The Book of Longings: A Novel (15 page)

Mamzers were of all varieties—bastards, harlots, adulterers,
fornicators, thieves, necromancers, beggars, lepers, divorced women, cast-out widows, the unclean, the destitute, those possessed of devils, Gentiles—all of them shunned accordingly.

Yaltha wove her fingers through mine. “I’ve been without a husband for many years. I will not mislead you, child—you will live even further on the outskirts now. I’ve spent my life there. I know the uncertainty Hadar spoke about. And now that Haran will inherit the house, our fates are threatened even more. But we shall be all right, you and I.”

“Will we, Aunt?”

She tightened the hitch of her fingers. “The day you met Nathaniel in the market you returned home bereft, and that night I came to your room. I told you your moment would come.”

I’d thought Nathaniel’s death would be that moment, a portal I could step through and find some measure of freedom, but now it seemed his dying would only leave me scorned and my future would leave me destitute.

Seeing my dejection, Yaltha added, “Your moment will come because you’ll
make
it come.”

Even though my window was boarded over until the spring, I went and stood before it. Cold air seeped around the wood panel. I felt incapable of making any moment come that would change my circumstance for the better. The longing of my heart was for a man I scarcely knew. It was buried with my bowl and my writings. God, too, was hidden from me now.

Behind me, Yaltha spoke: “I told you how I came to be rid of my husband, Ruebel, but not how I came to marry him.”

We went to sit among the bed pillows, which only a short time ago had been plump with my laughter. Settling herself, she said, “On the fifteenth of Ab, the Jewish girls in Alexandria, the ones who were not yet betrothed, the ones with little appeal, went into the vineyards during the grape harvest and danced for the men in need of brides. We went late in
the day before the sun set, all of us wearing white dresses and bells sewn on our sandals, and the men would be there, waiting. You should’ve seen us—we were scared, clinging to one another’s hands. We carried drums and danced in a single line that moved like a serpent through the vines.”

She paused in the telling and I could see it clearly—the sky singed red, the girls twittering with apprehension, the sway of white dresses, the long, serpentine dance.

As she resumed her story, her eyes seemed to darken at the edges. “I danced each year for three years until finally someone chose me. Ruebel.”

I wanted to cry, not for myself, but for her. “How would a girl know she was chosen?”

“The man would come and ask her name. Sometimes he would go to her father that very night and the contract would be drawn.”

“Could she refuse?”

“Yes, but it was rare. She would not risk displeasing her father.”

“You didn’t refuse,” I said. This both captivated and dismayed me. How different her life might have been.

“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.

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.

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.”

I
REMOVED MY MOUR
NING 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.

When I reached the city gate, I looked toward Nazareth. The valley floors ran wild with coriander, dill, and mustard, and already workers were making their way to building sites in the city. I wondered if I might find Jesus praying at the cave. I’d timed my trip well for seeing him. The sun’s pink fingers were still wrapped around the clouds.

It was close to the end of Shebat, when the almond trees blossomed. The wakeful tree, we called it. Midway down the hill, I smelled its rich brown scent, and winding farther, I came upon the tree itself, its canopy lush with white flowers. I stepped beneath it, thinking of the marriage
canopy I’d escaped, of my dance on the rooftop, that choosing of myself. I plucked one of the small white flowers and tucked it over my ear.

Jesus stood at the cave entrance with his fringed cloak pulled over his head and his arms lifted in prayer. Drawing near, I placed my tool and pouch on a rock and waited. My heart pounded. For a moment it was as if everything that had come before did not matter.

His prayer was whispered, but over and over again I heard him address God as
Abba
, Father. When he finished, he pulled his cloak back around his shoulders. I walked toward him with my chin set, with no falter in my step. I didn’t recognize myself, the young woman with the almond blossom in her hair.

I called out, “
Shelama
. I fear I’ve intruded upon you.”

He paused, taking me in. Then came the smile. “We are on level pegging then. When we met before, I was the one who intruded on you.”

I feared he might leave—there was no rain to detain him this time. A little intoxicated by my audacity, I said, “Please be kind enough to share my meal. I don’t wish to eat alone.”

Last time he’d proved to be a man who interpreted the law liberally, open-minded about interacting with women and Gentiles, but an unbetrothed man and woman alone on a hillside without a chaperone was a forbidding matter. The Pharisees, those who prayed loudly only to be heard and wore phylacteries twice as large as normal, would think it a reason to throw stones at us. Even those less pious might say such a meeting bound the man to ask the girl’s father for a betrothal contract. I watched him waver for several moments before he accepted.

We sat in a puddle of sunlight near the cave mouth and broke bread, wrapping it about small hunks of cheese. We nibbled the dates and spit the pits and talked haltingly of small, heedless things. Throughout, he lifted his hand to shield his face from the glare and glanced toward the path through the balsam grove. When a long and awful silence fell over
us, I made up my mind. I would speak as I wished to speak. Say what I wanted to say.

“You call God Father?” I asked. Referring to God in that way was not unheard-of, but it was unusual.

After pausing, perhaps out of surprise, he said, “The practice is new to me. When my father died, I felt his absence like a wound. One night in my grief, I heard God say to me, ‘I will be your father now.’”

“God speaks to you?”

He stifled a grin. “Only in my thoughts.”

“I’ve just observed my own time of mourning,” I said. “My betrothed died five weeks ago.” I refused to lower my eyes, but I kept the gladness from reaching them.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Am I right to think he was the rich man in the market?”

“Yes, Nathaniel ben Hananiah. I was made to go to the market that day by my parents. It was the first time I’d ever seen Nathaniel. You must have witnessed my revulsion for him. I regret I showed no subtlety, but a betrothal to him felt like dying. I was given no choice.”

Silence, but this time it lit upon us like something winged. He watched my face. The earth hummed. I saw his body sigh and the last of his inhibitions fall away.

“You’ve suffered much,” he said, and it seemed he spoke of more than my betrothal.

I got to my feet and stepped into the shadow that edged the cave opening. I’d been deceitful with him before and I didn’t wish to be so again. I would have him know the worst. “I cannot be unfair to you,” I said. “You should know with whom you speak. Since Nathaniel’s death, I’ve become a scourge to my family. In Sepphoris, I’m a pariah. It’s falsely rumored that I’m a fornicator. And because I’m the daughter of Herod Antipas’s chief scribe and counselor, it has become a grand and
notorious scandal. When I leave our house, people cross the road to avoid me. They spit at my feet. They shout ‘harlot.’”

I wanted to protest my innocence further, but couldn’t bring myself to do so. I waited to see if he would withdraw, but he rose, coming to stand with me in the thin shade, his expression unchanged.

“The ways of people can be cruel,” he said. Then, quieter, “You’re not alone in this suffering.”

Not alone.
I met his eyes, trying to understand his meaning, and I saw again how everything floated there.

He said, “You should know with whom you speak as well. I am also a mamzer. In Nazareth some say I’m Mary’s son, not Joseph’s. They say I was born from my mother’s fornication. Others say my father is Joseph, but that I was illicitly conceived before my parents married. I’ve lived all twenty years of my life with this stigma.”

My lips parted, not in surprise at what he’d said, but that he’d chosen to divulge it to me.

“You’re shunned still?” I asked.

“As a boy I wasn’t allowed in synagogue school until my father went and pleaded with the rabbi. When he was alive, he shielded me from gossip and slights. Now that he’s gone, it’s made worse. I believe it’s why I can find no work in Nazareth.” He’d been rubbing the hem of his sleeve between his fingers as he talked, and he let go now, straightening. “But that is as it is. I only mean to say I know the pain you speak of.”