Sarah (18 page)

“I know all that,” Sarai said, angrily. “Keep your moaning to yourself. I don't need anyone to see and hear for me.”

“In that case,” Sililli went on, undaunted, “perhaps you've realized that Abram's character has changed? Almighty Ea, your husband has become as dark and closed as a cellar! He doesn't play with Lot anymore, even though he loves him as if he were his real father. He's as stubborn as a mule. Not a moon goes by that he doesn't quarrel with someone or other, beginning with his father, Terah. Those two have been as daggers drawn since the start of spring—and over nothing.”

Sarai pushed Sililli's hand away and went out of the tent and into the sun. Sililli followed her, the soiled linen still clasped to her ample chest.

“Sarai, listen to me. You know I live only for your happiness. Do I still need to prove it to you?”

Sarai did not move. Mealtime was approaching, and the camp was full of activity. She thought of the loaves stuffed with meat and herbs that she had baked for Abram without the help of any handmaid. She had invented the recipe herself, as a surprise for him. Instead of listening to Sililli's whining, which was breaking her heart, she ought to be doing her duty as a wife: She ought to get the loaves, find Abram, and give him his meal. But Sililli could not stop talking.

“This is the truth, Sarai, my child: Everyone's afraid for the tribe. Everyone thinks Abram made the wrong choice of wife. Everyone thinks, ‘Terah's eldest child, Haran, is dead, and soon Abram will become chief of the tribe.' But what is a chief if his wife can't give him sons and daughters? They'll start to argue about the the family's behavior, and they'll all turn against you.”

Sarai remained silent for another moment, then shook her head. “I'm going to see Abram and tell him everything. I don't care what the others think. It isn't right for me to hide the truth from him any longer.”

“Think of the consequences. He'll reject you. Or take a concubine. You'll be reduced to nothing. Even if he chooses a handmaid, once she has his child in her womb, she'll be the mother, and you'll be nothing. That's how it happens. The best thing would be to undo what you've done. I can find herbs, and we'll try to bring your blood back.”

“Haven't you given me enough herbs already? All they ever made me do was run into the bushes!”

“We can try again. I've heard of a very good
kassaptu
who lives on the edge of town—”

“No. I don't want any more magic. And you're wrong. Abram isn't like other men. He loves the truth. I'll tell him why my womb is barren. I'll tell him I did it because I loved him from the first moment I saw him. He'll understand.”

“That would certainly be the first time a man understood a woman's sorrow! May Inanna, our almighty Mother Moon, hear you.”

WITH a heavy heart, Sarai put her loaves, a gourd of cool water, another of beer, and some grapes and peaches in a basket, and covered it with a fine cloth she herself had woven. Since she had started living with the
mar.Tu,
she had learned to love these simple gestures. At that moment, though, the mere fact of carrying a basket brought a lump to her throat.

Aware that she was being watched, she stood up, and left the encampment with a confident step, responding to the smiles and greetings as she usually did.

In the distance, she saw a group of children gathered around Lot, whose turbaned head stood out above the others. Despite her distress, she could not help smiling fondly. She was sure Lot had succeeded in using his wound to compel respect from the other boys. She was sure, too, that the tenderness and pride she felt for Abram's nephew was the same as a mother feels for her beloved son.

She walked toward the river as far as Terah's workshop, where Abram had been working with his father since their arrival in Harran. The fire roared in the cylindrical kiln, which was twice the height of a man. Terah's assistants were throwing big logs in through an opening, behind which flames could be seen dancing. Although they wore only loincloths, the heat was so intense that their torsos streamed with sweat.

Sarai hung back: Terah did not really like women to enter the lean-to where the statues of the gods were kept for polishing and painting before being taken to the customers. She called one of the assistants over and asked for Abram. The assistant told her that Abram wasn't there. He had left the workshop early in the morning and nobody had seen him since.

Sarai's first thought was that he had had another quarrel with his father.

“Do you know where he went?”

The assistant asked his workmates. They pointed to a path that led across the river and up a slope to a high plateau where the herds grazed. She thanked them and, without hesitating, set off along the path.

Tree trunks had been thrown across the river as a bridge. As she crossed, Sarai was sure that Terah was following her with his eyes from the door of the lean-to. She hurried on, anxious to join her husband.

