Three Daughters: A Novel (13 page)

“Leave?” He wasn’t expecting that. “You can’t leave yet.”

“I must.” She smoothed her hair, put a shawl around her shoulders, and picked up her satchel. “I have paperwork to do for the shop and Khalil is waiting to have dinner with me. See you tomorrow, Dr. Broder.”

She usually felt let down and dejected when she returned to the hospital after an hour of lovemaking, but tonight there was an odd satisfaction. How complicated love was. She was pleased that they had spent the time in discussion and not in bed. She was comforted by the idea that she had left him wanting her. Much later, she remembered what he had said about her wisdom and determination and how they had drawn him to her. Perhaps, but it was much deeper than that. With all his education, Max Broder didn’t know himself very well at all.

When the influenza flurry diminished, there was an uncommon lull at the hospital and Max made arrangements for a trip to the beckoning warmth of Jericho. At twelve hundred feet below sea level, one could leave the wintry blasts of the Judean plateau and within a matter of hours be in a tropical climate, breathing the fragrant air amid orange groves and bathing in the briny waters of the Dead Sea. All the wealthy families rented homes there for the season and avoided the discomforts of the rainy winters. He planned to make the trip on horseback and was excited by the prospect of riding uninterrupted for two days.

One afternoon when Miriam arrived at the house on St. James Road, he told her to close her eyes and then led her up the stairs. “I have a surprise.”

“I’m not good with surprises.” She remembered the vest Nadeem had brought home when she was pregnant with Hanna. How uncomfortable that surprise had made her.

They reached the bedroom at the top of the landing and he led her in, turned her toward the bed, and gave the signal to open her eyes with a mock trumpet flourish. There on the bed, amid large boxes and many sheets of tissue paper, were—she didn’t know what. Clothes? But what kind of clothes? A strange rounded hat was the most obvious. And dainty boots of the smoothest leather. And a navy skirt of wool challis with a short boned jacket to match and a coordinated tattersall vest. A high-collared blouse and stock tie completed the outfit.

She didn’t know what to say. “These are for you,” Max said, obviously excited with his present.

“They’re very unusual,” offered Miriam, trying to sound enthusiastic. “They must have cost a great deal of money. But Max”—she looked at him uncomfortably—“where would I wear such clothes?”

“On a horse, of course, my silly darling. It’s a riding habit. The latest thing, I’m told. The woman said . . . well, she called this little flounce on the jacket a peplum. Very stylish. Come on, try it on. I chose a woman in the shop who was about your size and she assured me this would fit you.”

“A riding habit? Max . . . it was generous of you to get it, but I don’t own a horse.” She was about to add that she had a long-standing fear of horses and would not willingly mount one, but he interrupted.

“Never mind. I have two and we’re going on a holiday . . . by horse. Cook’s has arranged it for me. We’ll ride down to Jericho and spend the night out under the stars with a guide to set up our tent and cook our food.”

“By horse?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll be right beside you. After an hour, you’ll be an expert rider.”

“How can I leave Khalil . . . the shop . . . my nursing . . . Surely you don’t want me to abandon Isabel?”

“Isabel insists that you do abandon her. I want to investigate illnesses in the lowlands and I need a competent nurse with me.” He winked. “I haven’t had a real vacation in a year. Would you deny me one now? Isabel will care for Khalil, who needs a little neglect—if you’re up to a little honest appraisal. We’ll leave this wretched wetness for five days. I’ve made the arrangements. We’ll meet our guides on Thursday right outside St. Stephen’s Gate.”

Ironically, on the day of their departure, the weather turned mild and there was the tumid smell of spring in the air. The sun rose, hidden at first by the high ridge of the Mount of Olives, turning the clouds pink and gold. Hundreds of swifts suddenly fled the mountains and flew screaming in the air. From a minaret high above a muezzin sounded the first call to prayer.

Miriam had never felt so self-conscious, although Max had been enchanted by her appearance. “You look beautiful. If we were in Europe, you would be the most ravishing lady in the party and the most envied.”

