll see the chapel tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t they marry?”
“I really have no idea, but here’s a fascinating little tidbit: on July 3, 1941, Frieda gave the ranch to Ravagli . . . .”
“Why? They weren’t even married.”
“Listen to this: on December 18, 1941, he gave the ranch back to her. Both were legitimate warranty deeds. I’m sure it had to do with World War II—certainly Pearl Harbor—and his being an enemy non-combatant.
“Wasn’t she? Being German.”
“Frieda carried an English passport, so she was safe. But Ravagli wasn’t. And newly enacted state law allowed the state to confiscate the property of enemy non-combatants.”
“Curious indeed! Does all of this work into your portrait of Lawrence?”
She laughed. “Not really. But the extended search—and what happened to Lawrence’s estate is fascinating. Especially in light of the value it held from the 50’s onward. Frieda died in ’56.”
“What happened to Ravagli?”
“He returned to his Italian wife and children. Twenty years after he left! Turns out, you see, they had never divorced . . . .”
“I see.” Amir was silent, trying to make connections, some of which did not appear to be there.
“Then, there is the key,” she added coyly. “I found a key in Lawrence’s cabin on the Ranch. I have no idea what it is for, but I’ve learned that there is an old bank in a tunnel underneath the square, the hotel actually.”
“Whoa. Hold on . . . what are you proposing? To blow up the safe or something?” He laughed at the ridiculousness of the question, his pupils dilating with amusement.
“Exactly, to blow up the safe!” She threw her arms out, surrendering to the rationality of her plan.
“You are a rare gem, Habibti! But you’re going to get yourself kicked out of New Mexico!” Amir shook his head and reached out to tussle her silken hair.
“But there is something else,” she said slowly, gazing up into his eyes. “Something far less tangible, less verifiable, not measurable at all. As I’ve told you, an important part of my journey here is to find out who Lawrence really was, and why this place, this ranch, held such magic for him. Why he longed so to return. I’m persuaded that part of the answer lies not only in the land, but in his hunt for his spiritual self.”
“He was raised a Protestant, right?”
“Yes, but fought against it all his life. He was contemptuous of the harsh moral codes, the need for an intermediate like Jesus. Anais Nin said he liberated literature, and that he sought to liberate himself as well. He found something inside himself, some new affinity for the land, on Lobo Mountain. And with Isabella. In that relationship he lived out his growing sense of liberation. I’m sure of it.”
Amir narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth, ready to ask the next question, when they heard a soft knock. The front door opened slightly, revealing a single eye.
“Taya. Come in. Join us,” said Justine, pulling her robe more tightly around her.
“Oh. You’re busy. I’ll just go.”
“None of that. Come in and meet my friend. Have a cup of coffee.”
Taya wedged her enlarging body through the door as though it couldn’t open any further and walked meekly toward Justine’s outstretched arms, keeping her eyes on Amir.
Sitting down in the chair opposite Justine and Amir, Taya’s body and face transfiguring into that of a coquette. Her toes folded toward one another, her face flushed. She smoothed the sweatshirt Justine had given her, announcing “Return of Blue Lake.” Her small breasts moved forward nearly indiscernibly as her forefinger made its unconscious way to the corner
of her mouth. Lolita.
You little devil, Justine mused. You’re attracted to Amir—but can I blame you? Justine gave Taya a reassuring smile, and turned to appraise her lover, to see him as Taya must: a full head of unruly chocolate hair with a brush of salt at the temples, dark, absorbed eyes, almost imperceptible fans of small wrinkles at the corners. More a Roman than Arab nose, lips sensuously full. Skin the color of newly-baked caramel. Amir’s intense gaze suggested he understood more than was being said. Ummm, she mused, he has that exotic demeanor, as though he came from a lost tribe of wandering Bedouins.
Amir appeared to sense Taya’s sexual shift at once and sought to put the young girl at ease. “I understand that you and Justine have been running together, Taya. Do you like that?”
“Yes, sir, I like it a lot. We run and talk.”
