Apprentice (14 page)

I tried to imitate Mother's moves and dance more elegantly, but I doubted my performance would similarly endear me to Rami. It wasn't long before Achti and my sisters-in-law were dancing with us, and soon almost all the women had joined in, making the room a rainbow of shimmering silks. Even Pushbi was a decent dancer, although not with anything like Mother's skill.

One by one the women tired, leaving only Mother and me on our feet when the song ended. It was the men's turn, and there was much clapping and shouting for Rami and Ukva to start them off. Now I could admire Rami for as long as I liked. Pushbi may not have bought new clothes for herself, but both brothers wore colorfully striped silk tunics and trousers. Few would expect a youth of sixteen years to dance gracefully, and Rami didn't, but I was proud of how well he acquitted himself.

Ukva and my brothers were all energetic dancers, but to my surprise
Rav Nachman outshined them all. I asked Mother to point out his wife, but she said that Yalta hadn't come with Rav Nachman and perhaps I would meet her at Achti's wedding. Mother's tone was disapproving, but I didn't see what was wrong with Rav Nachman attending by himself. Rav Sheshet hadn't brought a wife either.

It was only when Achti and I were in bed that I thought of asking her why Mother might have been angry about Rav Nachman's wife not being there.

Achti's snort of disgust made me even more curious. “Rav Nachman often travels alone. And when he arrives in a new city, he asks them to find him a wife for the time he'll be there.”

“Rav Nachman marries a new wife in each city?” Had I understood correctly? “Ha-Elohim! He must have lots of wives.”

“No, he doesn't. He divorces each one when he leaves.”

I was speechless. How could any man, let alone a rabbi, be so profligate? “What woman would agree to marry him for only a few days?”

“A poor widow or divorcée,” Achti said. “Because Rav Nachman will pay her the standard
ketuba
. He considers it a way of giving them charity.” Achti's sarcastic tone made it clear that she didn't approve of this arrangement.

It didn't seem right to me either. Couldn't he give these poor women charity without making them marry him for it? Being a wife for a few days wouldn't be much better than being a harlot.

“Mother told me his wife was named Yalta,” I said. “Is that his Sura wife's name?”

“I have no idea who his Sura wife is. Yalta is his regular wife, who lives with him in Nehardea.” Achti's voice, already a whisper, softened until I could barely hear her. “Yalta is the exilarch's daughter.”

I fell asleep wondering what Yalta thought about her husband having all these other wives. Mother said the exilarch himself had many wives, so maybe Yalta was used to the practice. But Father and my brothers only had one wife each, though they could surely afford more. I was pretty sure that was the way Mother wanted it.

But what about Rami? What would I do if he wanted another wife? What could I do? Torah and Mishna agreed that a man could marry more than one wife, especially if the first one was barren.

Being betrothed brought mostly good changes to my life. I ate with the adults instead of with the children, which made me privy to information
that I would never have learned before, or at least not right away. So I was worried to hear that, unlike during the tolerant reign of the late king Shapur, King Bahram allowed his ruthless high priest Kartir to harass Persia's religious minorities. None of my family seemed concerned, probably because the Zoroastrian priests didn't persecute Jews as they did the followers of Jesus or Mani. And while some fanatical Magi might insist on protecting the sanctity of fire, no one had heard of such incidents in Sura. Still, Father declared that we would light our Hanukah lamps inside the villa walls this year rather than risk a confrontation.

Because Imarta and Haruta were still manufacturing beer jars, I knew that, even months after the first batch was siphoned into jars and sealed, fermentation was still going. But mealtime was where I learned that we'd brewed more batches than anticipated. Neither Hanan nor Pinchas would hazard a guess as to when the dates' sugar content would be exhausted, so Father decided to delay Achti's wedding until the week before Pesach instead of the middle of winter. Achti might be disappointed, but I was relieved that she wouldn't be moving away so soon.

