by Ella Hansing
glare and burning me from my perch. There was only a limited amount of time I could spend sprawled out beneath its glory without having to pay. Already I could feel beads of sweat cluster across my brow, banding together in small droplets that traced down the sides of my face and down my neck.
The washing was no easy task, with most of my mother’s garments being made of thick, lengthy stretches of colorful fabric – each with intricate details, difficult to scrub without damaging. Whenever I washed her clothes, it was easy for me to become overwhelmed by the scent of my mother – by the smell of her lingering perfumes, even sweat – the stains of her makeup printed around each of the necklines where she pulled the material over her face time and time again. I always began the washing with her items first, knowingly saving mine for last, as she didn’t want any grime or stench from the market that might have rubbed off on my skirts to end up in any of her costumes. Ever seeking to make herself the perfect sacrifice for her guests, she strived to smell of iris, cinnamon, or henna – insisting it was her odor alone that could entice men from every far corner of Arrapha.
It never took long for my fingers to become wrinkled – being submerging in water mixed with alkaline salts and lavender scented natron. A small sore on my left index finger I’d gotten from hoisting the well ropes burned each time I plunged my hands into the already murky water. I was perturbed at seeing the liquid turned a reddish brown already – mostly from the color of the dirt both inside and outside our home. As I was only halfway through my mother’s wardrobe I became concerned I wouldn’t be able to finish without returning to the well. From the street below, voices drew my attention from my work – though I dared not move to the edge for fear of being seen.
There was still much going on in Arrapha in preparation for the ceremony at the central temple, and later the festival. I still wished it was over and done with – wished everyone would go back inside, back to work in the fields or the market, or wherever. I didn’t want to hear about it anymore. Lowering my gaze, I dropped my wrinkled hands idly into my lap, knowing my contempt for the festival was sprung only out of my misery – misery which I seemed forever destined to be alone in. The chaos of Arrapha, now swollen with anticipation of a night of ceremonial rites and shameless decadence unmatched, only frustrated my attempts to think – to sort out my own problems. I was surrounded. I was engulfed in a mad celebration, while at the same time completely cut off from it.
Scooting further away from the roof edge, I paused from my scrub work to hang out the already finished items along a cord stretched taut across the middle of our roof. The tiles underfoot felt hot against my bare flesh as I relocated nearer the clothesline, lifting the heavy wet pieces one by one. Alone with my thoughts, I wondered what my mother had planned for herself for tomorrow night, having seemed mildly interested in the goings on outside our house but having made no mention of the festival. In the past she had always been occupied with one lover or another on the night of the ceremony; business was easy to come by with so many different faces drawn to the city for the event – so many tradesmen and field laborers ready to indulge themselves and spend a little of their earnings, or all of them if they were coming to my mother’s door, since she fetched a higher price than most.
To my right, the reflection of the sunlight flashing like gold in the clear bowl of water I’d set aside for bathing with caught my gaze – drawing my attention back to my tasks at hand. With reluctance I heaped the remainder of my mother’s unwashed clothes in a pile by the line, knowing I would have to get more water that night before I could complete my work, perhaps in the morning, as the remaining water in the jar was too dirty to continue.
Finished with my chores for the time being, I squatted eagerly in front of the bowl I’d set aside for myself. Before beginning to wash with it, I lifted the bowl to my lips and drank – my thirst having abruptly increased at eyeing the glistening water. In setting the bowl down, I was disappointed at seeing how little was left. At first unsure what could really be done with such an amount, I then gripped it and raised it over my head – tilting the bowl enough so that the water began to trickle down onto my head, soon running down my hair and face, my neck and chest. There was enough only for one brief shower – enough only to cool myself for a moment. Washing unaided had never been easy for me; in most houses it was typically a group practice for the women. Since very few had tubs it took the hands of several to soak and wring out the washcloths, to scrub all the unreachable parts. When it came time for me to scrub my mother, she always sat perfectly still – the only effort she made to assist being to lift her arms now and then. When it became my turn to be washed, though, my mother was far from inclined to contribute, as it would cause her hands to wrinkle, or become coarse, when they needed to stay smooth at all times – and then there was her manicure, which might fade or chip. Over time I had learned to make do on my own, in the end knowing no other way than to wash myself alone. It was difficult now for me to even picture my mother washing me – though at some point in time I knew she must have, when I was an infant perhaps. As my wrists began to strain I set the heavy bowl aside. Taking up in hand a clean rag I’d brought to the roof, I began to scrub my skin before it dried.