As she climbed the path to the plateau, she tried to formulate the words she would say to Abram. She had been his wife for nearly twenty moons. Twenty moons since she had fled the great temple of Ur. Twenty moons filled with joy and sorrow. Yet she had never found the courage to tell Abram the truth. Now she had to. There was no turning back.

SHE walked quickly. By the time she reached the top of the slope, she was out of breath, and her heart beat so loudly that her ears hummed. As far as her eyes could see, the plateau was empty. No herds, and no people.

She went up to the great sycamore, older than many generations of men, which sat in solitary splendor on the edge of the plateau. Its shade was vast and cool. Abram often came here to rest and think, sometimes even to sleep when the nights were too hot.

But there was nobody resting against the grooved trunk now. Abram was nowhere to be seen.

Sarai stopped into the shade of the sycamore and put down her basket. The grass was bending in the breeze. In the far distance, to the north and the east, the mountains seemed as transparent as petals in the blue sky. From here, everything seemed immense and infinite.

She sat down and rested her shoulders and head against the rough bark. All at once, she felt terribly weary, and as helpless as an abandoned child. If only she could curl up in Abram's powerful arms, hear his warm voice, feel his soft lips, then she could tell him what was so important!

But Abram was not here.

At that moment, his absence seemed absolute. As if, wherever Abram was, he was an infinitely long way from her.

The tears she had held back for so long gushed from her eyes like an overflowing spring. They streamed down her cheeks, into her mouth, and over her neck. There was nobody to see her, and Sarai wept all the tears that were in her.

Then, when her eyes were dry again and her heart calmer, her trust in Abram returned. Sooner or later he would appear. She would wait here and rest, regaining her strength so that, when she spoke, her words would be strong and right.

Despite herself, a very old prayer to Inanna rose to her lips:

Inanna, holy Moon, holy Mother,

Queen of Heaven,

Open my heart, open my womb, open my mouth.

Take my thoughts for offerings.

Abram's God

N
oises rose from the village of tents. Fragrant smoke spread from Terah's kiln as far as the eye could see, mingling the scents of oak, cedar, sycamore, and terebinth. The path out of the encampment led past the workshop, wound between the opulent hills, and joined the main road to Harran. From the edge of the plateau, Sarai could see the fine houses of the city. The shadows were lengthening. Abram still had not reappeared. The coolness of the shade and the immense tranquility of the plateau was making Sarai drowsy.

Feeling hungry and thirsty, she ate one of the loaves she had made for Abram and drank the water—the gourd had kept it cold.

She continued waiting, struggling against her anxiety. It was unusual for Abram to be absent like this without a word to her or Lot.

By now, they must have noticed his absence in the camp, too.

What if Abram didn't come back before nightfall? What if she had to go back to the tent alone?

Suddenly, she felt something. His presence.

Perhaps even his footsteps.

She got to her feet, searching the plateau from one side to the other. And then she saw him. She was surprised at herself: How had she known he was coming?

He was still such a long way away. Nothing but a silhouette, advancing through the tall grass!

But she recognized him. She did not need to see his face to know it was him.

He was walking quickly, with long strides. A rush of joy swept away all Sarai's doubts and fears. She wanted to call to him but only raised her arms to signal to him.

Abram responded. She began running.

When they were quite close, she realized he was laughing. His face was radiant with joy. It was many moons since she had last seen him looking like that!

He stopped, and opened his arms wide. “Sarai, my beloved!” he said.

They embraced like lovers separated by a long journey.

Beneath her cheek and in her hair, Sarai could still hear Abram's laughter. Then his words came, rapid and breathless:

“He spoke to me! He called me: ‘Abram! Abram!' I replied: ‘Here I am!' Then there was silence. So I walked, far away, beyond the plateau. I didn't think I would hear Him again. But He did call me: ‘Abram!' And I said: ‘Yes, I'm here!'” Abram laughed again.

Sarai stepped back, frowning with incomprehension, a question on her lips. Abram took her face in his hands, in a gesture identical to the one he had made that very first time, on the riverbank in Ur, the night they met. This time, he placed his lips on hers. A long kiss, full of spirit, power, and desire. A kiss of pure happiness.

When at last they separated, Sarai laughed. “Who? Who called you? What are you talking about?”

“Him!” Abram said, lifting his hand and pointing to the horizon, the mountains and valleys, the earth and the sky.

“Him?” Sarai insisted, uncomprehending.

