The Book of Longings(10)

He parted his lips as if to speak. I remember the eagerness I felt for his voice, for what he would say to me.

What happened next would plague me through the strange months to come, raining down at odd moments and sometimes waking me in the night, and I would lie there and wonder how it might have been different. He might have led me to the yarn stall, where I would sit on the wood plank among the balls of thread, waiting for the throb in my ankle to subside. My parents would find me there. They would thank the kind man, give him a coin, buy all the yarn the girl had so carefully sorted and wound. My father would say to him: For your kindness, you must dine with us.

Those things did not happen. Instead, before my rescuer could utter the words on his lips, the soldier who’d traipsed behind us through the streets rushed at us, shoving the man violently from behind and catching my fall as I lost my balance. I watched him go down, unable to look away as his forehead struck the hard tile.

I heard the girl call out his name, “Jesus,” as she ran to him, and I must have tried to go to him, too, for I felt the soldier restraining me.

The man got to his feet, the girl pulling his arm. She seemed terrified, frantic for them to escape before the soldier assailed him further, before the crowd was riled against them, but he took his time and I remember thinking what dignity he had, what calm. He lifted his fingers to a vicious red welt above his right brow, then straightened his cloak and walked away as prudence dictated, but not without looking back at me—a kind, burning look.

My whole being ached to call out to him, to ensure he was not severely harmed, tell him I was sorry, offer him the bracelet from my arm, offer him all the bracelets in my jewel box. But I said nothing, and he and the girl disappeared behind the wall of spectators, leaving their humble lumps of yarn behind.

My father and Nathaniel ben Hananiah arrived shouting their inane question—not “Are you well?” but “Did the peasant assault you?”

The soldier hurried to justify his actions. “The man rushed at your daughter. I acted to defend her.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “The man came to my aid! My ankle—”

“Find him,” my father shouted, and immediately the brute of a soldier dashed off in the direction the man called Jesus had disappeared.

“No!” I cried again, breaking into a frenzied explanation, but Father did not listen or hear.

“Quiet,” he said, slashing his hand through the air. The pleasure Nathaniel took in witnessing me silenced was not lost on me. His smile was no smile. It was the wriggle of a viper.

I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping God was still able to see me, tiny shrinking sun that I was, and I prayed he would let Jesus find his way to safety.

When I opened my eyes, I looked at the tile where he had fallen. A slender red thread was curled there. I bent and picked it up.





vi.


Yaltha was waiting outside the main door of our house. She reminded me of a gray mouse, alert, sniffing the air, her hands fussing beneath her chin. I hobbled toward her, my lashes dripping kohl paint that splatted on my red coat.

She opened her arms so I could step inside their little circle. “My child, you’re injured.”

Bending, I lowered my head onto the small ledge of her shoulder and stood there, a broken stalk, wishing to tell her of the tragedy that had befallen. My betrothal. The young man wrongly pursued because of me. The words rose in me like a yeasted awfulness, then fell away. I doubted she could fix any of it. Where was dear Judas?

I had not spoken a word since the market. Before leaving, Mother had poked her finger into the soft, swollen skin around my ankle. “Are you able to walk?” she’d asked. It had been the first recognition of my injury. I nodded, but the trip home soon became torturous—a stab of pain with each step. I had no choice but to use the remaining soldier’s thick, bushy arm as a crutch.

The red thread I’d scooped from the market floor was tied securely about my wrist, concealed beneath my sleeve. As I clung to Yaltha, I glimpsed a wisp of it peeking out and knew I’d kept it to remind me of the few vivid moments I’d leaned my body against the man with expressive eyes.

“This is not a day for sorrow and consolation,” Father said.

“Ana is to be betrothed,” Mother announced with forced cheer, as if to offset my display of bereavement. “It is an honorable match and we give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.”

Yaltha’s hands stiffened at my back and I thought now of a great bird lifting me with its claws, carrying me over the rooftops of Sepphoris out to the nest of hills with their cave mouths.

Shipra opened the heavy pinewood door into the vestibule and there was Lavi poised inside with a bowl of water and towels for cleansing our hands. Mother pried me from my aunt and thrust me inside. The reception hall floated in afternoon shadows. Steadying myself on one foot, I waited for the day blindness to leave before finally dragging my voice from its hovel.

“I refuse the betrothal,” I said, barely above a whisper. I hadn’t known I would say this—it shocked me, in fact—but I drew a breath and repeated it more forcefully. “I refuse the betrothal.”

Father’s hands, wet and dripping, went still over the ewer.

“Truly, Ana,” Mother said. “Will you now flaunt your disobedience in front of your father, too? You have no choice in this matter.”

Yaltha planted herself before my father. “Matthias, you know as I do that a daughter must give consent.”