Another nice effect of being betrothed was attending synagogue on weekdays with Mother, Achti, and my sisters-in-law. Between my brothers and Father's students, there was nearly always a minyan of ten men in our house, giving them the quorum necessary to hold a service that took minimal time away from Torah study. Women weren't forbidden to pray with the men in our home, but I never saw any of them doing so. Our custom was for women to go to synagogue.

Rather than attending the famous synagogue of the prophet Ezekiel, we frequented one closer to our villa. It wasn't as old or venerated as Ezekiel's, but it had beautiful mosaic floors and frescoes on the walls depicting scenes from the Bible. Worshippers could sit on benches or cushions, men in the middle and women around the sides, as an elderly man chanted the service in a surprisingly strong voice. Slaves stood in the back, making themselves inconspicuous until it was time to leave.

While I never doubted that Elohim would hear my prayers at home, I felt more confident of them rising to Heaven when accompanied by the congregation's.

I was thrust into a new world populated by women who weren't related to me, and soon learned that for them synagogue was equal parts praying and socializing. Each of my sisters-in-law had her own circle of friends or colleagues, while Achti giggled and gossiped with other maidens
who were soon to be wed. Only one girl appeared to be as young as I was, and for the first few weeks, she and I merely exchanged awkward glances, until Achti finally introduced us.

“This is my sister, Hisdadukh.” Achti pushed me toward the girl. “She just became betrothed to Rami bar Chama.”

The girl's kohl-rimmed eyes opened wide and her red lips smiled broadly. “My name is Newandukh. I'm going to marry my mother's younger brother.”

My grin mirrored hers. “You're the first girl I've met with a Persian name too.”

“And you are also the first for me.” She took my hand and confided, “I've been looking forward to meeting you for some time.”

“And I to meeting you.” I had to chuckle. “To think that I've been waiting for you to greet me, since I was new here.”

Newandukh giggled in return. “And I thought that you should greet me because your father is so prominent.”

Our conversation had barely progressed beyond describing our family members—a short process for her, with only a younger brother, and a longer one for me—when Mother put on her cloak and veil in preparation to leave.

I followed suit and bid Newandukh farewell until next time. As we walked home I wondered what it would be like to have an acquaintance my own age, and when Mother would let me wear lip rouge and black kohl like Newandukh did. But mostly I worried how I would find time to attend synagogue, train as Rahel's apprentice, and study Mishna with Grandfather.

The betrothal change I enjoyed most was my new responsibility for washing Rami's hands and feet when he arrived and removed his shoes, just as Mother performed this duty for Father, and my sisters-in-law for my brothers. Of course a wife wasn't always available when her husband came in from outdoors. Then slaves did the washing, as they did for visitors. Until my betrothal, I washed my brother Keshisha's feet, not that I objected, since it gave me an unparalleled opportunity to tickle him, but afterward, my maidservant, Zahra, washed his feet in addition to mine.

The first time I washed Rami's feet, I was glad for all the practice I'd had on Keshisha. For I was exquisitely aware that this pair of feet belonged to my future husband. I was terrified that my shaking hands
would spill the water, my ragged nails might scratch him, or a hundred other disasters that I had not anticipated could occur. Despite the act's intimacy, or perhaps because of it, I was too shy to look at him, let alone talk to him—at least at the beginning.

If it had been up to me to initiate a conversation, I might still have been washing his feet in silence six months later. But after we'd been betrothed a week, I'd no sooner picked up the pitcher than I heard Rami clear his throat, followed by a horse whisper. “Uh…Hisdadukh…,” he trailed off.

I nearly spilled the water, but keeping my eyes focused on his feet, I managed to reply, “Yes, Rami.”

He hesitated for so long that I began to think something was wrong. But eventually he continued. “I noticed…that your brothers…uh, they don't…” His sentence ended in a rush of words. “They don't call you Hisdadukh.”

What was the matter with Rami? He spoke perfectly well in class, yet now he could scarcely string three words together. I looked up and saw that his face was bright pink, a color that only deepened as his eyes met mine.

I promptly looked down again. “Only my parents and grandfather call me that.” I could feel my face blushing in return. “The rest of my family calls me Dada for short.”

