Sarah (11 page)

Once in the lower city, Sarai walked quickly. She lost her way once or twice, but it did not matter. All she had to do was walk to the river.

When she arrived at the reedy lagoon, she had the impression it was at the same place where she had met Abram. It had the same wretched, half-ruined houses, the same patches of sandy ground, some fallow, some planted with melons and fragrant herbs. Nevertheless, she had to go upstream for
ùs
before she came in sight of the tents of the
mar.Tu
. The tents were low and round, barely higher than the reeds, which meant that the wind slid over their curved roofs. There were hundreds of them, made of thick brown or beige canvas, some as vast as real houses, others arranged lengthwise around enclosures of bulrushes containing the small livestock.

At the sight of this huge encampment, already alive with half-naked children and women in long robes, Sarai halted, her heart pounding. If the gods disapproved of what she was doing, now was the time for their anger to strike her.

She walking along the sandy path that led into the encampment. She had hardly reached the first tents when the women broke off from their work and the children from their games. Blushing with embarrassment, Sarai hoped to be greeted by smiles, but none came. The women gathered in silence in the middle of the path. The children approached her. Eyes bright with curiosity, they pressed around her, examining her hair, her belt, her basket—which she had quite forgotten to empty of its flowers. Was this the first time they had seen an inhabitant of the royal city?

Mustering her courage, Sarai greeted them respectfully, in her most neutral tone, invoked the protection of almighty Ea on all of them, and asked the way to the tents of the clan of Terah, the idol maker who produced statues of ancestors.

The women appeared not to understand. Sarai was afraid she had not pronounced the name of Abram's father correctly. “Terah, Terah . . .” she repeated, trying to find the right intonations. The oldest of the women said a few words in the
mar.Tu
language. Two other women answered her, shaking their heads. The old woman looked at Sarai again, her pale gray eyes surprised but benevolent.

“Terah isn't here anymore,” she said. “He and all his people have gone.”

“Gone?” Sarai's surprise was so great, she nearly cried out.

“They've been gone two moons already,” the old
mar.Tu
went on. “It's winter. They've taken the flocks of the lords of Ur to be counted for the tax.”

SHE had been prepared for anything, but never for a moment had she imagined that Abram and his family would not be there.

She had thought of how angry Abram might be when he saw her. Or how happy she would be to see him smile at the sight of her.

She had thought of the words she would say to him: “I've come to you so that you can place your mouth on mine. My father is going to find me a new husband. This time, I shan't be able to refuse. If he asked me what I wanted, I'd choose you, though I know that no lord of the royal city has ever given his daughter to a
mar.Tu
. But for for the past three moons, not a day has passed that I haven't thought about you. I've thought about your lips and the kiss I wanted from them the night you protected me. I've thought long and hard. I've prayed to holy Inanna, made offerings to Nintu and the statues of our ancestors in my father's temple. I waited for them to speak to me, to tell me if these thoughts of mine were bad. They said nothing. They let me leave the city without showing their anger. Now I'm here before you, for I know that your kiss will purify me, just as well as the icy water in the chamber of blood, and better than a basin full of scent or a sacrifice of ewes. Give me that kiss, Abram, and I'll return to my father's house and become the wife of the man he's chosen for me. I'll accept him. When he comes to my bed, the breath of your kiss will be on my lips to protect me.”

She had thought he would laugh. Or get angry. She had thought that perhaps he would not be satisfied with just a kiss. She was ready for that. Nothing that came from him could soil her. Nothing that he took from her—denying it to her future husband—could diminish her.

But perhaps he would say, “No! I don't want you to leave. I don't want a stranger to come to your bed. Come, let me introduce you to my brothers and my father. You will be my chosen wife. We'll go far away from Ur.”

For that, too, she was ready.

She had imagined so many things!

But never had she thought that he might have left the riverbank and be far away, unattainable.

Now she was running, far from the tents of the
mar.Tu,
running until she was out of breath in order not to cry, and wondering what to do next.

Sililli must be looking for her in every corner of the house, heart pounding with terror. Hiding from everyone the fact that Sarai was gone, for fear of Ichbi Sum-Usur's rage. Begging the gods for Sarai's return.

Sarai could do what Sililli and her father wanted. She could return and say, “I went to pray in the great temple to purify myself.” Sililli, in her relief, would believe her. Everyone would be delighted with how sensible she was being.

The next time she emerged from the chamber of blood, her father would announce that he had finally convinced a man from the royal city to take her as his wife. A lord of Ur, not as rich or as handsome as the man she had humiliated, but whose fault was that?

