Eagle in the Sky - Smith Wilbur (бесплатные версии книг .txt) 📗

groping gesture with his hands as though to pluck words from the air

that might convince her.

Tell her- he paused, then shook his head.  No, that's all.  just tell

her I love her, and I want to be with her.  All right, David.  I'll tell

her.  And you will give me her answer?  Where can I reach you?  He gave

her the number of the telephone in the crew ready room at the base.

You'll ring me soon, Ella?  Don't keep me waiting.  'Tomorrow, she

promised.  In the morning.  'Before ten o'clock.

It must be before ten He stood up, and then suddenly he leaned forward

and kissed her sagging and raddled cheek.

Thank you, he said.  You are not a bad old bag.  'Away with you, you.

and your blarney.  You'd have the sirens of the Odyssey themselves come

running to your bidding.  She sniffed moistly.  Get away with you now,

I think I'm going to cry, and I want to be alone to enjoy it.

She watched him go up across the lawns under the date palms and at the

gate in the wall he paused and looked back.  For a second they stared at

each other and then he stepped through the gate.

She heard the engine of the Mercedes whirr and pull away slowly up the

track, then the note of it rose as it hit the highway and went racing

away southwards.  Ella rose heavily and crossed the terrace, went down

the steps towards the jetty and its stone boat houses screened from the

house by past of the ancient wall.

Her speedboat rode at its moorin& restless in the wind and the chop of

the lake.  She went on down to the farthest and largest of the boat

houses and stood in the open doorway.

The interior had been stripped and repainted with clean white.  The

furniture was simple and functional.

The rugs on the stone floor were for warmth, plain woven wool, thick and

rough.  The large bed was built into a curtained alcove in the wall

beside the fireplace.

On the opposite wall was a gas stove with a double cooking ring above

which a number of copper cooking pots hung.  A door beyond led through

to a bathroom and toilet which Ella had added very recently.

The only decoration was the Ella Kadesh painting from the house on Malik

Street, which hung on the bare white wall, facing the door.  It seemed

to lighten and warm the whole room; below it the girl sat at a working

table.  She was listening intently to her own voice speaking in Hebrew

from the tape recorder.  Her expression was r apt and intent, and she

stared at the blank wall before her.

Then she nodded her head, smiling at what she had just heard.  She

switched off the recorder and turned in the swivel chair to the second

recorder and punched the tran sinit button.  She held the microphone

close to her lips as she began to translate the Hebrew into English.

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