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Ishtah - The Prostitute's Daughter

Page 31

by Ella Hansing

Hesba, while at home my mother’s lover had forsaken her. A familiar sense of burden settled onto my shoulders as I rounded the last bend in the road before reaching our door – my walk becoming rigid.

  At last I had come to my senses, though. I would have to partner together with my mother in ways unlike the past – if we were ever going to dig ourselves out. All else could be worried about later, else forgotten entirely. My sole purpose was to find how I might motivate or convince her to accept my idea for our future. I knew I would have to choose my words carefully, if I were to sway her thinking. Much in the manner she would entice her guests with costumes and aromas, I would have to lure her in and trap her – only with thoughtful words and sound reasoning.

  Guessing what to speak in her presence had never been easy. Her moods had always varied greatly – being impossible to predict of late. To make matters worse, we’d spoken less and less ever since her favored lover had abandoned her, to a point where I had no gauge whatsoever on where her emotions might be. Drawing her out of infatuation with her lost lover would be no easy task. I would have to claw whatever it is she was holding onto out of her hands. There was much to be gained – if only I could make her see it. What would it be like to walk down the street, in the open daylight, to draw water from the well herself – unafraid and without scathing looks from others? How much would she enjoy ridding herself of the callers she detested most – the ones she was loathed to greet in the late hours of the night? What sort of power could she glean from providing for herself with her own two hands? Once more my walk hastened, my mind, though nervous, excited as well now. Armed even with the simplest of strategies for broaching the subject of work with her, I could feel my spirits renew – even as I entered the dismal aura encompassing our home, my face hardening instinctively as I reached for our door.

  Since she’d had more energy of late as she no longer entertained at night, I expected to find my mother awake – keeping moodily to herself or perhaps scrounging for something to eat at the back of the kitchen. Instead, I was surprised to find our home dark – the only light inside coming from the door as I opened it. Eyes straining, I moved cautiously forward, feet shuffling to ensure I didn’t stumble. A few steps further and I could tell incents had been burning all night, judging by the thick smell lingering in the air. Fighting my impulse to cough, I turned to survey the front of the house, first spying the remains of a stale meal spread across the floor. Amid curling smoke my heel struck a platter of figs, sending them flying – the plate clattering loudly into our new water jar sitting beside it. In an instant my body became parched – like a grape left out in the sun, shriveled and dark. I found myself unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to swallow. At the commotion I caused, my mother began to stir from somewhere behind the thin screen of her bed. In the gray light I could just make out one of her pale naked legs stretch from under covering as she turned listlessly over.

  Suspicion crowding the yawning passages of my mind, I moved quickly to the window, unlatching the shutters and casting them vigorously back. In dread I looked back across the brightened room, eyes surmising the familiar wreckage with throbbing disillusion. She hadn’t spent the night alone.

  As I stood transfixed, something lying on the ground near the corner of the room caught my eye, flashing in the light cast from the open window – a necklace. Moving stiffly closer I bent to examine it, reaching wordless to graze its inset stones with my fingertips. Of all the gifts bestowed my mother, I’d never seen anything so expensive. Lips sealing, I straightened to check the rest of the room. At closer inspection I saw this was not the only gift she’d received – a basket of expensive fruit sitting in another corner, as well as a new jar of perfume and several yards of fabric. At once my head began to spin – my vision narrowing to a point where I could scarce see.

  “Ishtah,” hummed my mother.

  Startled I glanced in her direction.

  Wiping drool from her cheek she sat slowly upright, blinking uncomfortably in the harsh light from the window. “Look what he gave me,” she beamed at long, nodding toward the necklace over on the ground. “I’ll see no one else this month – I swear. See there,” she pointed, directing my gaze toward the bottle beside the fruit. “Perfume from the far east. It smells like a thousand blossoms – rub some on your neck if you like.”

  As she smiled I saw the paint from her lips had smeared overnight, drying around her mouth and in the crevices of her teeth, like blood. I found myself unable to meet her gaze, instead staring downward at my dusty feet.

