Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 6

  As he had come down from his room for breakfast and stepped off the elevator near the hotel’s dining room, Brad had seen Miri start down the hall toward the linen room. Her back was toward him, and she hadn’t seen him. Now he waited until she went inside, then walked softly down the hall after her, his tennis shoes making only the barest whisper on the tile floor. Stopping just short of the door, Brad leaned against the wall, trying to ignore the sudden tension winding up in him. The door was still open, and he could hear her moving around inside.

  Suddenly the light clicked off, and she stepped out, her head half turned away from him as she shut the door. There was a stack of towels in her arm, which she nearly dropped as she turned and saw him and visibly flinched. The sharp intake of breath and the look of surprise were quickly noted, not without some satisfaction. Let her be caught off guard for once, Brad thought. He had been on the defensive long enough.

  When Brad spoke, his voice was duly contrite. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Half truth, his mind noted. He hadn’t really planned it that way, but to say he was sorry fell slightly short of reality.

  Miri was quick. He had to grant her that. She recovered her composure almost instantly. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and started to push by him.

  Brad moved sideways and blocked her way. “Could I speak with you for a moment?”

  Miri stepped back a step and looked at him steadily. Her head was tipped back slightly, her face bathed in the pale light of the hallway, her eyes unfathomable pools of black. She was beautiful, but it was the beauty of a cobra with its head raised. Admiration was possible, but only from a safe distance.

  “Yes?” she said coolly. The cactus needles flicked out like a well-oiled switchblade knife.

  “I would like to offer you an apology,” he said in a soft voice.

  It had the desired effect. He could visibly detect a slight lowering of her defenses, so he followed it up swiftly, his voice still dripping sweet innocence. “And then you can apologize to me.”

  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, then dropped as her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Apologize? What have I—?” Catching herself, Miri bit off the question. She lowered her head and tried to step around him. “If you’ll excuse me, the maid is waiting for these towels.”

  He leaned casually against the opposite wall, cutting off her escape. “Oh, come now,” he said. “Surely you can stay a moment. I have heard so much about the great warmth and friendliness of the Arab peoples.”

  Oh, how sweet it was! Even in the dim light of the hallway he saw her face flush. She looked up. “I—”

  But Brad went on quickly, still holding the light, almost conversational tone in his voice. “Now, I’ve heard the Israelis aren’t like that. More stiff and reserved. Almost rude sometimes. Tell me, from an Arab’s point of view—are they really as bad as they say?”

  He grinned easily into the wrath that blazed from her eyes. For a moment he thought she was going to hurl the towels into his face. She tried to push his arm aside, but he held firm.

  “Please let me by.” Her voice was like the low rattle of a coiled sidewinder.

  “Not until you apologize for being prejudiced.”

  “Me?” she hissed.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I have detected a definite anti-American bias in you. But I have a forgiving nature. I accept your apology.”

  Miri stared at him, outrage momentarily overcoming the infuriated look on her face.

  “Mr. Kennison!” The fury made her voice tremble. “We have a very large man cooking for us in this hotel. If you do not move your arm and let me pass, I am going to scream. You will find him to be a very unpleasant person.”

  Brad looked thoughtful. “Hmmmm!” he mused. “Just out of curiosity, do you plan to scream in Hebrew or Arabic?”

  He should have felt some of the generous magnanimity that was expected of the victor, but it felt too good to find her suddenly and totally flustered, as he had been yesterday.

  Stepping aside, Brad bowed politely and waved her through. “It must be a terrible thing to be the only Arab in an Israeli family, Miss Shadmi. Someday I would like to hear how you cope with that.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, rigid as a steel fencepost. “Have a good day, Miriam,” he called over his shoulder.

  * * * * * *

  When Brad entered the hotel lobby shortly after four that afternoon, he was hot and frustrated. A blast of arctic air rolled toward him from the direction of the desk where Miriam was working, though she appeared not to look up. He pushed aside the slight feelings of guilt he had felt after his ambush that morning. If she wanted a game of freeze-out, he was in the perfect mood. He strode across the lobby without giving her a second glance, then stopped as Levi Shadmi’s voice boomed out.

  “Brad, have you got a minute?”

  Brad looked around and saw Shadmi’s bulky figure in the office behind the hotel desk. Shadmi came out and stood next to Miri as Brad reluctantly turned back and moved to face them. If Shadmi noticed the frost in the air, he gave no sign as he smiled in greeting.

  Miri was studiously reading the Jerusalem Post and was ignoring them both.

  “Nathan tells me that you caught on very quickly last night,” Shadmi said. “He thinks we were very lucky to get you.” He glanced quickly at his daughter, who only lowered her internal thermostat a few more degrees without looking up.

  “Thank you,” Brad responded, pleased with what Nathan had reported to his father.

  “Nathan said he did not show you anything concerning the gift shop,” Shadmi went on.

  “No. There were only three or four guests who wanted things from the shop last night, and Nathan said he figured I had enough new things to learn for one night.”

  “Well, it’s not much of a shop, but our guests like to have something right in the hotel to supplement their other purchases. We keep it open until nine each night, so you had better learn the basics as soon as possible.”

