Three Daughters: A Novel (14 page)

“Right away,
Herr Doktor
.”

Max poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Miriam. “Drink it down. It will help you relax.”

Miriam eyed the glass as if it were a loaded pistol. “I’ve never had spirits.”

“Spirits?” he said innocently. “This is wine. Not the same at all. This will calm the nerves and help you enjoy dinner and a good night’s sleep. Here, come on, sip it.” He put the goblet to her lips and she took a large gulp.

The wine did make her feel better, as if a central inner string that had made everything taut was suddenly relaxed. She felt the tightness around her mouth, where her nervousness showed most, give way. She put her hand over his and smiled, uncaring that two new stewards were now setting up a table in front of them and covering it with many small bowls, each holding a different appetizer. There were dark ripe olives glistening with oil, roasted eggplant redolent and smooth in a garlicky sesame butter dressing, hot rounds of bread, cheese, and cucumber slices.

The steward told them in passing that on the grounds there was a large party of Italians and Germans who were there to shoot game.

“What sort of game?” asked Max.

The steward smirked. “Quail.” Then he snorted contemptuously. “You don’t need a gun for quail. The birds do the Mediterranean in one stretch and arrive exhausted. When we want quail, we simply put up a net barrier and they fall into it gratefully.”

At first Miriam merely nibbled at the food, more interested in being safely on the ground than in eating. But after the wine relaxed her, she felt the pangs of hunger and dug into the tidbits of fire-roasted meat that were brought in on skewers and deftly transferred onto the hot bread.

They smiled awkwardly, their mouths stuffed with the lightly crusted tender chunks that moistened the bread and created an irresistible mouthful.

“There,” said Max, dabbing at the corner of her mouth, “do you forgive me?” He began laughing uproariously. “I can’t forget the sight of you grasping that poor horse by the hair.”

“It’s nothing to laugh at.” She began to punch his arm and pushed him over onto the pillows, the better to pummel him.

“All right.” He smiled at her. “You have me here helpless.” He had the same look of desire that he had given her in Lazarus’s tomb. “Let me dismiss the stewards.” He clapped loudly and the men removed the table and remaining food. Their movements created a breeze that carried in the faint scent of ripe fruit. “What is that smell?” asked Max.

“Jericho,” said the steward. “You can smell Jericho’s orchards from quite far. Tomorrow, you will see why,” he said archly and left.

Max stood and offered her his hand. “I’ve waited all day to make love to you. Even the ride couldn’t take my mind off of it. Why,” he said helplessly, “why is the thought of you so seductive?” He dropped her hand and went to stand at the door of the tent. “I don’t take lightly that you’re another man’s wife.”

“I know.” She went to stand near him and was met by a waft of perfumed air.

“I don’t think you do. There are many women . . . I could dine at the home of an anxious mother with a marriageable daughter every night of the week.”

The remark about her marriage had ruined the moment for her, but this admission made her heart sink because she knew it was true. She had seen the mothers chirping around him at the hospital. She had witnessed the chance encounters on the street with lovely, well-dressed young women who were cultured and educated and whose soft, white hands had never felt the soil. At such times she asked herself,
Why me?

“Why me?” she asked now.

“You’re everything I need. You’re real and strong and without artifice. You’ve liberated me in a way I hadn’t thought was possible.” He took her in his arms. “There’s no one like you for me. No one.”

“Oh, Max.” She put her arms around his neck. “And there’s no one like you for me.”

He picked her up and carried her to the sumptuous mattress. “This will be our first entire night together. We won’t let it go to waste.” After he laid her down he went and got the lantern. “I want to see you.” He removed her caftan and his own clothes and lay beside her. “I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are.”

He traced her chin and mouth—“Here . . . so beautiful . . .”—and began to kiss all around her mouth until his lips came to rest on hers. “Here . . . so beautiful . . .” He traced the bones at the base of her throat, first with his fingers and then his lips. He continued down, attending avidly to little portions of her . . . the fleshy rise where her arms began, working his way down. He kissed and nipped and rubbed his cheeks on her with appreciative sighs that made her blood pound. She tried to rise but he pushed her back gently with a soothing “Shh . . .”

