McSweeney's Mammoth Treasury of Thrilling Tales - Michael Chabon [176]
In fact, I was angry at them all for refusing to believe the evidence of their own eyes. The woman’s face was indistinct, I granted that. But so beautiful. So filled with longing. I looked into her eyes and I could see that she had been frightened. I could see that she hadn’t wanted to die alone, had surrounded herself with other people, but it hadn’t helped. I thought I knew something about that.
On payday there were forgeries to be exposed. A number of intriguing little carvings had begun to show up, all found by the same pair of brothers. The recent ones were simply too intriguing. Mallick made a show of dismissing the culprits as a lesson to the rest. It was all very good-natured. Even the brothers laughed at their exposure, left with a cheerful round of goodbyes. It was, no doubt, a great disappointment to Miss Whitfield, who had been looking forward to the confrontation ever since Mallick showed us the tiny forged bear.
None of the workmen would be back until their money ran out, which meant that we would start again in two days with a whole new group. Yusef, who’d found the golden goat, had been paid its weight in gold and wouldn’t be back for weeks. This was a shame as he was one of our most skilled workers and a natural diplomat as well. Diplomats were always needed on our mixed crew of Armenians, Arabs, and Kurds.
The site was sadly quiet with everyone gone. I missed the rhythmic chanting, the scraping of stone on stone, the frequent pleasure of dim and distant laughter.
Davis and I used the day off to drive Miss Whitfield to the holy shrine of the Yezedis. The Yezedis worship Lucifer and represent him with the symbol of the peacock. We bounced along the road, the dust so thick I had to stop every fifteen minutes and wipe down the car windows. The last few miles can only be done on foot, but by this time you’ve risen into the pure air and walking is a pleasure. The shrine is breathtakingly beautiful, white and intricate as a wedding cake. Streams pour through descending basins in the cool courtyard and acolytes tiptoe in to bring you tea. Clearly their Lucifer is not the same as our Lucifer.
Still we had done our best to work Miss Whitfield up with stories of Satan worshippers so that the peaceful, bucolic scene would be a nasty surprise. I fancied I was getting to know what Miss Whitfield wanted. I whispered to her that the priest, whom we did not see, was said to be kept drugged so that his aunt could rule in his name; I didn’t want the trip to be a complete disappointment.
“Tell me,” Davis said to Miss Whitfield. He sat holding his small, black cup of tea in two hands and smiling sweetly. I was across from him, sleepy from the sun and the sound of water. Miss Whitfield had knelt by the lowest of the fountain pools. She broke the surface with her hand, so her submerged fingers seemed larger than the dry hand to which they were attached. “When you come to a place like this,” Davis asked, “even at a place like this, do you find yourself imagining a murder?”
And I thought how easy it would be to push Miss Whitfield’s head under and hold it. It wasn’t even a complete thought, just a flicker, really, with no emotional content, no actual desire. I put it out of my mind at once, which was easy enough since it had hardly been there to begin with.
“Would you think me a ghoul if I said yes?” Miss Whitfield’s black hair shivered in the slight breeze. She smoothed it back with her wet fingers, dipped her hand, and wet her hair again.
“I’d think you the complete professional,” Davis said politely. “But it’s a ghoulish profession.”
“So’s yours,” she answered. And then to me, “So’s yours,” even though I hadn’t said a thing.
On our way back we stopped in town to buy bread and chocolate to add to our supper of mutton and goat cheese and tankards of wine. Davis had taken the sun during our outing; he was as pink as if he’d been boiled. When he came to the table he sat on a chair that wasn