A Rapture of Ravens: Awakening in Taos: A Novel (The Justine Trilogy)

by Linda Lambert

  By nightfall in Cairo, the Square was a smoldering mass of more than a million people. Placards moved up and down in rhythm with the chanting. On the streets encircling the Square, young men were no longer silent, but ran and yelled, as though their energies knew no bounds; they had to move, to scream, to demand. Small encampments had been erected near the center—trails of smoke from miniature cook stoves—demonstrators clearly intending to stay as long as necessary. No one left, although women quietly filed out from time to time, returning with sacks of warm food prepared by other women in nearby apartments. Baladi bread wrapped around foul (Egyptian beans), chicken, shwarma—whatever could be held in a tissue-thin napkin. Water bottles were drawn from boxes behind the security gates, small boys distributing them through the crowd. People shared generously. Traditionally, Egyptians, prepared by the deprivation of Ramadan and the example of their camels, drank little water. The chanting and yelling dried their mouths, accentuating their thirst for water. At first, observers had thought the support structures for the revolution had been planned by the instigators, but, as it turned out, it was mainly the proactive Muslim Brotherhood behind the scenes.

  Justine had fallen asleep in the chair when she heard the phone ring. Amir. It was 1:30 a.m. on the 26th in Cairo. She was startled awake and glanced at her watch: 4:40 in the afternoon. Where has the day gone? I haven’t written a word on the revised grant proposal. On the screen, bonfires and torches glowed around the Square.

  “It’s happening, Justine!” His voice was breathless, excited.

  She laughed lightly. “It sure is! Congratulations to all of you!”

  “How does it look? What do you see?”

  “They’re projecting more than a million. It looks beautiful, Amir. Thousands of excited people, energized by the crowd, the bonfires and torches! Placards and flags are waving. It’s as though the whole throng is pulsing in concert with each other! A scene right out of Cecille B. DeMille!” Did he know who that was?

  “Great! Whatever!” he nearly shouted.

  She could almost see his flushed face, sparkling eyes, ruffled hair. Justine flashed on his nude body beside her in bed. “So, what next?” she asked, listening for background noise, but all she could hear was a few muffled voices. Where is he?

  “What next? I don’t know. Our efforts have been focused on getting this far. Soon the crowd will head for Mubarak’s compound, I suppose, then we’ll see.”

  “Please be careful, my love. There will be causalities. Are you prepared?” Is anyone ever prepared?

  A long pause before he answered. “We know. I’m not sure we’re ever prepared for death, for murder—but it will happen, I know. The police thugs are still under the regime’s control. Right now they seem stunned, caught off guard, but they’ll get their bearings. And when they do, we have ambulances standing by.” His voice lost some of its energy as he pondered the consequences of the events he helped organize.

  Justine let her thoughts float back to the tragedy of the two boys speeding on the ice, finally sliding into the Rio Grande Gorge. We will be in similar positions, she realized, indirectly responsible for the deaths of young people. She shivered. “Amir. When this is over, you’ll be coming home, right? Coming back to Taos?”

  Another pause. “As soon as we lay claim to the testicles of the bull,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “And throw them to the crowd. Then I will come home to you Justine. Not until then.”

  She grinned at the use of the metaphor from the Christmas eve Matachine dance at the Pueblo. “I understand. Just hope it happens soon.”

  “So do I. Gotta go. Love you.” And then he was gone. The line buzzed in protest.

  CHAPTER 41

  “JUSTINE, THIS IS KOSTA PAPAMANOLIS. I thought you’d like to know we’ve opened the safe.”

  “Oh my god, Kosta. I’m thrilled. I’ll be right there. 30 minutes.” She had just walked into the house from Santa Fe where she and Mike had completed the grant application. Justine was uncertain the funding would be forthcoming—even from Berkeley. They had tried to construct a newer, broader concept of “community.” Community, as defined in their grant, would be explained as “The convergence of culture, history, consumption, and roles in habitable spaces. A culture of reciprocal responsibility.” She liked it, but knew it was complex. It would take an algorithm to weigh the relative and interwoven influence of culture, history, consumption, and roles. But that is what anthropologists and archaeologists do. It was the nature of reciprocity that made this different—that changed the game. Lawrence, with his fondness of reciprocity, would be proud.

