Henna House (14 page)

With the mention of Asaf's name, I felt a flash of panic, as if his leaving had actually coincided with Hani's arrival. My longing for him felt fresh and raw.

“No,” I insisted, “he didn't abandon me. He had to leave; his father made him go.”

“And you haven't heard from him?”

I shook my head.

“And now what is this? You are betrothed to an old man? To be his second wife?”

Tears fell down my cheeks.

“Don't worry.” Hani dabbed my tears with her own sleeve. “You are only eleven, right? Many girls don't bleed until they are thirteen. Maybe this Musa person will die and you can come with us back to Aden one day, where you can pick your own groom and write your own fortune in the blood of your marriage bed.”

I flinched, shuddered, my whole body possessed by a powerful force that traveled up my spine and made my face hot, my skin cold.

“Oh, poor little bird.” She petted my arm, and spoke in purring, comforting tones. “Don't worry. Perhaps the Imam will be assassinated and his successor will revoke the Orphans Decree. Then the decree will be lifted, and children need no longer marry . . . Look how shocked you are!” Hani laughed. “Poor dear, you are starved for audacity. Don't worry, I will toughen you up.”

I couldn't help but smile. The truth is, I wasn't shocked at all. Just relieved. Relieved that this brazen girl had arrived to be my bulwark against the future. I had never heard girls speaking so subversively. Where had she come from? What kind of creature was she really?

*  *  *

While our parents were drinking coffee, smoking hookahs, and eating baklava, we girls sucked on ginger candy and cracked sunflower seeds. Hani lay languidly back on the big embroidered pillows that smelled of wheat husks and woodsmoke. She wore a little puckered pouch on a leather thong around her waist.

“Adela, sweet girl, would you like to sort through my treasures?”

She took off the pouch, opened it, and let the contents come tumbling out in her lap. Out came a miniature set of dolls. They had shiny white cowrie beads for heads, cork bodies, and translucent aquamarine beads for hands and legs, all held together by metal wire. Hani picked up the dolls one by one and handed them to me. “This one is the mother; you can see that she has six children. This is the baby, my favorite. I will have double that many children, maybe even more.”

I nodded, agreeing with her, though I didn't know what I was agreeing to. There was also a tiny, mottled, chipped sapphire in the pouch, “from a one-eyed man in the market who said he was a Kashmiri, but I think he was a Turk.” A sprig of something that smelled like wall rue and a tiny book of psalms, which I think surprised me the most. Hani picked it up and paged to Psalm 102. “Here,” she said, “this is one of my favorites,
I am like a pelican of the wilderness; I am become as an owl of the waste places.”
I couldn't read and marveled at Hani's command of letters. Like all the girls in Qaraah, I memorized prayers, but couldn't read a single letter, let alone a whole psalm.

That night, after showing me her treasures, Hani told me about her sisters. The two eldest, the twins, were buried under an acacia tree in Aden. Edna, the next one, was married to a scribe and was mother to three daughters already. The next one, Hamama, could tell the future. And Nogema was married to a British gentleman and dreamed of studying history, like an English girl, and becoming a teacher.

When the other Damaris left us for the night, I slept on my pallet, as usual, in the room with my parents. But in the middle of the night, I got up. I shed my blankets, stood at the window, looking at what was now their little house. I stared into their dark window and thought of the stories Hani had told me about their travels,
We came across a lost girl who claimed she was from Shahara. We almost took her with us, but she was crazy—screaming about scorpions and pulling out her own hair. And did I tell you about the Ethiopian lout in Al Ma'afer who fell down drunk in the road?

My head was still suffused with the dreamy lazy feeling I got from sipping my father's arak. Hani's hands had been in my hair, making a long braid, and then lifting it up and kissing the nape of my neck. Was that me giggling when my whole body shivered? Her hands, petting me, reassuring me that I was one of them. Those other Damaris.
One of us sisters, now, truly.
Or did I just imagine that is what she said?