How formal, uncomfortable. “Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee, Taya,” suggested Justine. “You know where everything is. We need to get dressed for the day.”
At this, Taya blushed, staring first at Justine, then Amir. “Okay,” she said.
Amir took Justine’s hand and began to lead her toward the bedroom.
But as Justine noted Taya’s confused face, she stopped, squeezed Amir’s hand and said, “I’ll have a coffee with Taya, Amir. Go ahead and take your shower.”
Justine had told Amir about Taya during one of their Skype calls, so he understood her need for stability and support. “Sounds fine. See you girls in ten minutes.”
The “girls” stood at the kitchen island and drained the coffee pot, Taya stirring in her usual generous amount of sugar and cream.
“Do you remember me telling you about Amir, Taya? We’ve known each other for more than four years and been close for more than a year.”
“I remember,” said Taya. “Are you going to get married?”
Justine was taken aback by the directness of her question. “I don’t think so, Taya. We’re from different worlds, different cultures. We’re both pretty independent.”
“But you told me you studied cultures, Miss Justine. Don’t you understand him?”
Justine laughed. “I think I do, Taya.” She paused. “Yes, I think I do. But sometimes people change when culture and tradition demand that they behave in certain ways.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, dark expressive eyes peering over her cup.
“Let me put it this way: in Egypt, women are not considered equal to men. In our world now, in our relationship, Amir treats me with tremendous respect. We are equals. But what if we lived in Egypt? Would he be able to resist the expectation that women are put on this earth to serve men? And, for how long?”
“I see. Egyptians are a lot like the Tiwa, aren’t they? If I marry a Tiwa boy, or a Spanish boy like Ricardo, what will my life be like?”
“It’s good that you’re seeing this, questioning your life ahead.” Justine found it curious that their futures had some striking similarities. At least some shared questions. “Perhaps we can work that out together… Want to join us for lunch?” she asked, just as Amir appeared in the hallway.
CHAPTER 34
DECEMBER 22, 2010
“What will happen now, Amir?” Mike was staring over his cranberry martini.
“Social networks are alive with plans and counter plans. It will happen.” Amir paused, his dark eyes moving from guest to guest, his expression slightly self-conscious. Justine had warned him: “These are folks with great curiosities. They’ll want to know everything about you, the Middle East . . . figure out this man sleeping with Justine.” She had laughed with that playful lilt that he loved, that grin, although the comment had not eased his tensions at all.
“Please tell us what’s going on.” Carmen was insistent.
Amir was fascinated with Carmen Johnson. Justine had told him that she was eighty, but he would have estimated no more than sixty. Sparkling and energetic, he could imagine her forging the river at Hupobi. “A revolution, perhaps, Mrs. Johnson. Thousands of young Egyptians are following on Facebook, Twitter. Since the Tunisian incident, there is a feeling of fierce intensity on the Internet, a pulsing energy, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It’s just a matter of time.” The corner fireplace glowed. In concert, blinking lights from a glorious Christmas tree nearly touching the ceiling formed an aura around Amir, alternating shades of red and blue encircling his white turtleneck.
“Call me Carmen. Please,” she said, giving his arm a maternal pat. “What kind of action, Amir? Is revolution really possible?”
“Excitement doesn’t necessarily translate into revolution though, does it?” Pablo asked. “When was the last time you had a real revolution?”
“Point well taken, Pablo,” said Amir, pausing to consider the question, to remember. “Bread riots in the 80’s. But a real revolution of ideas, about how we live our lives? Honestly, I don’t know that we’ve ever had one. The ’52 revolution was peaceful.” Amir was the man of the hour—not only a stranger to New Mexico, but also a man of Arab descent and sensibilities.
“Yep, Nasser sent the King off for a life of luxury in Europe. A revolution sounds unlikely, doesn’t it?” This was Mike, eyes flashing, mouth distorted, arms flailing. Justine had mentioned that Mike talked with intense physicality, with drama. “This probably will blow over too.”
Scott’s eyes surveyed the room, the guests. “Yet, you may have a historical moment here, Amir. A convergence of unique forces. A ‘Zeitgeist’ we would call it.” He paused. “What forces do you see merging on the Internet?”