“And what am I here in Palestine? A village woman trying to pass as something I’m not.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound patronizing. It’s just that Europe, for me, is the standard. It’s my culture.”

“And”—she tugged at the edges of the fawn-colored gloves and thrust the tip of the crop into the ground—“this is mine.”

They waited for the guides to load the tents and provisions on two donkeys before their little party started off down the road that wound around the Mount of Olives toward Bethany. Miriam was petrified of the horse. It seemed too high off the ground for safety, yet she was determined not to show her fear. When the beast began to move in that precarious, undulating way, she was certain disaster would strike before the day was over. Still, she said nothing. She would ride the dreaded horse without complaint to the ends of the earth lest Max think the women of Judea were inferior to those he had left at home.

The men from Cook’s galloped ahead to prepare for a rest stop near the Inn of the Good Samaritan. Jericho was only twenty-three miles away but the winding, tortuous route, with its high cliffs on one side and steep drop-offs on the other, made the trip twice as long. Robberies and holdups were a common occurrence and two guides, well armed, followed discreetly behind Max and Miriam.

At a glance, the panorama that greeted them as they began what appeared to be an endless descent made them solemn and thoughtful. The drop-offs were awesome. Barren cliffs and depressions alternated with patches of luxuriant growth. The heavy rains of the previous weeks had sunk the earth in those spots that harbored graves and you could see the rectangular depression that would soon alert robbers there was a tomb to be pillaged.

After an hour of riding, they arrived at the first populated spot and tethered their horses in the ragged village of Bethany. Max stopped to buy snacks—that he never ate—from street vendors carrying trays. The children immediately surrounded him, begging for coins, which he readily gave, but Miriam could see he was inspecting them for illness. The tour guide, eager to earn his fee, wanted to show them the sights. “Very near, Doctor, is the church dedicated to the miracle of raising Lazarus from the dead.”

Max demurred. Though he was avidly interested in the archaeological finds, he was skeptical of the supposed biblical sites.

“Oh, please, Max,” Miriam said, surprising herself, “I’d like to go.”

“Why?” He looked puzzled.

“To pray there.”

“Pray? You’re religious?”

She shrugged. “Please come with me.”

“Well . . . it’s not my style, but . . . oh, all right, we’ll go to see where the man was raised from the dead. But if you must know, that’s a hell of a thing to ask of a medical man.”

She smiled and put her arm through his, anxious to fix the details of the moment in her mind: the unfamiliar restraint of the boned jacket, the pleasant support of the riding boots outlining her legs, the soft cotton stock tie against her throat. Her momentary mastery of the dreaded horse made her feel cocky and accomplished, ready to strike out in daring directions. The last restraints of convention slid away like the deluge that washed the jutting mountain rocks clean and she felt free in a new way.
I’m here alone with him
, she thought.
I can touch him at will. I can look at him without hurry or interruption. For the moment, he’s totally mine and I am his.

When they reached the church, they were surprised to find it was no more than a cave, dusty and dark. They descended about twenty steps, each with a candle, and found themselves in a little vestibule facing a Christian altar. Max knelt beside her without protest. The coolness inside was seductive, as was the subdued light after the blinding sun. Their ears buzzed as their systems adjusted to the change, but after a few minutes they were enveloped by a calm so healing that both were content to be silent and still, drinking in that special peace. Votive candles flickered in rows as if struggling to survive. Their shoulders touched, exchanging a warmth more intimate than any kiss. His face loomed over hers, inches away. It was filled with a desire so pure it made his eyes look helpless. It was a moment of forced reflection and she thought:
This is my life. This moment is all of my life. However long it lasts.

After Bethany, the ground rose temporarily and they had to concentrate on their footing, for part of the road was pure bedrock. Miriam became apprehensive about staying on the horse and with each lurch she was certain that any moment she would bounce off and be tossed like a rag doll into the chasm.

By the time they reached the Inn of the Good Samaritan, which was adjacent to a Turkish police post, their ears told them they had descended several hundred feet. The temperature had risen and they were grateful to sink into the pillows of the temporary shelter set up by the guides for lunch. Both were drenched and Miriam removed her jacket and vest. Lunch was a mélange of cold meats and vegetables doused with vinaigrette sauce, with a fruit compote and ladyfingers for dessert.

