Sacred Revelations (18 page)

He runs his hand down the center of my body, ending at my clit. Kneeling next to the bed, he looks closely, too closely, leaving me overwhelmingly selfconscious as his fingers press apart the lips of my labia. Looking. “I missed this too.”

“…the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.”

-Charles Dickens, Barnaby Ridge

Thomas

I am exhausted and more than a little irritable, having been on the hunt for my wife and children for four days. I knew they wouldn’t be at her father’s house inCairo and that they had left with him for theSudan , but damn, theSudan isn’t that big. I can fall off the face of the earth, I can disappear, but I always find those who think they can disappear. For the life of me I cannot believe my pregnant wife is dragging three small children through the desert. When I find her, and I will, I will kill her, if the rebels haven’t already had the pleasure.

Tonight I will sleep in Wadi Halfa, a juncture betweenCairo and what used to be the Sudanese border.

Technically, today it lies inSudan ; a month ago it wasEgypt , country designation changing with the day’s guard, whoever has the most guns today wins. Ten years ago, I might have been persuaded to call it a town, but to say that it is a town would imply that any form of modern civilization exists.

The Range Rover I drove into town will not see me out. Transportation from this point farther south seems questionable at best. Based on the east bank of the Nile River, I could conceivably hire a boat, a better bet than relying on the train that sometimes goes through, but most times doesn’t. I am hoping for a bus, also unpredictable, but more reliable than my other options because a regular flow of buses usually follow the road along theNile . There is no bus stop, no bus schedule, and no organized itinerary, it’s sort of like sticking out your thumb to hitchhike and getting closer to where you want to go, if not the exact destination.

Since I am not sure where I’m going, taking the luck of the draw bus seems the best way to get there.

Once upon a time, a little more than five years ago, I stumbled upon Lattie when I was leavingEgypt in a hurry. She hid me in her father’s tent. Until the morning I awoke to her note saying that she was joining her father inCairo , we’d been together most of the years since.

I sit beneath the shade of a canvas lean-to, invited by one of the locals to share his dwelling and drink tea. I envy him his simple abode, cooler than my stifling hotel room. If only to keep me out of jail tonight, I rented a room, the accommodations the best in town, offering a thin, ancient mattress that sits on the

floor, a green metal table and small plastic chair. The room is as clean as it can be, though the plaster is chipped, scuffed and painted an awful shade of blue that seems grey next to the brilliant blue sky beaconing from the small open window. After reading the temperature in the room, I escaped to the out of doors, where the air is unmoving but at least fresh. I’d give my soul for a shower, soap. I was told that the communal showers in the center of the Nile Hotel are closed temporarily, until the end of the water shortage comes. Sometimes, the desert isn’t so bad and water can be had for a price, other times, like now, no water for miles. Living in theUnited States , I have forgotten that simple daily hygiene is a luxury that can only be had for a price in other parts of the world, and sometimes not even money can answer your desires.

Time passes slowly in the desert, flies competing for a spot on my nose or lips, seeking moisture. I shoo them away, but they seem immune to my swatting. Several die for not taking the hint to go away.

Aside from drinking tea and watching the young boys stand guard over their small tables of wares, clear glass bottles of dark amber gasoline, roughly a liter in each bottle, and the Coca-Cola that marks today’s hot commodities, I have little to do. Each corner has a table set up, hosted by a young boy. Stranded here for six hours, already it seems like days. I place a travel thermometer on the table beside me—one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit. It is a dry heat, much like opening an oven door. My shirt is as wet as it could possibly get. I consider pulling it off and wringing it out, but that might be looked upon poorly by the locals. Here, the men wear a white long-sleeved garment that looks like a nightshirt, except longer, to the ankles. They look cooler than I feel in my cotton T-shirt and jeans, but then I want to stand out as the tourist in town. That and my fake American accent will see me at least delivered back to Cairo on a very bad day, whereas if I dressed in traditional garb, with my coloring, I could be shot on sight just because, depending on who is carrying the rifle and who is controlling the border today.

