The Fury of Rachel Monette (17 page)

“No.”

“Yes. She knows practically nothing about literature or art. She grew up in Paris and she has never been to the Louvre. Can you imagine that? When I lived in London I went to the Tate every Sunday.”

Rachel tried to imagine Rashid at the Tate.

“I knew every painting. I explained them to the American girls.”

That helped her.

“What about the water?” she said.

“It's very simple.” Rashid said. “You dig a well. Whenever there is a oued like that you find water.” He pointed across the small plain. “Sometimes you have to dig deep, but you always find it. Where are you going?”

Rachel was running toward the jeep. “To get the shovels,” she called over her shoulder.

Rashid took off his Yankees jacket and laid it down carefully before he began to dig. He worked enthusiastically. The March sun was not oppressive, just warm enough to encourage a light sweat. Rashid had a thin hairless torso with well-defined muscles. They looked good but they hadn't much staying power. After a few minutes he dropped the shovel, stretched his arms and sat down.

“Coffee break,” he said.

Rachel took out the shovel. Rashid glanced at her in surprise, but said nothing. Rashid's exertions had produced little change in the dimensions of the pile. Rachel stood on top of it, bending her knees as she dug, and straightening them as she scooped each shovel load away, letting the big muscles of the body do the work. Sometimes she laid the shovel aside and moved the larger cement chunks with her hands. Her body found an easy steady rhythm. It encouraged her pores to open. The sweat they released her clothing absorbed, and it soon clung to her uncomfortably. She felt Rashid's eyes on her back, and thought of removing her cotton shirt, just to show what educated women were capable of.

After an hour she had moved the debris aside, exposing a rough circle of stony sand which differed from the surrounding sand only by its thin covering of gray dust. Her body felt loose and relaxed but blisters were forming on the inside edges of both palms. She turned to Rashid and saw he had fallen asleep beside the Land-Rover, his Yankees jacket over his face to protect it from the sun.

Rachel dug her shovel into the hard sand. The crust resisted penetration. To break it she had to place her foot on the upper edge of the blade and push with all her strength. But when she had dug away the crust the work was easier. The sand became less stony, less dense, and, it seemed to her, very slightly moist.

When Rashid awoke Rachel was up to her waist in the pit she had made. Rubbing his eyes he approached her and glanced down into the hole.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he said.

Rachel looked up at him. “I don't think so,” she said. “This earth is moist.” She tossed a shovelful up for him to examine.

He ignored it. “Aren't you hungry?” he asked. “We could come back tomorrow.”

“No,” Rachel said. “I want to dig a little deeper. I'm happy to pay you, Rashid.”

He jerked his head back as if she had slapped him.

“I came with you out of friendship,” he said hotly, and walked away.

“Come back, Rashid,” she called after him. “Only a fool works for nothing.” He kept walking. “What kind of person would I be if I took advantage of a friend to save a little money? Come back.”

He stopped and turned to face her. They gazed at each other. “Okay,” he said.

He came to the edge of the hole and extended his hand to help Rachel climb out. “But not for long,” he said, looking at his watch. “I don't want to drive back in the dark.”

“Why not? The car has lights.”

“It's no good to be in the desert at night,” Rashid insisted. “The vipers come out.”

“I'm sure we'll be safe in the car,” Rachel said. Rashid shook his head.

Rachel went to the jeep for the canteen while he began digging. She tilted her head back and let the tepid water flow down her throat. She was about to pour some on her head when she heard the clear sound of steel striking steel.

“Come here,” called Rashid, but she was already there. Rashid knelt in the pit. With his hands he was clearing the earth from a thick brown metal ring which bore a silver gash from the shovel's blow. Rachel got in to help.

As they moved the dirt aside they saw that the ring was bolted to a round block of wood, slightly bigger than a manhole cover. To lift it they had first to widen the space at the bottom of the hole. They dug quickly, flinging the earth out so carelessly that much of it slid back down.

When there was enough room for both of them to stand in the hole without placing their feet on the wooden cover they leaned their shovels against the earthen wall and bent together to grasp the metal ring. It required all their strength to lift it.

