Judy Lynn edged herself away from Mike to find Justine, who was talking with Scott about Mesa Verde. Scott was telling Justine, “I’m going to call the book Winds from the North, I think. Do you like it?”
“I do!” declared Judy Lynn, as she clutched Scott’s arm. Without taking a breath, “By the way, I have news. In one of Mabel’s psych reports from A.A. Brill—remember, her therapist in New York—she says that the ranch was in exchange for the Sons and Lovers manuscript. Lois Rudnick obtained the files for her new scathing bio on Mabel.”
“Meaning?” asked Scott.
“Meaning that the ranch was not a gift, and therefore it was community property,” said Justine quickly, temples flushed. “So Lawrence did own property in New Mexico and the will would come under this state’s jurisdiction.”
“The will adjudicated in England? Eighty years ago?” Amir had moved into the conversation, as had other guests.
“A little farfetched, don’t you think?” suggested Mike. “What use is it?”
“Probably none,” admitted Judy Lynn, taking a welcome gulp of her pomegranate martini. “Probably none.”
Justine’s eyes had a devilish twinkle. “Dinner is served,” she announced.
Pensive guests picked up dinner plates and talked indistinctly among themselves as they walked to the buffet of elaborate steamy dishes: turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes, baked sweet potatoes, cranberries, green beans, hot rolls.
A regular Nebraskan Christmas, thought Justine, remembering those holidays with her grandparents when the world seemed so perfect, so hopeful. How naïve she had been. Was she being naïve again—did it matter that the ranch was not a gift? She turned to find Amir.
He stood near the blinking tree; his eyes distant, deep in a troubled pool of thought.
Justine knew then what was to come.
By midnight, after a renewed stream of questions about Egypt, a lively debate regarding Mesa Verde migration, differing opinions on D. H. Lawrence, and effusive praise for the meal, the guests had gone out into the snow and headed home. Dishes had somehow been done, and Justine and Amir now sat in the darkened living room watching light snow falling through the light of a waning moon.
“I have to go home,” said Amir.
“I know,” she said, touching him knowingly. The evening conversation had clearly moved Amir toward his decision, a decision nearing resolution ever since he had landed in Albuquerque five days ago. She knew when she saw his eyes—so expressive, with unfathomable depth, as though she could see his heart beating wildly against his chest wall. “When?”
“As soon as I can get a ticket to Frankfurt, then on to Cairo.” He turned toward her, a mixture of light and dark, the face of the Phantom, reflecting the light of resolve and the murky shadow of doubt. He grabbed her to him, burying his head in her breasts.
“You need to be there, but can you wait until Christmas? Two more days?” That is all she would ask, for she knew the part he was to play in Egypt was vital to him, the youth, his country. Her admiration for Amir had grown exponentially during these last few days. His commitment to Egypt’s future—and his role in it—seemed to have stirred a smoldering fire within him, a powerful determination, an intense devotion.
Amir stood and gazed at her with gratitude. “Not too much to ask, Habibti. Yes, of course. We’ll have our Christmas and then I’ll go. Mish mushkilla.” They both laughed at the classic Arab phrase for “no problem.” He pulled her to him again, kissing her tenderly on the mouth, the nose. He picked her up, her ebony cocktail dress flowing over his arm as he carried her into the bedroom.
Just outside the window there grew a perfectly formed little evergreen, now a second blinking Christmas tree, lighting the bedroom with red, green, blue, and white. So perfect, she thought, as though placed there by magic, by someone transcending nature’s tendency for irregularities, asymmetry, preferring the randomness of Picasso, the surprises insisted on by Taos climate. Perfection often disappoints, she mused, masking Truths embedded in nature. Then he was at her neck, and her thoughts melted into pure honeyed desire.
Amir unzipped her cocktail dress and lowered her onto the bed, slowly removing his own sweater and throwing it on the chair. They made love intently, almost desperately, more even than before, each muscle in their bodies instilled with revolutionary resolve.
CHAPTER 35
DECEMBER 24, CHRISTMAS EVE, 2010
TANGERINE FLAMES FLARED into the night sky illuminating St. Jerome’s Church and the adobe buildings encircling the Taos Pueblo plaza. Three white crosses above the church stood stark against the dark palette, announcing forthcoming events. Scores of bonfires licked the frigid air, the sizzling night pregnant with expectations for the arrival of the holy infant. Believer and non-believer alike swept into the expectant ritual. For many an allegory of hope, a parable of new beginnings. Tonight, everyone is Christian. So it seemed to Justine and Amir.
