Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle, Page 4

  Brad let his breath out in a slow, inaudible sigh, a technique he had developed in the service to cope with intransigent sergeants or obnoxious lieutenants who tried to goad you into losing your temper so they could really hang you. Finally in control, he quietly said, “For someone on the brink of bankruptcy, you dress quite well.”

  Her head shot up, and she stared at him, uncertain whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. Once again he held her gaze until she was the one to drop her eyes. “You’ll be in room 312,” she said, handing him the key. “I’ll call someone to help you with your luggage.”

  “No thanks,” Brad retorted. “One hotel employee is all I’m up to tonight.” With that he spun away, picked up his bags, and headed for the elevator, aware of the burning glare she was hurling at the back of his neck.

  Four

  It was almost more than he could muster, but with a groan, Brad rolled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. He turned the cold water—a purely relative term—on full blast and let it pound into his face until he felt some semblance of life start to flow again in his body. He had fully intended to rise about eight A.M. and spend the day seeing Jerusalem. But at precisely 1:48 in the morning he was suddenly wide awake, experiencing a healthy case of jet lag. Not until the sun had flooded his room with light around five o’clock had he finally won the battle and dropped again into a deep sleep. But now it was nearly noon, and if he wanted to see the city at all before Ali came, he would have to hurry.

  Brad shaved off the black growth, then stared at himself in the mirror. His gray eyes were still bloodshot, but shaving and some sleep had made a surprising improvement.

  He dressed quickly, deciding not to unpack until the issue of the room was settled. Grabbing his camera bag, he went down to the lobby, preparing himself for a possible confrontation. But to his relief the girl was nowhere in sight. A tall, powerfully built man was behind the counter, head bent over a stack of papers. His hair was a wild tousle the color of coal dust. As Brad laid his key on the counter, the man lifted his head, revealing a darkly handsome face and pleasant brown eyes, which reflected an air of quiet self-assurance. He was probably twentyfive to thirty years old, and, judging from what Brad could see, in superb physical shape.

  The clerk glanced at Brad’s key, then broke into a broad smile. “Ah yes,” he said in a deep, booming voice. “You’re the American who came in last night.”

  “Yes,” Brad admitted.

  “Welcome to Jerusalem.” The young man stuck his hand across the counter and took Brad’s in a handshake that bordered somewhere between a pair of vice grips and a nutcracker. “Miri told me you came in last night. I’m Nathan Shadmi, Miri’s brother.” His English was good, but with an accent more pronounced than his sister’s.

  “Thank you,” Brad said, relieved to find some warmth in the welcome. “I’m Brad Kennison.”

  “Yes,” Nathan responded. “I saw your name on the register. I understand you and Ali will be meeting with my father and me at three o’clock today.”

  “Yes,” Brad answered, somewhat wary.

  But Nathan was smiling broadly. “I’m sure we can work something out that will be agreeable to you.”

  Brad’s smile matched Nathan’s in broadness. “Thank you. That’s most kind.”

  At that moment the small switchboard in the office buzzed. “Excuse me, please,” Nathan said. “We’ll see you at three.”

  Brad plunged out into the blistering noonday heat with genuine enthusiasm. It was exciting to finally be in Jerusalem. In fact, he thought, it was exciting just to be excited again. He strode up the street in the direction Ali had pointed him last night.

  As he came around the corner the view of the Old City stopped him in midstride. The pictures he had seen of Jerusalem’s walls had not been able to convey the feeling of massiveness that overwhelmed him now. He darted across the busy street that ran alongside the wall and entered the great opening that was the Jaffa Gate.

  He had gone only about fifty yards inside the gate when a delicious aroma from a tiny, open shop stopped him. His stomach suddenly reminded him that he had last eaten on the plane the night before. Stepping up closer, he watched a young teenaged Arab boy forming a gooeylooking paste into one-inch balls and dropping them into a pan of boiling oil. That was definitely the source of the aroma.

  “What you like, sir?” The boy’s smile was warm and friendly.