  “Fine. Would you like me to do that now?”

  “Oh, no,” Shadmi said. “Go on down and get your dinner first. When you start your shift at five, Miri will take you in and show you how it works.”

  That was sufficient to break through her concentrated study of the newspaper. Her head shot up, and she gave her father an incredulous look. The only sign that he had noted her dismayed reaction was the glint of amusement in his eyes as he looked at Brad.

  Shadmi turned and gave his daughter a light kiss on the cheek, oblivious to her withering stare. “I’ve got to go. I promised your Uncle Shlomo I would help him start ordering his equipment tonight. Tell your mother I should be home around eight.” With that he plunged into the office, grabbed a small briefcase, and left with a wave.

  “Well,” Brad said, forcing a cheer he certainly didn’t feel, “I will be back in a few minutes.”

  * * * * * *

  Dinner helped his mood considerably, and by the time Brad returned to the desk he was almost looking forward to the next round of the Israeli-American war. The way he figured it, the score was now even, and if Miri chose to fire the first salvo, he was ready to up the tally to two to one, his favor. He smiled brightly at Miri, whose face was an inscrutable mask.

  “Okay, I’m ready whenever you are,” he said.

  She nodded, came out from behind the counter, and walked across the lobby without a word. Once inside the shop, she began the orientation without preliminaries, her voice flat and expressionless. He smiled to himself. A mannequin would probably have elicited more warmth than he was getting. He leaned against the small counter and watched her, only half listening to her instructions. There was one bank of fluorescent lights in the narrow shop, and her hair gleamed under its glow. The scowl she wore couldn’t quite obscure the fineness of her features—the high cheekbones and dark eyebrows, and, her most striking characteristic, the large brown eyes with their thick black lashes.

  Miri wore a silver Star of David on a
delicate chain, which further emphasized the soft line of her throat and the golden tan of her skin. She was wearing a navy blue skirt and a long-sleeved blouse of a pale blue silk, and Brad couldn’t help but admire the slimness of her figure. Without question, she was lovely. He felt a slight pang of regret that they were getting along like two bantam roosters competing for king of the barnyard.

  Suddenly he jerked up, aware that she had spoken to him, “Oh, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “What was that again?”

  “Am I boring you, Mr. Kennison?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, I’m listening.” And then to quell her dubious look, he quickly added, “Olivewood statuary, prices on the bottom. Same with the brassware. Clothing is marked in the collar. Mother-of-pearl pins—large, three dollars; small, two.”

  He grinned at her. The army had honed his ability to listen with one ear while his mind wandered. “I’m sorry if I seemed inattentive. I was just debating about asking you a question.”

  “What?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I was wondering if you carry any weapons here in the shop.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Yes, you know. Guns, knives, explosives. Just your usual stock of weapons.”

  “Of course not. Why in the world would we—”

  “That’s good,” Brad interrupted. “Then I would like to make one more attempt to apologize to you. But after this morning, I didn’t want to try it where you could lay your hands on something dangerous.”

  Brad thought he noted a momentary flicker of a smile, but if so, she squelched it quickly. “There is no need for an apology,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but I’d like to try. I promise, no blocking the exit this time. Okay?”

  She folded her arms and looked at him, her eyes expressionless. But she didn’t say no, so Brad plunged in.

  “We have an expression in America. It’s called putting your foot in your mouth.”

  “I am familiar with this expression.”

  “Well,” Brad gave her a tentative smile, “my father says that I was born with a special talent for doing just that, and he thinks that since then, I’ve greatly increased my birthright.”

  That won him a smile. It was a tiny, reluctant smile, but it was a genuine smile nevertheless, the first he had seen. “I think your father sounds like a very wise man,” Miri replied.

  “Right. Well, anyway, I wanted to apologize for my statement yesterday about Arabs. I’ve said a lot of dumb, stupid things in my life, but that one tops them all. I know it sounds phony now, but I don’t really feel that way.”

  “Then why did you say it?”

  He hesitated a moment. “Because you got me so irritated. When you made your comment about the fact that I would rather face a terrorist than you, I knew you were trying to get even with me.”

  She tipped her head slightly to the side and looked at him quizzically. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought originally that was your comment.”

  “Yes, I know. That is what my father means. Anyway, you threw me off guard, and I just blurted out that comment.”

  “And your remarks about Israelis this morning? Are you going to tell me that you really didn’t mean those either?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “No, I was just baiting you.”

  She looked puzzled. “Baiting me? I don’t understand. What is ‘baiting’?”

  “It means to try to needle someone, to make them react the way you want. Kind of like waving raw meat in front of a hungry lion.”

  Miri nodded, her eyes mocking him. “I understand. And I was the hungry lion—or lioness. Correct?”

  “Well, yes,” Brad said. “And that is the second part of my apology. At first I felt terrible about offending you with that blunder. Then when I discovered you were Israeli and not Arab, I was just plain ticked off.”

  “You Americans and your expressions,” she smiled. “I suppose that means you were angry with me.”

  “That’s close. Anyway, I decided to get even and…” He paused, trying to choose his words carefully.

  “And so you ‘baited’ me.”