After the mass and the parade of the Virgin in her Christmas finery, the two lovers stood in the middle of the Plaza in awe, watching the flames frame the Matachine Dancers. The dancers—danzantes—appeared in front of the ancient five-story pueblo: a young girl in a communion gown or Virgin robe, a king or prince, two clowns, men hidden inside a bull costume, a score of masked dancers in crimson Medieval capes and Chimayo blanket vests. Gaunt Don Quixote faces carved into wooden masks held up by posts. Tall majestic hats were framed in velvet and bejeweled with silver and turquoise from which eight wide ribbons floated into the cold night sky.
Each Matachine dancer wore gloves and carried a carved wooden palma, akin to a fan, in one hand, a rattle in the other. The dancers wove in and out, creating an interlocking pattern around a pole. The musical beat lacked the haunting percussion of drums heard during the Pow Wow. Instead, something akin to the twang of an ancient mandolin.
Recognizing its familiarity in the preparation and characters immediately, Amir exclaimed, “Justine! This Matachine dance is Moorish. Arabs carried it to Spain more than a thousand years ago!”
Justine loved the animation in Amir’s face, and the nearly macabre effect of reflected flames. “And brought to the Americas by the Spanish in the 1500s, I assume,” said Justine excitedly, cuddling deeper into her fur-lined coat. The temperature was dropping. “Curious, it’s the only dance that the Indians and Spanish perform together,” she said. “I know it as a dance of transformation, of good against evil . . . but what does it really mean? To the Moors?”
“Many things! The variation is nothing short of astonishing. ‘Matachine,’ I believe, comes from the Arabic ‘mudawajjihin,’ which means ‘those who put on a face.’ A young girl or virgin converts the pagan king. The Moorish-Christian struggle, Montezuma and the Indians. It can even refer to the planets, Mars and Jupiter. Unfortunately, the browner peoples usually lose. White over dark—the eternal struggle with an unmistakable air of violence. It usually ends with the castration of the bull, the clowns offering the bull’s testicles to the crowd,” he paused in amusement.
It was after one a.m. in the morning when Justine and Amir arrived home, lit a fire, turned on the tree lights, and snuggled under a quilt on the couch. They’d decided to exchange gifts tonight, get a few hours sleep and leave for the Albuquerque airport early, since Amir’s plane for Frankfurt left at two in the afternoon.
Amir sat hauntingly still with two beautifully wrapped presents, one in each hand. His face revealed a peaceful resolve, yet his temples throbbed with tension.
Justine was puzzled. She couldn’t infer his mood. Pleasure? Indecision? Tension? He doesn’t know what to expect when he gets to Egypt. But tonight? “My turn?”
“One present.” He handed her the box in his left hand.
She eagerly untied the fuchsia satin ribbon and tore back the parchment paper, revealing a stunning set of silver earrings. “The Tuareg cross! Where did you ever get these? Timbuktu?”
“A friend,” he said mysteriously.
“Thank you so much, Amir. I
love them!” She placed her arms around his neck, pulling him to her, kissing him passionately. “Your turn,” she said as she pulled away and handed him an oblong box bound with a giant red ribbon.
A heavy turquoise bracelet of squash blossom design was nestled into a crimson and midnight blue woolen scarf studded with Kokopelli images. He unfurled the fringed scarf with flourish, winding it around his neck. “Perfect for this weather! Kokopellis?” he asked, picking up the bracelet and fitting it around his left wrist.
“The little humpbacked flute player called Kokopelli is found everywhere in the southwest—Gods who bring good luck, fertility, ensure good crops . . . .”
“Gamila! Latifa!” Amir broke into a litany of Arabic. “Fertility, huh?” he winked; leaning over to kiss her lightly on the lips, to ruffle her hair.
“And, now. The other box?” Justine claimed an innocent expression, raising her eyebrows in question above dilated pupils. In spite of the lateness of the hour, she wasn’t impatient; she could gaze forever into those fiery images reflecting in his dark eyes.