  Driving into town, listening to NPR updates on the Egypt crisis, Justine thought for the thousandth time that day about what was happening in Cairo and Amir. He called less often now; busy maintaining the momentum of the revolution. And, she hadn’t seen Taya, although she wasn’t surprised. Her anger at and blaming of Justine was still palpable, even though they both knew it was unreasonable. Reason has little to do with perception. So many loose ends—unfinished stories. Not least of all: what might we find in the safe? Will the key even fit one of the safe deposit boxes?

  Justine located a rare parking space right in front of the La Fonda Hotel. “Hello, Kosta,” she called out as she entered the lobby of the hotel and saw him standing at the reception desk. The Greek looked up and smiled broadly.

  “I’m excited about your call, Kosta! When did you get it open?”

  “Just a couple of hours ago. We had to blow it open. A little dynamite does wonders.” They both laughed. “Had to get city permission.” Justine stepped forward to shake hands. “Shall we take a look?” he said, closing the reservation book he was examining. Business was not good.

  “By all means. I can hardly wait,” she said, brandishing the shiny key.

  “Does it have a number? There are almost a thousand safe deposit boxes in there.”

  “911,” she said.

  “911?”

  “His birthday.”

  “He was born on September 11?”

  “Exactly. 1885.”

  Justine noticed Kosta shake his head in wonderment as he led her to the back stairs descending to the cellar. In spite of his bulky frame, Justine towered over him by a good three inches. He motioned her to follow.

  They walked past hundreds of bottles of wine stacked in cellar cubicles until they came upon the ancient wooden door, which Kosta kicked open. “It sticks,” he explained with a grin. They stepped onto the muddy tunnel floor, small puddles glistening under the makeshift string of lights—two on each side of the opening. Electrical cords wound through the mud, reminding her of the crypt in Cairo.

  Looming to their left was the massive safe with its thick steel door hanging open. Burn spots near the handle flared out a few feet in each direction. Inside, several hundred safe deposits boxes surrounded a small table, not unlike Lawrence’s table at the ranch or Van Gogh’s table at the Casanova Restaurant in Carmel.

  A shiver of delight and expectation ran through her body as she stood there in amazement at the sight before them. She glanced at Kosta. He was grinning like a Cheshire cat, gazing into the murky dark.

  “Shall we?” he asked invitingly, handing her a flashlight. His perfect, feathery eyebrows raised, giving his eyes an expression of childlike excitement.

  Justine bowed and placed her hand on top of his, like royalty entering a ballroom. They stepped inside the safe, each holding a flashlight. Shadowed images haunted the steel cavity. She swallowed hard, and stared at him, realizing that many of the numbers were difficult to distinguish. “This isn’t going to be easy,” she said.

  Kosta moved boldly ahead, crouching to read the numbers that he could see, going from row to row. Undeterred. “Here! Justine, I’ve found 0874. Your number has to be on this side.”

  She grinned and crouched down beside him. “Here’s 0889, and 0893,” she said. “We have to be getting close! Look--0906. That’s close enough, we can just count them off from here. 07, 08, 09, 10—it�
��s got to be the next one!”

  Kosta fumbled with the key, inserting it into the rusty, dirt-matted box door. It didn’t turn. “Just a minute,” he said, rushing back into the cellar to grab a can of WD40 that he kept on a shelf under the wine.

  Justine stood alone in the vault. A momentary wave of panic washed through her, as though she was trapped once again in the Cairo crypt under St. Sergius. She placed her hands on the table to steady herself, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

  Kosta returned and sprayed the WD40 onto the lock of the safe deposit box door and waited no more than a few seconds. He handed the key back to Justine and nodded. “This is your treasure.”

  She smiled and nodded in gratitude. This time the key turned slowly. She took a deep breath before pulling the long rectangular metal box from its sticky slot and plunking it on the wooden table.

  “Opa!” cried Kosta, eyes flashing, cheeks flushing, his soft masculinity revealing the pleasure he took in small things.