  “I don’t know,” Brad grinned back. “What you got?”

  “We got anything you like. You American?”

  Brad nodded, used to the identifiability of his species from his travels in Asia.

  “Wel-come. You like felafel?”

  “Is that what those are?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  “Chick peas, ground up, mixed with spices. Very good. I put it in pita bread with lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes.” He waved to bowls filled with each item as he spoke. “Then I put sauce on it. Green or red sauce. Very good. You want one?”

  “Why not?”

  Pleased at his sale, the boy moved quickly, taking a round but perfectly flat piece of bread from a tray. With a little flourish for Brad’s benefit, he cut off one edge and, to Brad’s surprise, opened the bread, which was hollow, forming a pocket. Into the pocket he then stuffed two of the deep fried balls and the other vegetables he had promised. “You want red sauce or green sauce?”

  Brad hesitated, looking at both. “I don’t know. Which is better?”

  “Red sauce, very hot. Green sauce, very good.”

  Amused at the boy’s salesmanship, Brad pointed. “Okay, green it is. What have you got to drink?”

  “Fresh-squeezed orange juice or soda pop.”

  “Make it orange juice.”

  The felafel was as good as it had smelled, and Brad ordered another one, to the great delight of the young proprietor. Feeling much better, he started into the narrow opening of what at first appeared to be another shop, but on closer look was one of the narrow, covered streets that he would quickly learn were typical of the Old City.

  Suddenly Brad was thrust through time and space to a completely different world, a teeming, bustling world of sight, and sound, and smell. The narrow, twisting streets were often mere tunnels under buildings that stretched for as much as a full city block. These were the souks that Ali had talked about, tiny markets offering the most incredible variety of wares imaginable. Tourist shops filled with olivewood carvings and brass vases elbowed side by side with butcher shops where slabs of raw meat hung in the open, often dotted black with flies. Even Brad, who thought he was used to anything, pulled a face when he saw one counter filled with neat stacks of goat heads. Shops with a dozen or more huge burlap sacks with their tops rolled down into neat collars displayed spices and beans and nuts and seeds, half of which Brad couldn’t recognize. An old man with a face that would have made Methuselah look positively youthful sat at an old treadle Singer sewing machine, embroidering an intricate design in red thread upon a black dress.

  And the people! Bedouin women, their faces covered with veils on which were sewn hundreds of coins, ducked furtively past men in western business suits and ties. Women with trays of bread or bundles of clothes balanced neatly on their heads jabbered happily to each other as they maneuvered through the limited space. Brad jumped hastily out of the way to avoid a hurtling pushcart loaded with bales of straw pushed by two boys too small to see over their load.

  A donkey straining under a load of sacks marked “United Nations Relief Agency” clopped past, winning Brad’s sympathy until he saw an Arab porter staggering under the weight of a refrigerator on his back, held in a sling stretched across his forehead and over his shoulders. Black-robed priests with silver and gold crosses jostled with ultra-orthodox Jews in fur hats and long curls of hair dangling from their temples, a response to the Mosiac commandment not to cut the “corner of the beard.”

  Brad continued on for another hour, walking slowly, savoring the my
riad sights and sounds and smells—though some of the latter caused his nose to wrinkle in protest—and loving the fascination of it all. It felt good to be totally immersed in something again. He had felt detached for so long. Dad was right, he thought. This trip is going to be the medicine I’m looking for. The thought of his parents turned him into the next shop, where he disappointed the eager clerk by purchasing only three postcards and the stamps to send them to America.

  Ten minutes later he glanced at his watch, then beckoned to a small boy who had been tailing him, trying to sell him three reed flutes for a dollar. “Do you know the way to the Jaffa Gate?”

  The boy nodded his head, his large dark eyes solemn yet hopeful.

  “Will you take me there?”

  “Five dollars,” came the instant reply.

  Brad smiled to himself. He had developed a taste for bargaining in the Far East. “Five dollars?” he said, screwing his face into a look of shock. “Too much! Too much!”

