Ishtah - The Prostitute's Daughter Page 8

her lips.

  With at first great reserve, I broke off a piece of bread for myself – later some fish, then quickly became ravenous. As I began to chew, I marveled at her having ventured out to the market on her own to collect such a spread. Normally I might have sat and stared a while longer, or else demanded to know what her act of random boldness could be attributed to, but in tasting the warm bread my hunger took control over me. I joined her fully in eating as much as my mouth and throat could contain. Glimpsing up now and then from the corner of my eye, I realized she was equally as famished as I – if not more. In silence we drowned out our thoughts with food – satisfying the seeming insatiable burn of emptiness in our stomachs.

  Between bites she thrust out her arm and shook her wrist in my direction for me to take note of a bronze bracelet – one I hadn’t seen before. Though of poorer metal, with no gold or fine stones, I knew it was still an expensive piece because of the detailed work – ornate blossoms etched all the way around it, and what looked like the sun, shining down.

  “Very nice,” I assured her, reaching to pour us both water from the jar I’d brought.

  I could only assume it was a gift from the handsome suitor I’d seen leaving that morning. Surely she must now be one of his favorite conquests, for him to lavish her so generously. Quietly I wondered how long he’d been visiting her for. Since I wasn’t always present during the comings and goings of her guests, being often up on the roof or else intentionally out of the house, I had no way of accurately guessing. I considered I might have seen him several months ago – but then again, there were many faces I could have mixed his with. I thought it odd for a guest to go absent for so long and then suddenly reappear. The usual progression of her relationships entailed frequent visits followed by eventual decline, and then finally total absence – in the inevitability the lover would find some other, alternative, newer source of pleasure. There were of course the regular patrons, with their insatiable needs – but these were few and far between.

  Tearing off a final piece of bread I sank my teeth into its warmth and sat back to watch her eat. As the food began to expand within my stomach, my anxiety began to trail away – my ever worrisome mind at last beginning to ease. Perhaps this suitor would become one of her regulars? Right then I decided it would be welcomed by me. Even if his gifts weren’t as costly as some she received, perhaps they would grow nicer with time. Besides, she seemed happier than I could remember her being in a long time – more pleasant for me to deal with. In a few short hours she had managed to transform into everything I imagined a mother should be. I enjoyed our time together like this, when it was just the two of us – when she was awake and so lively. It was seldom she became tangible – often being far beyond my reach, hidden behind her mask of paints and wall of perfume. Now, in the dimness of our small kitchen, with the air so warm and our bellies full, my very bones began to soften toward her.

  When we finally both finished we’d eaten all the fish, all the fruits, and left little of the bread. At last I was full – my emotions equally as subdued as my stomach. I watched her stretch both her round, bare legs out from under her skirt – rearranging herself cumbersomely as she cast back her thick, black hair. I could see sweat glisten on her face in the light from the hatch overhead, head tilting forward enough so she could almost rest her chin on her chest. She had gained enough weight recently to create rolls of skin around her neck whenever she looked down. It was odd to watch.

  “Are you going to dance?” she asked, abruptly breaking the silence between us.

  My eyes rose slowly back to her round face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, for the men – or boys . . . at the festival.”

  Though she was smiling I stared at her hard, unsure whether or not she was teasing me. At her expectant silence I could feel myself begin to smile as well. It was unlike her to inquire after my own interests. With frightening speed I felt an immediate sense of pleasure surge through me. In my eagerness to seize the moment, words spilled awkwardly from my lips.

  “No –” I stammered, tone conveying my confusion. “I couldn’t possibly dance – I have no rhythm, like you. I don’t know the steps and I would trip myself, or else the others.” I stopped short before adding I had nothing appropriate to wear to such a stylish event, my voice trailing off along with my gaze. I had always taken pains to mind her feelings – though she seldom seemed aware of my own.

  Here she laughed out loud her melodious, entrapping laughter – like a bird perched high on the city walls, boisterous and confident. Lifting uncomfortably to her feet she motioned me to rise and join her.

