The Book of Longings(38)
“No, I didn’t refuse. I didn’t have the courage.” She smiled at me. “We make our moments, Ana, or we do not.”
Later, alone in my room, the house deep in slumber, I removed the white marriage dress from the chest and with the snipping knife, I cut the hem and the sleeves into long tatters. I slipped it on and crept from the house. The air caused cold scintillas of flesh to rise on my arms. I mounted the ladder to the roof and climbed like a night vine, the shreds of my dress fluttering. A small wind stirred the dark, and I thought of Sophia, the very breath of God in the world, and I whispered to her, “Come, lodge in me, and I will love you with all my heart and mind and soul.”
Then, on the roof, as close to the sky as I could get, I danced. My body was a reed pen. It spoke the words I couldn’t write: I dance not for men to choose me. Nor for God. I dance for Sophia. I dance for myself.
xxx.
When the seven days of mourning ended, I walked through the center of Sepphoris with my parents and aunt to synagogue. Father had been reluctant for us to appear in public so soon—rumors about my missing virginity blanketed the city like rotted manna, but Mother believed a demonstration of my devoutness would soften the vitriol toward me. “We must show the entire population we bear no shame,” she said. “Otherwise they’ll believe the worst.”
I can’t imagine why Father went along with such stupid reasoning.
It was a clear, cool day, the air oiled with the smell of olives, everyone in their woolen cloaks. It didn’t seem like the kind of day trouble would find us; nevertheless Father had ordered Antipas’s soldier to traipse behind us. Yaltha didn’t usually come with us to synagogue, which was a relief to my parents as well as my aunt, but here she was today, adhered to my side.
We walked without speaking, as if holding our breath. We wore no splendor; even Mother was clad in her simplest dress. “Keep your head bowed low,” she’d told me when we first set out, but I found now I couldn’t do it. I walked with my chin lifted and my shoulders back, the tiny sun perched over me trying very hard to shine.
As we neared the synagogue, the street grew crowded. Spotting our subdued little entourage and then me in particular, the people halted their progress, clumped together, and stared. A swell of muttering rose up. Yaltha leaned close to me. “Fear nothing,” she said.
“She’s the one who laughed at the death of her betrothed, Nathaniel ben Hananiah,” someone shouted.
Then another voice that sounded vaguely familiar cried, “Harlot!”
We kept walking. I kept my eyes straight ahead as if not hearing. Fear nothing.
“She’s possessed by devils.”
“She’s a fornicator!”
The soldier waded into the crowd, scattering it, but like some dark slippery creature, it re-formed on the other side of the street. People spit as I passed. I smelled the shame streaming off my parents. Yaltha took my hand as the familiar voice came again, “The girl is a harlot!” This time I turned and found the accuser, the round, bulbous face. Tabitha’s mother.
xxxi.
I waited three weeks before approaching Father. I was patient and, yes, sly. I continued to wear my grim, gray dress, though it was no longer required, and when Father was about, I made myself downcast and dutiful. I rubbed my eyes with bitter herbs, a speck of horseradish or tansy, turning them red rimmed and watery. I poured oil on his feet while swearing my purity and bemoaning the stigma brought upon my family. I served him honeyed fruit. I called him blessed.
Finally, on a day Father appeared amiable, at an hour Mother was nowhere near, I knelt before him. “I will understand if you refuse me, Father, but I beg you to let me return to my writing and my studies while I wait and hope for another betrothal. I only wish to keep occupied so I’m not consumed with dismay at the sad state I’m in.”
He smiled, pleased with my humility. “I’ll grant you two hours each morning to read and write, but no more. The rest of the day, you will do as your mother wishes.”
As I bent to kiss his foot, I drew back and wrinkled my nose at the smell of his freshly made sandal. It caused him to laugh. He placed his hand on my head, and I saw that he felt at least something for me, something between pity and affection. He said, “I will bring you some clean papyri from the palace.”
* * *
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I REMOVED MY MOURNING DRESS, immersed myself in the mikvah, and donned a tunic without pattern or dye and an old tanned coat. I wove a single white ribbon into my braid and covered my head with a scarf that was once as blue as the sky, but now washed of its color.
It was shortly past daybreak when I set out to the cave, slipping through the back gate with a small digging tool and a large pouch strapped to my back containing bread, cheese, and dates. I’d determined not to be without my writings and my bowl any longer. I would hide them in Lavi’s quarters if I must, but I would have them near me, and surely soon I could blend them among the new scrolls I would write and my parents would not suspect I’d saved them from being burned. My mind overflowed with new narratives I would compose, beginning with those of Tamar, Dinah, and the unnamed concubine.
I had ventured out without Lavi or concern for what vicious tongues would say. Everything had already been said. Shipra returned each day from the market eager to impart the tales she’d heard of my depravity, and when Mother or I went out, people of our own standing hurled imaginative insults. The kinder ones merely turned away from us on the street.