Sarah (4 page)

Sarai, surprised, looked at them uncomprehendingly.

“Take off your tunic, we're going to tell you what you look like.”

“What I look like?”

“Exactly. You're going to look at yourself naked in the mirror and we'll tell you what your future husband will see when he puts the marriage ointment on you.”

These words sent a chill through Sarai far greater than the morning's bath. She glanced at Egime. Without interrupting her work, her old aunt nodded and smiled, with a smile as imposing as a command.

Sarai gave a disdainful shrug, though she was far from feeling as calm as she pretended. She regretted the fact that Sililli wasn't here. If she had been, her young aunts would never have dared to mock her.

With an abrupt movement, she took off her tunic. While the women sat down around her, chuckling, she tried to appear as indifferent as she could.

“Turn around slowly,” one of the aunts ordered, “so that we can see you properly.”

Her moving figure was reflected in the bronze mirror, though she could hardly see herself in the dim light.

Egime was the first to comment on the spectacle. “The bridal blood may be flowing from her womb, but the fact is, she's still only a child. If her bridegroom wants to taste her honey cake as soon as he puts the ointment on her, he's going to be disappointed.”

“I'm only twelve years and two seasons old,” Sarai protested, feeling hot with anger. “Of course I'm a child.”

“But her thighs are slim and well shaped,” one of the handmaids said. “She's going to have beautiful legs, I'm sure of it.”

“She'll always have small feet,” another said, “and small hands, too. That should be quite graceful.”

“Is a husband interested in his wife's feet and hands the day he puts the ointment on her?” Egime muttered.

“But look at her buttocks, sister. He'll have his money's worth there. See how high and hard they are. Like golden little gourds. What husband could resist taking a bite of those? And the dimple at the top. I tell you, sisters, in a year or two, her husband will get plenty of milk to drink there.”

“Her belly's quite nice, too,” the youngest of the aunts said, “and her skin as delicate as you could wish. A real pleasure to pass your palm over it.”

“Lift your arms, Sarai!” another ordered. “What a pity, sisters! Our niece's arms are less graceful than her legs.”

“She has elbows like a goose, but they'll do. The shoulders are pretty. I'd say they're going to be broad. What do you think, Egime?”

“Big shoulders, big breasts, that's what they say. I've seen that dozens of times.”

They all burst out laughing.

“For now, though, the bridegroom won't have anything to get his teeth into!”

“But they're coming out, they're taking shape.”

“Hardly! You can see her bones more clearly than her breasts.”

“Yours weren't much bigger at her age,” Egime said to her younger sister, “and look at them now: We have to weave you double-length tunics to cover them!”

They laughed again, not even noticing that tears were running down Sarai's cheeks into her mouth, she wiped them away with her wrist.

“What the groom definitely won't see, the day of the ointment, is the sweet forest. Not even a shadow! He'll have to be content with the furrow and, in my opinion, wait for the field to grow before he can plow it!”

“Enough!” cried Sarai, kicking over the bronze mirror and covering herself with her tunic.

“Sarai!” Egime roared.

“I won't listen to any more of your wicked comments! I don't need anyone to tell me I'm beautiful, and I'll be even more beautiful when I've grown up. I'll be more beautiful than all of you. You're all jealous, that's what you are!”

“Proud and snake-tongued, that's what
you
are!” Egime replied. “If your bridegroom doesn't pull a long face when he sees you, he will when he hears you. I hope my brother Ichbi has made careful plans. I wouldn't like him to get a rejection.”

“My father hasn't decided to get me married. Why do you keep saying that? I have no bridegroom. You're all old and you're saying stupid things!”

She had almost screamed the last words. They echoed off the damp walls of the chamber of blood and subsided to the brick floor. The laughter ceased, and there was an embarrassed silence.

“How do you know you have no bridegroom?” Egime asked, with an even deeper frown.

A shiver ran through Sarai. The fear that had knotted her stomach the day before had returned.

“My father has told me nothing,” she breathed. “He always tells me what he wants me to do.”

