was an internationally renowned food writer who would clear his way to celebrity and the London bistro of his dreams.
"Oh," said Lucas, "soon."
Fotheringill had been drinking heavily. He had red, pointy ears and a tiny nose ring. Seemingly displeased at Lucas's relative indifference, he turned to Dr. Obermann.
"I can make a kosher
sauce l'ancienne,
" he informed the psychiatrist. "I'm the only chef in the land of Israel who can make one."
"Aha," said Dr. Obermann.
"They call him," Janusz Zimmer said with a lightning wink, "Ian the Hittite."
Fotheringill began to tell a story in which an American guest at a resort hotel had accused him of using lard in his strudel.
"Lard in the strudel!" he protested to heaven. "Where the fook can I find bloody lard in Caesarea?"
Linda returned from dancing with the Ethiopian. Fotheringill stared at her as though she were a charlotte russe and presently took her back onto the floor.
"You
should
talk to her ex-husband," Obermann said to Lucas. "The House of the Galilean is a very interesting place. Pilgrims go. Victims of the Syndrome. They go for the lentil soup."
"I love lentil soup," Lucas said.
Obermann gave him an appraising look.
"So you're interested in this?" Obermann asked him. "At book length?"
It seemed to Lucas that he could talk his way into an advance without too much difficulty. "I'll think about it," he said.
"My notes are at your disposal," Obermann said. "Or they will be, when we come to an understanding. Ever written a book before?"
"As a matter of fact I have," Lucas said. "It was about the American invasion of Grenada."
"A very different subject."
"Not entirely," Janusz Zimmer said. "There was a metaphysical dimension in Grenada. Some of the people involved thought they had connections on high."
"Reagan, you mean?" Lucas asked.
"I wasn't thinking of Reagan. But I guess it would apply to him and to Nancy."
"Were you in Grenada during the invasion?" asked Lucas.
"Just before," Zimmer said. "And soon after."
"Janusz is a bird of ill omen," Dr. Obermann said. "Where he appears, newsworthiness follows."
"There were cults, as I remember," Zimmer said. "On the island."
"Yes, there were," Lucas said.
"Here also there are cults," said Dr. Obermann. "Not merely a few lost souls, but organized and powerful groups."
"All the better," Lucas said. "For the story, I mean."
Zimmer leaned closer and spoke above the noise of the band.
"Care should be taken," he said.
Lucas was considering the Pole's caution when his attention was diverted by a young woman on the dance floor who was dancing with the Ethiopian. She had the café au lait skin of the Spanish Main and black hair cut in a close afro, partly covered with a Java cloth scarf. Her dress was maroon and she wore a Coptic cross around her neck. She had long legs and Birkenstock sandals and her feet and ankles were decorated with purple geometric designs. Lucas recalled hearing somewhere that Bedouin women wore such designs but he had never seen them. He thought at once of the preternaturally hip young Arab woman in the madrasah the month before. He was certain it must be she.
"Who is she?" he asked Obermann. "Do you know her?"
"Sonia Barnes," the doctor said. After a quick, irritable glance he did look at her. "She used to go out with one of my patients."
"I've seen her around town," Lucas said.
"She's a dervish," Janusz Zimmer told Lucas. "She belongs in your story."
"True," Obermann said.
The girl called Sonia, and Linda Ericksen, the only two women on the dance floor, encountered each other and touched hands in greeting. Linda's greeting was without warmth. Sonia's smile seemed a bit sad and sardonic.
"She whirls very nicely," said Lucas. "Is she really a dervish?"
"Would I make it up?" Zimmer asked. "She's a practicing Sufi."
"Mrs. Ericksen seems to know her."
"Everyone knows everyone," Janusz Zimmer said. "Sonia sings in a place called Mister Stanley's in Tel Aviv. Go and see her. She can tell
"Oh," said Lucas, "soon."
Fotheringill had been drinking heavily. He had red, pointy ears and a tiny nose ring. Seemingly displeased at Lucas's relative indifference, he turned to Dr. Obermann.
"I can make a kosher
sauce l'ancienne,
" he informed the psychiatrist. "I'm the only chef in the land of Israel who can make one."
"Aha," said Dr. Obermann.
"They call him," Janusz Zimmer said with a lightning wink, "Ian the Hittite."
Fotheringill began to tell a story in which an American guest at a resort hotel had accused him of using lard in his strudel.
"Lard in the strudel!" he protested to heaven. "Where the fook can I find bloody lard in Caesarea?"
Linda returned from dancing with the Ethiopian. Fotheringill stared at her as though she were a charlotte russe and presently took her back onto the floor.
"You
should
talk to her ex-husband," Obermann said to Lucas. "The House of the Galilean is a very interesting place. Pilgrims go. Victims of the Syndrome. They go for the lentil soup."
"I love lentil soup," Lucas said.
Obermann gave him an appraising look.
"So you're interested in this?" Obermann asked him. "At book length?"
It seemed to Lucas that he could talk his way into an advance without too much difficulty. "I'll think about it," he said.
"My notes are at your disposal," Obermann said. "Or they will be, when we come to an understanding. Ever written a book before?"
"As a matter of fact I have," Lucas said. "It was about the American invasion of Grenada."
"A very different subject."
"Not entirely," Janusz Zimmer said. "There was a metaphysical dimension in Grenada. Some of the people involved thought they had connections on high."
"Reagan, you mean?" Lucas asked.
"I wasn't thinking of Reagan. But I guess it would apply to him and to Nancy."
"Were you in Grenada during the invasion?" asked Lucas.
"Just before," Zimmer said. "And soon after."
"Janusz is a bird of ill omen," Dr. Obermann said. "Where he appears, newsworthiness follows."
"There were cults, as I remember," Zimmer said. "On the island."
"Yes, there were," Lucas said.
"Here also there are cults," said Dr. Obermann. "Not merely a few lost souls, but organized and powerful groups."
"All the better," Lucas said. "For the story, I mean."
Zimmer leaned closer and spoke above the noise of the band.
"Care should be taken," he said.
Lucas was considering the Pole's caution when his attention was diverted by a young woman on the dance floor who was dancing with the Ethiopian. She had the café au lait skin of the Spanish Main and black hair cut in a close afro, partly covered with a Java cloth scarf. Her dress was maroon and she wore a Coptic cross around her neck. She had long legs and Birkenstock sandals and her feet and ankles were decorated with purple geometric designs. Lucas recalled hearing somewhere that Bedouin women wore such designs but he had never seen them. He thought at once of the preternaturally hip young Arab woman in the madrasah the month before. He was certain it must be she.
"Who is she?" he asked Obermann. "Do you know her?"
"Sonia Barnes," the doctor said. After a quick, irritable glance he did look at her. "She used to go out with one of my patients."
"I've seen her around town," Lucas said.
"She's a dervish," Janusz Zimmer told Lucas. "She belongs in your story."
"True," Obermann said.
The girl called Sonia, and Linda Ericksen, the only two women on the dance floor, encountered each other and touched hands in greeting. Linda's greeting was without warmth. Sonia's smile seemed a bit sad and sardonic.
"She whirls very nicely," said Lucas. "Is she really a dervish?"
"Would I make it up?" Zimmer asked. "She's a practicing Sufi."
"Mrs. Ericksen seems to know her."
"Everyone knows everyone," Janusz Zimmer said. "Sonia sings in a place called Mister Stanley's in Tel Aviv. Go and see her. She can tell
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