Miriam sat stiffly upright on the cushions, ill at ease. She was unused to being served and the steward was an extraordinarily handsome young man whose manner was haughty.
You’re not fooling anyone, madam
, was the cold message she received from his sly glances. She picked at her food, too stimulated to eat. The steward sniffed disdainfully. “Madam isn’t hungry after such a long ride?”

Max refused any wine or sherry. “The change in altitude will play havoc with us if we have alcohol in our system,” he warned.

They were expecting to reach the monastery by dusk. They were hoping to camp outside of the compound, which was a two-hour drive from the Dead Sea. All afternoon they followed the dry channel of a brook for several miles, as if descending to the very bowels of the earth. Not a house or even a tree was to be seen. The winter’s heavy rains had washed down the hills to this low spot and the horses became stuck in choking slime. When they looked up, the hills were barren, studded with outcroppings of rock. At times, through a crevice, they could see the deep blue of the Dead Sea.

The ravines were frightful; far off, they could spot the pilgrims who had preceded them that morning, led by the guards bearing flaming torches on long poles made of turpentine and old rags. Every so often they would charge through the surrounding bushes to drive out any Bedouin who might be lurking. After a while, the zigzag line of pilgrims disappeared around a curve and they were alone once more. It was so quiet they could hear the crickets chirping in the herbage and they watched bustards and pintail grouse hunt for woolly red caterpillars.

They had miscalculated the time and dusk came while they were still far from their destination. The moon rising over the brown hills of Moab was eerie as it trembled over the waters of the Dead Sea.

Max came up alongside her as she hunched over her horse, her knuckles white with effort. “This is more difficult than I had imagined,” he said with guarded sympathy. “Just grip your horse and let him do the rest. He’s picked his way over these wadis
a hundred times. Your job is simply to stay on.”

She nodded and made a valiant attempt to sit tall in the saddle, but one lurch sent her back down over the animal, gripping him with every muscle. Max rode ahead with the guide to survey what they had in front of them. As dusk became dark, almost in unison the dismal cries of owls and jackals began to bounce back and forth across the ravines.

They made slow progress with only the moon to light their way, but there was nothing to do but continue or else sleep in the wilderness without supper. The moon gave enough light to outline the chasms and present an eerier backdrop, although no such enhancement was necessary. Miriam would never forget that evening ride or the grim relief over the sudden appearance of the gay peaked shelters dotting the campgrounds where they were to spend the night.

She dismounted and wobbled briefly on the ground, giving her horse over to the guide to be cared for. Max took a lantern from one of the stewards who came to greet them and led the way to unexpected luxury, courtesy of Thomas Cook & Son. They had outfitted the striped green-and-white tent as if creating a permanent home. A beautiful Oriental carpet covered every part of the floor except for the coffee hearth with its heap of white ashes. A large, well-stuffed mattress took up fully half of the area and the other half was a profusion of cushions propped against camel saddles. The cooking was being done outside and the serving of dinner awaited only the signal that the guests had completed a refreshing wash provided by an ingenious portable shower that allowed one bountiful cascade of water for each of them to rinse with after soaping up.

Miriam replaced the riding outfit with a caftan and sank down into the welcome softness of a large cushion. She began to fuss with the caftan, pulling it out and then pushing it against her body. “It’s lovely,” said Max.

“Is it appropriate?”

“Perfectly. You look no different from any other matron on a Cook’s tour with her husband. Except for one small detail.”

“And what’s that?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t think every matron’s husband is eager to do this.” He gave her a long, slow kiss, letting his hand stray inside the loose armholes of the caftan to caress her skin beneath.

“Oh, Max, no. They’ll come in and see us.”

“Shh,” he murmured against her temple. “You mustn’t worry about anything. No one is paying any attention to us.” A throat was cleared on the other side of the tent and Miriam jumped. The haughty steward brought in a pitcher of water, glasses, and a bottle of wine.

“Set that here,” Max directed the man. “And bring the hors d’oeuvres.”