Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (119 page)

'Dani. . .
'

He looked at her, caught by her change of tone.

'About my father. I've been meaning to talk to you.'

'So talk.'

She sighed softly. 'Isn't he getting . . . well, a little long in
the tooth for these Errol Flynn heroics?'

'Old? The wily Fox of the Desert?'

'He's almost fifty-two.'

He nodded.

'I worry about him. I worry a lot.'

'Rest assured, if anyone can take care of himself, it's your
father.'

'I know that. But can he take care of so many other people
as well?'

'You know that this is his life. What do you expect him to
do, sit in the shade and read? He's not that type of man.'

'But you yourself are worried about Tuesday.'

'That's right.' He nodded, took one last drag on his cigarette, and stubbed it out. 'That's because, on Tuesday, you
can bet that every British patrol on the coast is going to be
on full alert. The Navy intends to make an example of the
Philadelphie.'

'One of your spies told you that?'

'One of our British sympathizers,' he corrected her with a little smile which faded the instant it touched his lips. 'Thank
God there are as many of those as there are.' He paused.
'What I'm trying to say is, your father could be walking into a
trap.'

A cold dread left her speechless.

'You know we can't afford to let him get caught. He's one
of the seven or eight men who're keeping all the Jews fighting for freedom as a cohesive group. It would be tragic if he were
arrested.' He added gravely,
'
That's why I want you to try to
keep him from being on the beach on Tuesday.'

'I'll try.' Sighing, she laced her fingers across her belly and
stared out at the sawtooth mountains. They always reminded
her of her father; they were as inflexible and unmovable as he. After a moment she turned back to her husband. 'I'll do
what I can, Dani, but you know my father as well as I do. Once
his mind is made up about something, there's no changing it.
He's as stubborn as you are.'

'Then use your wiles. They work on me, so why shouldn't
they work on him?'

'Because I'm his daughter, and feminine wiles can't be used
on fathers.'

'Ah, but daughters' wiles can. Use whatever weapons you
must. Use . . . the baby.'

'The baby!' She stared at him.

'Tell him you're developing pregnancy difficulties. Dr. Saperstein will back you up. Explain to your father that since I'll be needed when the
Philadelphie
makes her run through the
blockade, you need him to stay here with you.'

'I'll try my best,' she repeated with little hope.

'Good.' He smiled. 'Just make sure you talk with Dr. Sap
erstein first, so your stories match up.' He got up from the
chair, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. 'Don't look so wor
ried. Everything is going to be fine.'

She nodded absently. She wasn't so sure. Her father had
been taking chances for years now . . . decades, surely. Only
his wits, and sometimes good luck, had kept him from getting
caught. She wondered how many lives he had used up already;
she could only hope that he had more than a cat.

While the men met in her house, Jehan and the other women
gathered at the house of her daughter, Tawfiq. Although they
were well aware of the men's reason for meeting, the women, in keeping with womanly propriety, did not so much as men
tion the subject. Instead, over sweet date cakes and tiny cups
of thick, syrupy coffee, they chattered like magpies, exchang
ing gossip and recipes, admiring each other's clothes, and dis
cussing such heady topics as child-rearing and marriage
contracts.

Just as Naemuddin kept himself removed from the men, so
too Jehan maintained a distance from the women. She sat near
the open front door where she could keep an eye on her own
door, a hundred paces away. She did not join in the women's conversation, nor did she care to. Her mind was too preoccupied with what was transpiring in her own house, but every
now and then fragments of what the women were saying fil
tered through to her consciousness:'. . . I think it is scandal
ous. Her parents are asking
twice
as much as that Diab girl's
parents. I always say, deal with your relatives. Distant cousins
are much cheaper . .
.'As
she waited, Jehan became increas
ingly agitated. A half-hour passed, then one, then one and a
half, and still the men were in her house. '. . . Yes, but with
the price of brides, who can afford a divorce . . .' Jehan's
heart began to beat rapidly, unevenly.'. . . He is a good son,
my Salam. Two years now have gone by since he went to Suez
to work, and he sends us money every three months . . .'
Jehan drummed her fingers on her draped knees, her eyes
never leaving her door. She gave a start when Tawfiq touched
her arm and leaned down.

