Sarah (15 page)

He had grown taller, his shoulders broader, his neck thicker. His mouth was framed by a finely curled beard, slightly glossy in the sun. The voice inside her said, “I recognize his lips, it really is him.”

He raised his eyes to hers, intrigued, not recognizing her, yet unable to turn his gaze from her.

The voice inside her repeated: “These are his lips. They haven't changed, and I'll never forget them. But how will he possibly be able to recognize me?”

The chants and the music became a painful din. She felt as if she were calling out above the noise: “Abram! Abram! Abram, I'm Sarai . . .”

He gave a start. The old man looked at him anxiously.

A hand closed over Sarai's arm.

“What are you doing?”

Kiddin pulled her back roughly. She realized that she had been standing right at the edge of the dais. Her feet were almost touching one of the statues. From the courtyard, faces turned toward her in alarm.

She continued to stare at Abram. She detected a smile on his lips. He had recognized her. She was sure of it.

“What's gotten into you?” Kiddin said, angrily.

Ichbi Sum-Usur intervened. “How dare you lay a hand on the Sacred Handmaid, my son?”

“Who are those two
mar.Tu
in the courtyard?” Kiddin asked, ignoring his father's question. “What are they doing here?”

“It's the potter and his son, who made the statues. They did such a good job that I gave them permission to accompany our ancestors to the temple.”

Sarai was barely listening. Perhaps she hadn't even spoken Abram's name out loud. And yet, she was sure that he had heard it.

“I want them out of the courtyard!” Kiddin ordered, pointing to the strangers.

“Son!”

“Do what I ask of you, Father. I want these
mar.Tu
out of our house at once!”

Abram understood Kiddin's gesture. He seized his father's arm and pulled him toward the door. As they were about to disappear, Sarai spoke his name in a loud, clear voice: “Abram.”

This time, Kiddin and Ichbi Sum-Usur heard her. But her father, carried away by the power of the ceremony, the chanting, and the music, was already holding out to his daughter the first platters of offerings.

Before she took them, Sarai looked at Kiddin, who was still shaking with rage.

“Don't you ever dare raise your hand to me again, son of Ichbi Sum-Usur,” she said, in a calm voice, “or the bull's blood could well become your own.”

SILILLI, as plaintive as if the roof of the temple had fallen on her shoulders, was spouting her usual nonsense: “You're mad, Kiddin will never forgive you for this insult . . . The
mar.Tu
is back and already the trouble is starting . . . I thought you had changed, I thought you had forgotten! Why haven't the gods taken these memories from you?”

None of what had happened in the courtyard of Ichbi Sum-Usur's house had escaped her. But she had managed to keep silent until they had returned to the temple. It was only when Sarai had asked for her help that the torrent of complaints and terrors had poured out.

Patiently, Sarai took her hands, and, without raising her voice, repeated her request: that Sililli go to the tents of the
mar.Tu
and thank Terah the potter for the beauty of the statues. “Tell him I apologize for Kiddin's roughness and the way he insulted them. Tell him that to make amends, I, the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood, invite his son Abram to share my dawn meal, the day after tomorrow.”

Sililli rolled her eyes. “You can't ask him to come here! It's blasphemy to bring a
mar.Tu
here! It will be a blemish on the temple! What will happen if the others find out? I know: The high priestess will tell the king. And that will be the end of it; he won't want you in the Sublime Bedchamber anymore.”

“Stop this nonsense and use your brain!” Sarai said, exasperated. “It's quite normal for a potter to come to the temple. They're always coming here to bring their work.”

“But not here, in the
giparù
. Not to share a meal with a priestess. Kiddin's right, you're leading us straight to disaster.” Sarai moved away, her face as hard and arrogant as if she were facing the bull. “All right. I'll manage without you.”

With a gesture, she ordered Sililli to leave her. But Sililli did not move. With her plump fingers, she wiped the tears that were forming on her eyelids.

“What are you going to say to your
mar.Tu?
” she asked, in a weary, tremulous, and barely audible voice. “That no blood has flowed between your thighs for six years? Even the
mar.Tu
want women with fertile wombs.”

Sarai went red, as if Sililli had slapped her. But the handmaid had no intention of keeping silent.

“Haven't you understood yet? You are the Sacred Handmaid of the Blood. And that is what you will remain. Here, you're respected and envied. The warriors love you because they hope that, thanks to you, they won't be wounded in battle. But outside this temple, Sarai, you're nothing but a woman with a barren womb.”

“You have no right to talk to me like that.”

“I have every right,” Sililli said, her face distorted with sorrow. “It was I who kept silent for you all these years. It was I who burned the witch's herbs. The gods have already forgiven you once. Don't demand too much of them.”