“Marry me,” he said, his voice tense, almost matter of fact. He was risking his delicate ego without any assurance that she would agree.
Justine blinked, cocking her head to one side, frozen in place, in memories. Perspiration formed on her upper lip as conflicting thoughts raced back four years. He had promised he would never propose again. When she rejected him in Italy, she thought he would never attempt it again—never risk the embarrassment he’d felt. They both felt. Until tonight, she was determined never to marry an Egyptian. “Yes,” she said simply and smiled.
He went wild, grabbing her into a near-desperate embrace.
CHAPTER 36
KIOWA RANCH, NEW MEXICO, AUGUST 22, 1925
Shades of crimson framed Sacred Mountain to the east, and the dry, hot air cooled as Rachel and Bill Hawk rode into the ranch on handsome bay horses. Tying the reins to the wooden rail fence on the south side of the Lawrence cabin, they admired once again the life-sized buffalo painted by Trinidad, the reliable hired hand from the Pueblo. The Hawks had come for dinner with the Lawrences, and brought the mail from San Cristobal.
Frieda and Lorenzo welcomed their neighbors warmly, inviting them to make themselves comfortable at the rickety wooden table. Dinner was almost ready. Frieda dried her hands on her apron, threaded through the short stack of mail, and eagerly tore open the steamship line envelope containing their tickets on the SS Resolute, sailing in September, the day before Lorenzo’s fortieth birthday.
“Why the burr under your saddle this time, Lorenzo? It’s only five months since you got back from Mexico sick as a dog.” Bill was insistent. “Look at this place . . . you’ve tamed the wilderness, planted a field of alfalfa, irrigated your garden . . . you’ve got yourself a regular Garden of Eden here!” The Hawks liked having the Lawrences close by, hated to see them set off again so soon.
“Wrote myself back to health, Bill. But Italy calls. Need to get back to my Etruscans at Volterra, Cortona, Tarquinia.” He stared dreamily at his Ponderosa framed dazzling in the setting sun, the tree that beckoned him each morning as he leaned against it to write The Plumed Serpent. Yet he was restless. “Besides,” he said, forcing himself to turn back toward his guests, “We’ve got to see Frieda’s Mother. Good woman. And her children demand attention—let them grow up, I say!” As he spoke, Lorenzo puttered with the plates, setting the table, while Frieda removed a half-baked chicken from the oven. Potatoes and squash done to perfection, the chicken oozed blood when she stabbed it sternly with her favorite butcher knife. She was notorious for careless cooking; Lorenzo never allowed her any quarter.
“The ranch is too much for him now, Bill,” said Frieda, her back toward Lorenzo and the Hawks. She continued to stab the chicken, intent on finding a finished portion. “We need too much help. Thank goodness my nephew is here.”
“Speak for yourself, woman!” Lorenzo yelled, his fierce eyes glistening, anger stiffening his spine like a poker. “You can’t even cook a chicken! You’re as useless as my cow out there!” The plate in his hand promised to sail against the wall, but didn’t. After all, there were only five plates left.
“Why don’t we fry it up, Frieda?” offered Rachel, forever the peacemaker. “Bill likes it better that way.” She grinned in anticipation of the coming row, since she and Bill were used to playing audience at a Lawrence performance. By now, they understood that scraps would flare up, vicious words would be exchanged, but tempers would dissipate just as quickly. Lorenzo had explained it once to Bill; his friend had just smiled indulgently. While he rarely understood Lorenzo, he had come to like him in spite of himself.
Lorenzo had told him: “You see, Bill, we’re all individuals. We have our individuality . . . especially true for men and women. If we didn’t react against the other from time to time, we would lose our integrity. Conflict is necessary, otherwise we lose ourselves.”
“Thanks, Rachel, you’re a jewel.” But Frieda couldn’t leave well enough alone. She picked up the tickets and waved them in the air, paper birds promising flight. “You know, Lorenzo, when we leave . . . .” Frieda left the sentence unfinished. They both knew what was coming, what couldn’t be said.
“What!” Lorenzo screamed. “‘When we leave’—what??”
“Nothing . . . ,” said Frieda, voice volume dropping and fading out as she turned to help Rachel fry up the chicken. Unconsciously, both of the Lawrences knew that if they left America now, his tuberculosis would probably prevent him from securing a visa to return. Yet, they preferred denial, refusing to believe that his condition was fatal.
