Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [194]
Captain Kofsky approached them. “Dakota is in radio contact. It will be landing anytime now, Zech. The brigade is forming up to bid them farewell.”
Zechariah came to his feet. “We’re heading south tomorrow, writer. I’ve got to beat Yoffe to Sharm al-Sheikh. You want to ride with us? Come on, I’ll take you in my own jeep.”
Gideon pulled himself to his feet and massaged his gimpy leg. “I want to take Shlomo home,” he said.
“You’re a good man, Zadok. Write us a hell of a book, will you?”
The three of them stood transfixed as the Dakota appeared on the horizon. The desert air stirred a bit and the plane wigwagged down to hit the narrow runway like a child’s paper toy, screeched, spat up dirt from its wheels, and sputtered to a stop. Voices of the officers called Para 202 to attention. The bugler sounded taps as Zechariah and Captain Kofsky walked briskly toward them and Gideon limped, a few steps behind.
CYPRUS
KYRENIA
November 12, 1956
THE BREEZE OFF the sea was sharp; it billowed the long lace curtain into the room, as though a big sail had broken loose from a racing yacht. The curtain LEAPED upon the bed and danced on Gideon’s bare back. He tried to open his eyes. They were glued shut. He forced them open and squinted and teared. The room was a bright white on white. White curtains, white walls, white wicker armchairs, white dresser, white, white white.
“Shithouse mouse,” Gideon blurted, his voice drowned in the white pillows and a white sheet entangled around his naked body. “Where the fuck am I?”
“Right here with me, habibi.”
Natasha’s voice.
Gideon tried to lift his head from the pillow. It was like a rock that someone was pounding with a sledgehammer. Natasha entered from the balcony, flowing. Natasha! Red hair, a joyous invasion of the white on white. Her long, slender neck bore an expanse of intricate Yemenite jewelry and a smashing green silk robe clung to her body.
Gideon inched up like a fighter using the ropes to climb up, until he came to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He smacked his lips together. They were dry. “I need something to clean my mouth out.”
“Try this,” she said, pulling him to his feet, then burying her tongue in his mouth.
“Honey, don’t, I stink,” he said, holding her off at arm’s length, then kissed her. “I lost my head for a minute. I forgot how much you like sweaty, stinking workmen, and perfumed barons, and wop race car drivers, and big black stevedores, and roughnecks with tattoos.”
“Yes, darling, and you played every single part to perfection. But most of all, I love mean little five-foot-eight, Jew, cowboy, writers.”
“It’s so white here. Where are we? Morocco?”
“Cyprus.”
“Cyprus? Really? I’ll be go-to-hell. Tell me about it.”
“I met you when you landed at Beersheba. We took Shlomo back to his kibbutz and saw his wife and children,” she said.
Gideon leaned against the wall and bit his lip. “God, he’s dead.” He rubbed his hand over his stomach. “He caught one right in the belly. We were standing this close together. It could have just as well been me.”
“I know, darling, you’ve told me about it over and over.”
Gideon couldn’t stand the foul taste in his mouth. He wobbled into the bathroom and spotted her Swedish mouthwash, the brand that could blow a hole in a tank, and drank it straight without mixing it in water.
“Yow!” He opened both faucets and splashed water into his mouth handful after handful. He found his bathrobe on the door hook, put it on, and sauntered out to the balcony, shading his eyes from a blast of sunlight. He was on the third story.