Her aunts and the handmaids averted their eyes.

“Your father has no need to tell you about things that happen as they should,” Egime retorted.

“Yes, my father tells me everything. I'm his favorite daughter—”

Sarai broke off. She had only to speak the words to realize what a lie they were.

Egime let out a brief sigh. “Childish nonsense! Don't invent something that isn't real! The laws of the city and the will of almighty Ea must be respected. You'll stay with us for four days, and on the seventh you'll leave the chamber of blood and be prepared for your wedding. The month of plowing is a good month for it. There will be meals and chanting. The man who is to be your husband must already be on his way to Ur. I'm sure your father has chosen someone rich and powerful. You'll have no cause for complaint. By the next moon, he will have put the ointment of cypress on you. That is what will happen. That is how it must be.”

Abram

A
fter seven long days and seven nights full of dreams she did not dare tell anyone about, Sarai left the chamber of blood. It was a moment she dreaded as much as she had wished for it.

The daylight was so bright that she could hardly open her eyes. She heard, more than she saw, Sililli greet her with chuckles of contentment and kiss her, while Egime gave her a few last pieces of advice.

Before Sarai could even say a word, Sililli pulled her over to the staircase leading to the women's quarters, whose white walls were even more dazzling than the walls of the courtyard. Sarai let herself be led like a blind girl. There seemed to be more steps going up than she remembered. She did not open her eyes until they reached the upper terrace, where Sililli opened a cedarwood door, its wood so new it still smelled of resin.

“Go in!”

Shielding her eyes, Sarai hesitated. There seemed to be nothing beyond the door but a gaping shadow.

“Come on now, go in!” Sililli repeated.

The room was spacious, its length greater than its breadth. There was a square window, through which the morning sun entered, and a window seat covered with a mat. The floor was of oiled red bricks and the high ceiling was made of thin reeds carefully attached to squared-off beams. Everything was new. There were two beds, one large and one small, as well as a huge painted chest reinforced with silver studs. Against one wall was a weaving frame, also new. The vases, bowls, and goblets on a rack in a corner of the room had never been used, nor had any flame ever licked the terra-cotta fireplace.

“Isn't it magnificent? It was your father who wanted things to be like this.”

Sililli was flushed with excitement. In a flood of words, she told Sarai how Ichbi Sum-Usur had urged on the carpenters and masons so that all these wonders should be ready for the day when his daughter left the chamber of blood.

“He took care of everything! He even decided how high the walls should be. He said: ‘She's the first of my daughters to be married, and nothing can be too beautiful for her. I want her bridal chamber to be the highest and most beautiful in the women's courtyard!'”

Sarai felt a strange tightening in her chest. She wanted to share Sililli's joy, but she was finding it hard to breathe. She could not take her eyes off the big bed. Sililli was right; it was the most beautiful she had ever seen. The plane-wood bedstead stood on broad feet that bore delicately carved figures of the zodiac. On the wide dark board, its end covered with immaculately white sheepskins, a red silhouette of Nintu had been painted.

“All the months of the four seasons are here,” Sililli said, running her index finger over the drawing of the Goat-Fish, the constellation of
Mul.suhur
. “So that all of them can bring you luck.” She pointed to the small bed in another corner of the room. “And that's for me. It's new, too. Of course, I'll only sleep here on the nights when you're alone.”

Sarai avoided her gaze. But Sililli hadn't finished yet. She went to the big chest and lifted the thick wooden lid with its silver hinges, revealing a heap of fabrics and shawls.

“A full chest, that was another thing your father wanted! Look how beautifully these are woven! Linen
rakutus
as smooth as a baby's skin. And this . . .”

She opened a leather bag and emptied its contents on the sheepskins: a collection of wooden and silver clasps, bracelets, and brooches. Then she took one of the lengths of material from the chest and in a few deft movements draped Sarai in a perfectly folded toga, leaving her left shoulder bare, as was the custom.

Sililli took a step backward to admire her work, but Sarai did not give her time. She removed the toga and dropped it on the bed.

