Ishtah - The Prostitute's Daughter

by Ella Hansing

stooped to collect our nearly empty jar in the kitchen – first drinking its remains before stepping out into the back alley.

  Scurrying up the street in the direction of the market, I opted to duck down smaller trails whenever possible; though longer, they would help me to avoid unnecessary attention in the brightness of day. With my scarf covering most of my face, I felt like some sort of thief – weaving my way in and out, my eyes barely visible as they checked each direction once and then twice before I crossed an open road.

  Though annoyed, I wasn’t surprised in the least to find the line for the well stretching long, since it was so late in the day. Stepping into place at the back, I at once leaned impatiently out to stare down the row of women – one of my feet unconsciously beginning to tap the hardened dirt as I waited. Already I was nervous my mother’s strange mood would somehow become an obstacle to me going to the temple with Hesba and Phaena later on. I could never be sure what direction the day would take – not when it started out so oddly. It was clear my mother was becoming hopeful of something – though I couldn’t be sure exactly what. Whenever her emotions became compromised, it felt as if the ground were slowly rising and sinking beneath my feet; making plans for any certain course of action became impossible. She could become obsessive in either her melancholy or her pleasure. I had seen it before and could foretell there would be consequences, perhaps for both of us.

  I was thankful when the line dissipated rather quickly – grateful to have water sloshing down my chest once more as I hurried from the cobbled market back to the dirt road leading down to our home. I was anxious to begin work on my mother only so that I could monitor and guide her mood; though in actuality I knew finishing her preparations so early would only make the day seem unbearably long – for both of us. Often I liked to imagine I held some type of sway over her temperament; though if I considered this notion long enough I would always eventually accepted it as inaccurate. I had little to no control over her rationale. I could only ever watch her decisions unfold, as if standing at a distance – a sea spread between us, my feet on another shore than hers.

  On reentered our home my stomach growled. I knew my mother was hungry just the same – though she showed no outward signs; I had often seen before that she had difficulty distinguishing the needs of her own body. Setting the water in the front room beside her, I went to gather the supplies for painting her face, settling as comfortably as I could just in front of her.

  Painting her had always strained my neck and lower back. It took immense focus to trace her eyes correctly, often leaving me sore for hours after I’d finished; and she had her own complaints to contribute as well of course – both during and after the process was complete.

  “I want blue for the eyes,” she insisted – lips barely opening, as if I were painting them already. “Blue like the deep river I am.”

  I didn’t bother to conceal my frustration with her – my brow furrowing deeply. In annoyance I pushed her chin abruptly toward the window with two fingers – the clear light of day exposing the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Blue was her favorite color – made from crushed azurite, which of course was costly to come by. Like all the other paints, we were running extremely low on it. She became cautious with her breathing as I came close to trace her eyes – first with black, which was the trickiest step in her transformation.

  No sooner had I touched the charcoal to her skin then a loud knock came at our door. With nerves already on edge, my fingers slipped easily under tension – tracing a dark, jagged line down across her cheek from her eye.

  Dismayed, her mouth fell open and she pulled away – scrambling to take refuge in the corner behind her bed screen. “See! Now he’s arrived and look what you’ve done to me,” she hissed from the other end of the room.

  Still posed with the charcoal pencil, I shrugged helplessly.

  “Go answer his knock . . . no! Stay quiet and he’ll think no one is home.”

  With sudden dread, both our eyes turned in the same instant toward the open window. A second longer and a face appeared in the frame – staring curiously in at us as we sat motionless. Helpless, I watched a young boy look in on – his dark eyes incredulous as he surveyed the inner space, head turning slightly to check the street was empty either way before speaking to us.

  Glancing briefly at my mother, I was grateful to see she seemed unfamiliar with the youth.

  “My master will be here tonight – if it’s agreeable to you,” he spoke – in my direction since he was unsure of whom to address.

  Disdain was easily detectable in his low voice – or seen plainly in his young eyes as he again checked the street outside. At my mother’s sigh of relief I glanced questioningly in her direction; at her eager nod I replied, “It’s agreeable.”

