The Haj - Leon Uris [259]
Meanwhile, I was engaged in an affair of the heart myself. One of the European volunteers was a nice-looking English girl of twenty named Sybil. I had heard that English women were cold in matters of sex. I laugh my socks off when I think of it now.
Sybil came to Jordan filled with girlish notions of being swept off her feet by a romantic Arab sheik. Well, I filled the role and more than adequately, I must admit. My Jeep had to serve as the noble Arabian stallion that whisked her off to our desert lair. We both lied to each other with extreme sincerity about the eternal nature of our love. I confess that, even with my vast experience with widow ladies, Sybil taught me numerous wonderments.
When the digging season ended before the summer’s heat of 1956, I became glum. Sybil and the others packed off to Europe. I was left with hundreds of pieces of a broken heart as well as broken pottery to fit together.
Although we were finished digging until next year, I still had a great deal to do at Mount Nebo. We had come tantalizingly close to uncovering an important site, perhaps a wall, and there were indications we might hit a graveyard and an altar. One can only endure a dig in the desert if one dreams that tomorrow or the day after or the day after we will uncover a monumental find.
Since anything built by the ancient Hebrews would have a great deal of mud brick, it could easily be washed away. So in addition to setting up a full-time guard, I had to cover the site against rain.
My ultimate reward was to be able to work side by side with Dr. Mudhil as we went through the painstaking business of recording, restoring, measuring, and drawing what had been unearthed.
I was working one day with a puzzle of two hundred potsherds hoping for a unique restoration. My mood obviously spilled into the workroom.
‘You are getting very sloppy with that pot,’ he said, peering down the bench from where he was making drawings.
I muttered a nothing.
‘It is always a sad time when the dig closes for the season. But ... another year, another Sybil will come. You would not think upon observing this bent creature that I have been invited into the tents of many lady archaeologists and volunteers. Ah, I see you are in no mood for small talk. What is it, Ishmael?’
‘Jamil is dead, Omar is gone, and Kamal is worthless. It is just that when everyone leaves, I remember again that I am still here.’ I found a piece I was looking for. It seemed to fit on the pot I was building. But even these illusive and taunting little potsherds were easier to put together than one’s life.
I was afraid to bring up the subject because I dreaded his answer, but I knew I must. ‘I heard a rumor that this is your last season.’
‘It is not a rumor.’
I shut my eyes for an instant to bear the jolt, then toyed with the little bit of broken clay in my hand. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I have been invited to London to work on the publication of our findings. In truth, when one is as crippled as I, one is not a candidate for long life. I am seriously in need of medical attention.’
‘I am ashamed,’ I said. ‘I have been so filled with my own problems, I should have seen that you have been in pain.’ I wanted to cry for his pain and for me, losing him. I fumbled about for words. ‘What about your contact with the Jews?’
‘Someone else will be found.’
‘I have always marveled that you were never caught.’
‘Oh, but I was. I was never a real spy. Long ago both sides saw a use for me to deliver messages. The contact between Jordan and Israel must always be kept open.’
I was afraid he was going to ask me to take a job. I quickly changed the subject. ‘Father believes in Nasser. He says, How much longer must we Arabs bear Western guilt for the holocaust and how long will the Jews collect interest on it? Father says the Zionists are bringing in hundreds of thousands of Jews from Arab lands to replace us in Palestine. But they live in squalor, just like Aqbat Jabar. ... He says—’
‘However,’ Dr. Mudhil interrupted, ‘the Jews are not bleating to the world to make charity