'Your thoughts are not with us, Mother,' she whispered
reproachfully. 'You know that if you continue to stare out the
door and do not soon say something, the others will gossip
about you. By the way they glare at you, I know they find your
behaviour strange.'

'Let them gossip, if they have nothing better to do,' Jehan said irritably. 'They are a bunch of silly goats.'

'Shhhh!' Tawfiq sneaked a glance behind her to see if any
of the others had heard. Relieved that they hadn't, she let out
a little breath. Her voice took on a pleading tone. 'Please,
Mother, can you not at least feign some interest?'

Suddenly Jehan caught sight of Abdullah strutting out of
her house. With a pang, she noticed that he wore the elaborate headgear which had adorned her husband's head for so many
years. The other men poured out behind him, hurrying to keep
pace with his cocksure gait. Her heart sank. She did not need
to be told what had happened. The headgear and the men's
obvious excitement said it all. Without answering her
daughter, and leaving her standing there openmouthed, Jehan
leapt to her feet and hurried to her house. She sensed that
now, more than at any other time in their lives, her husband
needed her.

The last of the men were coming out when she got to the
house. She waited with her head slightly bowed, and then
looked around the door.

What she saw made her catch her breath. Her husband
stood near the door, not five paces in front of her, and the
bright sunlight, driving a wedge of light inside, spotlighted him
against the dimness as if he were standing on a stage. He was
staring directly at her but made no sign of seeing her.

A sudden chill came over her. No, he was not looking at
her, she realized with a start. He was staring
through
her, as
though she wasn't there.

In the brightness of the shaft of light, his defeat was magni
fied and piteous to see. His shoulders were slumped and nar
rowed, his face was slack, and for the first time in all the years
they had been together, he looked old and frail and, yes,
impotent. It was as if he had crumpled in on himself.

Taking a deep breath and offering up a swift prayer for Allah to give her courage, she stepped inside. Going to him,
she placed an arm around his shoulders. She staggered as he
collapsed limply against her, but she was a strong woman, and
held her own. His body trembled uncontrollably.

'They want to fight!' he whispered, as if in a daze. 'They
want to wound and maim. To kill!' His voice cracked. 'In two
days' time, they intend to attack the Jews' settlement.'

'I know,' she replied gently. 'I watched them come out and
knew from looking at their faces. They are fools.'

'I have failed,' he wept, shaking his head miserably. 'I tried
one last time to make them see the light, but they would not
listen. They do not care that many among them will die.'

'You have done all you can,' she murmured soothingly, but
her voice was touched with fear. She sighed thinly. 'Their fates
are now in the hands of Allah.'

At that moment, just outside the open door, her twelve-year-old grandson, Najib, skidded on bare feet, oblivious of
the pain inflicted on the soles of his feet. Jehan turned to look. As if by design, he stopped precisely in the centre of the bright
rectangle of sunlight. He was in profile and he brandished a
stick. A moment later, little Iffat staggered toward him and
let out a girlish shriek.

'I see a Jew!' Najib yelled. Pretending the stick was a rifle,
he held it as he had seen the men do, the make-believe stock
pressing into his shoulder. He squinted along it. 'Bang!' he
shouted. 'Bang! Whhhiit! I killed one!' he yelled, and Iffat
clapped her hands.

'Jew!' Iffat shrieked. 'Bang! Jew!' She reached up, trying to tug the stick away from her brother. 'I want it! I want to shoot
too!'

Jehan turned silently to her husband. Naemuddin had raised
his head and was staring at the children. Tears streaked down
his parchment cheeks. 'Just listen to them!' he wept, shaking
his head in immense sorrow. 'How have I allowed this to hap
pen?'

Tamara had walked along the edge of the fields a third of the
way around the settlement to her father's new house. When
she got there, she knocked her
rap . . . rap-rap .
. .
rap-rap-
rap
code on the front door, waited half a minute in case she'd
caught him unawares, and then pressed down on the door handle. She stuck her head inside the living room. 'Father?'
she called out.

'I'm in here,' he called back.

She crossed the living room and headed straight for his
study. She found him seated behind his desk, his back to the
open windows which looked out on to the small cobbled court
yard with its dazzling, chalky whitewashed walls.