“We’ll be back in the spring!” Lorenzo pronounced, clapping his hands together like a young child, even as fear flashed through those unruly turquoise eyes.
CHAPTER 37
AMIR HADN’T ACTUALLY agreed to live in Taos after they were married, although he’d shown an uncharacteristic fascination with the Earthships built as a cluster on six hundred acres of high mesa west of town. “Bananas and figs bloom in the winter!” he exclaimed after talking with a resident. Made of discarded materials, wholly self-sufficient and sustainable, these structures had evolved into science fiction delights—fairy tale houses and spaceships with elaborate twists and turns, towers and turrets, finished with smooth adobe. Justine found it incredible that old tires, concrete blocks, Coke cans and recycling water systems could be coaxed into castles.
So, she’d decided to take another look the week after New Years. Would it be necessary to build our own, which was the point after all, or would there be a few for sale? The trick was to find and purchase a piece of land on the high mesa. That she could do.
The frigid weather had not abated, and by 5:30 a fuchsia ribbon of waning light lay on the distant horizon. While Amir had never seen car chains before, he had skillfully managed to attach them to her car several days earlier. As the chained wheels crunched over snowdrifts alongside the exit from the Earthship Visitors Center, Justine felt determined to get home before dark. She turned on her headlights and drove slowly eastward toward the gaping Rio Grande Gorge, ten miles west of the Blinking Light four corners in El Prado.
As her car eked along in the icy, packed snow, her mind wandered back to her stunned surprise when she had accepted Amir’s proposal in the wee hours of Christmas morning. Hard to believe it was little more than a week ago. After fighting her cautionary feelings for four years, she felt that something had changed in him—perhaps in her as well. She knew how conflicted he had been with the discovery of Mary’s diary—initially provoked by the archeological import of the discovery, yet he’d nonetheless harbored resistance to the reinterpretation of Mary’s identity. His Coptic Christian roots ran deep, making it difficult for him to give himself over to the sheer thrill of such an earthshaking discovery. Abandoning the virginal myth of Mary had not been easy for him. Although he had soon overcome the tug of tradition and joined her in deciphering the meaning of the discovery, he also held back, something h
eld him in check.
Yes, this time he was different. The possibility of a revolution in Egypt thoroughly captivated and energized him—there was no half-hearted response—no hesitancy, only intense resolve. This fierce clarity gave him strength and determination she’d never witnessed before. He was more sensual, gritty, fiery. She couldn’t resist him, for now she saw his capacity to override his cultural bondage. More like Lawrence, she mused, surprised at this observation.
Pulling herself out of her reverie, she glanced several times into her rear view mirror, finally recognizing the familiar pickup coming up quickly behind her. Ricardo’s pickup! What could he want now? He had won, hadn’t he? He’d gotten Taya pregnant and her father insisted on a wedding. As her husband, he would control her completely. Justine felt tears form under her tawny eyelashes. Taya. I’ve lost her. She has lost herself.
In the rear view mirror, she could barely make out two images, no, three. Ricardo’s lips were drawn tight, determined, his eyes shadowed by his ever-present baseball cap. On the passenger side—another young man? Who? She couldn’t tell who it was through the icy passenger-side windshield. She glanced again, dividing her attention between the icy road ahead and the pursuing truck. In the middle, a large dog with floppy ears, brown and tan, a German Shepherd perhaps, sitting upright as though sharing the thrill of the chase with his master. But who is that other man? This hunt seems more like a personal vendetta than just an effort to keep me away from Taya. She shuddered, feeling fear grasp her chest.
Pressing hard on the gas pedal, Justine felt her fear turn into anger. Her own anger, but even more so, anger at the thought of the life that lies ahead for Taya. Damn him! Another case of controlling a woman by taking away her choices. This is a man who will be abusive if he doesn’t get his way. Oh, Taya, what have you gotten yourself into? The speedometer hit 60, not fast under normal conditions, but irresponsibly fast on packed snow and ice. In spite of the chains, she felt her Prius slip and slide, jolting her, her control over it tenuous. She took her foot off the gas pedal, but resisted the brake, for she knew enough from her years in Chicago that braking under these conditions was exactly the wrong thing to do.
A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy) Page 21
