Ishtah - The Prostitute's Daughter Read online

enough. Lately she seemed larger than ever – her face appearing almost swollen in the flickering light cast from the burning bowl of oil set in the corner. I dusted my knees and stepped back a ways, neatly drawing my skirt back around my ankles. It was not attractive to be as thin as I was. I had known this since I was little. My mother had often told me I should eat more – a hint of displeasure in her tone as she surveyed my thin arms. As if we had much to eat to begin with. She used to try and dress me in her ways – though my body had always seemed in opposition to her tastes. At long she had given up any attempts at transforming me into a desert blossom – as she referred to herself from time to time when complaining about the heat and filth of her surroundings.

  “No,” I murmured, careful to appear dispassionate. “I’ll stay out of the way.”

  Her random offers of inclusion never ceased to perplex me. She knew I was useless entertainment. I couldn’t act or imitate gaiety, I hadn’t learned the art of flattery, and since she had never asked me to stay the night with any of her visitors alone, I couldn’t guess what she stood to gain by holding me hostage at her side. Swaying, I struggled to keep my face motionless. What then? I ran her house; I aided her in every way possible with the only two hands the gods had given me. What more was left for me to give her? Though she didn’t rise I could see her body tense – her long neck straining so her eyes could look better at me in the weak light.

  “Hesba is walking with her daughter to the temple,” I finally began to explain. “I thought I would join them tonight – to pray for you, since lately you haven’t been feeling well.” I moved quickly to busy myself, searching for a bowl on the shelves to pour incense out into.

  Widening, her eyes searched my partially turned away face. I knew she was looking for disdain – or contempt. I was determined not to let her find it – at least not that night. Hungry and tired, I only wanted to be gone – not to argue.

  “I don’t know what that woman wants,” murmured my mother at last, lips curling faintly, and hands rising helpless. “Doesn’t she have a daughter of her own to consort with, and a husband and son as well to comfort and care for her? Why must she steal away my only daughter for her amusement?”

  I could feel a flush begin to rise up my neck and spread across my cheeks.

  “What does she mean by leading my daughter to the temple steps, as if she were some high priestess amassing Assyria? I don’t want you to be near that woman, Ishtah. She holds no interest in your future and cannot say what is best for you as your mother can. I shan’t ask her to go and find you for me anymore if she feels she can steal you away as pleases her.”

  Unable to think what to say, I fought to swallow. She opened her painted lips to speak again – instead there came a loud knock at the door. Though unafraid, the sound caused my body to quiver. Outside, night had fully descended – the streets palpitating with a different sort of life than that of the day. My mother’s lips closed – though her eyes warned me she would not be satisfied until she spoke with me later.

  “Your guest,” I said, to assure her now was not the time.

  Again there came a knock at the door.

  Pointing a long finger in my direction, her eyes narrowed as she instructed, “Stay upstairs until I have need of you. The temple will be open tomorrow – same as it always is.” Casting back her newly braided hair, she rose with great effort from her cushions, pulling her thin veil across the lower half of her face as she treaded toward the door.

  For myself I closed the door of the kitchen and retreated behind the oven, which was still warm. A ladder descended from a square hole in our roof. Gripping the middle rung, I climbed to the top of it – inhaling deeply of the night air. Grateful for a gentle breeze to cool my heated face, I fought to reorient my wild thinking – my eyes searching near and far for something to hold my gaze. Looking up the street, I wondered fleetingly if Hesba had finished feeding her family yet.

  Down below, laughter broke the silence of our small house. Resting both my hands on the roof, I pulled myself up out of the kitchen – as quick as if a snake were coiled at the foot of the ladder. It was my mother’s laughter, followed by her loose chatter and routine flattery of her guest. Her voice was everywhere, unavoidable – like sap running down a trunk – trapping unsuspecting insects. It filled the entirety of our home and went out into the streets, into other homes – laughing.

