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Immense balls of fire grew on the desert horizon, and they felt the ground shake under their feet. Thunder in the sky and on the Earth.
"Let's go," she said.
"There's no danger," he answered. "They're military planes. Far from here."
But the supersonic fighters broke the sound barrier close to where they stood, with a terrifying sound.
The two clung to each other as they watched the spectacle with fascination and terror. Now there were balls of fire on the horizon, and green lights. There were more than a dozen, falling slowly from the sky, illuminating the entire desert so that no one and nothing could remain hidden.
"It's just a military exercise," he reassured her. "The Air Force. There are a lot of bases around here. I've seen them on the map." Paulo had to shout to make himself heard. "But I wanted to believe they were angels."
They're the instruments of angels, she thought. Angels of death.
The yellow brilliance of the bombs falling on the horizon blended with the bright green lights falling slowly by parachute. Everything below was visible, and the planes were unerring as they dropped their mortal loads.
The exercise lasted for half an hour. And, just as suddenly as they had arrived, the planes disappeared, and silence returned to the desert. The last of the green lights came to earth and died. The ground no longer trembled, and they could see the stars again.
Paulo took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, and concentrated: I won the bet. I'm absolutely sure I won the bet. His second mind was coming and going, saying no, that it was all in his imagination, that his angel would not show himself. But he dug the nail of his index finger into his thumb until the pain was insupportable; pain always banishes nonsensical thinking.
"I will see my angel," he repeated, as they descended the mountain.
Her heart squeezed again. But she didn't want to allow him to see how she felt. The only way to change the subject quickly was to listen to what her second mind was saying, and to ask Paulo if it made sense.
"I want to ask you something," she said.
"Don't ask me about the miracle. It will happen or it won't. Let's not waste our energy discussing it."
"No, it's not about that."
She hesitated. Paulo was her husband. He knew her better than anyone did. She was fearful of his response, because what he said carried more weight than what others said. But she resolved that she would ask the question anyway; she couldn't stand keeping it inside.
Do you think I chose wrong?" she asked. "That I've wasted my life sowing seeds, content to watch the crops flourish around me instead of experiencing the strong emotions of the hunt?"
He walked along, looking up at the sky. He was still thinking about his bet, and about the planes.
"Often I look at people like J.," he said. "People like J., who are at peace, and through that peace, find communion with God. I look at you, able to talk with your angel before I was--even though it was I who came here to do that. I watch you sleeping so soundly, while I'm standing at the window, and I ask myself why the miracle I'm waiting so desperately for doesn't happen. And I ask myself: Did I choose the wrong path?"
He turned to her. "What do you think? Did I choose the wrong path?"
Chris took his hand in hers. "No. You would be very unhappy."
"And so would you if you had chosen mine."
"That's a good thing to remember."
BEFORE THE ALARM WENT OFF, HE SAT UP IN BED WITHOUT making a sound.
He looked outside, and it was still dark.
Chris was asleep. For a moment, he thought of waking her, and telling her where he was going. That she should say a prayer for him. But he decided against it. He could tell her everything when he returned. It wasn't as if he were heading for any place dangerous.
He switched on the light in the bathroom, and filled his canteen from the faucet. Then he drank as much water as he could swallow--he had no idea how long he would be out there.
He dressed, grabbed the map, and memorized his route. Then, he got ready to leave.
But he couldn't locate the key to the car. He looked in his pockets, in his knapsack, on the bedside table. He considered lighting the lamp--but no, it might awaken her, and the light from the bathroom was enough. He couldn't spend any more time looking--every minute spent here was a minute less that he could devote to waiting for his angel. Within four hours, the heat of the desert would be unbearable.
Chris hid the key, he thought. She was a different woman now--she was speaking to her angel, and her intuition had increased considerably. Perhaps she had guessed at what his plans were and was frightened.
