savouring every word, sometimes going back to re-read a paragraph.
It was their story, his and Debra's, woven into the plot she had
described to him that day on the island off the Costa Brava, and it was
rich with the feeling of the land and its people. He recognized many of
the secondary characters, and he laughed aloud with the pleasure and the
joy of it. Then at the end, he choked on the sadness as the girl of the
story lies dying in Hadassah Hospital, with half her face torn away by a
terrorist's bomb, and she will not let the boy come to her. Wanting to
spare him that, wanting him to remember her as she was.
it was dawn then, and David had not noticed the passage of the night. He
rose from the bed, light-headed from lack of sleep, and filled with a
sense of wonder that Debra had captured so clearly the way it had been
that she had seen so deeply into his soul, had described emotions for
which he had believed there were no words.
He bathed and shaved and dressed in casual clothes and went back to
where the book lay upon the bed. He studied the jacket again, and then
turned to the flyleaf for confirmation. It was there. Jacket design by
Ella Kadesh. So early in the morning he had the road almost to himself
and he drove fast, into the rising morning sun.
At Jericho he turned north along the frontier road, and he remembered
her sitting in the seat beside him with her skirts drawn high around her
long brown legs and her thick dark hair shaking in the wind.
The whisper of the wind against the body of the Mercedes seemed to urge
him, Hurry, hurry. And the urgent drumming of the tyres carried him up
towards the lake.
He parked the Mercedes beside the ancient crusader wall and went through
into the garden on the lake shore.
Ella sat upon the wide patio before her easel. She wore a huge straw
hat the size of a wagon wheel adorned with plastic cherries and ostrich
feathers, her vast overalls covered her like a circus tent and they were
stiff with dried paint in all her typically vivid colours.
Calmly she looked up from her painting with her brush poised.
Hail, young Mars! she greeted him. Well met indeed, and why do you
bring such honour on my humble little home? 'Piss on it, Ella, you know
damn well why I'm here. 'So sweetly phrased, she was shifty, he could
see it in her bright little eyes. Shame on it that such vulgar words
pass such fair lips. Would you like a beer, Davey? 'No, I don't want a
beer. I want to know where she is?
Just who are we discussing? Come on, I read the book. I saw the cover.
You know, damn you, you know. She was silent then, staring at him. Then
slowly the ornate head-dress dipped in acquiescence. Yes, she agreed. I
know. 'Tell me where she is. 'I can't do that, Davey. You and I both
made a promise.
Yes, I know of yours, you see. She watched the bluster go out of him.
The fine young body with the arrogant set of shoulders seemed to sag,
and he stood uncertainly in the sunlight.
How about that beer now, Davey? She heaved herself up from her stool
and crossed the terrace with her stately tread. She came back and gave
him a tall glass with a head of froth and they took a seat together at