Sarai would bow her head, go to the temple, listen to the soothsayer. There would be no guests this time, no chanting, no dancing, no banquets. But the groom would still come impatiently to her chamber and her bed.

He would touch her, and Abram's kiss would not protect her. Abram's lips, words, and caresses would not be with her through her married life.

It was then that she heard the words. Words that no lips uttered, as if a god or a demon had breathed them.

“Do you need something, goddess? Kani Alk-Nàa will sell it to you!”

Sarai stopped running, her chest on fire, tears stinging her eyes.

“Do you need something, goddess?” she heard again.

The old witch! The
kassaptu
who had shouted at her the day she met Abram! It was her voice Sarai was hearing in her head. And, as if in echo, she remembered the stories her aunts had told in the chamber of blood: “There's one woman who drank the herb of infertility. She didn't bleed for three whole moons. Her husband didn't want to touch her anymore, or even hear anyone speak her name. Her husband or any other man. Who'd want a woman capable of stopping her own blood?”

Sarai caught her breath. A smile as gray as the sky clouded her features. The gods were not abandoning her. They wouldn't let her spoil like dead meat in the arms of a husband.

“THE herb of infertility?” the
kassaptu
muttered. “Are you sure that's what you want?”

Sarai merely nodded. Her heart was pounding. It had been less difficult to find the witch's lair again than to go inside. Everyone in the lower city seemed to know Kani Alk-Nàa. But before she could find the courage to cross the threshold of the one room that served as her lair, Sarai had walked up and down the street a dozen times.

“You're quite young to want the herb of infertility,” Kani Alk-Nàa went on. “It can be dangerous at your age.”

Sarai resisted the desire to reply. She clasped her hands together; she didn't want the witch to see them shaking.

“Are you at least a wife?”

Once again Sarai did not reply. She stared at the dozens of baskets piled up in every corner of the room, giving off a smell of dust and rotting fruit. A thin chuckle made her turn her head. The old woman was laughing, her little pink tongue wriggling between her bare gums like a snake's tail.

“Afraid, are you? Afraid that Kani Alk-Nàa will cast a spell on you, lord's daughter?”

Without a word, Sarai took off the purse that hung around her neck and emptied the contents in front of the witch.

“Three shekels,” the old woman calculated, gathering the copper and silver rings avidly; she was not laughing now. “I don't care if you're a wife or not. But I need to know if it's already happened.”

Sarai hesitated, uncertain if she had understood correctly.

The old woman sighed. “Has the bull been between your thighs?” she asked, with irritation. “Are you an opened woman? If not, come back and see me after the man has parted your thighs.”

“I am an opened woman,” Sarai lied, in a hoarse voice.

The
kassaptu
's eyes, barely visible between the folds of her eyelids, remained fixed for a moment. Sarai was afraid she would guess the truth.

“Good. And how long has the man's milk been inside you?”

“Almost . . . almost one moon.”

“Hmmm. You should have come earlier.” The old woman stretched her puny hand toward the baskets. She took out five little packets of herbs wrapped in dried reeds and handed them to Sarai. “Here's your herb of infertility.”

“How many times is it for?” asked Sarai, without daring to look up.

“How many times will your bleeding stop? That depends on the woman. Two moons, maybe three, as you're young. You'll see. Put each of these packets in a
silà
of boiling water, without opening them, and leave them to soak for half a day. Then take the packets out and drink the infusion three times between the zenith and twilight. Do as I tell you, lord's daughter, and everything will be fine.”

SARAI had guessed right. She found Sililli hiding in her bedchamber, her face bathed in tears, her voice shrill with reproach, relief, anger, and tenderness. She had been so afraid that she had said nothing. Nobody in the house knew that Sarai had been gone since morning.

“I said you were sick, you had a bad stomach, and I'd given you herbs to help you sleep. You weren't to be disturbed, in order to let the herbs do their work. May all the Lords of Heaven forgive me, I've been telling lies all day!”

“No, no. Your herbs always do me good! I'll be up tomorrow, and they'll see me and say that Sililli knows more about herbs than any other handmaid in the city!”

The compliment, and Sarai's promise to show herself to the whole household the next day, made Sililli smile through her tears. But her moaning soon resumed.

“You'll be the death of me, my girl, the death of me! Either your father will kill me with his scorpions, or the gods will tear my heart out for my lies!”

“It's only a little lie,” Sarai jested bitterly. “Almost the truth.”

“Don't blaspheme, I beg you! Not on a day like today.” She lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper to ask the question that was tormenting her. “Were you with him? With the
mar.Tu?
”

Sarai thought of telling the truth. But then she thought of the
kassaptu
's little packets rubbing against her skin under the belt of her tunic, and she lied again. After all, what was one lie more or less?