  “Three dollars.” The young face was unmoved by Brad’s protestations.

  “One dollar.”

  “Two dollars.”

  Brad considered that carefully, as though it taxed the limits of his resources. “Two dollars if you give me three flutes and take me to the Jaffa Gate.”

  “Okay,” the boy agreed, so quickly that Brad knew he’d just bid too high. He smiled, good-naturedly accepting the boy’s triumphant look. He had been taken, but it felt good. He turned and walked swiftly to keep up with the boy, who was trotting up the narrow street, clutching the two dollars happily in his hand.

  Brad had not gone into the Old City as far as he had thought, and by the time he arrived back at the hotel, it was still only ten minutes to the hour. The heat was oppressive by now, and he was perspiring freely. The air-conditioned lobby was going to feel great, but as he pushed open the door to the hotel, he stopped short. At that moment a battered Volkswagen rattled around the corner and started down the street toward him. Even at this distance Brad could hear the tortured sounds of the motor. He made an immediate side bet with himself that it would not make it up the slight rise that ran past the hotel. But he was wrong. It lumbered forward and turned into the hotel’s short driveway.

  A thick layer of dust obscured the car’s color, although there was a slight hint of red beneath the accumulated layers. Whatever the color, it was certain that the paint wouldn’t have any sun damage at all. One headlight had been gouged out, leaving a rusty, gaping wound. A crack ran diagonally across the entire width of the windshield, though under the dust it was barely discernible.

  Brad started to smile, then jumped up in surprise as the door opened and Ali stepped out and waved to him. Brad fought the temptation as he greeted the young Arab, but it was too much for him, and he stared at the car, his nose slightly wrinkled.

  Ali noted the expression. “Well,” he said, grinning broadly, “what do you think of it?”

  “Is this your car?” Brad asked, instantly regretting that his voice had put the whole force of the question on the word car.

  “No,” Ali said, slapping Brad on the back. “It’s yours!”

  “Ali!”

  “What?” His dark eyes were wide and sparkled with delight.

  “You can’t—I mean, I can’t take this!”

  “Why not? It will look better once it is washed.”

  “You can’t just give me your car.”

  “It’s not mine. It’s my brother’s.”

  “Well, you can’t give me your brother’s car.”

  “Actually, it’s my brother’s old car. It’s just been sitting in a shed in Bethlehem for several months. We almost didn’t get it started. And I’m not giving it to you. Just lending it to you for the time you’re in Israel.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” Ali interrupted. “Ahkmud says he thinks the fuel pump is nearly gone. I was going to get that fixed too, but I’ve got to go to Nablus for the next three days and get equipment for our school. I thought you’d rather have it now and get it fixed yourself than wait till I get back.”

  “Sure,” Brad said hastily. “That’s no problem.” His voice trailed off, as he was suddenly overwhelmed by the generosity of his day-old friend.

  “Then it’s settled,” Ali said. “It was just sitting there gathering dust,” he said, wiping his finger across the hood with a grimace, “and you need some wheels.”

  Brad threw up his hands. “I can’t believe you. What can I ever do to pay you back?”

  “Ah,” Ali said with a smile, “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “You name it,” Brad said. “Anything. Just name it.”

  “Okay.” Ali looked suddenly solemn.

  “Well?” Brad prompted.

  “Anything?” Ali asked, still hesitating.

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Once we negotiate the price of your hotel room with Mr. Shadmi, you get to be the one who tells Miri.”

  Ali darted away laughing, as Brad howled in protest. “Remember, you said anything,” Ali called as he opened the lobby door and motioned Brad inside.

  Five

  Levi Shadmi was short and stocky with a barrel chest that threatened to split his shirt up and down the back whenever he moved. His close-cropped hair had once been jet black but now was softened by liberal amounts of gray, and was nearly pure white at the temples. His eyes were a sparkling light blue and danced with hidden amusement as though he had just remembered the punchline of an exceptionally fine joke. Nathan stood next to his father, the resemblance between the two unmistakable. Brad liked Levi instantly, as he had Nathan.