Sarai's anger faded as abruptly as it had come. In a long-forgotten impulse, she crouched by Sililli, embraced her, and rested her head on her shoulder.

“All I ask is to see and hear him once,” she whispered. “Just once. To know if he, too, has thought about me all these years.”

“And then?” Sililli asked.

“Then everything will be as it was before.”

SARAI did not think he would come. Sililli had not brought back any reply to her message.

“He looked at me as if I was a crazy old woman. Which means that he at least is sensible. He simply waited for me to leave. His father thanked me, and that was it.”

It was agreed that Sililli would wait for him at dusk by the door in the outer wall, behind the
giparù,
a narrow door normally used by those bringing in animals, carts laden with grain, and all the supplies needed for the offerings. In the early hours of the morning, nobody would notice a
mar.Tu
among the busy crowd of servants and slaves.

During the night, with Sililli's reluctant help, Sarai had discreetly arranged lamps, cushions, and trays of food in one of the small rooms where spare togas and finery were stored in preparation for the great seedtime ceremony. It was reached through a narrow corridor within the huge wall surrounding the
giparù,
which only the handmaids used. Once Abram had arrived, Sililli would have to stand in the corridor, keeping guard.

But now, as she waited in silence between these narrow walls, Sarai began to have her doubts. She had to admit that Sililli was right about many things. Cruel truths that she tried to ignore, as you try to ignore an intense but incurable pain.

But just as she had been convinced as a young girl that a kiss from Abram would purify her for the rest of her married life, so now, too, she hoped for a kind of miracle from their meeting.

Not that she had lied to Sililli. It might be true that all she wanted was to know that during all these years, he, too, had not forgotten her.

But what if he didn't come?

She dismissed the question. She had to be patient. Time was passing very slowly, and outside the sun had barely risen.

THE shuffling of sandals made her jump. There he was, standing in the flickering light of the oil lamps.

There was a brief moment of embarrassment. Then he bowed ceremoniously. His first words were to apologize for not knowing how a Sacred Handmaid of the Blood in the temple of Ishtar ought to be addressed. His voice had not changed. He still had his
mar.Tu
accent.

“With a lot of respect and even more fear,” she replied.

They both laughed. A laugh such as Sarai had not had for a long time, a laugh like cool water, which dispelled some of their awkwardness.

They sat down on the cushions, with a low table between them. Apart from his bushy hair and beard, he had hardly changed. His mouth was still just as beautiful, just as perfect. His cheekbones were perhaps more prominent. It was the face of a determined man who had already confronted trials in his life.

Sarai poured an infusion of thyme and rosemary into brass goblets. “I was afraid you wouldn't come,” she said.

“My father and brothers didn't want me to. They're terrified at the thought that my presence here is a blasphemy. They're afraid of your father and your brother. We
mar.Tu
are like that. We fear many things.”

His self-assured tone was as she remembered it. There was a new element to it now: a calm amusement, the detachment of a man who liked to reflect about ideas before he made them his. He drank some of the infusion.

“I left our tents in the middle of the night, without them seeing me. I took some pottery from my father's kiln so they would think that I was bringing it to the temple. I gave it to your handmaid. My offering to your goddess!”

Sarai could feel her heart beating faster. These words were like the first glimpse of what was to come: He, too, was cheating and lying for her.

“That last time, when we met on the riverbank, you also had to sneak out to bring food and skins.”

Abram nodded and smiled. “Yes . . . It was so long ago . . .”

“But you haven't forgotten.”

“No.”

The embarrassment returned all at once. They ate dates and honey cakes. Abram clearly had a healthy appetite. As she watched him making these simple gestures, Sarai felt a strange new pleasure—new and also disturbing. Above the collar of Abram's tunic, the skin at the base of his neck seemed to her extremely smooth. She wanted to touch it.

“That morning,” she said, “the soldiers found me and took me back to my father's house.” She gave a little laugh. “He was very angry. But a few moons later, I managed to escape again. I went to your camp. I wanted to . . . to thank you for your help. But they told me your family had gone.”

“We'd left for the North, and we stayed there.”

Abram told her how, after leading the flocks to the huge royal tax center at Puzri-Dagan, Terah had decided to settle in Nippur to sell his pottery.

“There are temples everywhere there. The lords want new statues of their ancestors every year,” Abram said, amused.

While his father's workshop prospered, he and his brothers, Haran and Nahor, had raised herds of small livestock for the great families of Nippur. In three or four years, thanks as much to the livestock as to his father's pottery, they had grown sufficiently prosperous to have their own herds. Soon they had so many animals that each time they left the tax center at Puzri-Dagan, they would move the herds from one city to another, from Urum to Adab, hugging the mountain slopes where the grass grew in abundance.