  The deeper tones of her guest intertwined with the chime of her voice in a lyrical dance, lulling my mind into hushed submission. I had enough strength only to stretch my thin body out flat on the roof, my gaze journeying far and away across the black sky. Since there were no lights on our street there was nothing to obstruct my view as the gods intended it. The stars alone joined me for companionship, beaming in shades of innocent white down on my rooftop hideaway.

  How I wished I could have drank some of the remaining wine my mother had set aside for her caller – knowing how it was always able to soothe my mind, welcoming sleep much easier. Now I would lay exposed, waiting for my thoughts to prey on me. I knew her caller wouldn’t stay long, for sure taking leave before daylight broke – when all of Arrapha would awake and see things for what they really were. He would leave just as the sun rose, and it would be as if he had never arrived to our door. If he saw my mother out in the city, near the market or the temple square, he would look the other way. I exhaled slowly – breath leaking in short bursts from between my lips. For now he would stay, though. He would unfold gifts before her and swear his devotions aloud, and for now, she would be drunk with delight – the happiest prostitute in Arrapha.

  I reached to pull my head scarf down over my body like a blanket, turning over to my side to try and be comfortable. The nights could become abruptly cold – oddly if one considered the intense heat of the day. I imagined in many ways, the extremity of the weather reflected the temperament the gods held toward Arrapha. One minute we were the favored jewel of Assyria, with all manner of prosperity and wealth, the next we were subject to famine, drought, or war. We threw festivals annually to appease the gods, we sacrificed and prayed year around for their favor. Prone to unusual skepticism for one so young, I was inclined inwardly to question these efforts, checking the skies in doubt as to whether or not someone were even looking down, and if so, favorably? I found it difficult to pray – difficult to approach even the more modest city temples. Not only did I question the sincerity and intentions of the gods, but I cared too much what others thought. It was no place for me to draw near. My mother never went to the temples – though it wasn’t because she felt she didn’t belong. She had little motive to leave her door when everything came to her – crawling from each end of the city. Besides this, she kept a small shrine of her own at the front of the house, disassembling it whenever the space was needed. Again my stomach growled, interrupting my drifting thoughts. I turned to my other side in hopes of silencing it, curling my legs up toward my chest to keep warm.

  Falling asleep was the most challenging part of my day. My mind seemed always alert, even when there was no need of it. I had been that way even when I was a small child. I had many images and memories stored away from times when it was thought I was asleep, when I should have been resting – the coming and going of strangers, both men and women, the periods of laughter and silence, skin on skin, an array of different scents, flowing hair, thick beards, ever changing sandals lining the inside of our doorway. My clearest memories were of when the night finally ended, when the last of the oil finally evaporated, the gray morning light stealing past the cracks in the closed wooden shutters at the front of the house. I remembered asking myself as a small child how it was even possible for sunlight to appear dirty, standing in the emptiness – the wreckage of the night strewn around me. Somewhere in the room I would manage to find my breakfast – the remains of a spilt tray perhaps, and somewhere else I would find my mother, lifeless amid her sleep, which came always easy to her.

  I closed my eyes as another faint breeze swept the rooftop, st
irring the fine hairs lining my brow. At last my mind began to stray from structured thought, surrendering to my body’s plea for rest – my ears already shutting out the sounds of the city, our house, and even myself.

  Often my dreams would begin with memories, so much so that I sometimes woke in confusion – questioning for a moment where my memory had ended and my dream began. Tonight as I drifted off, I saw myself much younger – at age seven or so, my face small and hair hanging wild and unveiled below my shoulders. I had a sort of hopefulness as a child – it made me cringe to think of it now, now that I was older and more acquainted with disappointment. In my vision I stood on the sidelines, watching a procession of children clothed in their best attire, waving stocks of wheat and throwing grain up in the air. I knew this part for sure to be my memory – it was a celebration of one of Arrapha’s more prosperous seasons. I hadn’t been forbidden from joining the parade, rather I felt myself holding back instinctively in my dream. They were making their way to the central temple, where a burnt offering would be made in thanks for the city’s prosperity. It was custom for children to walk the