“Michelangelo has nothing on you,” she said. She set the bottle on the wide, flat arm of the chair next to him and brushed wood shavings off the seat. “That boy needs to learn to clean up after himself.”
“He was tired,” Jagger said. “I told him I’d take care of the mess. He’s getting pretty good too.”
“He showed me. A man, I think.”
“It’s going to be a Union soldier. He wants to make a whole regiment. Confederates too. Is he asleep?”
“Soon as his head hit the pillow.” She dropped into the chair with a long sigh. “This place is an endless playground for a little boy.. and exhausting for his mother.” She filled her glass and took a sip.
Together they scanned the monastery laid out before them, a box about the size of a football field. Moonlight cast a silvery radiance into the compound, which looked to Jagger like the Lego construction of an impatient six- year-old. None of the buildings was quite squared to the exterior walls; a few-such as the single biggest building, the basilica-canted diagonally away from the wall. Over a millennium and a half, structures had been built on top of others and squeezed into gaps. This left rooftops at varying heights, tunnel-like alleyways, and small irregularly shaped open areas. Many rooftops doubled as terraces and walkways, with stone flues popping up at odd locations like memorials to long-forgotten events.
Defying this mishmash was the newest of the structures. Built against the interior of the south wall-to Jagger’s right-was the Southwest Range Building, which housed the library, icon gallery, a hospice, a chapel, and quarters for many of the monks. Its facade boasted a double series of arches, fanning out from a central monolithic tower with its own two-story arch and domed roof. Closest to Jabel Musa, the already-tall building was on high ground, giving Jagger the impression that it watched over the compound, a well-dressed parent calmly protecting its ragamuffin children.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Beth said.
“The Southwest Range Building? Yeah.” The lunar glow caught its edges, accentuating the arches and giving it the appearance of having been carved out of the mountain rising behind it, like the temples of Petra a 150 miles to the northeast.
The compound itself lay mostly in shadows. A small scattering of amber lights glowed slightly brighter than the moon, illuminating a terrace, a couple walkways, and the space between the basilica and mosque, which had been built in the tenth century to placate Egypt’s Arab rulers.
“All of it.” She crossed her wine glass in front of her, inviting his eyes to behold the ancient setting. “So much history. Centuries of worship. Just think of the love for God that went into the placement of every stone.”
“Lot of sweat,” Jagger said.
She smiled. “Listen.”
He did, though he already knew what he would hear: nothing. It was one of the eeriest aspects of the Sinai. No muffled radios or televisions, no barking dogs, no far-off hum of traffic. Even the occasional breeze seemed to pass without stirring a leaf or finding a scrap of litter to push over the ground. At this time of evening-just past ten- the monks had all retired to their quarters, taking with them the noises of human life: footsteps, closing doors, the clearing of throats. During the day it seemed one monk or another was always scraping a straw broom over the silt that settled everywhere.
And with Tyler asleep-the only time he didn’t rattle or stomp or make gun sounds with his mouth-Jagger and Beth had come to treasure this hour. The world had shut down, seemingly just for them.
Jagger felt pressure on his shin and leaned over to see a cat rubbing against him. He scratched its head, which it appreciated for about five seconds. Then it leaped away as if he’d pinched it. He slid back into the chair. The backsides of countless people who had sat there before him had polished the wood to a smooth gleam. The armrests were nicked and scarred by, as far as Jagger could tell, fingernails, knives, pens, and cigarettes. Even so, the chair felt like a throne to him, and he liked the idea of surveying a kingdom that wasn’t his, next to a queen who was. He lifted his wine glass. “To you,” he said, “for sticking with me.”
She tapped her glass to his. “I never considered doing anything else.”
“I know,” he said. He sipped the scarlet Egyptian wine. It was a cabernet sauvignon from Chateau Des Reves, the best they could find, which wasn’t saying much. When it came to wines, Egypt was no France. This blend, with grapes imported from Lebanon, exhibited the varietal characteristics of flowers and cherry cough syrup. “I just mean, you’ve put up with a lot, and we haven’t really talked about it that much.”
She touched his arm. “I figured we would when you were ready.”
He smiled at her, then stared into the glass. “I just…”
“What?”
“I never would have guessed I’d crumble like I did.”
“Your grief ran as deep as your love.”
He squinted at her. “You loved them too.”
“We all grieve differently. I threw myself into my work.”
“I couldn’t work,” Jagger said, feeling that old smoky, choking sense of self-loathing rising up from his gut. He shook his head. “I don’t know how you did it.”
She squeezed his arm. “I laid a lot of pain at the foot of the cross. I just figured he could handle it better than I could.”
“I blamed God,” Jagger said. He pushed his lips tight. The anger was still there. “A whole family, Beth.” As if she needed reminding. “Here one minute, gone the next. All because-” He turned away, didn’t want her to see the fury on his face. It was something he was supposed to have left behind in the States. He gazed at the simple, thin cross rising from the basilica’s peaked roof. “All because some idiot thought he could drive plastered out of his mind.”
Beth half turned and tucked her legs beneath her on the chair. She leaned close to him, her fingers stroking his forehead and running back through his hair. “Shhh,” she said into his ear. Her hand slid over the side of his head and stopped on his neck, holding him while she brushed her nose against his cheek. “Let it go,” she whispered.
He turned toward her. Her eyes looked into his, calming, understanding, sharing his burden.
His lips paused before touching hers, and only their breath kissed. To them, it was more intimate than full contact. It had started with their first kiss. Unsure eighteen-year-olds, wanting it, but frightened of feelings they’d never before felt so strongly. Neither had moved to close the paper-thin gap between their lips. After what had seemed like an eternity of tasting each other’s essence but nothing more, she had giggled. Spell broken, he went in, pressing his lips to hers. During their most tender moments, this was how they kissed. Now their lips touched, barely, and she parted from him, returning to her throne.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“Right back in your face.” Another youthful praxis they’d held on to. He scanned the grounds. “It scares me,” he said, “how fast it comes rushing back. The anger, frustration…”
“You did the right thing,” she said, “getting away, bringing us here.”
“What else could I do? I fell apart.” He offered her a thin smile. “I couldn’t even drive, for crying out loud.”
A hint of the concern that had defined her appearance in the bad old days touched her eyes. She parted her lips, then closed them. He knew she wanted to assure him that it wasn’t his fault, that he’d crumbled for good reason. But she knew him better than that: Regardless of the circumstances, he took responsibility for his own behavior. He never blamed outside causes, because it wasn’t what happened to you that made you the person you were, it was how you responded to those things.
But he had blamed outside causes-God, the world-and he hadn’t handled himself very well.
“A lot of people would have just kept sliding away,” Beth said. “You took steps to get better. That’s who you are, Jag. You fall-sometimes hard-but you always get up.”
“I wasn’t sure I could this time. I’m still not sure.”
“You’re up,” she said. “Maybe on wobbly legs, but you’re up. Don’t think you aren’t.”
“Like I said-” He raised his glass. “To you.” He took a swig and stood up. He stumbled into the railing, and Beth reached for him.
“Jag?”
“It’s these wobbly legs,” he said, casting a sideways glance at her. He made his knees go out and in.
She smiled and stood, pressing her side to his and wrapping her arm around him.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I got you.”