A roar in the sky alerts me to a helicopter, no doubt military issue. There is also little doubt that it is here for me, especially when it lands less than a hundred yards from where I sit.

The young soldier who hops out looks nicely starched; he is flanked by three others as he approaches.

“Sir? I’m here to request you that you get in the helicopter, Sir.”

I note that the three men flanking him are pointing their Kalashnikovs at my midsection. I shrug, holding out my arms to my sides, sending out the I’m not dangerous vibe. I don’t mind going with them, the helicopter is definitely better than waiting another hour, or day, or week for the bus, and I recognize the men’s uniforms as those of her father’s brand of armed guns. I don’t bother asking where we’re going.

I’m only mildly surprised when they don’t search me. Regrettably, I once took out three of his men because they’d decided I didn’t need my weapons and I was forced to demonstrate that I really don’t need my weapons. I am calmer with the small arsenal I have tucked away in my loose clothing: two knives, two small caliber guns. I’m glad they let me keep them. Knowing that they know I am armed but choose to let me stay that way, almost makes me feel that this isn’t going to go as badly as I think it’s going to go.

Three hours later, I find myself sipping more tea, though this time in a tent on theEgypt side of the border. It is a luxurious tent set in the middle of nowhere. Large oriental rugs, overlapping and covering the wide space, oversized pillows in slick satins and shiny silks, each embroidered in intricate patterns, litter the floor, serving as beds, seats, tables, whatever is needed at the moment.

I am unimpressed because, as far as I know, Lattie and my children are on the Sudanese side of the border with her father. Somehow, when I hear the commotion outside my tent, I’m not too alarmed.

Only my wife can curse in six languages simultaneously, and when she is tossed into my tent unceremoniously, I know that I’m really racking up a debt-bill with Charles François Charbonneau, her

father and the second wealthiest man within about two-thousand kilometers.

“You!” she screams, pointing a finger at me. I follow only every other word after that as she skips in and out of languages faster than my brain can translate, I roughly catch the drift of the one-sided conversation as who in the hell do you think you are and several impossible suggestions involving camels. I wait for her to stop screaming and for the tirade to drop to only two languages so that I can jump in with both feet.

“How dare you follow me here!” she says in French, followed by, “I told you—I need time to think!” in English, and “Why are you always so dangerous?” in French again.

I stick with English, not that it matters, but I hope she’ll follow suit. “Me? I am not the one who took three small children into a war zone!”

“Vous exagérez. ”

“No, I’m not. That your father encouraged this insanity is not surprising, since he raised you between three warring countries, but come on—three children under the age of four and a pregnant woman?

Were you sightseeing?”

“Je vous ai dit que c’était une réunion de famille! ” she screams. “Did you even read the note?”

“I read the note, but it didn’t say anything about crossing intoSudan .” I use my calm voice.

“You wouldn’t have let me come if I had.”

“As if you’d ask permission!”

“We crossed the border for a day and a night! We’re safe, okay? I’m sorry if I scared you.” She sighs, then starts pacing. “Mon père est ici, Thomas. Qu’avez-vous pensé qà arrivé?”

“I don’t care if you are with your father! Anything could happen out here!” I sigh heavily and she argues nothing further. We are left merely staring each other down. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Shaking her head, she says, “A daughter’s love holds only so much sway here, Thomas. He wanted to kill you and I begged him not too.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have. I’m not a good person, Lattie. It’s having you in my life that made the difference. You bring balance to my life…you and the children. Please, come home.”

“I know, baby.” She lifts her eyes to me and smiles.

Of all the women I’ve shared my life with, Latisha understands my conflicts, my demons, even if she isn’t privy to the details of my dangerous past. If this tantrum is as bad as it ever gets, I still think we’ll be okay. Sometimes, I think she may even love me.

I hold open my arms, hoping for a truce with my wife at least and I’m glad when she walks into my arms and I find her pliant. I stroke the small of her back, knowing from past pregnancies that she likes it when I do. I am rewarded with her sigh.

“I’ve missed you, Lattie,” I whisper into her hair. It smells fresh and clean, scented with jasmine.

