tried to do.
Shouldering the easel, Pierre pulled ahead, looking like a giant three-winged bird. He hopped from rock to rock as if the wooden easels were made of feathers. Next to Esther, her teacherâs fine leather shoes squeaked and scrunched the gravel. One day, Esther decided, she would own shoes with a white buckle strap like Mlle Thibauxâs city shoes. And an ivory cigarette holder.
Low grass and green moss covered soil that, come summer, would turn arid and cracked. Cyclamens peeked out from under the shelter of rocks, pink and shy as brides. Along the path, tall stalks of purple brush-head flowers swayed in the breeze like a flock of hooded priests on the Via Dolorosa. By summer, they would dry into a nasty army of thistles. Esther counted the pebbles in her path in order to prevent Pierre from entering her line of vision. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred pebbles. Yet even though she had avoided looking directly at him, she somehow knew that his cheeks were pink, that his brown hair fell onto his forehead, that the small red scarf tied around his neck had tips like the ears of a surprised hare. He kept hopping about, as if escaping the city boundaries gave him the same sweet taste of the fresh air she savored.
Esther carried the straw basket of food, keeping it as far away from her body as her arm would allow so this traife wouldnât contaminate her clothes. Sheâd rather carry the heavier box of oil paints hanging from Mlle Thibauxâs shoulder by its leather straps. The buckle shone in the afternoon sun, and its sight made Esther long for those paints rather than the forbidden food in her basket.
It proved difficult to respond to Mlle Thibauxâs chatter, to conjugate French verbs when so many thoughts jumped in Estherâs head like the grasshoppers bursting out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast. She wanted to shout to the mountains under the infinite depth of the cloudless blue skies and hear the echo roll back. She wanted to hurl herself atop a giant boulder and dance again for the whole world to see.
A herd of sheep waddled down the incline of the next hill, the undersides of their shabby coats caked with winter mud that would only be removed with shearing. Lambs toddled behind their mothers, an Arab boy following them. He was barefoot, his shirt and sherwal tattered, his dark hair matted and speckled with lice eggs. At the sight of Mlle Thibaux, curiosity arched his dirt-smeared brow. He dropped to his haunches and stared as she passed.
Esther looked back to check on him. Arab robbers and murderers were older, but one never knew. The boy rose from his crouch, and to her relief, he withdrew a flute from his rope belt and began playing. The quick, clear curlicues of the music lured the sheep, and they trailed him away.
Farther down the path, bouncing on legs like coiled springs, Pierre sang in French, throwing his voice to the wind. The sound carried back to Esther. No grown man she knew dared sing aloud in the open or move so casually, shedding the seriousness with which God needed to be served.
Pierre vanished from sight in the path below the fir- and pine-stands peak, but his presence lingered. Rounding the curve, Esther gazed down to block his figure from reentering the landscape.
When she finally raised her eyes, she faced a deserted monastery overlooking Wadi El Joz below. Although only twenty minutes from her home, she and Ruthi had never ventured this far out on their Shabbat walks.
â Magnifique, eh? â Mlle Thibaux cooled her face with a lace fan while scrutinizing the scenery.
A large section of the monasteryâs defense wall had tumbled down, and the boulders at its feet rolled away like chicks from a mother hen. The other end of the wall still stood, its corner steeple poking the sky in defiance. Through the break in the enclosing wall, Esther glimpsed an almond orchard in bloom, silky pink flowers fluttering in the breeze.
She put down the
Shouldering the easel, Pierre pulled ahead, looking like a giant three-winged bird. He hopped from rock to rock as if the wooden easels were made of feathers. Next to Esther, her teacherâs fine leather shoes squeaked and scrunched the gravel. One day, Esther decided, she would own shoes with a white buckle strap like Mlle Thibauxâs city shoes. And an ivory cigarette holder.
Low grass and green moss covered soil that, come summer, would turn arid and cracked. Cyclamens peeked out from under the shelter of rocks, pink and shy as brides. Along the path, tall stalks of purple brush-head flowers swayed in the breeze like a flock of hooded priests on the Via Dolorosa. By summer, they would dry into a nasty army of thistles. Esther counted the pebbles in her path in order to prevent Pierre from entering her line of vision. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred pebbles. Yet even though she had avoided looking directly at him, she somehow knew that his cheeks were pink, that his brown hair fell onto his forehead, that the small red scarf tied around his neck had tips like the ears of a surprised hare. He kept hopping about, as if escaping the city boundaries gave him the same sweet taste of the fresh air she savored.
Esther carried the straw basket of food, keeping it as far away from her body as her arm would allow so this traife wouldnât contaminate her clothes. Sheâd rather carry the heavier box of oil paints hanging from Mlle Thibauxâs shoulder by its leather straps. The buckle shone in the afternoon sun, and its sight made Esther long for those paints rather than the forbidden food in her basket.
It proved difficult to respond to Mlle Thibauxâs chatter, to conjugate French verbs when so many thoughts jumped in Estherâs head like the grasshoppers bursting out of nowhere and disappearing just as fast. She wanted to shout to the mountains under the infinite depth of the cloudless blue skies and hear the echo roll back. She wanted to hurl herself atop a giant boulder and dance again for the whole world to see.
A herd of sheep waddled down the incline of the next hill, the undersides of their shabby coats caked with winter mud that would only be removed with shearing. Lambs toddled behind their mothers, an Arab boy following them. He was barefoot, his shirt and sherwal tattered, his dark hair matted and speckled with lice eggs. At the sight of Mlle Thibaux, curiosity arched his dirt-smeared brow. He dropped to his haunches and stared as she passed.
Esther looked back to check on him. Arab robbers and murderers were older, but one never knew. The boy rose from his crouch, and to her relief, he withdrew a flute from his rope belt and began playing. The quick, clear curlicues of the music lured the sheep, and they trailed him away.
Farther down the path, bouncing on legs like coiled springs, Pierre sang in French, throwing his voice to the wind. The sound carried back to Esther. No grown man she knew dared sing aloud in the open or move so casually, shedding the seriousness with which God needed to be served.
Pierre vanished from sight in the path below the fir- and pine-stands peak, but his presence lingered. Rounding the curve, Esther gazed down to block his figure from reentering the landscape.
When she finally raised her eyes, she faced a deserted monastery overlooking Wadi El Joz below. Although only twenty minutes from her home, she and Ruthi had never ventured this far out on their Shabbat walks.
â Magnifique, eh? â Mlle Thibaux cooled her face with a lace fan while scrutinizing the scenery.
A large section of the monasteryâs defense wall had tumbled down, and the boulders at its feet rolled away like chicks from a mother hen. The other end of the wall still stood, its corner steeple poking the sky in defiance. Through the break in the enclosing wall, Esther glimpsed an almond orchard in bloom, silky pink flowers fluttering in the breeze.
She put down the
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