  At my lack of response she turned away, shrugging indifferently. “Go see if there is any bread to eat. I’ve had my fill of fruits and sweet things.”

  “So you had company last night,” I stated, unmoving.

  Facing me fully, her lips twisted sideways as she responded, simple and short, “He made a mistake.” Her smile brought an acidic closure to the subject.

  Moving blindly to the back of the house, my hands lifted shakily to hold my face once I was hidden from sight. For a brief instant I imagined the walls of the house were groaning, wobbling even – as if they were going to topple over. I felt sure the roof would cave in at any second, burying me alive in mortar, broken wood and dust. Pushing forcibly off the wall where I leaned, I propelled myself in the direction of the back door, bursting out into the alley as if rising from underwater.

  Exhaling deeply I sank to my knees, numbly reaching to collect a few broken branches stashed along the back of our house for kindling. In hopelessness I questioned how I could even come close to competing with such exotic gifts and expensive jewelry as my mother now possessed. I knew she’d never agree to go work in the fields now, not with such temptation and satisfaction at her fingertips. Convincing her to go would be impossible. Still stunned her lover had actually returned I broke my bundled sticks in half with one angry motion.

  Once more my mother had vanquished me with seemingly no effort – her will suffocating mine at every turn. I’d been defeated on the front steps, perhaps even at the city gates – before even beginning, before even entering Arrapha. Knowing there was nothing I could do – nothing I could say, I returned inside and knelt before the oven, stacking it full with what little refuse we had left. Sweat dripped from my nose as I worked to strike up a blaze, trying valiantly to regroup my thoughts – to bring order to the chaos raging inside me, though my attempts were half-hearted by now. I paused only to wipe sweat from my brow, darkly considering the possibility that this lover of hers might not stick around long this time either. Perhaps another spat would break out between them, or perhaps a different love interest would develop for him. I knew these things could happen at random.

  Eyes closing in hopelessness, I pulled out our grinding stone and set to work crushing the last of our grain, questioning how my mother could be pacified so easily – how she could live so contentedly at the beck and call of fleeting love. Hadn’t the past few days of lovesick disillusion been enough for her – and what of the other times? At any rate, it had been enough for me. Pouring water gently over the powdery grain I dug my fingers into the mixture, conceding quietly to wait. I would have to wait for the right moment, for her heart to break all over again – watching like a spider in the corner of a web. My reasoning would mean nothing now – not when she sat amid such exultations, reassured of her beauty and sense of allure. She feared nothing with a man pinned between her legs, unable to hear wisdom of any nature.

  After kneading my ingredients together, I set the dough on our wooden plat and slid it over the hot oven embers, sitting back to rest when I’d finished. Though I fought back with resilience, I could feel tears rise in my eyes. Blinking, I rose from the ground and dusted both knees, assuring myself that I was only tired, thirsty and hungry. I would only make myself ill if I continued to fret, and then we would really be lost. I had to keep well since I was alone. If I didn’t care for myself I’d be unable to think – unable to navigate us in the right way we should go. I’d been absent only one n
ight and already she’d taken us back down in a direction we should no longer take. She was far away from me once more, and there was no telling when she’d be back.

  Rejoining her in the front room, I mutely set two cups of water down by the floor mats. Oblivious to my upset, she fought to rake her disheveled hair into place – pausing only to inspect her nails as I moved about her setting the room in order piece by piece. In silence I contemplated how she must have painted her face herself and dressed alone before her guest arrived, as I’d been out by the pool. I assumed a messenger had sent word that her lover would be visiting, allowing her time to ready herself. Though smeared and dry now, I could tell she’d made every effort to paint her face the same way I did – with black lines beneath each eye, extending abruptly up at the corners, and vibrant rouge blended across the tops of both cheekbones.

  “There is plenty of work to do,” she spoke at last, having finished with her hair. “I need you to help wash me after our meal, so you’ll need to run and fetch more water. No more games with your silly friends or hiding out in the city from your chores. I slept much later than I

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