"Couldn't you just hold me?" she said. "I'm so alone, Craig."
He put the light off. She heard the rustle of cloth as he removed his pajamas, then he lay on the bed beside her, took her in his arms, kissed her gently. Her hands moved across him, and her fingertips told her of what he had suffered, the knife wound, the two gun shots, the flogging. His body was marked for life, but the strength inside him had overcome everything that had been done, until the last, most appalling pain had left him alone, uncaring, with only one emotion left, the fear of death. Her hands moved down, over the hard belly. Her body rubbed soft and luscious against him.
"I'll make you," she said. "I'll make you want me."
There was a compassion in her hands and lips that went beyond the ruttishness of fear, a gentle understanding that knew nothing of the game without rules he'd played for far too long. Even now, in the very offering of herself, this girl was on the side of friendship, of life.
His mind loved her for it, but his body would not respond. Could not. She touched him, and his flesh remembered the pain and only the pain, but he willed himself not to cry out, or move away. She was offering him compassion: the least he could do was accept it. Suddenly Craig decided that, whatever happened, Miriam Loman wouldn't be killed. Her compassion was too rare, too precious a commodity to be squandered before its time. And with that realization, the memory of the pain receded, and she became not just the embodiment of a virtue but a woman too, and Craig realized, as he needed her at last, that his frigidity had become a kind of necessary selfishness, a protection against the involvements women always demanded, this one not least, and yet how could one repay such compassion except with involvement? His hands grew strong on her, and she rolled back, then pushed up to meet him, brave in her passion.
"There, my darling, you see?" She said, then, "Yes. Oh, please. Please."
When they had done, they bathed together, then lay down cool on the rumpled sheets. She smiled at him then, a grin of triumph.
"You didn't believe it was possible, did you?" she said. "And I made you."
"You made me."
"That's something isn't it? After what they did to you? You ought to say, Thank you, Miss Loman." "Thank you, Miss Loman."
"That's a good boy." She kissed his mouth. "A very good boy. You can call me Miriam." She stretched out, feeling the hardness of his leg against hers. She felt marvelous: relaxed, fulfilled, yet still engrossed in her body's responses to his. There was just one thing-
"I don't want you to think I do this sort of thing all that often," she said. "I don't."
"You mean I wasn't much good?"
She made a joke of it, but the anxiety to please was there, would always be there.
"You were perfect," he said. "That's how I know you didn't do it often."
"Just one man," she said. "One nice Jewish boy. I adored him. And he went to Israel."
"Does Marcus know?"
"I hope not," she said. "I never told him. He'll never know about you either. You bastard. You drag me here, kidnap me, then let me rape you. And tomorrow you'll probably get me killed."
"No," said Craig. "You won't die, and it wasn't rape— or kidnapping either."
She said quickly, "I feel great—but I'm still scared."
He turned to her then, and his hands were gentle on her, coaxing yet slow, as she had been to him, till the girl cried out aloud, her arms came round him, taking him to her.
CHAPTER 8
They drove through Kirikkale, then on to Kayseri, climbing the foothills of the Taurus Mountains. The road was bad now, the pavement giving out for long stretches, but the Mercedes took all it was given, and came back for more. They passed hamlets of mud and stone, tiny fields wherever there was water, and where there was not— scrubland, goats, and sheep. Gas stations were a rarity, and whenever he passed one Craig filled up the tank, paying in Turkish lire this time.
Once a police car followed them, then shot past them, waving them down. The girl was frightened, but Craig was unhurried, and wound down his window as the two policemen came up to him, thin and hard and dark as gypsies. One of them spoke a little French, and asked them if they were lost. Craig said they were not. They were going to Iskenderun to consider the possibility of making a film there. The policeman was impressed, and gabbled to the other man in Turkish, then asked if Craig had ever met Brigitte Bardot, and Craig said no, but he'd met a man who had. The policeman asked if they were American, and Craig said they were. His partner then took a deep breath and said, "Hey, Joe. Gimme some whisky and a broad." Craig applauded then, and scowled at Miriam till she applauded too. The French-speaking policeman then explained that his partner had fought in Korea, Craig handed round Chesterfields and they were free to go.
They drove on sedately to the next bend, then Craig put his foot down. "My God," said the girl.
"Take it easy. They were bored and they wanted cigarettes. When trouble comes, it won't be wearing a uniform."
It came at Volukari, eighty miles farther on. Craig had stopped yet again for gas and the girl had gone into the fly-festooned shack beyond it that said cafe. He sat and waited, looking at the town that seemed to be in training for its next famine. Tired houses, unpaved streets, people who owned nothing but time, but in time they were millionaires. The women, he supposed, were bored at home; it was a crowd of men and boys who watched his tank fill up; the big excitement of the day. And then they had another excitement: the peremptory blast of a horn, the squeal of tires that longed for tarmac and met only dirt, then an E-type Jaguar went by, and the crowd exploded into comment. Four foreigners in one day. If things kept up at this rate they'd have to organize a festival. Miriam came back, and the crowd settled down to watch again, careful not to miss a single detail, the flick of her skirts, the glimpse of knee before the door closed. Craig's mind was elsewhere; he was thinking of the E-type. The man driving it was Andrew Royce, the girl beside him Joanna Benson.
"I've just seen two more film producers," he said, "and we're both after the same property."
He had no doubt that Royce and Benson had seen him.
They drove on into the evening, through Iskenderun, on past a little beach where somebody optimistic had built a little white hotel, with beach umbrellas and fairy lights and a couple of discouraged palm trees like thin old ladies. It seemed like a good place to stop if you drove an E-type, but there was no sign of it. Instead they picked up an elderly Fiat truck that rattled along behind them, then dropped slowly back as they drove round the bay and came at last to Kutsk, a gaggle of fishermen's huts huddled round a mosque, with one larger building, just as dirty, just as decrepit as the others, coffeeshop, bar, and restaurant combined. With any luck, it would be the hotel, too.
"Welcome to the Kutsk Hilton," said Craig.
He got out and stretched stiffly, near exhaustion, not daring to yield to it. The E-type could cover a hell of a lot of country, even this country. He took the girl's arm and led her inside the coffeeshop.
She found herself in a world of men. In Turkey, she realized, a man's business was to drink coffee; a woman's was to make it. The silence that greeted her was absolute, and she moved closer to Craig. The room was long and narrow, with deal tables and chairs. One unshaded light bulb competed unsuccessfully with cigarette smoke and flies. The room smelled—had smelled for twenty years— of cigarette smoke, sweat, and coffee. It reeked of coffee. The proprietor, a chunky man who smelled like his property, came up and stood in front of them without enthusiasm. Around him his customers looked on, like men pleased with themselves at being in on something good. Craig tried him in Arabic, French, and Greek, with no reaction. In the end he resorted to pantomime, and the patron nodded his understanding and relaxed enough to jerk a thumb at a table. The villagers relaxed then; the show was over. Someone switched on a radio, and they began at once to shout over it as a woman brought plates of fish stew, bread, and water to Craig's table. The girl looked at it dubiously.