  “Let’s take it back to your office,” she suggested.

  “Good idea.” Tucking the treasure under his arm, he led the way.

  “Would you like a little brandy?” asked Kosta as he pulled up a chair for Justine and set the rusty box on his desk. He reached into the bottom drawer of his file cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Metaxa 7-Star.

  “Sure,” she said, staring at the box, nearly afraid to approach it, to handle it. As though it might vanish. When he handed her a small rounded glass half full of brandy, she put her nose to the rim and inhaled deeply. “Quite lovely,” she said, taking a sip before she placed it on the desk. “Ok, let’s give it a try.”

  Kosta opened the lid more easily than either of them expected.

  They both stared into the box for several moments. Two items stared back.

  One yellowed envelope contained two hundred shares of Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad stock, dated 1923. Another envelope was addressed to Lady Brett. Justine recognized Lawrence’s handwriting. It had been mailed from the south of France on March 5, 1930. Two days after Lawrence died.

  “But how?” they both said almost at the same time. She opened the letter and read aloud:

  March 2, 1930

  My dearest Brett,

  I don’t expect to live the week. This damned tuberculosis has had its way with me. I know this will be sad news and that you will grieve. Not everyone will do so, I am sure. I want you to know that your friendship has been of the highest importance to me.

  Hux is arriving tonight and I will give him this letter to mail. I have a few things to tell you and know I can trust you to keep my confidences.

  For the past few years, I have been close to Isabella Hassouna, a woman very dear to me. You may have suspected. She lately gave birth to a daughter and the child is mine. I am sure you will understand that I am pleased beyond words to have a child of my own. If only I could live to watch her grow up.

  Frieda does not know of Isabella—or the child. I am enclosing a new will that leaves most of my literary estate for my daughter, Laurence. You will need to show the will to Frieda and I know that will cause you difficulties, but it must be done. You will need to take a lawyer with you. If Frieda is still in London to settle the estate when you receive this letter, please contact my lawyer there, Edward McGrath at 4 Piccadilly Square, and inform him of my request.

  After you have established the legitimacy of the will, please write to Isabella and tell her that a great deal of my literary estate will be forthcoming to Laurence when she reaches the age of 20. You may write her at: Isabella Hassouna, Piazza del S. Uffizio 15, Rome, Vatican City, Italy.

  I am also enclosing a key to my safe deposit box in the Jaramillo Bank on the Taos Plaza. There is an envelope in the box containing railroad shares. You may have them, my dear, in appreciation.

  With my love always, Lorenzo

  Justine fell back into the chair, tears streaming down her face. Kosta watched helplessly.

  “I can’t understand why the will isn’t in here,” she said finally. “And, the key. Why did it show up under a concrete slab in front of the fireplace in his cabin? Why didn’t Brett take the railroad stocks? They would have been worth something then.” She paused, then, “I have a story to tell you, Kosta . . . You see, Isabella Hassouna was my great grandmother . . . .”

  Kosta listened without a word until Justine stopped talking.

  CHAPTER 42

  FEBRUARY 3, 2011

  JUSTINE’S KNEES BUCKLED and she sank to the floor as the television camera momentarily focused on the crumpled body she knew must be Amir, then swung wide to pan the thundering crowd in Tahrir Square. She lay still. He’s dead. Dead. Amir is dead. Her chilled body trembled.

  Time passed. How long did she lie on the living room floor? She didn’t know. Eventually, the warmth of the morning sun washed across her inert body. She opened her eyes, shuddered, and stared at the ceiling while the full scene came back to her. The club. The blood. Amir’s murderer on the camel. Justine walked into the bathroom and threw up. She fumbled methodically through the bedroom closet to find lined ski pants, two sweaters, insulated, lightweight boots, which she drew over her woolen socks. Digging her car keys out of her purse, she grabbed her coat and headed for her frozen car. The windshield was a sheet of ice. She started the engine, placed both gloved hands on the wheel, her head resting against the steering column while the defroster worked to clear the windows.