“Him, the One God! My God!”

Sarai wanted to ask him so much, to understand. Who exactly had spoken to him? What did this god look like? What was his name? But Abram's hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking. He, Abram, the strongest man in Terah's tribe, was shaking! Sarai squeezed his hands in hers.

“He said: ‘Go! Go, leave this country . . .' We're going to leave, Sarai. Tomorrow.”

“Leave? For where? Abram . . .”

“No, not now! No questions now. Come, I must speak to my father. I must speak to everyone.”

He took her hand and pulled her toward the path that led back to the river and Terah's workshop.

Sarai realized that she couldn't tell Abram the truth now. Not today. And not tomorrow. There was no point. And they had all been wrong—Terah, Tsilla, Sililli, and she herself. Abram's angry, bitter mood lately had had nothing to do with her flat stomach.

ABRAM took up position outside the workshop. From the way he looked, everyone could tell he had something important to say. An assistant went to fetch Terah, who was making his evening offerings to his ancestors. Other men and women appeared with him, coming down to the banks of the river. Even the children stopped playing and came close.

Lot, his brow still turbaned, came to Sarai, who was standing back, and took her hand. He looked up at her, and she read in his eyes the same anxiety she could see on everyone's face. They were all thinking that Abram had decided to confront his father and take over the leadership of the tribe. That was why they were so surprised when he started speaking.

“Father, today God Most High called to me. I was here, with all of you, preparing the kiln, when I heard a cry in the air. But with all the noise of breaking wood, I couldn't hear. I climbed up to the plateau and walked. Suddenly I heard: ‘
Abram!
' My name was being called. It was in the air all around me, spoken by a powerful voice I didn't know.
‘Abram!'
My name again. I said: ‘Here I am! I'm Abram.' There was no reply. So I walked. I went down into the valley that leads to Harran in the north, and suddenly the voice was everywhere. In the air, the clouds, the grass, the trees, even in the depths of the earth. On the skin of my face. It was calling my name: ‘
Abram!
' I knew who was speaking. ‘Here I am!' I cried again. ‘I'm Abram!' The voice asked: ‘
Do you know who I am?
' I replied: ‘I think so.' He said:
‘Abram. Leave this land, leave your father's house, and walk to the land I will reveal to you. I will make of you a great nation, I will make your name great. I will bless those who bless you, and those who insult you, I will curse. Through you, all the families of the earth will be blessed.'
Those were His words, Father. I've come back to tell you what He said, because I want you to know why I'm leaving.”

When Abram stopped speaking, there was a heavy silence. After the initial surprise, anxiety returned to everyone's face. So the son wanted to leave the father and deny his ancestors? They all waited for Terah's reaction. He seemed tired, but anger glinted in his eyes. He passed his hand through his thick beard.

“You say, ‘Those were his words.' Whose words, my son?”

“The One God, who created heaven and earth, the God of Abram.”

“What's his name?” Terah asked.

Abram could not hold back a laugh, a genuinely amused laugh, without pride. He shook his head. “He didn't tell me His name, Father.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn't need a name to speak to me or for me to recognize Him. He has nothing in common with these gods with their ridiculous faces that we make and sell to the Lords of one city or the merchants of another.”

A murmur of disapproval ran through the crowd. Terah raised his hand. “So this god of yours has no face?”

“No face,” Abram replied, “and no body.”

“How can you see him, then?”

“I can't see Him. No human being or animal on this earth can see Him. He doesn't shine, he doesn't wear a toga or a diadem. He has no claws, no wings. He doesn't have the head of a lion or a bull. He possesses neither the flesh of a man nor the forms of a woman. He has no body. He can't be seen.”

“How do you know all that if you can't see him?”

“He spoke to me.”

“How can he speak to you if he has no face or mouth?”

“Because He doesn't need a face to speak. Because He is who He is.”

There was a burst of mocking laughter behind Terah. Lot huddled closer to Sarai. The women no longer hesitated to draw near and listen.

Terah also laughed. “So this is what's happened,” he said, raising his voice. “My son Abram saw his god today, but his god has no flesh, no body! He's invisible.”

“That is how the One God is,” Abram retorted, ignoring the mockery. “He is the source of all that lives, all that dies, and all that is eternal.”

An old man stepped forward to stand beside Terah. “Either it was all a dream, or else a demon was having his sport with you.”

