by Nomi Eve
She tsked. “Take however many pieces you want. Just promise me that you won’t be using it to give your mother any more excuses to beat you. I don’t want to be party to your punishment. Promise me? Yes, that’s a good girl. Go, go get what you want; you know where I keep it.”
Then I asked my father for a few pieces of leather. He told me I could use any scraps I could glean from the floor of his shop. I spent an afternoon sorting through the pile until I found a few good-size pieces. I cut the leather into rectangles and used my father’s blunt needles to sew the pieces together, adding a little nub of a sandwich panel the size of two joints of my pinky finger between the two larger pieces. I sewed a stiff linen “spine” onto the nub. I glued Masudah’s paper onto the spines of the books with some thick animal glue that I boiled myself using a piece of hide I bought from the butcher. I had taken ten sheets of paper, which I cut in half. This gave me two “books” of ten leaves, each with twenty pages. My books were no bigger than a book of psalms, just a little larger than the palm of my hand. I took some silk thread, and reinforced the glue with strong stitches. The leather was embossed with my father’s triangle and square signature, the same signature that had implicated me. I left some of the pattern down the sides of the front cover for decoration.
When my books were finished, I took a henna stylus and I mixed henna with black gall. I chose the better-made book, the second one I had stitched together. In the very center of the inside back cover, I wrote, in Hebrew, “To Hani Damari, from your cousin Adela Damari.” I formed the letters carefully, exactly as Hani had taught me. Underneath our names, I wrote “Qaraah, Kingdom of Yemen, 1931.” I drew a vine of roses underneath. The leather, calf’s hide, was very soft and smooth, the color of sugary coffee with goat’s milk. It was the kind of leather my father used to make the insides of women’s slippers.
Hani was at the grinding stones when I approached her. I held the present hidden behind my back. She looked up, smiled. “Come sit with me.”
I crouched beside her. “Here,” I said, “I made this for you.”
She put down the grinding stones and took the book, which I had wrapped in a piece of yellow cloth and tied with a bow that the dye mistress had dipped for me herself, dipping it three times so that it would come out a bright vermilion.
“What is this?” Her face brightened. She turned the little package over. “What is this for?”
“It’s for you. My way of thanking you for what you did for me.”
“I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t have done for me.”
“But I won’t ever have the chance.”
“What do you mean?”
“I won’t have to save you, the way you saved me.”
“Now you sound like my sister Hamama.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hamama can see the future. Can you?”
“Of course not. But there is only one cave, and my idols are broken. If I ever save you, it won’t be for what was hidden, and what was holy.”
“If your mother could hear you, she would beat you all over again.”
I shrugged, but then I put my hand in a fist and I beat my heart with it, like men do on the Day of Atonement, striking heart with fist in penance for all manner of sins.
“What was most holy to me about the cave was gone long ago. My mother was angry about the wrong idols.”
Hani screwed up her face, and then covered my hand with her own and pulled it down from my heart. “You have nothing to atone for, Adela. Hope is not a sin, and neither is fidelity.”
I nodded toward the present. She pulled the bow and opened my gift.
Her eyes widened, her lips opened in a huge smile. She ran a hand over the cover, and then flipped through the pages.
I said, “It bothers me that henna fades. Your work is so beautiful. It should be preserved. Your mother has a henna book; I thought that you might like one too. You could write all the elements you know, and make up new ones. You could draw your best designs, add notes and henna recipes. It’s just a rough, homemade book, but it should last. The glue is strong, and I stitched and restitched all the pages twice.”
She reached the last page and read the inscription. Then she closed the cover and wrapped it back up, tying a tight bow with the cloth. We sat together at the grinding stones for a long time. The evening sun began to set, laying its crimson rays down on top of our conversation. She thanked me many times for my gift, and I thanked her many times for saving me from my mother. Later that night, when I lay down on my pallet, I dreamed of that conversation. I dreamed that our words left our mouths and transcribed themselves into the pages of the book. When I awoke, the dream was still cleaving to my soul, hovering there, only now Hani and I were far away from Qaraah, far away from Yemen, in a country whose name I didn’t know. In Hani’s hands was the gift I had made for her, she held it while I read from it with a pointer whose tip was a shiny silver finger, of the sort our fathers used on Sabbath days when they were reading from the Torah.
