Juan Gómez-Jurado - Contract with God aka The Moses Expedition

‘Count them. When you tell me how many there are, you can go down to the pool.’

Andrea spread the beans on the table and one by one began counting them, putting them into a pot. When she reached twelve hundred and eighty-three, she got up to go to the bathroom.

When she returned the pot was empty. Someone had put the beans back on the table.

Dad, your hair will turn grey before you hear me cry , she thought.

Of course she did cry. Over the next five days, no matter the reason for leaving the table, each time she came back she had to start counting the beans all over again, forty-three different times.

The night before, Andrea would have considered the incident of the beans to have been one of the worst experiences of her life, even worse than the brutal beating she’d received in Rome the year before. Now, however, the experience with the magnetometer had risen to the top of the list.

The day had started at five on the dot, three-quarters of an hour before sunrise, with a series of blasts from a horn. Andrea had to sleep in the infirmary with Dr Harel and Kyra Larsen, the two sexes segregated because of Forrester’s sanctimonious rules. Dekker’s detail was in another tent, the service staff in another, and Forrester’s four male assistants and Father Fowler in the remaining one. The professor preferred to sleep alone in a small tent that cost eighty dollars and went with him on all his expeditions. But he didn’t sleep much. By five in the morning he was out there among the tents, blasting his air horn until he received a couple of death threats from a crowd of people who were already frazzled.

Andrea got up, cursing in the dark, looking for her towel and her toiletries bag, which she had left next to the inflatable mattress and sleeping bag that served as her bed. She was heading for the door when Harel called her. In spite of the early hour, she was already dressed.

‘You’re not thinking of showering, are you?’

‘Of course.’

‘You could find out the hard way, but I should remind you that the showers work using individual codes and each of us is allowed only thirty seconds of water per day. If you waste your share now, you’ll be begging us just to spit on you tonight. ’

Andrea slumped back on her mattress, defeated.

‘Thank you for screwing up my day.’

‘True, but I’ve saved your night.’

‘I look terrible,’ Andrea said, pulling her hair into a ponytail, something she hadn’t done since college.

‘Worse than terrible.’

‘Fuck, Doc, you’re supposed to say: “Not as bad as me” or “No, you look great”. You know, female solidarity.’

‘Well, I’ve never been a conventional woman,’ Harel said, looking directly into Andrea’s eyes.

What the hell did you mean by that, Doc? Andrea asked herself as she pulled on her shorts and laced up her boots. Are you what I think you are? And more importantly… should I make the first move?

Step, wait, whistle, step.

Stowe Erling had escorted Andrea to her assigned area and helped her to put on her harness. So there she was, in the middle of a piece of ground fifty foot square, marked off with string attached at each corner to eight-inch spikes.

Suffering.

First there was the weight. Thirty-five pounds didn’t seem like much at first, especially when it hung from a harness. But by the second hour, Andrea’s shoulders were killing her.

Then there was the heat. By noon, the ground wasn’t sand – it was a grill. And her water ran out half an hour into the shift. The rest periods between each shift lasted quarter of an hour, but eight of those minutes were taken up leaving and returning to the quadrants and getting bottles of cold water, and another two reapplying sunscreen. That left roughly three minutes, which consisted of Forrester continuously clearing his throat and looking at his watch.

On top of that, it was the same routine over and over. That stupid step, wait, whistle, step.

Fuck, I’d be better off in Guantánamo. Even though the sun is beating down on them too at least they don’t have to carry this stupid weight.

‘Good morning. It’s kind of hot, isn’t it?’ said a voice.

‘Go to hell, Father.’

‘Have some water,’ Fowler said, offering her a bottle.

He was dressed in serge trousers and his usual short-sleeved black shirt and clerical collar. He stepped back out of her quadrant and sat on the ground, watching her with amusement.

‘Can you explain who you bribed so you don’t have to wear this thing?’ asked Andrea, thirstily emptying the bottle.

‘Professor Forrester has a great deal of respect for my religious duties. He’s also a man of God, in his own way.’

‘An egotistical maniac, more like.’

‘That too. And what about you?’

‘Well, at least promoting slavery is not one of my faults.’

‘I’m talking about religion.’

‘Are you trying to save my soul with half a bottle of water?’

‘Would that be enough?’

‘I’d need at least a full one.’

Fowler smiled and handed her another bottle.

‘If you take small sips it quenches your thirst better.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re not going to answer my question?’

‘Religion is too deep for me. I prefer riding a bike.’

The priest laughed and took a sip from his own bottle. He seemed tired.

‘Come on, Ms Otero; don’t be angry with me for not having to do the donkey work now. You don’t think that all these squares showed up by magic, do you?’

The quadrants began two hundred feet from the tents. The other members of the expedition were spread out over the surface of the canyon, each one with his own step, wait, whistle, step. Andrea had reached the end of her section and took a step to the right, turned 180 degrees, and then began walking again, her back to the priest.

‘And there I was, trying to find the two of you… So this is what you and the doc were up to all night.’

‘There were other people there too, so you needn’t worry.’

‘What do you mean by that, Father?’

Fowler didn’t say anything. For a long while there was only the rhythm of step, wait, whistle, step.

‘How did you know?’ said Andrea anxiously.

‘I suspected it. Now I know.’

‘Fuck.’

‘I’m sorry for having invaded your privacy, Ms Otero.’

‘The hell you are,’ Andrea said and bit her fist. ‘I’d kill for a smoke.’

‘What’s stopping you?’

‘Professor Forrester told me that it interferes with the instruments.’

‘You know something, Ms Otero? For someone who acts like she’s on top of everything you’re pretty naïve. Tobacco smoke doesn’t affect the magnetic field of the Earth. At least, not according to my sources.’

‘The old bastard.’

Andrea dug around in her pockets then lit a cigarette.

‘Are you going to tell Doc, Father?’

‘Harel is intelligent, much more so than I am. And she’s Jewish. She doesn’t need advice from an old priest.’

‘Do I?’

‘Well, you’re Catholic, right?’

‘I lost confidence in your outfit fourteen years ago, Father.’

‘Which one? Military or clerical?’

‘Both. My parents really screwed me up.’

‘All parents do that. Isn’t that how life begins?’

Andrea turned her head and managed to see him out of the corner of her eye.

‘So we have something in common.’

‘You can’t imagine. Why were you searching for us last night, Andrea?’

The reporter looked around before answering. The nearest human being was David Pappas, locked into his harness a hundred feet away. A blast of hot wind gusted from the entrance to the canyon, forming beautiful whirlpools of sand at Andrea’s feet.