But the walls stay, the roof remains strong and immovable, and we can only pray that if these rooms have memories, they are not ours.
If I close my eyes, I can feel the desert breeze tease at the hair falling across my brow. The physicality of the sensation grounds me; I glance out over desert dunes bathed in moonlight, and might have wondered at him, had my youth not drained me of all wonderment. Instead, I observe them with a cool, analytic eye. Even detached, I can admit the scene is beautiful; and if I were more creative, I could paint a story out for myself of a life I had never lived, a foreign prince of endless sand--
The reprieve, if it may be called such, does not last long. It is simply too outrageous a fantasy, to imagine myself without an ocean, without black rocks and austere cliffs, without seagulls feasting on rotten flesh and rain all months of the year but one. I turn to look at the desert princess, then, as with understated words she reveals herself as a hostess of the party.
I do not answer immediately; I simply regard her with quiet, inexpressive eyes. I find myself looking down at her, although I do not make it a habit to make others feel small; it seems unavoidable. She is not what I would expect of one of Adonai’s siblings; everything about her is understated and bland, dark like the earth is after a rain. Nevertheless, she belongs to the desert, and wears the same austere face as the dunes beyond, only darker, only even more impassive.
“You can tell me which sister you are,” I answer at last, quietly, and with a smile that is not a smile at all, but a mere suggestion of movement at the edge of my mouth. Brief, flitting; a shadow over the moon.
Then we remain eye-to-eye, the desert breeze teasing with lover’s fingers at our hair. It is obscenely quiet this deep within the estate, and this far from the party. I do not feel a need to explain myself, not yet. I only watch her, and wonder if Pilate is a serpent, Adonai a bird, what is she?
The reprieve, if it may be called such, does not last long. It is simply too outrageous a fantasy, to imagine myself without an ocean, without black rocks and austere cliffs, without seagulls feasting on rotten flesh and rain all months of the year but one. I turn to look at the desert princess, then, as with understated words she reveals herself as a hostess of the party.
I do not answer immediately; I simply regard her with quiet, inexpressive eyes. I find myself looking down at her, although I do not make it a habit to make others feel small; it seems unavoidable. She is not what I would expect of one of Adonai’s siblings; everything about her is understated and bland, dark like the earth is after a rain. Nevertheless, she belongs to the desert, and wears the same austere face as the dunes beyond, only darker, only even more impassive.
“You can tell me which sister you are,” I answer at last, quietly, and with a smile that is not a smile at all, but a mere suggestion of movement at the edge of my mouth. Brief, flitting; a shadow over the moon.
Then we remain eye-to-eye, the desert breeze teasing with lover’s fingers at our hair. It is obscenely quiet this deep within the estate, and this far from the party. I do not feel a need to explain myself, not yet. I only watch her, and wonder if Pilate is a serpent, Adonai a bird, what is she?
