by Nomi Eve
I nodded, agreeing with her, though I didn’t know what I was agreeing to. There was also a tiny, mottled, chipped sapphire in the pouch, “from a one-eyed man in the market who said he was a Kashmiri, but I think he was a Turk.” A sprig of something that smelled like wall rue and a tiny book of psalms, which I think surprised me the most. Hani picked it up and paged to Psalm 102. “Here,” she said, “this is one of my favorites, I am like a pelican of the wilderness; I am become as an owl of the waste places.” I couldn’t read and marveled at Hani’s command of letters. Like all the girls in Qaraah, I memorized prayers, but couldn’t read a single letter, let alone a whole psalm.
That night, after showing me her treasures, Hani told me about her sisters. The two eldest, the twins, were buried under an acacia tree in Aden. Edna, the next one, was married to a scribe and was mother to three daughters already. The next one, Hamama, could tell the future. And Nogema was married to a British gentleman and dreamed of studying history, like an English girl, and becoming a teacher.
When the other Damaris left us for the night, I slept on my pallet, as usual, in the room with my parents. But in the middle of the night, I got up. I shed my blankets, stood at the window, looking at what was now their little house. I stared into their dark window and thought of the stories Hani had told me about their travels, We came across a lost girl who claimed she was from Shahara. We almost took her with us, but she was crazy—screaming about scorpions and pulling out her own hair. And did I tell you about the Ethiopian lout in Al Ma’afer who fell down drunk in the road?
My head was still suffused with the dreamy lazy feeling I got from sipping my father’s arak. Hani’s hands had been in my hair, making a long braid, and then lifting it up and kissing the nape of my neck. Was that me giggling when my whole body shivered? Her hands, petting me, reassuring me that I was one of them. Those other Damaris. One of us sisters, now, truly. Or did I just imagine that is what she said?
* * *
Over the next week, my new aunt went about transforming the little house with the red roof. When I stepped inside, I marveled. Could it be the same place? My brothers’ smelly lair? And had all these delicate treasures been packed and piled up on the donkey carts? Rahel Damari had not arrived wearing silver ornaments or exotic clothing, but her house was a sight to behold. On the biggest wall she hung a dark green velvet tapestry decorated with lotus flowers and jungle animals, all embroidered with silver and gold thread. On the opposite wall she had hung a tapestry embroidered with a double satin stitch of gold, maroon, yellow, and indigo. In the center of the cloth was a circle of colorful women holding hands, their joined bodies forming a large flower. On tables and the backs of chairs she’d laid patchwork pieces of maroon silk adorned with cowrie shells and iridescent beetles’ wings. A lush carpet with bluish-red palmettes covered the floor. I took off my shoes and walked across it barefoot; I had never before felt anything so soft. There were high-necked jars of rosewater perfume, a samovar with a pomegranate finial and two brass dragon handles, a collection of eight ivory elephants that held each other’s tails, biggest to smallest. My mother hated finery, refused to adorn the walls, and laid the floor with the plainest dull brown hemp rug. We had only two decorations: a single small tapestry showing two little jade hummingbirds flying toward an orange fruit, and an engraving of the Portuguese warships in the port of Aden that my father had received as a gift from a customer who had mistakenly believed that my father had an interest in maritime lore. The dullness of our own house rebuked me for my own plainness, assuring me that I belonged in the emptiness, and not over here, in the other Damaris’ lush jungle. But the colorful walls and soft floor weren’t all there was to marvel at. Aunt Rahel had set up a laboratory on three little tables, with her vials of essential oils—tea tree, lavender, rose—and her pots of honey, red wine, baskets of lemons and limes, and all the many pouches and glass bottles of spices she added to her brews—vanilla, nutmeg, cardamom, cinnamon, peppers, and rosemary leaves.
Aunt Rahel had been out by the grinding stones. Now she came inside, and saw me standing there. She came up behind me, put a hand on my back, and gently urged me forward. “Uncork anything you want, little niece. Breathe in deep, Adela, ahhh, it’s good, isn’t it? I tell myself that the mixture of all my herbs and oils together is what Eden must have smelled like on the sixth day of Creation. When Elohim had made everything but us. What do you think it smells like? What is your opinion?”