*  *  *

Over the next week, my new aunt went about transforming the little house with the red roof. When I stepped inside, I marveled. Could it be the same place? My brothers' smelly lair? And had all these delicate treasures been packed and piled up on the donkey carts? Rahel Damari had not arrived wearing silver ornaments or exotic clothing, but her house was a sight to behold. On the biggest wall she hung a dark green velvet tapestry decorated with lotus flowers and jungle animals, all embroidered with silver and gold thread. On the opposite wall she had hung a tapestry embroidered with a double satin stitch of gold, maroon, yellow, and indigo. In the center of the cloth was a circle of colorful women holding hands, their joined bodies forming a large flower. On tables and the backs of chairs she'd laid patchwork pieces of maroon silk adorned with cowrie shells and iridescent beetles' wings. A lush carpet with bluish-red palmettes covered the floor. I took off my shoes and walked across it barefoot; I had never before felt anything so soft. There were high-necked jars of rosewater perfume, a samovar with a pomegranate finial and two brass dragon handles, a collection of eight ivory elephants that held each other's tails, biggest to smallest. My mother hated finery, refused to adorn the walls, and laid the floor with the plainest dull brown hemp rug. We had only two decorations: a single small tapestry showing two little jade hummingbirds flying toward an orange fruit, and an engraving of the Portuguese warships in the port of Aden that my father had received as a gift from a customer who had mistakenly believed that my father had an interest in maritime lore. The dullness of our own house rebuked me for my own plainness, assuring me that I belonged in the emptiness, and not over here, in the other Damaris' lush jungle. But the colorful walls and soft floor weren't all there was to marvel at. Aunt Rahel had set up a laboratory on three little tables, with her vials of essential oils—tea tree, lavender, rose—and her pots of honey, red wine, baskets of lemons and limes, and all
the many pouches and glass bottles of spices she added to her brews—vanilla, nutmeg, cardamom, cinnamon, peppers, and rosemary leaves.

Aunt Rahel had been out by the grinding stones. Now she came inside, and saw me standing there. She came up behind me, put a hand on my back, and gently urged me forward. “Uncork anything you want, little niece. Breathe in deep, Adela, ahhh, it's good, isn't it? I tell myself that the mixture of all my herbs and oils together is what Eden must have smelled like on the sixth day of Creation. When Elohim had made everything but us. What do you think it smells like? What is your opinion?”

I
t didn't take long for the rumors to follow Aunt Rahel to Qaraah.

Late one day, about a month after her family's arrival, Hani ran to our house, out of breath, tears running down her face. There was a wild look in her eyes, and her hair was falling out of her kerchief. In our doorway she seemed to struggle with herself. Clutched in her hands was a henna stylus, which she threw down to the ground, discarding it like a sword with a blunt tip, a weapon that would do no good in actual battle. She heaved, taking big gulps of air. My mother pulled her through the doorway. Then they sat together on the wheat-husk pillows. Hani cried in my mother's lap like a small child, racked with sobs. My mother, with the distasteful but dutiful motions of a reluctant nurse attending a leper, ran her fingers through Hani's hair. “Sha, sha,” she said, “sha, sha, all will be well,” consoling her in a way I don't remember ever being comforted.

When she could speak, Hani explained, “We were at the wadi, my mother and I, and a woman we didn't know approached us. She was cursing and threatening to burn mother with a hot poker if she dunked her bucket in the water.”

“Why? Why would she do that?” I was astonished, outraged. How could someone insult Aunt Rahel? Shame her in public?

Hani glared at me, her chest still heaving. Crumpled up on my mother, she was twisted, holding her side to quiet the stitch in it. But her eyes were narrowed, darker than usual, and filled with disappointment. I had failed. But failed at what? I heard my voice, running ahead, repeating myself, prattling like a baby, “Why would she insult your mother?”

Hani's eyes said,
How could you not know? How could you be so stupid to even ask?
My mother must have seen how Hani looked at me. She puffed herself up and patted Hani's brow. “Sha, sha, Hanele,” she
said, and I could see that she was glad for this proof that Hani hadn't entirely taken me into her confidence.

That night, no one in our family mentioned the shameful incident. Everyone spoke loudly, and about trivial things. Uncle Barhun was mostly silent and reserved, and he looked “seams out,” which is how my auntie always said people look when they refuse to show the world their true emotions. Aunt Rahel wasn't there; she had stayed in the little house with the red roof, and didn't emerge until late the next day. When she did, her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red, and she barely spoke as we all cooked, served, and ate supper.