And the book I kept for myself? I did not know yet what I would write in it. I had slipped it in my drawer, under my underclothes, on top of the code sheet I had copied from Hani and next to the little embroidered satchel of poison I had stolen from Aunt Rahel. Before I covered it up with linens and leggings, I flipped open the blank pages. For a brief moment I was reminded of that first night after Asaf left Aden. I had dreamed that he was a groom of words, and that I had married him under a canopy of words, and that when he had spoken the wedding blessings, binding me to him, I had turned into words too. I shut the book and covered it with clothes, hiding it as much from myself as from my mother.
Chapter 17
Six months after I gave Hani the book, a young man came to Qaraah and swept her off her feet. It was midwinter of 1932. The other Damaris had been with us in Qaraah for two years. My body was growing into womanhood, but next to Hani, who was voluptuous and beautiful, I felt like a homely little girl. The groom wasn’t her old love, Ovadia Shabazzi. This young man’s name was David Haza, and he arrived along with his father one day with no warning just before afternoon prayers. David Haza had a kind face, straight teeth, full lips, and a well-tended beard. His wide hazel eyes were just a bit too far apart, his cheekbones were very pronounced, and his nose was like an arrow, but these defects combined to make him handsome in an original way. His father, Mr. Moises Haza, was an old trading partner of Uncle Barhun. Mr. Haza looked nothing like his son, who was trim and smart in his British suit. The father was fat and doughy. We had not seen such an overfed man in a long time. He had kindly crescent-shaped eyes and was completely bald but for the grizzled fuzz growing out of his ears. His bulk was generously and elegantly wrapped in Turkish silks. When Mr. Haza raised an arm, the folds of the gold and yellow cloth billowed. He wore a maroon tarbush, his beard was pointy and reached midway to his chest, in the Turkish fashion.
David was an apprentice scribe and would be studying in Aden under the great Torah scribe Rabbi Aryeh Ben Ari.
“My son can write a whole page of Talmud without even half a mistake,” Mr. Haza bragged endearingly about David’s talent. But David was modest. Every time Mr. Haza tried to expound on his accomplishments, David would turn the conversation to minor exploits of their travels.
“In the soap market in Aleppo we saw an African man eat knives,” he would say, or “In Aqaba we were in a hammam with a British mystery writer writing a book about the murder of a diplomat at the hands of a camel thief.”
Hani listened rapt as David spoke, and he was always stealing glances at her. Whenever their eyes met, they blushed and quickly looked away, though there was no hiding the obviousness of their attraction.
“The road to Qaraah was harder than we expected, and took us much longer than we had hoped,” Mr. Haza explained.
My father offered an extra room in my brother Dov and sister-in-law Sultana’s house. “You will stay with us as long as you need, and rest up for your future travels.” David looked s
hyly up at Hani when she served him at table, and the next day he went out of his way to put himself in her path when she was coming from the well, so he could gallantly offer to carry her burden of water.
I teased Hani. “What about the son of the bookseller? Isn’t he waiting for you?”
Hani grimaced. “That dolt? I certainly hope not. My sister Nogema writes me that he is fat now, and can barely see, his eyes are so bad. He stumbles around the market on the way to his father’s stall.” She was cruel the way she said it, as if she actually wanted the son of the bookseller to fall in a trough of filth. But I found myself laughing along with her as she added, “So what if I loved him when we were children? I also loved a dog then, a black flop-eared puppy, and I can’t be expected to marry that little dog, can I?”
“But why are they here?” I asked. “No one comes to Qaraah without good reason.”