Chapter 9
It didn’t take long for the rumors to follow Aunt Rahel to Qaraah.
Late one day, about a month after her family’s arrival, Hani ran to our house, out of breath, tears running down her face. There was a wild look in her eyes, and her hair was falling out of her kerchief. In our doorway she seemed to struggle with herself. Clutched in her hands was a henna stylus, which she threw down to the ground, discarding it like a sword with a blunt tip, a weapon that would do no good in actual battle. She heaved, taking big gulps of air. My mother pulled her through the doorway. Then they sat together on the wheat-husk pillows. Hani cried in my mother’s lap like a small child, racked with sobs. My mother, with the distasteful but dutiful motions of a reluctant nurse attending a leper, ran her fingers through Hani’s hair. “Sha, sha,” she said, “sha, sha, all will be well,” consoling her in a way I don’t remember ever being comforted.
When she could speak, Hani explained, “We were at the wadi, my mother and I, and a woman we didn’t know approached us. She was cursing and threatening to burn mother with a hot poker if she dunked her bucket in the water.”
“Why? Why would she do that?” I was astonished, outraged. How could someone insult Aunt Rahel? Shame her in public?
Hani glared at me, her chest still heaving. Crumpled up on my mother, she was twisted, holding her side to quiet the stitch in it. But her eyes were narrowed, darker than usual, and filled with disappointment. I had failed. But failed at what? I heard my voice, running ahead, repeating myself, prattling like a baby, “Why would she insult your mother?”
Hani’s eyes said, How could you not know? How could you be so stupid to even ask? My mother must have seen how Hani looked at me. She puffed herself up and patted Hani’s brow. “Sha, sha, Hanele,” she said, and I could see that she was glad for this proof that Hani hadn’t entirely taken me into her confidence.
That night, no one in our family mentioned the shameful incident. Everyone spoke loudly, and about trivial things. Uncle Barhun was mostly silent and reserved, and he looked “seams out,” which is how my auntie always said people look when they refuse to show the world their true emotions. Aunt Rahel wasn’t there; she had stayed in the little house with the red roof, and didn’t emerge until late the next day. When she did, her face was pale and drawn, her eyes red, and she barely spoke as we all cooked, served, and ate supper.
* * *
Auntie Aminah heard the story from one of the women at the little well. The next day we sat knee to knee, sunk comfortably together on the rug and pillows by her sewing table. She was hard at work, unraveling an old sweater to be reused for wool for winter socks. She explained it to me quickly, spitting out the words as if they had a bitter taste. “The woman at the wadi was Mrs. Bar Yonah, the potash man’s wife. She had been to a wedding ceremony in Sana’a many years ago, where it was rumored that your Aunt Rahel had seduced the groom . . . That’s right, the groom, a boy of sixteen. According to Mrs. Bar Yonah, the wedding was almost canceled, the boy dishonored, the girl left a virgin. But, as the accusations couldn’t be verified, the wedding went forth. But now, years later, Mrs. Bar Yonah recognized Rahel Damari, dropped her bucket, and launched into her vicious tirade.”
Auntie Aminah finished speaking and took a deep whistling breath through her nose, then let out a rattling cough. She had come to a hard knot. I reached for the sweater to help her.
“Do you think it’s true?”
“Adela . . .”
“It can’t be true—”
“Adela .
. .”
“What, Auntie?”
“Adela, there are some women who attract lies like a thumb dipped in honey. And then there are other women who are the bees, and sting for spite. And then there are other women who are the honey, the nectar, the sweetness that drives men and women mad for want of it.”
“And which is Aunt Rahel?”
Auntie Aminah reached out and took my hand in her own. Her knuckles were thick, the skin of the back of her hand wrinkled and soft, the color of old sun-kissed leather.
“Which do you think she is?”