  “Yes. And I apologize. That was unnecessary.”

  Miri lowered her eyes, her fingers tracing a pattern on the counter. “Perhaps unnecessary, but not undeserved. I don’t know what prompted me to say that I was an Arab.” She took a deep breath. It was obvious that apologies didn’t come easily to her. “Your comment seemed so—so bigoted, so smug. So American. I reacted without thinking. It also was a stupid thing to say. But there are so many feelings between my people and the Arabs without having an outsider come in and be so smugly insulting.”

  Brad felt himself bristle and bit back an angry retort. Her words stung like pebbles flung into his face. But she was right. It was stupid, it was smug, and it was insulting. It said something for her that an Israeli should so sharply feel the insult on behalf of the Arabic peoples. “I know words are cheap,” he said. “But I really don’t feel that way.”

  “I hope not,” Miri said, still seeming only half convinced. She straightened up and became very businesslike again. “Well, do you have any questions about the store?”

  “Just one,” Brad answered, letting his tone become as impersonal as hers. “You mentioned the mother-of-pearl pins were two and three dollars. Are all the prices in American dollars?”

  “Yes, though they are in Israeli pounds also. Most guests from other countries either carry dollars or understand its exchange rate. We exchange all currencies at the desk, however.”

  “Yes, Nathan showed me the conversion tables last night. I was just surprised at how common the dollar is, even here.”

  “Oh yes,” she said, her voice again filled with bitterness. “The dollar, the fashions, the music, the politics. There is not much that America doesn’t influence.”

  Brad nearly let the remark pass, remembering Nathan’s explanation for Miri’s caustic reaction to America, but recently he had gotten just a little tired of what seemed to be developing into a national and international pastime, and that was the “let’s-run-down-America” fad. “Oh, I agree,” he said, the sarcasm heavy in his voice. “Leave it to good old America and she’ll pollute the world, right?”

  Miri’s head jerked up in surprise at his reaction, then her eyes hardened. “I didn’t really mean it that way. But yes, I suppose that is not too far from being right.”

  “Is there anything at all you find acceptable about America?” Brad challenged.

  “I think it is a beautiful country. The mountains, the lakes.”

  “Wonderful! Now if we could just get rid of the people.”

  “You twist my words.” Her dark eyes flashed. “But if you must know, I lived in America for two years. I got to know your people.”

  “Correction. You lived in New York for two years.”

  “Ah, and New York is not America?”

  “New York is only part of America. There is much, much more.”

  Miri’s head was up, her fists clenched into tight little balls. “New York was enough. I found Americans to be narrow, materialistic, concerned only about themselves, and quick to tell other countries how they must live.”

  Brad shook his head in mock wonder. “You must have been a busy girl to meet all two hundred million of us in the two years you were there.”

  Her voice was tight and low, vibrant with the anger that shook her. “I met some very nice people, but most of them were insufferably proud and arrogant.” She tossed her head. “Very much like I find you, Mr. Kennison.” She whirled around and started for the door of the shop.

  “Tell me, Miss Shadmi,” Brad retorted quickly, “why is it you find prejudice against Arabs so repulsive, and prejudice against Americans so attractive?”

  If she heard him she gave no sign. She stalked across the lobby, yanked her purse out from behind the desk, and plunged out the door, her head high and her back rigid.

  Eight

  Brad was lost again. Once more the Old City had put him in hi
s place. This morning when he had set out for the Wailing Wall and the Dome of the Rock, he had carefully studied the map of Jerusalem that Ali had given him. His destination was on the far eastern side of the walled city, and the street to it lay in an exact straight-line shot from the Jaffa Gate. Or so it looked on the map.

  Frustrated, Brad looked at his watch. It was nearly one o’clock, and his stomach was getting as growly as his attitude. Something had to change. He was coming to the conclusion that if he was really going to see Israel properly, he needed help. He thought of Ali, and shrugged it off. His friend was too busy with the school to shepherd a green American tourist around. And the thoughts of trooping around with a package tour was more distasteful than being constantly lost. Yet even if he could find his way, he wasn’t sure he would be satisfied. He felt a tremendous longing to understand this place, know its history, learn the stories and folklore that he was sure lay behind the sterile brevity of the guidebook. As little as he had seen, Brad felt the spirit of the Holy City, sensed that it was seeping into his soul and starting to purge out the frustration and irritability that had dogged him for the last four months. He hadn’t come to any life-altering decisions as yet, but the pressured feeling, that sense of smothering in pointlessness, was now dissipating. He was aware of a growing hunger to capture more of the spirit of this land.

  Suddenly an idea hit him, and he stopped in midstride, nearly tripping a heavyset Arab woman with a large tray of bread balanced on her head.

  “Of course!” Brad said aloud, drawing suspicious looks from several people in the river of humanity that was flowing past the dam he had created in the middle of the narrow street. Liking his sudden inspiration more with every moment, he started looking for a young boy to lead him back to the Jaffa Gate.

  Twenty minutes later he pushed into the delightful coolness of the hotel lobby. Miri was behind the front desk, but if she had seen him come in, she gave no sign. He walked up to her, amused at her sudden scrutiny of the molecular structure of the countertop.