Obviously her father can afford the luxuries.

“Sh-h.” She presses her fingertips to my mouth. “We don’t say things we don’t mean, Thomas. Even if it seems the right thing to say, remember?”

I start to argue with her, to tell her that I honestly missed her, but she replaces her fingers with her mouth, silencing me with her tongue. In the silence of her kiss, I am forced to realize that I did miss her. I missed her expertise in the erotic arts, I missed the knowledge she has of my body.

I have missed my children. I love them, all of them, even though Hektor isn’t biologically mine. When she talked me into helping her get out ofCairo , I hadn’t realized she was pregnant until after we were away safe. If I’d known she was pregnant, would it have made a difference? I don’t know. I do know that she was so afraid of losing her independence to a man she didn’t love that she would risk everything to keep her pregnancy secret.

I needed a fresh start, a new identity. If my enemies did come looking for me, they would not seek a man with a wife and a child. If she used me for a fresh start, I used her as well. Then there was the lust.

Maybe it was just the element of mystery, danger, and the fact that we were total strangers. The beginning was easy.

If nothing else, lust has kept us from killing each other.

Pulling me down onto a pile of floor pillows, she unbuttons my shirt. If I stink from three days in the desert with no bath, she is kind enough to not mention it. She strokes my chest while I undo the many layers of cotton and silk she wears, exposing her large, heavy breasts and her swollen stomach. Three months have made a significant difference in her shape. For a moment I hold the roundness between my hands, waiting for the baby’s kick to find me as they mysteriously do and am rewarded with a quick movement.

Lattie smiles, but her eyes hold sadness. I wish I could make things different but I can’t. I hold her, stroking her, rolling her onto her side and positioning pillows to make things work out when I enter her from behind, spooning around her, cradling our unborn child and feeling its movements against my palms as I move inside her. Sex doesn’t cure all ills, but for a moment I forget exactly why I was so pissed off.

She too puts her anger away for this.

“I know these scars, Thomas,” Lattie says, rubbing her fingers around each quarter-size circle, a trail of eight running diagonally across my back, left hip to right shoulder, old scars, faded but still visible, even after twenty years. “I grew up seeing men make scars like this. Machine gun spray gave you these scars.

So many scars.”

I roll away from her, onto my back, hiding the scars from her, hiding the memory of how I got the scars from myself, never admitting to anyone that they were self-inflicted to escape another life, another identity. I pull her down onto my chest, though she is still folded, sitting on her knees.

“I can’t go back to theUnited States , Thomas.”

“I don’t want my children raised here.”

“You think I do?” she gasps. “I told you, I needed to be here but I wouldn’t put them in harm’s way! I

don’t intend to stay here forever, but I do want my child born here.”

“My children are not staying here!” I argue, my voice so full of emotion that I am pushing her away, but I cannot help it. This time, this war is too close to my heart.

She pulls away, standing and redressing in the layers she entered the tent wearing. I pull on my pants as she paces the tent, if we’re going to fight again; I’m at least going to be wearing clothes.

I implore once more, “Let me get you out of here, Lattie. Pick anywhere else in the world to raise our children.” As soon as I say the words, I regret them, knowing just how badly I have been played.

“I’m glad you feel that way. From here, we travel toBahrain . After the baby is born, I will be taking the children toFrance . My father has a large estate there, vineyards, land, horses. It will be a good place for them to grow and then, when they are eleven, we will discuss boarding schools.”

“I can’t live inBahrain , Lattie,” I state a truth she knows well. There is a death warrant for me inBahrain

, the king less forgiving than even Lattie’s father, and knowing he is here in this makeshift tent city makes me very nervous. I do not want my children to see their father killed by their grandfather. “I can’t go toFrance , either.” A treason trial awaits me there. If this is karma coming back, I am truly being punished.

“I know, Thomas. I want you to leave. Return to theUnited States . You’re protected there.”

I shake my head in denial, knowing she has no intention of ever returning to the States. As much as she once thought she wanted all that it promised, it was ultimately the materialistic gluttony and imperialistic governmental ideals that made her hate theUS .