I opened my mouth to defend my new aunt, but then I closed it without issuing either a defense or an indictment of her character. I asked, “But why doesn’t Uncle Barhun defend her honor? Why doesn’t he make an indictment? Take Malkah Bar Yonah to court? Surely he has due reason? After all, it is a husband’s right to defend his wife from slander.” Auntie Aminah shook her head. “Your uncle will not publicly defend your aunt. But not because he doesn’t trust her, or think she is an honorable wife.”
“Then why not?”
“Adela, everyone knows that henna is not permanent, it fades with time. So will these accusations. But to air them in public, to make a complaint to the court, will only set the dye deeper into the soul of anyone who listens.”
We sat in silence for the rest of my visit. We continued to untangle the sweater, until it was entirely deconstructed and lay like a heap of shredded rags in our laps. I left Auntie Aminah’s, and walked slowly home, going through the backyards, even though there was no reason for me to hide. When I got to the dye mistress’s house, she was crouching by one of her pots, stirring a vat of orange. She smiled when she saw me. I noticed that a few strands of the hair peeking out of her gargush were white. I wondered how old she was. She seemed to be Masudah’s age, thirty-three. But she also seemed younger, because she had never had babies. At the same time, her graying hair made her seem older. Her body was lithe, her hips tiny. “Where have you been, little girl? Not hiding anymore? Hmmm, well, I think I know the reason for that frown. The mess with your new aunt at the wadi? Of course I know. Everyone knows everything in Qaraah. Well, don’t you worry; soon enough the gossips will have something else to chatter about.”
I said, “She is innocent. I know she is.”
“Of course she is, dearie.”
I passed out of her yard. But instead of going straight inside the house, I stayed out back and sat in the saddle of the old frankincense tree. I examined what I knew. Since arriving in Qaraah, Aunt Rahel had been nothing but kind to me and to everyone she met. Other than her henna, there was nothing startling about her. The only thing unusual about their family was that she and Uncle Barhun seemed to actually love each other. I had never before seen a husband drape his arm around a wife’s waist, or call her “my beloved,” as Uncle Barhun called my aunt. As for the accusations? Surely if Aunt Rahel was a loose woman, Uncle Barhun would throw her out of the house, divorce her, or at least beat her. Why, I knew of women who had been beaten to death by their husbands for a lesser offense.
I resolved to find out everything I could about Aunt Rahel. I couldn’t ask Hani, because if she had wanted to tell me herself, she would have, and I couldn’t ask my mother, as she would slap me for even wanting to know, and I couldn’t ask my father, for I feared that whatever mysteries there were to know about my aunt could be explained only by mothers, sisters, or aunts.
* * *
The next afternoon, after I finished my chores, I went to visit my sister-in-law Masudah. Masudah had two babies on her lap, ten-month-old Suri, and her newborn, Shalom. She handed me Suri, who had a tiny upturned nose and very long dark eyelashes. Her cheeks were big and rosy, like her mother’s. Around her neck was a strand of cubical amber beads. Masudah had bought them from a Muslim bride. Jewish brides didn’t wear amber, yet Jewish mothers sought out the beads and draped them on their babies, to borrow the protection that the stranger magic could confer. Little Suri reached a hand up and pulled my hair. I uncurled her fingers from my locks and kissed them. Then I leaned back with her on the pillows of the divan and let her play with the cowries on my dress. I loved Masudah’s house. It was an airy, lighthearted place filled with a bustle of children, toys, a riot of color. Masudah had a red rug on the floor, blue and green tapestries on the walls, as well as drawings that she drew—pictures of people or places in Aden, where she was from. I loved looking at Masudah’s pictures. She was very good at faces and expressions. She had sketched me a couple of times, but I liked her pictures of other people much better than my own portraits. She didn’t only make the drawings, she also made the paper herself.
There was nowhere to buy paper in Qaraah, and Sana’an paper was very expensive. Once or twice a year, Masudah boiled a big vat of rags in lime and then rolled the rags up into balls and kept them damp in a barrel behind her house. The water fermented the rags and helped break them up. After several months, she took them out and beat them to a pulp. Usually my brother Dov would do the heavy beating for her—he even fixed up a barrel with a blade in the bottom that you could turn using a handle on the outside. This made the work much easier. They would put the fermented pulp inside and turn the handle until the mixture was a creamy paste. When the paste was ready, she mixed it with fine sawdust that she procured from a carpenter. Then she poured it into a rectangular sieve and pressed it with a heavy wooden block to squeeze out extra water. She put the “sheet” between layers of felted cotton and squeezed it again and again and laid the sheets out in the sun to dry.