“Do you know who he is?” she asked, in a voice that shook more than she would have liked.

“Sarai . . . What are you talking about?”

“Him. The man my father has chosen to be my husband. The man who'll sleep with me in this big bed.”

Sililli frowned and gave a deep sigh that shook her bosom. Mechanically, she picked up the fabric Sarai had dropped and carefully folded it.

“How should I know? Your father doesn't confide things like that to a handmaid.”

“But is he already here?” Sarai asked, annoyed. “You must at least know that.”

“It isn't customary for the bridegroom and his father to come to the bride's house before she has taken part in the first meal for the guests. Didn't Egime teach you anything in those seven days?”

“Oh, yes! She taught me how to sing, how to wash my linen, how to weave fine but solid-colored threads. She taught me what a wife must do to make sure her husband is never hungry. How he must be fed morning and night. What to say to him and what not to say to him. She taught me how to add color to my feet, how to wear a shawl, how to put pomade between my buttocks! My head is still spinning with all the things she taught me!” As Sarai's voice rose, tears sprung into her eyes, tears she could not hide. “But she didn't tell me who my husband would be.”

“Because she doesn't know.”

Sarai looked into Sililli's eyes, hoping to catch her out in a lie, but all she saw in those eyes was a sad, slightly weary tenderness.

“She doesn't know, Sarai,” repeated Sililli. “This is how it is, my child. A daughter belongs to her father, her father gives her to her husband. This is how things are!”

“That's what you all say. But I'm going to ask my father.”

“Sarai! Sarai! Open your eyes! Tomorrow, the whole house will be celebrating. Your father will give the first banquet and show off your beauty to his guests. Your bridegroom will come to offer his nuptial platter and his silver ingots, and then you'll know who he is. The day after tomorrow, he'll put the bridal scent on you and you'll be his. There! That's what's going to happen. Nothing can change that, for that is how the daughters of the lords of Ur are married. And you are Sarai, the daughter of Ichbi Sum-Usur. In two nights, your husband will come to sleep in this beautiful chamber, in this beautiful bed. For your greater happiness. I'm sure your father hasn't made a bad choice . . .”

Her hands over her ears so she couldn't hear any more, Sarai rushed to the door, only to be brought up short by Kiddin, her elder brother, standing on the threshold.

He was fifteen, but seemed two years older. Although his beard was still only a light down, he was as handsome as a young lord of Ur, eldest son of a great house, ought to be, with regular features and strong muscles, like a warrior's. Kiddin loved fighting, and practiced every day. He was always well groomed, always very aware of the way he looked, the way his voice sounded. Sarai had long since noticed how careful he was to ensure that the cloth of his toga, against his bare right shoulder, emphasized the smoothness of his skin and made women want to stroke it. In the household, his chief concern was to make sure that everyone respected his rank as the firstborn. Even Sililli, although she seemed to fear nobody but Ichbi Sum-Usur, took care never to offend him.

“Good morning, sister,” Kiddin said, in a cold voice. “Our father wants you to join him. He is about to sacrifice some sheep to learn your future as a wife. The
barù
is already in the temple, drinking and scenting himself.”

Sarai opened her mouth to ask the question that was nagging at her, but nothing came out except “Good day, brother.”

“Get ready,” Kiddin said, with a gleam in his eyes, and a mocking smile that gave a glimpse of the young boy that he really was. “I'll be back for you in a little while.”

He turned his back and left the room, like a great lord who liked to let his words hang in the air.

THE little room where Sarai's father was working was quite cluttered. Two of the walls were completely covered with shelves piled high with clay tablets. Letters, contracts, and accounts by the hundreds. All the important things that made Ichbi Sum-Usur a feared and respected man.

On a long ebony table, a servant was pressing a ball of clay into a wooden mold with the help of a pestle. Beside him were small boxes of fresh clay covered with damp linen, bronze knives, pots filled with large and small styli: everything required for writing. Sitting at the other end, a scribe was meticulously sculpting words in the paste.