In this fashion, this man, whose day-to-day life was spent exploring the human body, set each separate part of her on fire. She could no longer think coherently. Her body melded and melted into his. Her skin under his lips became his skin. “Max . . . Max . . .” She couldn’t keep from crying out. He traveled down her body, feathering her with his kisses, murmuring love words against her until she felt a crescendo of arousal. For a breathless moment, he was poised above her, perfectly still. The mournful cry of a jackal echoed in the cliffs. Max put his head down against her. He opened her legs, smoothing the inner thighs until she felt a fierce desire to force him inside her. She tried unsuccessfully to rise again but he continued caressing her. The anticipation was so great she dug her hands into his shoulders and then, unwillingly, found herself pushing down, eager for that final thrilling touch. She responded with a sound so profound it destroyed his patience. He climbed up swiftly and put himself inside her and they clung to each other, gasping with ecstasy and desperation. Lost to earth. Floating among the reachable stars.

12.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO GO HOME, MATE?

W
hat is it?” asked Nadeem solicitously. He was worried. George was not walking straight. He was stumbling along as if drunk, sometimes walking on the outer part of his feet, sometimes shuffling and grunting as if it were a chore to breathe.

They had been stationed at Yesikoy, a military camp, preparing for the final leg of the march to the Dardanelles. The camouflaged tents had been nestled in the valley, easily visible from any of the surrounding hills. All around was the peculiar stillness of the countryside with only the cawing of the crows. Inside the camp there was unusual silence, too. These normally garrulous men had run out of talk. They had voiced their fears and resentments, stated and restated their positions and thoughts on everything that mattered to them in the world. Now they conserved their energy and tried to keep warm. Winter made everything gray, although it was milder than usual, with a very cold day often followed by several unseasonably warm ones.

The day after they arrived at the camp, there commenced a week of intense training and maneuvers beginning early in the morning and continuing until dusk. The formations did not have the bite of disciplined movement because of the ragged uniforms. It was difficult to distinguish the officers from the soldiers. On the eighth day they packed the tents and began the march. They marched night and day.

George’s feet began to swell again. This time when Nadeem cut off his boots, fresh blood dribbled out onto the road, creating coins of coagulated dust.

“Can you walk?” the officer asked.

George said nothing.

The officer, disgruntled to have a problem, took George by the shoulders. “Come on, man, you can make it. Only a few more days and we have a day of rest.” George began to crumple from under the officer’s grip.

“Leave him for the wagon,” he told Nadeem. Word of a wounded man was passed down the long marching line until it reached the end, where a lumbering horse-drawn wagon picked up the sick and wounded.

The day they left George, however, the wagon was overflowing with all the other sick soldiers. When Nadeem inquired that evening of the medic, he assured him George would be picked up by the next wagon.

The battalion moved on to Salonica, where the Greeks were fighting for possession of the city. The Turks had more officers than men and a puny, ineffectual navy. Within weeks, the battle was decided and forever drove the Ottoman flag from all but a tiny enclave in Europe. The retreating army had weakened and was near starvation. Nadeem sustained himself through prayer and meditation. God would help him and get him through this ordeal. He stumbled along, in and out of a trancelike state and visions of supreme comfort—torrents of warm water cascading over his body, a soothing salve over his painfully cracked hands, Miriam’s slim, strong hand in his.

The stone kicked up by a horse’s hoof hit him squarely in left eye before it bounced to the ground. The intense pain was a rude shock. He fell slowly in a graceful arc . . . this was the only thing left to do: to lie down on the road and be still.

By some miracle, the wagon picked him up and he was taken to a military hospital in Constantinople. He slept for many days and by the time they got around to offering medical treatment, his eye was beyond repair. An English doctor shook him awake. “You won’t see anything with that eye again,” he said soberly. “It’s your choice if we take it out or leave it in.”

“What?” He asked the question three times, willing his brain to function but unable to comprehend what was being said to him. Only his sense of smell told him he was in a hospital.

“It’s your choice, mate. Take it out or leave it in?”

“In,” he answered finally. He had no idea what they were talking about, only that the answer would make them cease trying to rouse him.

“I’ve recommended that you be mustered out,” said the doctor. “At least the wound will take you home, eh? How does that sound?”

“How will I get home?” In his weakened state, the idea of being all on his own frightened Nadeem. He felt as helpless as a child. His partial vision disoriented him as much as his weakened condition.

“By train. The army will put you on a train to Damascus.”

“Train . . . Damascus . . .” He was hard put to understand and unable to make a decision.

