The Weather, By Susan Weis-Bohlen
Adina looked over her shoulder. What was that, she wondered. Had she heard something? Seen something out of the corner of her eye? Some…
The Weather,
By Susan Weis-Bohlen
Adina looked over her shoulder. What was that, she wondered. Had she heard something? Seen something out of the corner of her eye? Some sort of activity had caught her attention, pulled her away from her canvas where she had been working on a broad stroke. The indigo paint dripped from the wide brush in thick teardrops, onto the drop cloth. Hardly anything could distract her when she was in the flow of things, but something did and the moment of the broad stroke was over.
Adina placed her brush on the table and turned toward the wall of windows behind her. Joonie, her black lab/Israeli street dog mix, was happily chewing away on her morning marrow bone, hadn’t noticed anything at all. But Adina was certain something had changed. The light in the bright studio darkened slightly.
Then she saw it, a gray mass of clouds so far off in the distance that she was amazed she had even noticed. The weather here in the Negev so rarely changed that even the most imperceptible shift suddenly could be big deal. But a rain cloud? In July? In her 30 years living in the desert, Adina had never seen rain in July.
She walked over to the 10-foot sliding glass doors on the opposite side of the studio and slid them open. A wall of dry heat hit her immediately. Joonie looked up with an I’m not going out there look and went back to her bone.
Adina walked out onto the path, closing the door behind her. The wide, smooth stones felt surprisingly cool under her feet, still holding onto the morning chill. A stout, fluffy mourning dove dipped its wings into the swimming pool and drank from the water, its partner, waiting nearby. They skimmed the surface of the pool together, just enough to wet their bellies before flying off for their next adventure. She knew they would be back later to tend to their nest on the far side of her multi-level desert wonder of a house.
So it was the clouds she thought, that took her away from her painting. Now that Adina was by her pool, she decided to sit and watch the desert change colors — something she could surely use in her art. With an unfocused gaze, she immersed herself in the canvas around her — gray, blue, green, beige, and colors she had no names for. The undulating dunes not too far off, the desert seemed to go on forever. She watched as the angry clouds made their way over the landscape, casting shadows as they went, and marveled at the possibility of rain. Would the cloud unleash a downpour or was it just passing by, teasing rather than foreboding? She would watch and wait.
Just over the nearest dune lived a Bedouin family. They came and went with the
seasons, Adina’s closest neighbors. They had an easygoing relationship, recognizing in each other their love of the land and nature, respecting boundaries, and only making contact when absolutely necessary.
Over the years, Adina and the youngest daughter of the tribe, Jamila, had established a deeper relationship, one that was tolerated by her parents. Having once come upon Adina when she was painting outside near their tents, her life changed. Adina had set up her easel and canvas outside the Bedouin area, fascinated by their caravan of camels and tents. She thought she was at a respectable distance but it was not long before she was noticed, then approached. Adina saw a figure making its way slowly over the dunes, a maroon dress blowing in the hot desert wind. Hair covered loosely by a blue scarf.
“Marhaba”, she said when she was close enough to be heard. “Ma salama?”, How are you?
Adina answered in Arabic and Hebrew. “ Quees. Tov mayod.”
Adina switched to Hebrew then English as her Arabic was not so hot. “You speak English? What is your name?
I am Jamilla, she answered haltingly.
I am Adina.
You art?
Yes, I paint. It’s art.
And so it began. A relationship Adina never imagined she would have.
I student — ana taliba, Jamilla said.
If it is ok with your parents, yes — you can be my taliba — student.
Those memories surfaced now, from many years ago. Now 15 and not yet married, Jamila lived up to her name, which meant gorgeous woman, in Arabic. Adina had agreed to teach her and Jamila’s parents reluctantly allowed her to visit the studio when her chores were done for the day. Adina welcomed the interactions and loved learning more about the ways of Bedouins, and Jamila’s dreams beyond the desert. She hoped to be the first in the family to go to University. She wanted to travel and learn other languages. Jamila looked up to Adina — such an anomaly in her world — an American living in the Israeli desert, no children or husband — free to create and come and go as she pleased. Adina seemed peaceful. Jamila loved being in her presence.
In a mix of Arabic, English and Hebrew the two women painted in the desert, communicating with words and colors. Adina learned that Jamila had higher aspirations than getting married, having babies and wondering the desert — although that was considered a noble life. Jamila loved to paint. She loved combining colors and abstractions — visions she imagined she saw in the desert and a life unimagined before she met Adina.
Sitting by the pool lost in her memories, Adina’s attention suddenly shifted to a figure running over the dunes, toward her home. Was it Jamila? She couldn’t be sure, but soon enough the figure would reveal itself to be Jamila’s father, Salam. His thobe, long white robe, flapping in the wind. He was waving his arms and yelling something that Adina could not yet hear.
She stood up and went over to the gate, thinking maybe something had happened to Jamila. She opened the gate and hurried along the path to see what was of such great concern. Salam rarely came up to her house.
Then she heard the words traveling over the sand “Adwa alasharah. Adwa Alasharah” In her mind Adina quickly translated to Hebrew than English: Shituf bezek. Flash flood. Oh my god, this can’t happen here, her mind raced. She knew this occurred in the Wadis — the valleys between the mountains, where people are suddenly sept away to their death, drowning in the rushing waters of the sudden rain on dry earth. But she never heard of this in her area.
“Come quickly” she called out and saw the rest of the tribe — maybe 20 in all, running through the fine sand, their flowing clothes, met to keep the heat off in summer and the cold away in winter, were flapping and flying as they raced to Adina’s house. The dark clouds seem to be gathering strength as they ran, chasing them over the dunes. “Come come, yalla yalla” Adina yelled and opened the gate and the doors and ushered them into her home.
Joonie was now interested — they never had so many visitors at one time. She sat up and monitored the room.
“Now Now Now. Alan, alan, “ Adina yelled to Joonie and the Bedouins. “Sueed aldaaraj” upstairs — Salam shouted for the elders to come up the spiral staircase that led to the higher floors where hopefully they would be safe. One after another after another the family members piled into the home, many of them never having been in a glass and steel structure before, nervous and scared.
They heard the water before they saw it. A roaring, thunderous, deafening sound filled their ears seconds before a huge wave of water made its way over the earth, rushing towards the house. They stared in shock as no one had ever seen anything like this before. The water raced over the patio and the pool and crashed into the glass doors cracking them, shards flying, filling the studio with roiling stormy water.
Just as quickly as it was upon them, the water began to recede and Adina watched her art pouring out of the house, some into the pool, some into the desert. Vibrant colors of paint, papers and canvas, swirling in the water, adding pigments to the desert that had never been seen before. Slashes and flashes of ruby and orange, greens and sapphire, spilling over the land that only moments before had been beige.
It was then that Adina realized Jamila was not there. Salam — where is she? Jamila? Her mind searching for the Arabic. The Hebrew came first- “Afo he?” The Arabic came to her “Aiyn ahiya?”
Salam looked at her horrified. The family members, understanding that their precious one was not with them, began wailing. Jamila had not made it to the house. Had she been caught up in the torrent? Would they ever find her? Was she alive?
The sun seemed to burst from behind the clouds and the water flowed backward nearly as fast as it had engulfed the land.
Now. They had to go now to find the gorgeous one, Jamila.
Thank you for reading! I am working on fiction/flash fiction/memoir and loving it. I hope you enjoy this story which may be any and all of the above.