*  *  *

Auntie Aminah heard the story from one of the women at the little well. The next day we sat knee to knee, sunk comfortably together on the rug and pillows by her sewing table. She was hard at work, unraveling an old sweater to be reused for wool for winter socks. She explained it to me quickly, spitting out the words as if they had a bitter taste. “The woman at the wadi was Mrs. Bar Yonah, the potash man's wife. She had been to a wedding ceremony in Sana'a many years ago, where it was rumored that your Aunt Rahel had seduced the groom . . . That's right, the groom, a boy of sixteen. According to Mrs. Bar Yonah, the wedding was almost canceled, the boy dishonored, the girl left a virgin. But, as the accusations couldn't be verified, the wedding went forth. But now, years later, Mrs. Bar Yonah recognized Rahel Damari, dropped her bucket, and launched into her vicious tirade.”

Auntie Aminah finished speaking and took a deep whistling breath through her nose, then let out a rattling cough. She had come to a hard knot. I reached for the sweater to help her.

“Do you think it's true?”

“Adela . . .”

“It can't be true—”

“Adela . . .”

“What, Auntie?”

“Adela, there are some women who attract lies like a thumb dipped in honey. And then there are other women who are the bees, and sting for spite. And then there are other women who are the honey, the nectar, the sweetness that drives men and women mad for want of it.”

“And which is Aunt Rahel?”

Auntie Aminah reached out and took my hand in her own. Her knuckles were thick, the skin of the back of her hand wrinkled and soft, the color of old sun-kissed leather.

“Which do
you
think she is?”

I opened my mouth to defend my new aunt, but then I closed it without issuing either a defense or an indictment of her character. I asked, “But why doesn't Uncle Barhun defend her honor? Why doesn't he make an indictment? Take Malkah Bar Yonah to court? Surely he has due reason? After all, it is a husband's right to defend his wife from slander.” Auntie Aminah shook her head. “Your uncle will not publicly defend your aunt. But not because he doesn't trust her, or think she is an honorable wife.”

“Then why not?”

“Adela, everyone knows that henna is not permanent, it fades with time. So will these accusations. But to air them in public, to make a complaint to the court, will only set the dye deeper into the soul of anyone who listens.”

We sat in silence for the rest of my visit. We continued to untangle the sweater, until it was entirely deconstructed and lay like a heap of shredded rags in our laps. I left Auntie Aminah's, and walked slowly home, going through the backyards, even though there was no reason for me to hide. When I got to the dye mistress's house, she was crouching by one of her pots, stirring a vat of orange. She smiled when she saw me. I noticed that a few strands of the hair peeking out of her gargush were white. I wondered how old she was. She seemed to be Masudah's age, thirty-three. But she also seemed younger, because she had never had babies. At the same time, her graying hair made her seem older. Her body was lithe, her hips tiny. “Where have you been, little girl? Not hiding anymore? Hmmm, well, I think I know the reason for that frown. The mess with your new aunt at the wadi? Of course I know. Everyone knows everything in Qaraah. Well, don't you worry; soon enough the gossips will have something else to chatter about.”

I said, “She is innocent. I know she is.”

“Of course she is, dearie.”

I passed out of her yard. But instead of going straight inside the house, I stayed out back and sat in the saddle of the old frankincense tree. I examined what I knew. Since arriving in Qaraah, Aunt Rahel had been nothing but kind to me and to everyone she met. Other than her
henna, there was nothing startling about her. The only thing unusual about their family was that she and Uncle Barhun seemed to actually love each other. I had never before seen a husband drape his arm around a wife's waist, or call her “my beloved,” as Uncle Barhun called my aunt. As for the accusations? Surely if Aunt Rahel was a loose woman, Uncle Barhun would throw her out of the house, divorce her, or at least beat her. Why, I knew of women who had been beaten to death by their husbands for a lesser offense.

I resolved to find out everything I could about Aunt Rahel. I couldn't ask Hani, because if she had wanted to tell me herself, she would have, and I couldn't ask my mother, as she would slap me for even wanting to know, and I couldn't ask my father, for I feared that whatever mysteries there were to know about my aunt could be explained only by mothers, sisters, or aunts.