Hani smiled and licked her lips. Her eyes sparkled with the wisdom of one who possesses superior information. “Mr. Haza is an Adeni, like us,” she explained, “but he left Aden long before we did, and lived for many years in Istanbul, where he managed a warehouse and owned shares in the mercantile house of Fey and Absev. Now he is on his way back to Aden. My father told me that the Fey and Absev Company wants Mr. Haza to oversee their southern distribution point. They promised him a generous number of shares in their Aden establishment. Mr. Haza needs a partner and told the Fey and Absev men about Father, and they agreed he could offer Father the position. Mr. Haza had heard through mutual friends that Father was in Qaraah. He came to see if he could talk Father into returning to Aden, and joining with him in what he promises will be a lucrative partnership.”
Tears sprung to my eyes. Hani patted my hand and said, “I am sure we won’t go. And if we do, we will take you with us.”
I managed a smile through my tears at her kind lies. But inside I sobbed, thinking, First Asaf and now you? Am I to be abandoned once again?
* * *
Over the next few weeks, we grew well acquainted with the Hazas. From the East Mr. Moises Haza had brought with him the habit of standing on his head. It really was astonishing that such a big, round person could balance like that. He was a kind and generous man, who even upside down radiated a sense of charming good humor—as if he were going to tell upside-down jokes, or at least laugh with you about things that were hilarious even right side up. He explained that he had picked up his habit of daily inversion in Istanbul and that it improved “conversation, salivary health, and cardiac circulation.” Every evening before prayers, Mr. Haza took out a reed mat, unrolled it in the courtyard, knelt down, put his forehead to the ground, and then did a series of kicks that resulted in his thick bowed legs pointing toward the sky with pointed toes. He wisely changed out of his Turkish pants for the exercise, which would have billowed down around his middle, and wore instead black trousers tucked into thick black socks. He maintained an expression of serenity the entire time, not even widening his eyes or pursing his lips. Only the tips of his ears belied his exertion, turning red as a pepper. But still he didn’t come down. He stayed upside down for as long as it took for a “goat to eat his grouts,” which seemed to be anywhere between five and ten minutes. When he finally righted himself, the blood flowed back out of his ears, turning them pale again, and his face flushed with a healthy glow. He would then move on to knee bends, marching fist thrusts, lunges, and jumping kicks. Sometimes, in between exercises, he would spend a few moments loudly and ostentatiously cracking his knuckles and neck.
Children grew besotted by Mr. Haza and were soon imitating his exercises and following him around, asking him to show them the correct posture for inversion. They began against a wall, but soon graduated to freestanding headstands, like him. It became a familiar sight to see the children and Mr. Haza planted upside down “like so many turnips,” as my father would say. He was mightily amused by the spectacle and would tease the children who swayed or shook, and do his best to resist the urge to flick their toes and make them fall.
One week after their arrival, I counted no fewer than six children upside down in the courtyard. Their faces were red, their cheeks puffed out—only the littlest, Masudah’s youngest boy, skinny, determined Pinchas, was accomplishing the trick with the balletic grace and casual serenity of bald Mr. Haza, their teacher, the master inverter.
Mr. Haza made the proper inquiries as to Hani’s status. And when it was ascertained that she was indeed unpromised to any other, Uncle Barhun held a private meeting with Hani. Her father told her that he considered David Haza to be a prince of a young man. Hani told her father that if this prince would overlook the fact that she was no princess, she would agree to be his wife. Uncle Barhun relayed Hani’s willingness to Mr. Haza. The next day there was a beautiful letter, a single chet, , the first letter of Hani’s name, calligraphed in the earth outside the little red-roofed house. The letter had been written with a sharp stick, and everyone walked around it, giving it wide berth. There was much tittering because of the chet.
Masudah said, “A chet has the same shape as a marriage canopy; surely it is a token of engagement.”
It was Sultana who made everyone laugh—and made Hani blush. “The only mystical thing David the apprentice scribe is saying by drawing Hani’s chet into the earth is”—she paused for effect—“that he would like to dip his quill in the blood of her maidenhood!”