At least the water, though not enough to cleanse me thoroughly, had succeeded in lowering my temperature – a hot breeze feeling almost cool for a moment against my wet skin. When I’d finished scrubbing myself from top to bottom – except for a small portion of my back I couldn’t reach, I saw there was just enough left in the bowl to douse my face. Closing my eyes I cupped my hands and scooped the remains, holding my breath as I splashed them onto me – water pooling beneath me on the roof after trickling down my body.
For an instant my limbs glistened in the light, like scales on a fish in a river stream. I sat perfectly still as the water began to dry, except for my fingers, which worked to peel wet strands of hair back from my eyes so I could see. Washing oneself, or at least halfway washing oneself, always managed to bring fresh perspectives to mind. Now, as I looked out across the lower district of Arrapha, dripping like a dog caught in the rain, the city didn’t look as much like a labyrinth as usual – didn’t seem quite as smothering or dry. Amid my typical torrent of ever changing emotions, I found myself entering a moment of stillness – of gratitude for the simple things, like the privacy of my rooftop hideaway, my clean smelling skin, the small comfort afforded me by knowing I had a few coins stashed away downstairs – enough to carry us at least one week more. Just as my eyes began to close in mediation on these things, my mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts.
Having remained mostly quiet throughout our morning meal, and having brooded at the front of the house or else gazed out the window as I collected the clothes for washing, she hadn’t spoken to me all day. Hearing her call out to me now left me startled – dazed as I reached for something to put on.
“There’s someone at the door,” she spoke, barely visible from the bottom of the ladder – her voice oddly flat and eyes dull with disinterested.
Quickly running my fingers through my hair, I searched with my other hand for something wear. “I haven’t made any noise,” I replied in a hushed tone – assuming one of her lovers had arrived and she was trying to evade him. “I’m sure they’ll go away in a moment – there are plenty of distractions elsewhere in Arrapha to lead them away.”
“They’re here for you,” she responded, moving away so that I could no longer see her.
Sitting back worriedly, my eyes ventured toward the edge of the roof at the front of the house. Normally I might try and steal a peek to see who’d come, but being still naked I felt it far too risky. Staying cautiously low, I scrambled to reach something to cover myself with, settling on one of my mother’s faded tunics – much too long for my short height though less gaudy than the other pieces. I knew she wouldn’t mind me borrowing it, since she’d shown no interest in dressing herself for days.
Anxiety increasing, I climbed down the ladder rungs until I stood on s
olid ground – dress sticking wetly to my skin and bunching in a tangled web around my ankles as I turned. The thought of someone looking specifically for me filled me immediately with fear. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had come looking for me; considering I spent so much of my time trying to blend in or remain nameless, it left me with a strikingly uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Was it the old woman from next door who I’d barrowed the jar from, or perhaps the dealer from the market, dissatisfied with the piece I’d sold him? Was my mother about to find out I’d taken one of her belongings without her permission? Hesitant to meet her gaze, I hobbled past her into the front room. In reaching the front door I became almost immovably reluctant to open it, first glancing over my shoulder to see if my mother watched.
Turning only partially away, she leaned against the wall at the back of the house, observing me sideways and from a distance. Moistening my lips with my tongue, I turned back to the door, placing my hand shakily on the latch. Unsure what I looked like – with my wet, tangled hair and misfit outfit, I suddenly felt