  He was gone before I could look again.

  Immediately my shoulders slouched at the release of tension – breathe seeping from my nostrils slowly as I motioned my mother to rejoin me. Giddy with delight now, anticipation shined in her eyes as she crawled from hiding, like a lion from brush – lips curling into a satisfied smile. Looking down as she took her place before me once again, my fist clenched the black charcoal.

  “Don’t look so sad, Ishtah,” she murmured as I at last moved to wipe her cheek. “Now you can go to the temple – like you’ve been obsessing about.”

  I paused as she closed her lids for me to trace them, surprised she remembered I wanted to go – startled even. Silent, I watched her tilt her head slightly to the right, lips smiling though her eyes remained closed.

  “Tonight you will go to the temple to worship, while I become a temple to house worship in,” she shook her head in amusement with herself, adding, “Mothers and daughters are more alike than you might wish.”

  My throat began to itch, my fingers scarce able to hold steady as I began to color her lids a vibrant shade of blue. I wasn’t sure what she meant by this, nor whether or not I wanted to know. Regardless, it was evident she was more aware things than I gave her credit for – evidently knowing how bad I wanted to escape. A moment longer and a sense of culpability began to rise within me. Recently my typical yearnings for escape had become thwarted by varying degrees of guilt. At first I hadn’t understood this, but in realizing now that she might suspect it was herself I fled from, and not merely the claustrophobia of our small home, I began to understand her cynicism and resistance to my departures.

  Nearly finished coloring her cheeks, I pressed my lips together – careful to avoid eye contact. I did my best to appear only mildly pleased at my prospects of freedom that night – hoping she wouldn’t sense my heart beating faster in anticipation. The idea of walking alone out into the quiet, dark streets – of leaving our dingy, enclosed house, of leaving her and her needy demands, undeniably behind rallied my spirit.

  Though I disliked the increasing obsession she evidently had for this particular guest, knowing she would be so well entertained that evening lessened my guilt somewhat. Besides, I was far too excited at the thought of my freedom to be burdened by concern any longer. Perhaps I would say a prayer for her at the temple that night – a prayer that her obsession would pass quickly and leave us unscathed. Rising awkwardly to my feet, I dusted my skirt before stooping to collect the brushes and paints.

  Reaching out my mother took one of her perfume bottles from the shelf, dabbing a generous amount onto two of her fingers and rubbing them down either side of her neck – her brightly painted eyes staring distractedly at the wall ahead of her, thoughts now fully absorbed by her coming suitor.

  Wordless I moved away, feet carrying me softly to the back of our home. There were still many hours left before nightfall descended – bringing a different sort of life to the streets outside. Since my mother had insisted on being dressed and painted so early, I was left with plenty of time to tend the chores, or my own needs. Grateful in the end for the possibility of solitude, I rested both hands on the ladder and lifted myself all the way to the roof.

  By
now the sun had become hotter than I could nearly stand. Squinting, I surveyed the surrounding area – lungs filling reluctantly with blistering air. From my spot I could see a group of women carrying heavy baskets down the street to the market – younger girls, near my age, trailing behind working in pairs to carry single baskets. It seemed appropriate that I should be looking at them from afar; we led such dissimilar lives. My days and nights were filled differently than the others my age. Dropping slowly to my knees, I pulled my scarf up over my head for shade. The young girls were probably getting excited about the festival of Ashur about now – worried about what they would wear, or who would be watching them dance. Would they find a husband to walk proudly by their side for all to see? Would they soon be leaving their father and mother to begin a new life?

  Head bowing, I rested my eyes on my folded hands. My nails were rough and uneven from using the grinding stone. Though I had often had the time to mend them I hadn’t bothered – seldom making more than a minimal effort in grooming myself. My energy had always seemed better spent readying my mother. I’d never aspired to appease others with my looks; my aim had always been the opposite – to go unnoticed – wearing dull colors, or else hiding