The odor of decay that rose from the well made them both sick where they stood. Hands on their knees they vomited, pouring their insides into a well of bones and teeth and skulls. The well brimmed with the hard remains of the dead, jumbled together in an obscene and secret intimacy.

Rachel heard Rashid scrambling to get out. He was making a small high-pitched noise in his throat, and he was having trouble gripping the edge of the pit to pull himself out. She placed her hands on his buttocks, pushed, and followed him up. He ran to the jeep and leaned against it, sucking air into his lungs. Rachel laid her hand gently on his back. He was shaking. She looked for his jacket and saw it on the ground by the edge of the pit.

When she bent to pick it up a faint glimmer in the well caught the corner of her eye. She peered down but saw nothing more than she had seen already. Reluctantly she entered the hole and looked more closely. Nothing glimmered.

With the toe of her shoe she poked gingerly into the well. One of the skulls seemed different. She pried it loose with her foot and rolled it out of the well and onto the earth at the bottom of the pit. A perfectly round piece of bone was missing from the top of the skull. In its place there was a very thin steel plate. Rachel knelt to examine it. She was still there when she heard the sound of a motor.

She climbed out. Halfway across the plain she saw three jeeps approaching, moving in single file along the oued. Rashid was watching them. She handed him his jacket.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“The army,” he said. His eyes were frightened.

“They're not going to accuse us of doing it,” Rachel said, gesturing at the well.

“You don't understand,” Rashid said impatiently. “We are probably not allowed to be here. This is very close to Algeria. We may even be in Algeria.”

“Don't worry,” she said to calm him. “Everyone knows that tourists make silly mistakes.”

They watched the jeeps come. When they were about fifty feet away they stopped. Men in khaki uniforms jumped out, holding rifles in front of their chests. They quickly formed a wide circle around Rachel and Rashid. A tall man in khaki stepped unhurriedly from the first jeep. Rachel thought she had seen him before, standing with another man in front of the gendarmerie. His eyes rested for a moment on the pile of dirt they had dug, then moved to Rachel. He crossed the sand to her and held out his hand, palm up.

“May I see your permit, madame?” he said politely in French.

“What sort of permit?” Rachel asked.

“You must obtain a permit before making archaeological excavations, madame. They are available from the Ministry of Antiquities in Rabat.” He was still polite but his eyes were hard.

“I'm sorry,” Rachel said. “I didn't know. I'm a tourist. In any case, I was not digging for antiquities. But if you'll come with me I think I can show you evidence that a serious crime took place here.” She led him to the well. He looked in, but he wasn't really interested.

“You are right, madame,” he said. “Desecration of old burial grounds is a very serious crime.”

“Don't be silly. This is no burial ground.”

“Are you informing me about the customs of my own people, madame?” he asked her coldly. He turned and nodded to one of his men.

“Of course not,” Rachel said. “But—”

The soldier walked up to Rashid and swung the butt of his rifle into his stomach. When Rashid doubled over the soldier was waiting to drive a knee into his face. Rashid fell backwards on the sand.

Rachel put her hand on the officer's sleeve. “Stop it,” she said to him. “He hasn't done anything.” The officer jerked his arm away from her and with the back of his other hand slapped her hard across the face.

“You bastard,” she said in English. There was a shine in his eyes that hadn't been there before, the dark shine of the inner spirit that had made the hard cruel eyes. Rachel fought down her anger.

“I want to speak to the nearest American consul at once,” she said to him in French.

“Of course, madame,” he said, his eyes very bright. “There is a telephone behind this rock. Shall I tell one of my men to show you?”

Behind him a soldier snickered. The officer turned and gave him a cold look. When he turned back to Rachel the shine had vanished beneath the surface of his eyes.

16

Rachel held on as long as she could before going to the stinking little hole in the floor. Her reluctance was due not so much to the filth as to the presence of the guard seated in the walled courtyard beyond the bars. She could not see him in the darkness but he could see her by the yellow light of the greasy bulb in the ceiling of the cell. The light that had no switch.

