by Ella Hansing
went so smoothly my way. Alas I didn’t have time to question their involvement, or even motives for doing whatever they did. Seizing the opportunity I darted from shadowy cover, hoisting up water and filling my jar quicker than I thought possible, my gratitude short-lived under the weight of my anxiety as I enveloped myself into darkness once more – water dousing my chest as I scurried down a small alley. My hope was that if I hurried back I might be able to cheer my mother some before her guest arrived – though I knew her moods could be hard to break. Running in the dark I only managed to stub my toe, though – biting my tongue sharply to keep from shrieking. I felt suffocated by my conflicting emotions, driving me constantly in different directions – seemingly at the same time. I loathed my mother’s guests. I loathed her costumes – her perfume and laughter. But I also loathed hunger. I loathed desperation – which I never seemed fully able to escape.
When at last I crept inside our home through the backdoor, both hopeless and deflated, I saw I’d split my toe. Already blood leaked slowly into the sole of my worn sandal, leaving a slippery, throbbing mess. Hobbling to set the water jar beside the oven, I froze at hearing the murmur of voices from the now screened front of the house. Realizing Ninharrissi had already arrived, I winced – now able to smell the aroma of her perfume mixed with my mother’s heavy fragrance. The sound of their laughter momentarily lessened my worries.
Leaning on the kitchen wall for support in my injury, I moved stealthily closer to the curtain separating me from the front of the house, raising a finger to part the fabric slightly. Already they were wrapped familiarly in each other’s arms. With eyes unblinking I ascertained the entanglement of limbs and loose fabric, porcelain skin and hair draped in dark coils like snakes. The curl of incense rising dirtied the air, diming what little light was afforded them from a sputtering bowl of oil.
Swallowing, I moved away just as the sound of their rhapsody filled my ears – toe stinging as I applied too much pressure on it. Their love affair, though intermittent, spanned many years. Perhaps in this instance, for once, I had been worried too much. My concerns, for now, at an end, I placed both hands on the ladder rungs, hoisting myself up toward fresh air. I could just barely see the silver gleam of the stars shining out against the black backdrop of the sky. Wordless I rose to join them, chest becoming lighter with each step I climbed.
Once standing on the roof my shoulders began to cave – arms folding gently and lungs filling deeply. Allowing my gaze to drift, it landed unconsciously, as so often it did, in the direction of Hesba’s house – where her family lay most likely asleep after an honest day’s work. Though only a short distance up the road, it felt as if miles spanned between our homes. In focusing my gaze hard enough, I almost sensed the gap widen. Shaking, I took a seat a safe distance from the hatch, reassuring myself that it was only the height of the roof that distorted my thinking. Our homes were the same distance apart they had always been. Closing my eyes, I lay on my side and raised my knees to my chest in the usual manner I liked to sleep, hopeful I could silence my thoughts in doing so. Sealing my lips, I assured myself inwardly that nothing other than a god could physically separate our two homes further than they already were. Nothing could separate them . . . or bring them closer together, I concluded darkly.
4. Baila’s Daughter
The sun woke me in its usual manner – quietly cooking me before I had time to come fully to my senses. Unconscious, I lay like a small calf skewered over a low flame, skin curling on top and dripping on the underside. I roused quickly once I became conscious – afraid of falling, though there was no need since I’d had the sense before dozing off to lie as far from the hatch as was possible. Sitting upright, I squinted blindly out over the tops of the surrounding roofs – a gust of hot air sloppily arranged my uncovered hair.
Unlike the rest of Arrapha, my mother and I tended to sleep late. Though Assyrian women generally rose early, we we had no reason to – not when keeping such different agendas than the rest. Stooping so as to stay concealed, I rose and ventured awkwardly to take hold of the ladder, reflecting for a moment how detached from the city I often felt when waking so late. Whenever I slept in it took me that much longer start my day – always far behind everyone else. Waking in the heat, I would at once go through the motions of tending my chores, as best I could – though my mind often lagged behind for hours. Only during those chance times when I rose early, long before my mother, did clarity surround me – the first to greet me in the dim gray dawn.
