I tested at intervals.
Portions came up easily. Portions stuck.
I dug my digital camera from my pack. With Ryan lighting the loculus like a tiny movie set, I placed my Swiss Army knife as a scale marker, and took shots from several angles.
Photos done, I dug out the Tupperware and spatula supplied by Mrs. Hanani.
Using the spatula’s blade and my fingertips, I carefully separated cloth from underlying bone and rock. When I had liftoff, I gently wound each segment of cloth in onto itself, and sealed each roll in a separate tub.
Not optimal, but under the circumstances, the best I could do.
With the shroud removed, I had a clear view of the human remains.
The phalanx and one calcaneus were the only intact bones. The rest of the skeleton was fragmented and badly deteriorated.
With shadow puppets mimicking my actions on the walls around me, I spent the next hour gathering bones, teeth, and underlying fill.
My back and joints ached from working pretzeled into the cramped space. My feet went numb.
At one point Friedman called down from above, “Everything okay?”
“Hunky-dory,” Ryan answered.
And later, “How long?”
“Soon.”
“Should I make camp?”
“Soon,” Ryan repeated.
Late afternoon was bleeding into dusk when we finally surfaced.
Ryan climbed out first. I handed up the shovel, the crowbar, and the pack containing the remnants of the shroud and the person whom that shroud had once wrapped.
The former lay coiled in a pair of shallow containers. The latter filled two small tubs. Barely. A third tub held fill from the loculus floor.
Friedman was sitting on the ground, ankles crossed, back to the hillside. He didn’t look irked. He didn’t look bored.
He looked like Gilligan waiting for the Captain.
On seeing us, Friedman drained his bottled water, and cranked to his feet.
“Get your man?”
Good question. I’d taken a peek. The pelvic fragments were broadcasting mixed signals on gender.
I gave a thumbs-up, then brushed dirt from my hands by rubbing them together.
“Going up?” Ryan asked Friedman in an elevator voice.
Friedman nodded, took the shovel, and began climbing. We fell in behind.
Twenty yards from the top we stopped for a group breather. Friedman’s face was crimson. Sweat matted Ryan’s hairline. I was far from ready for close-ups, myself.
Minutes later, we were at Friedman’s car.
“Join us for dinner?” Ryan asked as Friedman pulled out of Silwan.
Friedman shook his head. “Gotta get home.”
To what? I wondered. A wife? A budgie? A chop defrosting in the kitchen sink?
At the hotel, Ryan and Friedman remained outside. I went straight to the desk. The clerk managed to check out my appearance while avoiding actual eye contact. I was impressed. But not enough to explain why I looked like a train wreck.
Keys in hand, I started back toward the circle drive. Ryan had left Friedman and was walking toward me through the portico. Behind him, I could see Friedman conversing with Mrs. Hanani.
The hotel manager stood stiffly, eyes down, arms wrapping her waist.
Friedman said something. Mrs. Hanani’s head jerked up and shook in negation.
While Friedman spoke again, Mrs. Hanani pulled cigarettes from a pocket and tried lighting up. The match head jigged around, finally hit its target. Mrs. Hanani drew smoke into her lungs, exhaled, again shook her head.
Friedman walked away. Mrs. Hanani took a drag and exhaled slowly, squinting through the smoke at his departing back. I couldn’t read her expression.
“What is it?” Ryan asked.
“Nothing.”
I held out his key.
Ryan’s hand closed around mine.
“What chow would you be favorin’, ma’am?”
I knew I wanted a shower. I knew I wanted clean clothes. I knew I wanted food, followed by twelve hours of sleep.
I hadn’t a clue what cuisine I favored.
“Got a plan?”
“Fink’s.”
“Fink.”
“On Histadrut. Been there since before Israel was Israel. Friedman tells me Mouli Azrieli’s an institution.”
“Mouli would be the owner.”
Ryan nodded. “Mouli’s reputed to have turned Kissinger away rather than close the doors to his regulars. But more to the point, Mouli is said to rustle up some mean beef goulash.”
Rustle up? Ryan was going into his cowboy routine.
“Thirty minutes.” I raised one muddy finger. “On one condition.”
Ryan spread his arms. What?
“Lose the lingo.”
I turned toward the stairs.
“Lock the booty in your room safe,” Ryan said to my back. “Rustlers in these parts.”
I stopped. Ryan was right. But my room had been burgled. It wasn’t safe. I’d lost one set of bones, and didn’t want to risk losing another.
I turned.
“Do you think Friedman would secure the bones at police headquarters overnight?”
“Unquestionably.”
I held out my pack. Ryan took it.
Soap and shampoo. Blush and mascara. A half hour later, in soft light, from the right angle, I looked reasonably good.
Fink’s boasted a total of six tables. And a million examples of bric-a-brac. Though the decor was dated, the goulash was excellent.
And Mouli did join us with his stack of scrapbooks. Golda Meir. Kirk Douglas. John Steinbeck. Shirley MacLaine. His celeb collection rivaled that at the American Colony.
In the taxi, Ryan asked, “What would you be thinking, lass?” He’d tradedGunsmoke for Galway.
“Mouli needs new curtains. What would you be thinkin’?”
Ryan beamed a smile as wide as Galway Bay.
“Ah, ’tis that,” I said.
“’Tis,” he said.
I needn’t have worried about fretting sleepless alone in the dark.
26
ISLEPT THROUGH THE MUEZZIN’S CALL TO PRAYER. ISLEPTthrough morning rush hour humming by my window. I slept through Ryan slipping off to his room.
I awoke to my jeans playing “A Hard Day’s Night.”
