covers with her back to him.
"It works," she said after a moment.
"Thanks for the tip, Tsililla," said Lucas.
"Go to Masada."
"Should I? Why?"
"You should. I went when I was in school. You've never been."
The ruined mountaintop fortress at Masada was the place where first-century Jewish Zealots, in rebellion against Roman rule, were reported to have committed suicide rather than surrender to Roman troops. It was a major tourist attraction.
"Masada's a lot of baloney," Lucas told her. "Only Boy Scouts believe it."
Piqued or asleep, she did not answer. But then it occurred to him that he might just go, and even spend a night in the valley. Enthusiasm was, after all, his subject.
In the bathroom, he used the accordion-hinged mirror beside Tsililla's sink to locate his bald spot. Without question it was expanding, brightening in the spring sunshine.
He straightened up and had a look at himself in the larger glass above the sink. He supposed Israel was aging him. Recently colleagues had expressed surprise upon hearing that he had been too young to work Vietnam. But the absurdity in Grenada had been his war, for what it was worth. The Gulf War had literally bypassed him. Overhead.
Lucas was a big man, broad-shouldered, thin-lipped, long-jawed. Once one of his girlfriends had laughed at him, laughed at his face, with the explanation that he so often appeared to be at the point of saying something funny. It was hard for him to believe now that his spare mouth and fixed mug suggested incipient humor. Moreover, his hairline was receding, his forehead claiming more of his face, exposing the strategies in his eyes.
He was not a vain man, but his own appearance discouraged him. Lucas had not engaged his own appearance for some time.
Before setting out, he had a last glance at Obermann's Ericksen file. The meeting was not scheduled until late in the day, so there would be plenty of time to prepare.
The file led off with a résumé of the reverend, apparently prepared by the estranged Mrs. Ericksen. Ericksen had started out as a Primitive Baptist in eastern Colorado, gone to Bible school in California and served a few working-class congregations in the industrial suburbs of L.A. Then he had gone to Guatemala as a missionary for three years and married Linda there. Immediately thereafter they had both turned up in Israel. They had worked with a number of Christian institutions here, as evangelical missionaries to Christian Arabs in Ramallah, at a camp for visiting Christian youth groups loosely organized on the kibbutz model, and as tour guides for church trips. Then, finally, at about the time his marriage with Linda began to fail, he had taken over the House of the Galilean and its good lentil soup.
Calling Ericksen, Lucas had proposed that he join him on one of the H of G's excursions to the shores of the Dead Sea, and Ericksen had agreed. Included with his résumé were many inspirational brochures that emphasized Qumran and the Essenes, with references to the Teacher of Righteousness. The line, barely hinted at in the promotional stuff, seemed to Lucas vaguely unorthodox, if not quite in the
majnoon
category. It suggested a variety of New Age Gnosticism more than old-time holy rolling.
Late in the morning, leaving Tsililla asleep, he packed up his notes and went out. He took along some topical reading for the trip down: Josephus's
Jewish War
and a modern history of the same period by a British historian.
His old Renault was parked at the side of the building's driveway downstairs. As a hopeful precaution, he had equipped the car with two large printed signs that said PRESS in English, Russian, Hebrew and Arabic, purchased from a Palestinian street vendor near the Damascus Gate. Why there should be a Russian rendering Lucas had no idea, but he thought it might not hurt to confuse the issue. He was always trying to project the maximum degree of complexity against a landscape whose inhabitants had neither the time
"It works," she said after a moment.
"Thanks for the tip, Tsililla," said Lucas.
"Go to Masada."
"Should I? Why?"
"You should. I went when I was in school. You've never been."
The ruined mountaintop fortress at Masada was the place where first-century Jewish Zealots, in rebellion against Roman rule, were reported to have committed suicide rather than surrender to Roman troops. It was a major tourist attraction.
"Masada's a lot of baloney," Lucas told her. "Only Boy Scouts believe it."
Piqued or asleep, she did not answer. But then it occurred to him that he might just go, and even spend a night in the valley. Enthusiasm was, after all, his subject.
In the bathroom, he used the accordion-hinged mirror beside Tsililla's sink to locate his bald spot. Without question it was expanding, brightening in the spring sunshine.
He straightened up and had a look at himself in the larger glass above the sink. He supposed Israel was aging him. Recently colleagues had expressed surprise upon hearing that he had been too young to work Vietnam. But the absurdity in Grenada had been his war, for what it was worth. The Gulf War had literally bypassed him. Overhead.
Lucas was a big man, broad-shouldered, thin-lipped, long-jawed. Once one of his girlfriends had laughed at him, laughed at his face, with the explanation that he so often appeared to be at the point of saying something funny. It was hard for him to believe now that his spare mouth and fixed mug suggested incipient humor. Moreover, his hairline was receding, his forehead claiming more of his face, exposing the strategies in his eyes.
He was not a vain man, but his own appearance discouraged him. Lucas had not engaged his own appearance for some time.
Before setting out, he had a last glance at Obermann's Ericksen file. The meeting was not scheduled until late in the day, so there would be plenty of time to prepare.
The file led off with a résumé of the reverend, apparently prepared by the estranged Mrs. Ericksen. Ericksen had started out as a Primitive Baptist in eastern Colorado, gone to Bible school in California and served a few working-class congregations in the industrial suburbs of L.A. Then he had gone to Guatemala as a missionary for three years and married Linda there. Immediately thereafter they had both turned up in Israel. They had worked with a number of Christian institutions here, as evangelical missionaries to Christian Arabs in Ramallah, at a camp for visiting Christian youth groups loosely organized on the kibbutz model, and as tour guides for church trips. Then, finally, at about the time his marriage with Linda began to fail, he had taken over the House of the Galilean and its good lentil soup.
Calling Ericksen, Lucas had proposed that he join him on one of the H of G's excursions to the shores of the Dead Sea, and Ericksen had agreed. Included with his résumé were many inspirational brochures that emphasized Qumran and the Essenes, with references to the Teacher of Righteousness. The line, barely hinted at in the promotional stuff, seemed to Lucas vaguely unorthodox, if not quite in the
majnoon
category. It suggested a variety of New Age Gnosticism more than old-time holy rolling.
Late in the morning, leaving Tsililla asleep, he packed up his notes and went out. He took along some topical reading for the trip down: Josephus's
Jewish War
and a modern history of the same period by a British historian.
His old Renault was parked at the side of the building's driveway downstairs. As a hopeful precaution, he had equipped the car with two large printed signs that said PRESS in English, Russian, Hebrew and Arabic, purchased from a Palestinian street vendor near the Damascus Gate. Why there should be a Russian rendering Lucas had no idea, but he thought it might not hurt to confuse the issue. He was always trying to project the maximum degree of complexity against a landscape whose inhabitants had neither the time
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