more than a few moments, he blamed Misha. Tonight, as often, her body bore the livid bruises of his heavy fists. But at least the beatings were quick. There were times when she thought his awful, suffocating weight would never rise from her.
"It is nothing," she whispered. "A dream. I didn't mean to wake you."
Sayyid rubbed at his eyes, staring groggily toward her. He had brought himself to a sitting position, and he panted from the effort. "A vision. Nur al-Allah has said-"
"My brother needs his sleep, as does his general. Please."
"Why must you always oppose me, woman?" Sayyid frowned, and Misha knew that he remembered his earlier embarrassment, when in frustration he had battered her, as if he could find release in her pain. "Tell me," he insisted. " I must know if it's something to tell the prophet."
I am Kahina, she wanted to say. I'm the one Allah has gifted. Why must you be the one to decide whether to wake Najib? It was not your vision. But she held back the words, knowing that they led to more pain. "It was confused," she told him. " I saw a man, a Russian by his dress" who handed Nur al-Allah many gifts. Then the Russian was gone, and another man-an American-came with more gifts and laid them at the prophet's feet." Misha licked dry lips, remembering the panic of the dream. "Then there was nothing but a feeling of terrible danger. He had gossamer strings knotted to his long fingers, and from each string dangled a person. One of his creatures came forward with a gift. The gift was for me, and yet I feared it" dreading to open the package. I ripped it open, and inside..." She shuddered. "I ... I saw only myself. I know there was more to the dream, but I woke. Yet I know, I know the gift-bearer is coming. He will be here soon."
"An American?" Sayyid asked. "Yes."
"Then I know already. You dream of the plane carrying the Western infidels. The prophet will be ready for them: a month, perhaps more."
Misha nodded, pretending to be reassured, though the terror of. the dream still held her. He was coming, and he held out his gift for her, smiling.
"I'll tell Nur al-Allah in the morning," she said. "I'm sorry I disturbed your rest."
"There's more I would talk about," Sayyid answered. She knew. "Please. We're both tired."
"I'm entirely awake now"
"Sayyid, I wouldn't want to fail you again...."
She had hoped that would end it, yet had known it would not. Sayyid groaned to his feet. He said nothing; he never did. He lumbered across the room" breathing loudly at the exertion. She could see his huge bulk beside her bed, a darker shade against the night." He fell more than lowered himself atop her. "This time," he breathed. "This time."
It was not this time. Misha didn't need to be Kahina to know that it would never be.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF XAVIER DESMOND
DECEMBER 29, 1986/BUENOS AIRES:
Don't cry for Jack, Argentina....
Evita's bane has comes back to Buenos Aires. When the musical first played Broadway, I wondered what Jack Braun must have thought, listening to Lupone sing of the Four Aces. Now that question has even more poignance. Braun has been very calm, almost stoic, in the face of his reception here, but what must he be feeling inside?
Peron is dead, Evita even deader, even Isabel just a memory, but the Peronistas are still very much a part of the Argentine political scene. They have not forgotten. Everywhere the signs taunt Braun and invite him to go home. He is the ultimate gringo (do they use that word in Argentina, I wonder), the ugly but awesomely powerful American who came to the Argentine uninvited and toppled a sovereign government because he disapproved of its politics. The United States has been doing such things for as long as there has been a Latin America, and I have no doubt that these same resentments fester in many other places. The United States and even the dread "secret aces" of the CIA are abstract concepts, however, faceless and difficult to get a fix onGolden Boy is flesh and blood, very real and very visible, and here.
Someone inside the hotel leaked our room assignments, and when Jack stepped out onto his balcony the first day, he was showered with dung and rotten fruit. He has stayed inside ever since, except for official functions, but even there he is not safe. Last night