The only piece of furniture in the cell was a wooden pallet. Rachel lay on it and tried to sleep, but her eyes would not stay closed. They watched the glow of the guard's cigarette in the night. The ember made quick tiny movements like a firefly trapped in a very small cage. After a while it escaped and dropped in a long arc to the ground. The fall killed it. In a few minutes the guard had trapped another one.

By the first light of dawn Rachel saw that he had fallen asleep on the stones, his back to her and his knees drawn up to his chest. A stooped woman with blue dots tattooed around her eyes like a mask entered the courtyard bearing an earthenware bowl. When she noticed the guard she made a clicking sound of disapproval and kicked him smartly in the back. With a groan he got to his feet, and fumbled with a ring of many keys fastened to his belt. He carefully considered several of them before making a final choice. He and the woman approached Rachel's cell. The guard unlocked the barred door and pushed it open. The woman slid the bowl inside and the guard relocked the cell. Without looking at her they turned to leave.

“I want some water,” Rachel said in French.

Their faces were blank. “Water,” she repeated. She made drinking motions. Comprehension lifted their heads back as if it had tapped them on the chin. The woman went away and returned with a can of Coca-Cola. She reached between the bars and set it on the floor.

Rachel pulled off the metal tab and drank the syrupy contents of the can before she looked inside the earthenware bowl. Two frayed lumps of gray meat floated in a brown swill. She left it untouched.

Rachel sat on the pallet and waited. In the late morning Madame Ratelle appeared, carrying Rachel's suitcase and handbag. The guard let her into the cell. The licorice scent of Pernod accompanied her. She looked at Rachel's face.

“My God,” she said. “They hit you, too.”

“Just once.”

“Pigs,” Madame Ratelle said. Through the bars she made a spitting sound at the guard curled up on the stones. “They're all pigs.” Rachel was not sure which group she meant, soldiers, Arabs, or men.

“How is Rashid?”

The mention of his name bunched the skin of Madame Ratelle's forehead where the eyebrows should have been. “Fine. He is in bed at the hotel,” she said. “He is a stupid boy.” The focus of her eyes lengthened as she gazed into the beyond, of space or time. “Too stupid for the hotel business, I think,” Madame Ratelle added.

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Rachel said.

Madame Ratelle expelled air through her compressed lips, making a rude vibration loud enough to stir the guard in his sleep. “Entering Algeria was the act of an idiot. He is the one who should be in jail.”

“Did we cross the border?”

Madame Ratelle waved impatiently to the south. “The desert is the border. There is fighting all the time. Phosphates.” She said the word again, sarcastically.

“But I'm a tourist. Doesn't that mean anything?”

“It does if they believe you.”

“Madame Ratelle, I want you to do me a favor.”

“What favor?” Madame Ratelle said warily.

“Telephone the nearest American consul and tell him what has happened. There should be one in Marrakech. If not try the embassy in Rabat.”

Madame Ratelle shook her head. “What you ask is impossible. If I tried it I would be in here with you before I spoke two words.”

“I don't understand,” Rachel said.

“There is one telephone in Mhamid, the only link to the outside. It is in the caid's office at the gendarmerie.” She pointed through the rear wall of the cell.

Rachel wrapped her hands around the bars and looked up at the sky. A dark brown buzzard circled high above, dropped down for a better view, then rose cumbersomely and flew away.

“In that case I'll need a lawyer,” Rachel said. “I don't know if I've been charged with any crime, or whether I'm to have a trial. Or how long they can keep me here.”

Madame Ratelle touched Rachel's arm. “There are no lawyers in Mhamid,” she said. “The law here is the caid.”

“Then I have to see him.”

“You will,” Madame Ratelle said. “But first he will make you wait. Perhaps a day or two, perhaps a week.” She took a package of Gauloise from the pocket of her skirt and lit one with a cheap plastic lighter. She squinted at Rachel through the blue smoke.

“If you want my advice, make the first move.”