Feet shifting unevenly in the dirt at the base of the ladder, my hands slowly released the middle rung as I turned to survey the kitchen. It startled me to see my mother awake – squatting as she tried to strike a flame above a small bowl of oil. Dressed only halfway, with her top hanging around her waist and hair falling in matted tangles down her back, she looked frightening – black eyeliner smeared around both her alert eyes. Her delayed movements suggested she hadn’t slept much during the night, or else had had restless dreams. I was perplexed, since she’d seemed so settled with her lover when I’d spied them together. Now she looked like a beggar at the edge of the market – her makeup caked and dry and clothes disheveled – or worse one of the haggard prophetesses, hunched over a fire to draw readings of the future. Swallowing, I bent to help her strike up a spark.
It took only two strikes for me to draw a spark and light the oil, at which she sat back – appearing overwhelmed. Curious, I went to the veiled doorway leading to the front of the house and drew back the screen. Unsurprised to see the room in its customary disarray, I was grateful at least that her lover had taken off so early. With the incense having burnt out many hours ago, only the damp smell of dirt and mortar from the floor and walls was left. Moving forward to open the shuttered window, I soon spied a leather pouch on the ground, left by her guest, once I’d flooded the room in light. Stooping to collect it I tossed one of my mother’s cushions back on her mat in the same motion. The purse felt weighty in my small hand, indicating a good amount of coins. No jewelry, though – not with the guest being also a woman, who would keep any jewelry she had for herself. At least I would be able to buy food directly without having to barter or trade. Whenever a guest left jewelry as payment, I was sometimes concerned my mother wouldn’t let me trade it – whereas coins she let me manage freely.
Moving to the back of the house to kindle the oven, I realized I would need to go and purchase grain at the market for us to have bread by that afternoon. Since it would take me a while to prep and bake, perhaps I could bring back some small fruits – then we could have something to eat in the meantime. Seeing my mother still motionless, I slipped the leather purse into my pocket and crouched beside her.
“What’s wrong? I’m going to go to the market to bring us something to eat.”
She seemed startled by my voice.
“Can you comb and braid my hair first,” she asked – eyes becoming oddly wide. “I want my face freshly painted as well, so I’ll need water to clean myself. I drank nearly half of it before you woke.” Rising, she brushed me aside – strength seeming strangely renewed as she dropped her garment to the floor and stood bare.
“It’s not even noon, though,” I began to protest, pointing to the sky through the open hatch. “Are you expecting someone?”
Seeming annoyed by my question, she turned toward the front of the house dismissively.
“I want to wear turquoise, like a goddess raised up from a stream . . . the only stream in this desert land. Beasts of the field and birds of the air come from far and wide to drink from my waters.” Wordless I watched her venture to the front of the house. With both hands she drew a folded stretch of light green fabric from her stash, just below the window, pressing it to her naked skin in the morning light.
I moved after her in hushed confusion. It was hours before dusk – when her guests usually arrived. I was unsure what her sense of urgency was for. Was she thinking of someone in particular – concerned he might show up at any odd hour? The incense f
rom her previous night’s conquest had only just burnt out, and already she was preoccupied with thoughts of another – some lover who perhaps had no notion of the adulation he’d sparked within her. Sensing my mouth grow dry, I struggled to swallow.
With a single commanding wave she beckoned me to join her, at which point I knew there would be no dissuading her. Hungry as I might become – as we both might become, I knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until she was costumed fully, head to toe. Starting from scratch on her hair, face, nails and jewelry would take hours, and set back my other tasks greatly. I felt as if I’d just finished readying her last night – and now to start again so soon, my head began to ache.
“I need to get water first, then,” I spoke – teeth clenching at the end of my words.
“Hurry please,” was all she murmured in response, arching her back in order to fasten the selected fabric around her waist.
Her demands had a way of penetrating my thin frame, like nails bedding into wood – pounding on the outside, disruptive on the inside, impossible to ignore. Unresponsive, I reached to collect my scarf. Draping it loosely over my head, I