  Justine drove south without a destination. She couldn’t feel. Or think. Her skin was clammy and pale; she felt lightheaded. Was she going to the airport? To a friend’s house? Into a town? She glanced at the clock. It was after 7:00 a.m. and fragments of sunlight slipped behind thick darkening clouds tumbling in from the northwest. She turned west toward Pilar. Unaware of the gathering storm, she drove on while snow flurries hit and slid from the windshield. Forgetting entirely that she was due at the office this morning, Justine continued west, and nearly two hours later found herself at Hupobi, the unexplored Mesa near Ojo Caliente. She parked, grabbed her coat, jumped out of the car and ran across the frozen river surface to the base of the mesa. She envisioned the happy children, splashing in the rushing river. Her clumsy race up the mountainside was slippery, treacherous, yet she was relentless.

  At the top of the mesa, already blanketed by snow and ice, hefty flakes began to fall once more, landing on her reddening face, melting on contact and riveting down her cheeks like tears. Justine ran across the frozen landscape, alongside the giant kiva to the crest of the hill facing the great canyon below. She moved swiftly along the edge of the icy elevated mound. Sweating beneath the parka, memories forced themselves into her consciousness. She was a little girl, it was a summer morning in Fiesole when she called out for her Grandmother Laurence who was to meet her for tea, but was nowhere to be found. The young Justine ran into the lush Italian garden, her grandmother’s pride, and found her beloved Nana there slumped over a bed of pansies. Shaking her, she wailed, “Gramma, Gramma, wake up!”

  But her Grandmother did not wake up.

  Wake up. Amir! She cried out, I want you back! Tears formed, then froze, on her face. The temperature was dropping, the storm slamming in with deadly force. Her body trembled. She lost her stride, her balance. Her right foot began to slide in the loose, slippery snow. She tried to regain her footing, but abruptly, with a crack, the ice breaking, her whole body careened over the edge of the icy cliff, tumbling, rolling until she slammed into a crevasse a few hundred feet above the valley floor. She passed out, and woke to find her right foot caught, twisted, wedged into a chasm bounded by gnarled tree roots.

  Her coat had ripped, and she’d seen the boot from the trapped ankle spin into the air like a frisbee, sailing down the canyon wall. She was now wide awake, even though her breathing was still irregular, pulse rapid, eyes dilated. She stared at her broken foot, the searing physical pain pushing against the pain of loss—the loss of Amir. She screamed out, “No! No! Amir! Please . . . I need
you!”

  After a time, she pulled back and assessed her situation: she was alone and worse, no one knew where she was. How could I be so stupid? Dehydrated, she picked up a handful of snow and ate it. Her foot was caught and surely broken, maybe worse. Her toes would freeze first. The storm was getting more severe by the moment. Why hadn’t she called someone? Giovanna? Her father?

  I am going to die here on the mesa. When I die, will I see Amir again? Is that what I’m seeking? Wanting? She had never believed in a hereafter, a heaven. Heaven doesn’t make any sense, but the Native notion of my soul returning to a spirit world, being one with an encompassing universe sounds compelling, hopeful anyway. Or is this my Easternized version of the hereafter? Justine pondered this: the hereafter. The minutes ticked by, but she’d lost all sense of time. Amir was so sure. I envied him. Nothing could shake him from his Coptic beliefs. And D.H.? A skeptic ’till the end, trying desperately to separate from his Protestant roots through his paintings, his poems, to claim the aliveness, the genuine wholeness he felt here. Both of them went away, leaving the loves of their lives in Taos—for D.H., a ranch, for Amir, me, a woman. They yearned to return, would have returned, but died prematurely. Her foot was nearly frozen, although it was cuddled within a cavern of snow and roots.

  She rattled her IPhone to get it to respond. No service up here. She slammed it back in her coat pocket and tried to extract her foot by digging the roots loose from around her ankle, resting intermittently, remembering the chilling film, 127 Hours, in which the trapped young man cut off his own arm in order to escape. Am I capable of cutting off my own foot? She didn’t think so, and was somewhat grateful that she didn’t have a knife. Attempting to stay upright, and slide no further, she dug a cradle into the snow to hold her body firm, then removed the glove from her left hand, leaning forward to slip it onto her trapped, bootless foot.