The doctor placed his hands on Nadeem’s shoulders and forced him to focus on what he was saying. “Would you like to go home, mate? Would you like to take a train home?”

“Yes . . . home . . .” Nadeem whispered and then went back to sleep.

The train was an open car carrying food supplies. For ten days he sat with sacks of grain and finally carved a niche for himself out of a wheel of cheese to keep from freezing on the passage through the Taurus Mountains. When he arrived in Damascus, instead of seeking transport to Jerusalem, he went to the War Office to get word of George. The place was a madhouse. It was crowded with anxious black-clad women demanding news of their husbands and sons. Harassed officials bleated that no information could be given. There was an angry, smelly queue of humanity and Nadeem waited for hours only to learn that George had been dead for many weeks. “But have you notified his family? Are you certain?”

“Who are you to demand such answers?” the official asked harshly.

“A friend.”

“A friend! How dare you take our time! Isn’t it enough that you know he’s dead? Do you know his widow? Tell her to come and sign for herself and she will receive a pension of ninety-nine kurus.” Nadeem shook his head. Ninety-nine kurus would not even buy bread for two days. “Tell her her husband died for his country and has a place in heaven.”

“Perhaps you have the wrong fellow. This one was a Kurd,” said Nadeem pleadingly. “A Kurd from the southern province of Aleppo.”

The official slammed the wooden window in Nadeem’s face, forestalling any more questions. His manner implied that perhaps Nadeem was even responsible for his friend’s death, thereby causing the War Office great trouble and an unnecessary pension.

Nadeem was able to catch a ride in the direction of Jerusalem in an open wagon pulled by horses so thin and underfed that, at one point, he and two other passengers had to push the wagon. The ordeal almost killed him and his worthless eye throbbed so painfully that he considered jumping off to his death. The second day it was very mild and the warmth of the sun on his face was the most welcome sensation he had ever felt. For the first time in weeks, he felt deeply and comfortably warm and he fell into a sound and healing sleep during which he dreamed of Miriam and his mother.

She was folding silk summer coverlets that morning, being careful not to let her nails catch the delicate fabric. She counted a half dozen in a pale shade of peach bordered in satin and another half dozen in pale pink. The man standing in the doorway surprised and frightened her. She dropped the stack of silks and screamed. He looked as if he had been brought from the dead. Gaunt, filthy, bearded, his hair matted and dusty. His feet unnaturally swollen, covered with scraps of rags tied haphazardly and poking out, one terrible purple toe.

“Miriam?”

The voice brought her up through waves of remembering. No . . . it couldn’t be . . . She hadn’t the strength to acknowledge it. Then came that voice again. “Miriam.”

She studied his face, the blank, clouded eye staring fixedly at nothing. “Oh, no—dear Mary, Mother of God, help me now and at the hour of my death.” It was Nadeem.

“What have I done to you?” Had she spoken aloud? She felt unable to move. The demon of guilt flooded her heart full force.

“You’ve done nothing,” he whispered. “Not you. Not you.”

How could Mother Mary help her when her first thought—oh God, it was beyond control. While her conscious mind processed the ragged, mutilated man before her, some more primitive instinct sent out an alarm. Max! Max was retreating farther and farther away from her and her heart lurched with a pain so searing she held the counter for support.

Nadeem walked the length of the room, staring as if afraid she would disappear. “Miriam? Miriam.” Before she could answer, he had thrust himself into her arms and was clinging to her like a child. His grip on her was frightening; his fingers dug into her back. She stared past him, her arms at her side, in a state of shock. Slowly, her arms went under his and, as she felt that familiar body against her, she began to weep, holding him tightly and rocking him like a child.

It was almost dusk before she found the time to walk to the little narrow house. Nadeem had gone to the baths for the first thorough washing since his arduous trip. From Father Alphonse Miriam secured a set of men’s clothes to replace the filthy rags he was wearing and took him to the clinic for medical assistance for his feet. She was grateful that Max was away from the hospital, for to face them both was unendurable. Dr. Ticho had come and looked at Nadeem’s eye, confirming the destruction, although he held hope that with the return of health and vigor, Nadeem might regain some peripheral vision. When her battered husband was clean and fed, she bedded him down in her own room and then rushed to her lover.