“Good question, Scott. Let me see . . . .” Amir cocked his head, his eyes betraying worry, concern. “The collapsing world economy has worsened conditions in Egypt: unemployment, of course, high prices, shortage of food, crowded, nearly unlivable conditions.”
“. . . more educated youth, thirty years of emergency powers, a brutal police force.” Justine called from the kitchen as she prepared another pitcher of martinis and Giovanna opened the oven to baste the steaming turkey.
“Exactly. Exactly.” Amir moved across the room to draw Justine and Giovanna into the conversation; the others followed, grouping themselves into a surrounding circle, like flocking birds. “But this time it could be different. Before social media, there was no way to organize, to communicate, to plan. Small groups would come together, spontaneous groups of unemployed discontents, but nothing substantial.” Amir’s growing excitement was palpable, his eyes sparkled in the glowing tree lights, convincing himself as well as others.
“Are Egyptians capable of self-determination?” asked Mike straightforwardly, innocently, as though his words were not abrasive.
Amir stared at Mike sharply; his nostrils flared. “What do you mean?” he asked accusingly. “Capable??”
“A poorly chosen word,” confessed Mike. “But, I would ask the same question of any peoples who have been colonized for nearly their entire existence. Egyptians have never been free, have they?”
“Not entirely,” Amir admitted, calmed by Justine’s warning stare. “I’ll respond in two ways. After the ’52 revolution, when King Farouk was peacefully escorted to a ship waiting in the Alexandria harbor, Nasser granted major freedoms. Free education for all, rights for women, a socialist economy, construction projects, respect. These past sixty years have formed the foundation for the next step in our history—have prepared us.”
“Your second point?” sang out Judy Lynn, standing near the front door, peeling off her leather gloves, and hanging her heavy woolen coat on the peg by the door. No one had seen her enter. “Hi!” she shouted, setting her casserole of sweet potatoes on the island, then walking directly toward Amir. She took his extended hand. “I’m Judy Lynn,” she announced, as though that explained most things worth knowing.
Amir’s admiring expression examined her festive red dress and matching hair, amused by the forcefulness by which she occupied her space in the room. He smiled down at her, “All humans have a deep longing for freedom, an inherent, God
given right, don’t you think, Miss Judy?”
“I agree,” said Judy Lynn, showing no inclination to correct his use of her name. “There were those who asked whether Indians, having been treated as children for so long, could control their own fates. But, of course, they can. They do.”
“Gracefully, peacefully,” added Carmen, stepping forward to give Judy Lynn a hug.
“Will Mubarak have to go?” Giovanna called out, her back to the group while she stirred the gravy. “I don’t see another way.”
“Not willingly. Not without force . . . .” Amir halted himself mid-sentence, cautious not to reveal the content of his hurried conversations with Wael—their speculations about the road ahead. His eyes sought Justine’s, meeting a flash of fear they shared.
Mike noted the exchange of glances, his own eyes squinting in accusation of the two lovers. “What are you not telling us? What’s really happening over there?”
“I’m not sure he can tell us. Amir?” Scott asked, offering to protect information that should not yet be revealed. As a highly respected scientist, his investigations were deep and thorough, but respectfully not venturing into territory held sacred and secret by the peoples of any culture he was probing.
Amir nodded and stepped closer. “Thanks, Scott. Let’s just say that plans are being made and I’m not at liberty to discuss details.” He smiled weakly. “If you’ll excuse me.” Amir turned and walked down the hall toward the bathroom.
Justine watched Amir disappear down the hall. “Dinner will be ready soon,” she announced, softening the edges of Amir’s declaration. She shivered as she reviewed conversations with Amir over the past few days. Her own clashes with the Egyptian government and religious leaders haunted her, as well as her slips in judgment when it came to keeping secrets. She’d never been very good at keeping secrets.
Carmen touched Pablo’s arm, and walked toward the fire, attempting to disband the circle into smaller conversations. Giovanna removed her apron and joined them.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 20