Sarai heard her father dictating: “. . . the bridegroom will be able to come into my house and stay there like a welcome son . . .”

She let the curtain over the door fall behind her.

“My daughter!” her father cried, and beneath his long, black, perfectly waved beard, his double chin swelled with pleasure. With a gesture, he dismissed his servants. The scribe and his assistant quickly covered their unfinished work with a cloth and withdrew, bowing several times to Sarai.

Ichbi Sum-Usur opened his arms wide. “My daughter,” he repeated, as if the words were like honey in his mouth. “The first to marry!”

“I'm so happy to see you, Father.”

And it was true. She was always happy to see him. He was not much taller than she was, and his corpulence bore witness to his lack of exercise as well as the extravagant meals he was constantly organizing. But she loved his imposing bearing, the distinction only power could bestow and only the noblest citizens of Ur possessed. His eyes, underlined thickly with kohl, had the self-confidence of those who knew themselves to be above the common herd. And today he was draped in a magnificent tunic, with colorful embroidered hems and little silver tassels, the finery of a high-ranking official. Sarai's dress, although of very fine material, seemed quite plain in comparison.

She was proud of her father, proud to be his daughter, and although Kiddin, her elder brother, was of course Ichbi Sum-Usur's firstborn, she had no doubt she was the first in his heart. And she loved nothing better than to make sure of it.

She bowed respectfully, perhaps a little excessively, but it brought a satisfied grunt from her father. He approached, put a finger under her chin, and lifted her head.

“You're looking beautiful, my child. Egime tells me you were a good girl in the chamber of blood. I'm pleased with you. I hope you're pleased with me.”

Inhaling the scent of myrrh, with which he had liberally sprinkled himself, Sarai merely batted her eyelids in reply.

“Is that all? I build you the most beautiful bedchamber in the house and that's all the thanks I get?”

“I'm very pleased with the bedchamber, Father. The bed in particular is very beautiful. Everything is very beautiful. The chest and the dresses. Everything. And you are still my beloved father.”

“But?” Ichbi Sum-Usur sighed: He could read her as well as if she were a tablet from the royal scribes.

“But, my beloved father, I know nothing of the husband who will join me there. Depending on who he is, I may find my bed less beautiful and my bedchamber worse than a hovel in the lower city.”

Ichbi Sum-Usur raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Sarai!” he said, with a sigh that was half a laugh. “Sarai, my daughter! Will you never change?”

“My father, all I want to know is who you've chosen as my husband and why. Don't I have the right to know that?”

Sarai's voice was neither tearful nor submissive. On the contrary, Ichbi Sum-Usur could sense a familiar resonance in it: the resonance his own voice had when he expected his orders to be obeyed without question.

He looked at her through narrowed eyes, letting the silence hover in the air, as he did when he wished to impress his subordinates. Outside, in the courtyard, there were voices, shouts of greeting. The guests were starting to arrive. Sarai put her small hand on her father's broad wrist. He rose to his full height, with all the solemnity he could muster.

“A father chooses the man who will take his daughter for a wife for reasons that suit him. The man I have chosen for you suits me. If he suits me, he will suit you.”

“I only want to see his face.”

“You'll have all your married life to see it.”

“What if I don't like it?”

“A marriage is not a whim. A husband isn't chosen because he has a nice nose.”

“I'm not talking about his nose. Wasn't it you who taught me to recognize a man's destiny by observing his face and his walk?”

“In that case, trust me. I've made the right choice.”

“Father, please!”

“That's enough!” Ichbi Sum-Usur said, finally losing patience. “What do you think? That I'll go with you to his house so that you can size him up? Almighty Ea, protect me! Perhaps I should also send messengers all over the city to announce that Ichbi Sum-Usur has changed his mind about the marriage of his daughter the goddess because the husband he chose isn't to her taste! Sarai, Sarai! Please don't offend the gods with any more of this nonsense.”

He turned, angrily seized the tablet of fresh clay on which the scribe had been writing earlier, and brandished it in front of Sarai's face.