Masudah and my brother lived near the ritual bath. Women were always trooping by, either on their way to or returning from their monthly dip. Masudah liked to look out her window and see who was coming or going. She always laughed that she knew who was expecting long before anyone else, because if a woman didn’t visit the ritual bath, it was a sure sign that a baby was on the way. But Masudah generally kept confidences, and gossiped only when she had a compelling reason.
“Mmumph—” I opened my mouth and shut it again.
“What is it, Adela?”
“Nothing.”
We sat in silence. I didn’t know whether to ask directly or to take a roundabout approach. Finally I opted for directness.
“Masudah, what can you tell me about the scandals that nip at the hem of Aunt Rahel’s skirts?”
More silence. When Masudah finally spoke, she was direct too.
She said, “What the woman at the wadi said was nothing more than lies and slander. Your Aunt Rahel is not a seductress. She is an honorable woman. But I am not surprised that such a thing happened—what I mean is, I am not surprised that someone objected to Rahel’s presence.”
“Why?”
Again silence. I waited, dandling the baby on my lap.
“Adela.”
“What?”
“What I am saying is that your aunt is the sort of woman people blame. For everything. They blame her equally for good or for evil.”
“Blame her for good? That makes no sense.”
“Sense? There is no sense. There is only blame, blame, and more blame for all the good or evil that befalls a soul. Adela,” she sighed, “let me tell you two stories. I can see that it is no use not telling you. Who am I to deny you what everyone else already knows? These stories are not secrets. But we do not prattle about them. I don’t want to hear you repeating them to anyone. Understand?” She took a deep breath, shifted the rooting baby at her bosom, and began.
“Many years ago, Rahel hennaed the hands and feet of a laboring woman. The woman gave birth to triplets, all of whom lived. After the blessed event, people began to whisper that Rahel was not a proper Jewish woman at all, but a priestess of Anath, masquerading as a Jew. Those spreading the rumors insinuated that Rahel had called on the old goddess herself to multiply the babies in the mother’s womb and to see them safely born.”
She paused, switched the baby to her other breast.
“And now the second story . . .” Be
fore she continued, she gave me a remonstrative look, which let me know that even though she was being generous with information, she was uncomfortable with the subject, and cross with me for asking her to venture forth into it.
“This story is in many ways the opposite of the first. Last year, a bride whom Aunt Rahel had hennaed gave birth to a two-headed baby. A pathetic creature. Both the baby and the mother died, of course, and some would say that it was God’s mercy to send them to the World to Come. But the family of the bride blamed Rahel. They said that instead of inscribing charms and murmuring incantations against the owl-footed demoness Lilitu, she had called Lilitu forth, and that because of her dark arts, the demon mother had possessed the bride, and caused her to bear the two-headed demon infant.”
“But that’s—”
“Sha, Adela, let me finish.”
“I don’t understand.”
“What I am saying is—”
“That Aunt Rahel is a sorceress?”
“Of course not. What I am saying is that even if there hadn’t been trouble for Uncle Barhun, they would have had to leave Aden anyway. It wasn’t . . .”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Wasn’t safe for her there anymore.”
Masudah reached for my arm, and gripped my wrist tightly. “Know this, Adela . . . regardless of what anyone else says about her, your Aunt Rahel is an honorable woman, and the best henna dyer in all of Yemen.”
Suri tugged so hard on my hair that I had to pry open her little fingers. I kissed the little palm of her hand. “Masudah?”
“What?”
“Are there other stories about Aunt Rahel?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t be greedy for bad news, little girl.” She put a hand under my chin, while spearing me with a gaze that was both rebuking and forgiving. Then she put the baby down in his basket and went to make us tea.
