nor the inclination for much. The way to Ein Gedi would take him through the most secure part of the Occupied Territories, but there was always a chance of trouble.
The car's yellow Israeli license plate might well draw stones at the Jericho turnoff; the press sign, designed to placate the rock-throwing
shebab,
sometimes enraged the militant settlers. Cars bearing such a sign were occasionally forced to stop by armed men who interrogated and insulted members of the foreign press, whom they tended to see as Arab lovers. The most militant settlers, Lucas had found, always seemed to be Americans, and they reserved their most furious scorn for American reporters.
But the greatest danger of all, Lucas understood, was not
fedayeen
on
jihad
or enraged Jabotinskyites; it would come from ordinary Israeli motorists, who had, as a group, the aggressiveness, fatalism and approximate life expectancy of west Texas bikers. Their random fury could be neither appeased nor sensibly anticipated.
The city had spread far to the east. Neat, ugly blocks of flats extended into the Judean Hills, and it was nearly half an hour before he reached the open desert. Then all at once there were stony ravines where the ravens might have nourished Hagar. Black Bedouin tents clung to shingled hillsides; demonic goats nibbled along the shoulder of the road. The ridge lines were commanded, every few miles, by army strong points with sandbags and razor wire. Rounding one turn, he came in sight of the green oasis of Jericho below and the pale salty blue of the Dead Sea to the south of it. On the far horizon, across the wide water in the Kingdom of Jordan, loomed the limestone mass of Mount Nebo. It was where Moses was supposed to have set eyes on the Promised Land at last, and died. In some ways, Lucas thought, squinting into the haze, an ideal outcome.
Killing time, he decided to risk a long detour through Jericho, following the main highway into town and pulling off at the compound where the Egged buses stopped and Palestinian vendors sold fruit, soda and gewgaws under the eye of a Border Police post. The breeze was rank and sweet with verdure, and the humidity drew sweat and stirred vague appetites. He bought two large bottles of mineral water and drank one greedily. Even the quality of thirst seemed different in the lowlands. A man in Bedouin robes, dark as an Ashanti, sold him a small bunch of bananas. People of African origin, descendants of slaves it was said, lived in a few nearby villages.
The town was quiet. He had a cup of coffee in the café at Hi-sham's palace and then drove south, following the straight highway under the cliffs over the Jordan valley. The hotel and spa where the Reverend Mr. Ericksen and his colleagues were conferring had sun-faded flags of the tourist nations on a crescent of flagpoles at the entrance to its driveway. The driveway itself was a desolate sandy track between stands of brush and thorn trees, leading to two beige buildings beside a dun marsh that edged toward the greasy whitecaps of the Dead Sea.
A surly young man at the front desk provided him information with studied indifference. The spiritual conferees were off on a junket to the Qumran caves and would not return until late afternoon. Lucas left a message for Ericksen. Until then, he would have a choice of several diversions. He might go out to the caves himself and endeavor to commune with ectoplasmic Essenes. He might hop one of the hotel's tourist buses for the midday excursion to Masada, down the road. Or he might book himself into the whole Dead Sea spritz-and-shvitz, endure the mud bath and the sulfurated showers, perform the belly-up wallow along the salty shore. After a little dawdling, thinking of Tsililla, he opted for Masada.
He read Josephus on the wayâthe story of Eleazar and the Zealots holding off the Romans to the last, the Roman breach, the self-slaughter of the surviving Jews. For some reason, today the bus to the fortress was filled
The car's yellow Israeli license plate might well draw stones at the Jericho turnoff; the press sign, designed to placate the rock-throwing
shebab,
sometimes enraged the militant settlers. Cars bearing such a sign were occasionally forced to stop by armed men who interrogated and insulted members of the foreign press, whom they tended to see as Arab lovers. The most militant settlers, Lucas had found, always seemed to be Americans, and they reserved their most furious scorn for American reporters.
But the greatest danger of all, Lucas understood, was not
fedayeen
on
jihad
or enraged Jabotinskyites; it would come from ordinary Israeli motorists, who had, as a group, the aggressiveness, fatalism and approximate life expectancy of west Texas bikers. Their random fury could be neither appeased nor sensibly anticipated.
The city had spread far to the east. Neat, ugly blocks of flats extended into the Judean Hills, and it was nearly half an hour before he reached the open desert. Then all at once there were stony ravines where the ravens might have nourished Hagar. Black Bedouin tents clung to shingled hillsides; demonic goats nibbled along the shoulder of the road. The ridge lines were commanded, every few miles, by army strong points with sandbags and razor wire. Rounding one turn, he came in sight of the green oasis of Jericho below and the pale salty blue of the Dead Sea to the south of it. On the far horizon, across the wide water in the Kingdom of Jordan, loomed the limestone mass of Mount Nebo. It was where Moses was supposed to have set eyes on the Promised Land at last, and died. In some ways, Lucas thought, squinting into the haze, an ideal outcome.
Killing time, he decided to risk a long detour through Jericho, following the main highway into town and pulling off at the compound where the Egged buses stopped and Palestinian vendors sold fruit, soda and gewgaws under the eye of a Border Police post. The breeze was rank and sweet with verdure, and the humidity drew sweat and stirred vague appetites. He bought two large bottles of mineral water and drank one greedily. Even the quality of thirst seemed different in the lowlands. A man in Bedouin robes, dark as an Ashanti, sold him a small bunch of bananas. People of African origin, descendants of slaves it was said, lived in a few nearby villages.
The town was quiet. He had a cup of coffee in the café at Hi-sham's palace and then drove south, following the straight highway under the cliffs over the Jordan valley. The hotel and spa where the Reverend Mr. Ericksen and his colleagues were conferring had sun-faded flags of the tourist nations on a crescent of flagpoles at the entrance to its driveway. The driveway itself was a desolate sandy track between stands of brush and thorn trees, leading to two beige buildings beside a dun marsh that edged toward the greasy whitecaps of the Dead Sea.
A surly young man at the front desk provided him information with studied indifference. The spiritual conferees were off on a junket to the Qumran caves and would not return until late afternoon. Lucas left a message for Ericksen. Until then, he would have a choice of several diversions. He might go out to the caves himself and endeavor to commune with ectoplasmic Essenes. He might hop one of the hotel's tourist buses for the midday excursion to Masada, down the road. Or he might book himself into the whole Dead Sea spritz-and-shvitz, endure the mud bath and the sulfurated showers, perform the belly-up wallow along the salty shore. After a little dawdling, thinking of Tsililla, he opted for Masada.
He read Josephus on the wayâthe story of Eleazar and the Zealots holding off the Romans to the last, the Roman breach, the self-slaughter of the surviving Jews. For some reason, today the bus to the fortress was filled
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