She unlocked the heavy wooden door, noticing for the first time the wrought-iron design hammered in with massive nails. Her legs felt leaden climbing the stairs. Everything became precious—the smooth oak banister, the faint creak of the third tread. She could hear him above. Each movement was like a stab in her heart. Not to see him again. Not to hold him in her arms. Not to feel his closeness and anticipate his warmth each night. She sat down on the final step, unable to continue. After a few moments, he came out of the room to investigate.

“I thought I heard you.” When he realized she wasn’t going to get up, he sat next to her. “What is it? You look upset. Has something happened to the children?”

She stared at his face just inches from hers, unable to speak. “I . . . Max . . . oh, Max.” He moved to hold her but she pulled away. “No . . . I can’t bear it.”

“Can’t bear to touch me? Did I do something?” He forced one hand open and placed the palm to his lips. “What is it? Don’t look so frightened. Whatever is wrong, I’ll help you.” The last narrow shaft of rosy light slipped through a panel in the front door and warmed the wooden dado wall that ran along the stairs. It also tinged Miriam’s face, turning her skin to gold. She had never appeared so beautiful to him.

“It’s over.” Her voice was as cold as death.

“What’s over?”

“You and I.” She said it breathlessly, as if time would run out before she could tell it all. “My husband has returned. He’s been wounded, Max. Oh, it’s terrible. One of his eyes is completely useless and he stares out of it like someone who has seen unimaginable horrors. Max . . .” Her eyes darted to every corner of the vestibule and she kept wiping her palms on her skirt. “While he’s been enduring the horrors of hell, I’ve been with you. My heart and mind have been filled with you.” Tears, one from each eye, began to travel down her golden cheeks. Her voice was just a whisper. “And still, right now, having seen him, all I can think about is losing you.”

Max was silent, digesting what she had said. “It’s not your fault your husband has been hurt,” he said softly. “It’s beyond your control. You’ve done everything humanly possible to keep his business together and your children with food in their mouths. You didn’t ask to have him inducted into the army. You’ve nursed Khalil through a terrible ordeal and it’s due to your determination and ingenuity that he has both his legs today. You’ve done all of this and schooled yourself to better handle the business. When I think of the hours poring over books, the emotional pull of three children living in different places . . . and you being pulled and dragged in every direction.”

“It isn’t his fault either,” said Miriam vehemently. At the very least she could argue Nadeem’s case. “He didn’t ask to be sent away and now . . .” She stopped, as if the reality of what was to come had hit her anew. “He’s come home to his wife and family. Max, he needs me! Oh, how he needs me. He clings like a child. He’s afraid I’ll vanish.”

“But my dear”—his voice was that of a parent to a child—“he was going to return someday. You knew that.”

“But not now.” She burst into tears. “Not maimed and sick while I . . .” She leaned against him and cried.

When he felt her sobs subsiding, he took the opportunity to speak. “Miriam, it’s natural for you to react like this. You feel responsible. My darling, you’ve brought me the greatest happiness. Please, don’t diminish it by feeling guilt.” He placed his hand under her hair and caressed her neck. “We’ve brought each other too much happiness to turn it into something sordid.”

“Don’t. If you tell me I’ve made you happy, it becomes unbearable.” She put her arms around him and pressed closer.

“I see so much misery . . . death, loss of hope, strange attacks to the body without rhyme or reason. I don’t feel guilty for taking whatever happiness comes my way.” He handed her his handkerchief to wipe her nose. “Come.” He led her to the bedroom and sat her down, removed her shoes, her stockings, her dress and undergarments. He pulled down the quilt and laid her on the bed. She was glad to have him see her. She wanted her body imprinted on his memory. He undressed and placed himself over her completely—hands over hands, chest over chest, mouth over mouth. They moved slowly, legs intertwined with none of the frenzy of previous lovemaking. Max touched her with tenderness, as if she were wounded. His fingers trailed her skin as if it might tear open.

The poignancy of these last moments was devastating. “My darling. My precious darling,” he murmured against her hair. “How I love the feel of you. Your voice haunts my every dream. The dark storms in your eyes, the movement of your body under mine. Don’t leave me. Don’t ever leave me. We’ll find a way.”

Through the open window she could hear the hum of pilgrims’ prayers, walking the Via Dolorosa. The chanting filled the room and bounced from wall to wall, drowning out all her thoughts. The weight of her lover’s body became the sum and substance of her life. This moment would sustain her now and forever.