After that, Hani’s marriage was swiftly arranged. Though, of course, her transgression with the idols (which was really my transgression) had to be broached. Uncle Barhun explained to Mr. Haza that Hani had committed a serious sin against Elohim. He related the sad story of the cave and the idols, sparing no details except those of my beating. Mr. Haza’s response was so wonderful that it was repeated many times among us females. He said, “If our foremothers, Rahel and Leah, saw fit to steal their household gods from Laban, I myself have no prejudice against a daughter-in-law who cleaves to the ways of the ancients. And my son shall consider himself as blessed as our Father Jacob to be so fortunately wed.”
It was clear that Mr. Haza never really considered Hani to be a sinner, for he had a twinkle in his eye when he offered to whittle her some replacements. She was all too happy to play the role of penitent and piously told Mr. Haza that she regretted her childish mistake, but she said it in a voice we all knew well—the same funny lilt she used when telling jokes, or having a small laugh at her own expense.
* * *
In preparation for Hani’s engagement ceremony, Aunt Rahel gave her new henna. None of us was the least bit surprised when mother gave daughter the henna of nightingales, with the birds’ elegant necks arching up over her shins, and their tail feathers draped over the tops of her feet, signifying the lightness of her step as she flitted about, as if her heart too would take flight at the slightest provocation. I opted for a design called Grapes of Thebes, and so did my little niece Remelia, who was so overjoyed with her application, and with how grown-up it made her feel to sit among the women in the henna house, that she became giddy and foolish and tripped over her own gangly limbs like a foolish colt, smearing the design of a pretty cluster of grapes that ran up the back of her right hand. Masudah fixed it for her, as Remelia sat shamefacedly looking at her knees.
“It is no shame to smear your henna,” Sultana comforted her.
“That’s right; we’ve all done it at one time or another,” Yerushalmit added.
With this, Remelia cheered and her round cheeks once more filled with the rosy blush that marked her as Masudah’s daughter. When Aunt Rahel was finished with Hani’s henna, she excused herself and kindly took the little ones with her. Remelia went too, gathering up her younger brother and sister, though when she passed through the door it was with a regretful backward glance and a bitten lip that bespoke her wishes to stay and listen. Aunt Rahel wasn’t the least bit prudish, and had shared many a bawdy story herself. But when it came time for her own daughters to be married, she generally left the storytelling to others, and now
absented herself from the gathering so that Hani would not have to blush in front of her mother.
It was Yerushalmit who did the honors. Yerushalmit had flung off her mean and prudish ways and turned into the lewdest storyteller in the henna house. Yerushalmit wasn’t pretty. She had a narrow little face, her nose was both crooked and pointy, and her pockmarked chin jutted out too far under her mouth. But she had a happy, lilting voice, and when she spoke she gave her words an extra helping of expression. It was always fun to listen to her. You knew you would be pulled along by the tale and surprised by a twist in the end. After we all had our henna, and were waiting for the paste to dry, she commanded our attention.
“In honor of Hani, the virgin, and David, the apprentice scribe, I lay before you a story that I will call ‘The Scribe Lover.’ ” We all nodded our approval. Yerushalmit prided herself on matching her stories with the true details of a courting couple.
She began, “Once there was a scribe in the Kingdom of Yemen, in a village where the sand was like the vellum of the Torah. Wherever the people of the village walked, they pressed sacred words into the dunes, and these words sprouted a harvest of delicacies that nourished their bodies and minds for generations. In this holy place lived a young scribe who married his sweetheart. On their wedding night, he laid before his bride the following declaration: ‘Beloved, now that we are wed, it is important for you to know that my most difficult and important task as a scribe is to write the sacred names of Elohim with perfection in the Torah. I tell you this because I see little difference between my duty as a scribe and my duty as a husband.’ ‘What could you possibly mean?’ asked his bride. ‘Lie back, my love, and let me show you.’ She did as he instructed. He parted her legs like Elohim parted the Red Sea, and then he used his tongue like a quill to write the names of Elohim down there. Names such as Emet, Truth, and HaRachaman, the Merciful One; Magen Avraham, Shield of Abraham; Boreh, Creator; and Eyeh Asher Ayeh, I Will Be Who I Will Be. All the while, the bride writhed and moaned, and begged him to keep ‘writing.’ ”