  Agonized, I rose and went to her – thinking she would try to teach me to dance. I knew it would be useless – same as whenever she tried to paint my face and dress me in her likeness. Her splendor was a thing not easily matched or replicated by myself or any other – any attempts succeeding only in making me feel worse than I did to begin with. To my surprise, though, she stood still in place – draping both her soft, heavy arms around my thin frame, pulling me close enough to her chest so that I could hear her heart. Since she was taller than me, her hair covered my eyes as it fell across her shoulder – almost like a veil. In an instant I became hushed, in awe of her awareness of me. I was afraid to move, worried she’d let go.

  The moment was short-lived, though, regardless of how still I held myself. After what seemed like a second she had pulled away – face turning sour, as if she felt unwell – her hand lifting to her brow to wipe away the increasing perspiration. She was clumsy in backing up –knocking over the jar I’d brought and spilling the remainder of the water out across the dirt. Turning away from the kitchen, as if I and it nauseated her, she made her way back to the front of the house toward her bed in the corner of the room.

  “Clean up for me, Ishtah,” she murmured. “I feel unwell now and must rest. I must be awake later tonight. I’ll need you to fix my hair and paint my face when you are finished tidying the house – I look like a wild animal – like one of those caged animals they sacrifice at the temple, and Ninharrissi is less forgiving than a man, you know. A woman is always more selective about her mate than a man and never fails to know what she likes best. For her my presentation must forever be flawless. She cannot smell more radiant than I. Her nails cannot be more ornate than mine. Her hair cannot be more elaborately braided than mine.” Seeming exhausted, she chuckled faintly before stretching out on her mat – resting her head on one of our cushions, as if it were too heavy to hold – her voice trailing off into oblivion as she surrendered to rest.

  Still warm from her embrace, I exhaled deeply; I wouldn’t have wished for it to end so soon, as odd as it was for her to hold me. Such gestures came seldom – catching me off-guard and leaving me breathless. Numbly I moved to clean up our meal, bending first to collect the spilt jar. The idea of having to go and fetch water twice in one day thwarted me greatly. After such a great feast all I wanted was to lie out on the roof alone – to digest both the meal and the unusual warmth and pleasance of my mother.

  A single remaining olive I placed between my lips as I stooped to collect our bowls, turning to stash them in their place behind the oven. Since she would have a visitor later that night I would need to reheat the oven to warm the leftover bread. I knew we were out of wine but I was unsure whether or not she wanted me to go and fetch more from the market, as she hadn’t requested any the day before when we finally ran out.

  At moving our heavy grain urn aside to stack the dishware, my hands halted – eyes spying a small, unfamiliar garland of some sort of herb. Since I hadn’t seen it there when preparing dinner the day before, I assumed my mother had picked it up that morning along with her other purchases. Lifting the tiny, dry bouquet I smelled it curiously. It certainly wasn’t something I’d cooked with before. On closer inspection I realized it was the plant silphium – my nose cringing at once and arm extending out as far as it could reach to hold it away from me. Clumsily I put the garland
back in its hiding place at the foot of the oven and moved the urn back in front of it, eyes glancing furtively to the front of the house when I’d finished. I could feel my heart begin to race as I shuffled away, pulsing as if it were galloping up my throat, trying to escape my chest through way of my mouth.

  Though I kept myself mostly distant from my mother’s ways, I knew I had seen a medicinal plant such as that before. It was sold in the market and used commonly enough by other women of her trade – considered a salvation from the gods by many of them. If enough of the tiny plant were ingested, and soon enough, it would successfully initiate the miscarriage of an unborn child. My eyes wandered around the small, dim kitchen, uncertain what I should clean next. Amid the thick silence my mother had left me with, my heartbeat sounded louder than was safe. I could only assume she’d already taken care of the matter, or else would soon enough. She seldom involved me in such intimate affairs of her trade, perhaps having always sensed resistance in me. There was only so much I could do to help her with, besides. I glanced down at my dusty feet, spreading my toes widely in the powdery dirt that was our floor.

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