“What…What should I call you?” He swallowed and then corrected himself. “I mean…uh, what do you…want me to call you?”

I had never given this any thought. “I guess you could call me Dada too,” I said uncertainly.

“Would you…Would you mind?” He paused again, but this time I started washing his feet while I waited for him to finish what he wanted to say. “Uh…I'd rather call you…Dodi.”

After my initial surprise, I felt myself warming with pleasure. Dodi was Hebrew for “my beloved,” a word I knew from the Song of Songs in Torah, and I felt certain that Rami's choice of names was not an impulsive one. Wondering how long he'd been thinking of me as his beloved, I looked up and smiled. “I would like that.”

He sighed in relief and his whole body relaxed.

I finished his feet and moved up to wash his hands. “Is there anything special you want me to call you?”

Immediately he tensed up again. “Uh, no…nothing special.” He paused to think. “I mean…you can still call me…uh, Rami.”

.   .   .

By the following week, I was confident enough in my actions to notice how smooth and soft the skin on the top of Rami's feet felt compared to the calluses on his heels and how pale his palms looked compared to the skin on the backs of his hands. I also noticed that he seemed a little more relaxed than during the first few days, when my slightest touch made him jump.

But it was excruciatingly difficult to talk with him. He hesitated and then repeated himself and seemed to become tongue-tied at the simplest question. Yet it felt as though that he wanted to talk to me, and figuring that it should be easier for him to discuss Torah, I asked where he'd studied before and what he'd learned there. I soon discovered that Rami's father had been one of his first teachers, and though Rav Chama had died five years ago, Rami still missed him terribly.

So I encouraged Rami to talk about his father as I washed his feet. I told myself that I wanted to be diligent, to ensure that not a speck of dirt or a drop of rinse water remained when I was finished, and that's why I drew out the process, not because my heart beat faster at Rami's nearness and I wanted to prolong the feeling. I sensed that Rami appreciated a lighter touch, and I wanted to please him, so I tried to stroke his hands and feet rather than scrub them.

Until he told me later, after our wedding, I was too innocent to realize what effect my efforts might be having on other parts of his body. For me, pleasure came from the moments when our hands touched as I washed his, and especially at the dazzling smile Rami bestowed on me when I gave his hands a gentle squeeze to signal that I was done.

If only Keshisha hadn't told me about the jealous scowl Abba wore whenever I was washing Rami's hands and feet. After my betrothal to Rami, the other students paid no attention to my presence at Father's lectures, or at least they convincingly pretended to do so. But not Abba. I often sensed him gazing at me in class or at meals, no matter how determined I was to ignore him.

It was well after Hanukah when the tenth and final fermentation was siphoned into the last of Imarta's jars. Mother made a small celebration out of our first tasting, and we all got to drink as much of the different batches as we liked. Despite Beloria's hopes, however, the good water from our wells made little difference in how badly anyone's head ached the next morning. I resolved to drink my beer diluted with plenty of water from then on.

I couldn't tell the difference between any of the batches; they all
tasted good to me. Father and my brothers could though, and after a long discussion, they finally agreed on how much to charge for each. Beer was cheapest in the fall, when it was most plentiful, and the price gradually rose as the supply dwindled. Hanan and Pinchas preferred to sell our beer in the spring, but they couldn't turn away the Sura dealers whose carts lined up outside our gate that week. Good news traveled fast.

That night I was startled awake while it was still dark. “Wake up, wake up!” Zahra was pushing my shoulder, her voice urgent in my ear. “Hurry, we must go outside right away.”

My head still hurting from too much strong beer, I reluctantly cracked an eye open. A lamp was burning in the
kiton
, but otherwise it was pitch black. My heart began to pound. “What's the matter? Is there a fire?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Achti called out. “The canal is blocked and we need to hurry to collect the fish.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and let Zahra pull my tunic into place and lace my sandals. Then we ran downstairs, jostling others on the staircase. Beloria handed us each a basket, and we hurried out the courtyard gate. The winter sky was pinkish gray with the approaching dawn and I shivered.