Ella stood in the doorway and watched her work. An American publisher
had purchased the English-language rights of A Place of Our Kin. They
had paid Debra an advance of thirty thousand American dollars for the
book, and an additional five thousand for her services as translator.
She had almost completed the task now.
From where she stood, Ella could see the scar on Debra's temple. It was
a glazed pinkish white against the deeply tanned skin of her face, a
dimple like a child's drawing of a seagull in flight; V-shaped and no
bigger than a snowflake, it seemed to enhance her fine looks, almost
like a beauty spot, a tiny blemish that gave a focus point for her
strong regular features.
She had made no attempt to conceal it for her dark hair was drawn back
to the nape of her neck and secured there with a leather thong. She
wore no make-up, and her skin looked clean and glowing, tanned and
smooth.
Despite the bulky fisherman's jersey and woollen slacks her body
appeared firm and slim for she swam each day, even when the snow winds
came down from the north.
Ella left the doorway and moved silently closer to the desk, studying
Debra's eyes as she so often did. One day she would paint that
expression. There was no hint of the damage that lay behind, no hint
that the eyes could not see. Rather their calm level gaze seemed to
penetrate deeper, to see all. They had a serenity that was almost
mystic, a depth and understanding that Ella found strangely disquieting.
Debra pressed the switch of the microphone, ending the recording, and
then she spoke again without turning her head. Is that you, Ella? How
do you do it? Ella demanded with astonishment.
I felt the air move when you walked in, and then I smelt you. I'm big
enough to blow up a storm, but do I smell so bad? Ella protested,
chuckling.
You smell of turpentine, and garlic and beer, Debra sniffed, and laughed
with her.
I've been painting, and I was chopping garlic fox the roast, and I was
drinking beer with a friend. Ella dropped into one of the chairs. How
does it go with the book? 'Nearly finished.
It can go to the typist tomorrow. Do you want some coffee? Debra stood
up and crossed to the gas stove. Ella knew better than to offer her
help, even though she gritted her teeth every time she watched Debra
working with fire and boiling water. The girl was fiercely independent,
utterly determined to live her life without other people's pity or
assistance.
The room was laid out precisely, each item in its place where Debra
could put her hand to it without hesitation.
She could move confidently through her little world, doing her own
housework, preparing her own food and drink, working steadily, and
paying her own way.
Once a week, a driver came up from her publisher's office in Jerusalem
to collect her tapes and her writing was typed out along with her other
correspondence.
Weekly also she would go with Ella in the speedboat up the lake to
Tiberias to do their shopping together, and each day she swam for an
hour from the stone jetty.
Often an old fisherman with whom she had become friendly would row down
the lake to fetch her and she would go out with him, baiting her own
lines and taking her turn at the oars.
Across the lawns from the jetty, in the crusader castle, there was
always Ella's companionship and intelligent conversation, and here in
her little cottage there was quietness and safety and work to fill the
long hours.
And in the night there was the chill of terrible aloneness and silent
bitter tears into her solitary pillow, tears which only she knew about.
Debra placed a mug of coffee beside Ella's chair and carried her own
back to her work bench.
Now, she said, you can tell me what is keeping you fidgeting around in
your seat, and drumming your fingers on the arm of the chair, she smiled
towards Ella, sensing the surprise. You have got something to tell me,
and it's killing you.
Yes, Ella spoke after a moment. Yes, you are right, my dear. She took
a deep breath and then went on. He came, Debra. He came to see me, as
we knew he must Debra set the mug down on the table, her hand was steady
and her face expressionless. I didn't tell him where you were. 'How is
he, Ella? How does he look?
He is thinner, a little thinner, I think, and paler than when I last saw
him, but it suits him. He is still the most beautiful man I have ever
seen. His hair, Debra asked, has he let it grow a little?
Yes, I think so. It's soft and dark and thick around his ears and curly
down the back. Debra nodded, smiling. I'm glad he didn't cut it. They
were silent again, and then almost timidly Debra asked, What did he say?
What did he want? 'He had a message for you. 'What was it? And Ella
repeated it faithfully in his exact words.
When she had finished, Debra turned away to face the wall above her
desk. Please go away now, Ella. I want to be alone. He asked me to
give him your reply. I promised to speak to him tomorrow morning. I
will come to you later, but please leave me now. And Ella saw the drop
of bright liquid that slid down the smooth brown curve of her cheek.
Mountainously Ella came to her feet and moved towards the door. Behind
her she heard the girl sob, but she did not turn back. She went across
the stone jetty and up to the terrace. She sat before her canvas and
picked up her brush and began to paint. Her strokes were broad and
crude and angry.
David was sweating in the stiff shiny skin of his full pressure suit and
he waited anxiously beside the telephone, glancing every few minutes at
the crew-room clock.
He and Joe would go on high-altitude Red standby at ten o'clock, in
seven minutes time, and Ella had not called him.
David's depression was thunderous and there was black anger and despair
in his heart. She had promised to call before ten o'clock.
Come on, Davey, Joe called from the doorway and he stood up heavily and
followed Joe to the electric carrier. As he took his seat beside Joe he
heard it ring in the crew-room.
Hold it, I he told the driver, and he saw Robert answer the telephone
and wave through the glass panel at him.
It's for you, Davey, and he ran back into the crewroom.
I'm sorry, David, Ella's voice was scratchy and far away. I tried
earlier but the exchange here Sure, sure, David cut her short, his anger
was still strong. Did you speak to her? Yes, Davey. Yes, I did. I
gave her your message. 'What was her reply? he demanded. There was no
reply. 'What the hell, Ella. She must have said something. 'She said,
Ella hesitated, -and these are her exact words, "the dead cannot speak
with the living. For David, I died a year ago. I, He held the receiver
with both hands but still it shook. After a while she spoke again. Are
you still there? 'Yes, he whispered, I'm still here They were silent
again, but David broke it at last. That's it, then, he said. Yes. I'm
afraid that's it, Davey. Joe stuck his head around the door. -'Hey,
Davey. Cut it short, will you. Time to go. 'I have to go now, Ella.
Thanks for everything. 'Goodbye, David, she said, and even over the
scratchy connection he could hear the compassion in her tone.
It heightened the black anger that gripped him as he rode beside Joe to
the Mirage bunker.
For the first time ever, David felt uncomfortable in the cockpit of a
Mirage. He felt trapped and restless, sweating and angry, and it seemed