  “Shalom! Shalom!” Shadmi boomed, motioning them into chairs in the small office behind the hotel desk. “Ali, it is so good to see you home. How was America?”

  “Fine. A great experience.”

  “Wonderful. And you finished your schooling?”

  “Yes,” Ali replied, the pride evident in his voice.

  “Your brother Ahkmud tells me about your idea for the school each time he comes. Are you still planning to go ahead with that?”

  “Yes. In fact, I leave for Nablus tonight to begin purchasing supplies.”

  Shadmi nodded his approval. “Good! Good! It is an important thing that you are doing.”

  Ali was obviously touched. “Shukran, my friend. Shukran.”

  Shadmi turned toward Brad. “And you, Mr. Kennison—”

  “Please,” he interrupted. “Just Brad.”

  “Brad, then. Where do you come from in America?”

  “Salt Lake City.” Then, remembering that many people overseas thought of the United States as either New York or California, he added, “That’s in Utah.”

  “Yes, I know. We have been there. We visited your—how do you say it? The Square of the Temple?”

  “Temple Square,” Brad answered. “When were you there?”

  “Let’s see, about six years ago now,” Shadmi mused. “We were there just before the Six Day War, in January 1967. We lived in New York for two years on an assignment for the Ministry of Tourism. We decided to see America before we returned to Israel, and stopped in Utah on our way to California.”

  “A very beautiful building, that temple,” Nathan said. “Are you Mormon?”

  “Yes.”

  “So am I,” Ali said proudly.

  Both father and son looked startled, and stared at the young Arab.

  “I joined the Mormon church four months ago. In fact, that’s how Brad and I happened to meet on the plane.”

  “Well, well,” Shadmi said. “It is an interesting religion. Ali tells me you plan an extended visit to our country.”

  “Yes.” Brad paused. “Exactly how long I am not yet sure.”

  “And you need a place to stay?” Shadmi said.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to be a problem. You have a hotel to run, and I’m sure every room is critical.”

  “Every room but the one we had reserved for you,” Shadmi said with a warm smile. “You
will stay here for as long as you wish. It is a pleasure for us to be able to do something for a friend of the Khalidis.”

  “Brad is a proud American,” Ali said, voicing Brad’s biggest concern. “He is a proud American but not a rich one. He will not accept charity and yet he cannot afford luxury. What can you work out between you?”

  “Two hundred fifty dollars a month for the room, which will include breakfast and dinner here in the hotel.” The words were spoken with finality, suggesting no opportunity for debate. “For three hundred you could eat lunch too, but I thought you might be gone during the day.”

  Brad stared at him and then started to speak, but Ali beat him to it.

  “Ah,” he said softly. “That is very generous, my friend. Too generous.”

  “I expected to pay more than that just for a room,” Brad replied. “It is far too little. I have saved enough for several months, and I hope to get some work of some kind to help out. I can pay a fair price.”

  The older man’s eyes were thoughtful as he looked back and forth at the two friends. “I have a proposal,” he said at length. “Nathan here finishes his leave day after tomorrow and must report back to his unit.” He looked at his son with evident pride. “Nathan is a colonel in the army.”

  A colonel, Brad thought in surprise. In Viet Nam lieutenants under thirty were called “shavetails.” He guessed Nathan’s age at twenty-six or twenty-seven. With a start he brought himself back to listen to what Nathan’s father was saying.

  “—and frankly I’m a little nervous about having Miri work here at night alone. We don’t expect any problems, but in Israel, terrorists are always a concern. We have a fellow who comes in from eleven to seven in the morning, but I need a desk clerk in the evenings. Would you be interested in that, Brad?”

  “That would be great,” Brad said eagerly. “However, I can only speak English. Will that be a problem?”

  “Ninety percent of our guests either speak or can understand English. And Miri or I will be around a good part of the time if there are special needs.”