“Demons don't exist,” Abram replied patiently. “There is good and evil, justice and injustice. It is we who make good and evil. It is you and I who are just or unjust.”

This time, angry protests broke out in the crowd, everyone shouting at the same time.

“A god you can't see doesn't exist!”

“A god who doesn't shine is powerless!”

“What's the use of your god if he can't prevent evil or injustice?”

“And if he doesn't give us rain or protect us from thunder?”

“Who makes the barley grow?”

“Who makes us die? Who makes us ill?”

“Without Nintu, how would women give birth?”

“You're talking nonsense, Abram. You're insulting your ancestors.”

“You're insulting our gods, too!”

“They can hear you and I can hear them. Already they're getting angrier, I can feel it.”

“They're going to punish us for your words.”

“May they forgive us! May they forgive us for being here listening to you!”

“You're putting your father's whole tribe at risk, Abram.”

“Terah, ask your son to purify himself!”

“Condemn your son, Terah, or misfortune will fall on us all . . .”

“Listen to me!” Abram cried, holding out his arms.

Sarai thought at first that he, too, had lost his temper. But then she saw his lips and eyes, and she knew he was still calm and self-assured. He stepped forward and, more than his cry, it was his calm and the expression on his face that caused them to stop talking.

“Do you want proof that the One God exists? That He spoke to me and called me by my name? I am that proof, I, Abram, whom He called today. Tomorrow at dawn, as he asked of me, I will set off with my wife Sarai, my brother Haran's son Lot, my herd, and my servants. I will go westward, toward the country He will reveal to me.”

For a moment there was silence, as if everyone was trying to fathom the mystery of these words. Then, from here and there in the crowd, came bursts of derisive laughter.

“That's a fine proof!” a woman exclaimed. “The man who isn't even a father is going away. Much good may it do him!”

Sarai saw Abram purse his lips. Lot's hand in hers felt hot and shivery. Abram took a few steps forward, and the crowd drew back, as if afraid to be too close to him.

“All right,” he muttered. “I'm going to give you more proof.”

To everyone's astonishment, he ran into Terah's workshop and came out again carrying two big statues, perfect in every detail of form, color, and dress. Sarai knew immediately what he was going to do. She felt a shudder down her spine, and her mouth went dry. To a general cry of horror, Abram threw the statues into the air. They fell at Terah's feet. There was a dry sound, like the crack of a whip or the noise of rain on hard soil. The idols lay on the ground, no more than shattered fragments now.

“Are your gods mighty?” Abram cried. “Then let them kill me, here and now! Let them strike me with lightning! Let the sky fall on me and crush me! I've just broken the faces and bodies of those you call Inanna and Ea!”

Sarai, like the others, was unable to hold back a groan.

“You worship them,” Abram went on, pointing to the sky. “You bow to them morning and night. There's nothing you do that they don't see. The figures my father makes are their flesh, their body, their sublime presence.”

The crowd's lamentations grew in intensity. It was as if an enemy army had cut a swath through them.

“I've just broken what is sacred to you,” Abram's voice rang out above the cries. “I should be punished! Let Inanna and Ea strike me down!”

He began to turn in a circle, his arm still held high, his face raised to heaven. Clasping Lot's thin body to her, Sarai heard herself murmuring, “Abram! Abram!”

But Abram was still whirling. “Where are they,” he asked, “those you fear so much? I can't see them. I can't hear them. All I see is broken pottery. All I see is dust. All I see is the clay I took from the river with my own hands!”

He bent and picked up the head of the god Ea, whose nose was broken, and threw it against a stone, where it smashed.

“Why doesn't Ea extinguish the sun? Why doesn't he open the earth beneath my feet? I break his face and nothing happens . . .”

Men had fallen to their knees, holding their hands over their bowed heads, screaming as if their stomachs had been cut open. Others stared wide-eyed and recited prayers without pausing to catch their breath. Women wept and ran away, pulling their children by the arm, tearing their tunics on the undergrowth. Some stood openmouthed, searching the sky. Terah's old body was shaking like a branch in a storm. Lot was staring at Sarai, but she could not take her eyes off Abram. He was horribly calm. He turned and smiled at her, so tenderly, so serenely, that it melted her heart.

And nothing happened.

A strange silence returned.

In the warm sky of twilight the birds still flew. Small, high clouds still hung in the air. The river still flowed.