Eve (27 page)

Why, oh why, must I be strong for everyone? Aya this. Aya that. Just call me a rope, a binder of things, a sticky poultice. Really, I am not so surprised. Mother has lost her littlest, with Dara going to the city. She goes around
glum all day, and now she has told me, in no uncertain terms, that she thinks she will die during childbirth.

At night, when the beetles and cockroaches scurry this way and that, she wakes in the dark, dripping with sweat, clinging to Father and mumbling, “Not my fault.” Father leads her out, like a small child, into the cool night air. He sits and pulls her into the safe whorl of him. She leans her curly head back onto his chest, and he begins to hum, a low sad melody that is the perfect prayer. They have brought this from the Garden, and although we all know the tune of it, only Abel knows the words, from when he was a child. Mother whispers the words, and I strain to make them out, as I have always done. It is no use. The song whirls back on itself like a fine pink shell and
whooshes
in my ear. The song is not meant to be understood, only to be felt—the cool rush of water, the fresh breath of a melon, the slow sigh of grasses. Father rubs her arms and cups her hands in his. He strokes her hair, and still he hums. When her voice grows faint, he brings her back in and lays her on her reed mat, saying,
I’m here, I’m right here.

I, Aya, do not have someone who cares about me that much. No, I do not. Does anyone sit up and take notice of how hard I labor? No, I say, a thousand times, no.

And yet it is a funny thing.

Because I live, I am thankful. Because I live, I listen.

And now I will tell you the truth.

I have to believe I am useful
because
He made me. Mother has told me of the Garden, the plethora of species, each one in its own little niche, each a little odd and funny in its own right.
This is me,
I cry.
This is who I am. Odd little Aya with the crooked foot.
After all, He made insects that look like twigs and flesh-colored blooms that attract flies. He made beetles that change colors and butterflies with eyes on their wings. He made small brightly colored frogs that are poisonous and leaf-tailed geckos that blend into trees.

So I look. Hold my breath. Memorize the darkness, the light, the summer of my heart.
I am here,
I shout.
I am watching everything. The ordinary. The drab. The extraordinary. Praise, oh, sweet world. I bless you each and every day.

I would like Abel to notice me, just once. It is acceptable that I am his second and only choice, since he’s clearly disgusted with Naava’s impertinence—and the fact she poisoned Mother.

Cain and Naava left for the city this morning.

Was it not obvious that Naava desired everyone’s attention? She was a lioness looking to fill her belly. Cain looked at her like he was seeing the vast starry heavens for the first time, and Abel—what should be said about Abel? He only glanced at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. They were looks of curiosity, not of lust. I imagined he was thinking,
How could someone so ravishingly beautiful be so rotten to the core?

Naava pretended she did not notice the attention, but she strutted like a handsome hoopoe with her beak in the sky. Honestly, I knew of nothing I would have liked to do more than bash her over the head with one of my rocks, just to knock some sense into her. She could not have all the men. How could she?

I wrapped up some bread and cheese in fig leaves, filled the waterskins with beer, and tied it all to the donkey’s haunches.

Cain smiled at me and said, “Thank you, sister.” He went down on his knees and cupped his hands, so that Naava could climb with ease onto the donkey’s back. He stood and touched the small of her back, right above her buttocks, to make sure she was secure. I could have told him she was fine, absolutely fine, without laying a hand on her.

Naava smiled sweetly at Cain and brought her hand up to her neck, to wipe the sweat away.

Mind you: Abel watched all this out of the corner of his eye. When he saw Naava make this helpless movement with her hands, he descended rapidly, opened his wings, and put his claws on her.

“What
are you doing?” Naava said to Abel, who was holding an opened waterskin filled with water above her neck. “You shall soil my robe.”

Abel offered the sleeve of his robe. “Here,” he said. “Pour a little on this and cool your neck.”

Cain rummaged around in one of his big conical baskets. He pulled out a cucumber, took the knife from his belt, cut a hunk free, and offered it to
Naava. “This is better,” he said, looking evenly at Abel. “You can suck on it.” He struck the donkey’s hindquarters and barked, “We must be going.”

The donkey lurched forward, and Naava almost lost her balance. Cain went to the donkey’s head, took hold of the reins, and led him along.

Abel stood there for a long time, confused and disoriented, looking after his beautiful sister with the black heart.

Although Naava wanted to believe in everything that spoke of the
city, standing there in the middle of the marketplace after Cain ran off, she wondered if Inanna could hear the murmured prayers or see the eager faces or taste the wondrous feast set before her.
Did she have a physical body like Naava? Or was she a spirit, blown to and fro by the wind?
Naava had seen no evidence of Elohim, except for the single time she heard a strange voice from somewhere when she and Aya were playing, and although Aya latched on to it as Proof of Elohim’s Existence, Naava had declared that it was all a coincidence.
Hadn’t Aya been learning how to throw her voice around that time, anyway?
It could have been the wind.

What swayed Naava toward belief in Inanna’s existence was the
numbers
of people dedicated to her. In fact, it was remarkably reassuring to see so many people who believed and lived one certain way, with no evident doubters or dissenters. This was encouraging … and fortifying.

Those were her thoughts as she turned to the merchants behind her. One was already pulling on the sleeve of her robe—an older man with no teeth, whose groin was the only thing about him swathed in cloth. He rocked from foot to foot, rubbed his palms together, and pointed to an assortment of sweetmeats arranged artistically on large clay slabs. He rubbed his hands together. The anticipation of a sale was almost too much. The heat was melting the sweets, so they sat in a sticky pool of butter and
honey and flies’ wings. Naava shook her head
no,
then moved on. Behind her, the merchant chattered like a belligerent monkey.

Not all the sellers were this way. There was a tea house, or at least that’s what Naava assumed, because the woman with cinnamon skin behind the counter, the one with eyes as blue as Eve’s and a matching stone in her nose, smiled at her and motioned for Naava to choose a pinch of herbs by leaning over dark-mouthed jars and inhaling. Naava did. The woman then handed her a painted clay cup with cool water in it. She tapped on Naava’s hand where Naava held the herbs. Naava dumped them in, and the woman sighed, happy now. The woman waited. Naava sipped. The tea was earthy, a little lemony. She smiled, and the woman laughed and threw her hands in the air. Naava tried to give a section of Aya’s cheese to her, but the woman smiled a broad smile full of brown teeth, waved her hands, and jabbered something, maybe
Not necessary
or
Go in peace.
Again, Naava could only go by body gestures and the tone of voice, so she took her tea and went out into the sunlight again.

She sat on a bench. In front of her, a dusky-skinned girl with silver anklets balanced on the tips of her toes, reaching above her head to the flapping birds who seized bread morsels from her outstretched fingers. The girl was so absorbed with her task, she didn’t notice Naava, which was just as well because there were other things to see.

Nearby, a flabby-armed woman huffed as she rocked a large clay jar in the shape of the spinning tops Abel used to make for Naava. Naava supposed the woman was churning milk; the liquid sloshed inside. Across the way, a curly-headed boy with the wild look of a gazelle stacked thick-skinned oranges, sweet lemons, melons—a few with caved pates—black and white figs, slender grapes called goat’s dugs, and the first underripe harbingers of fall—honeydews. Naava’s mouth watered. Citrus fruits were not yet ripe, Naava knew. The city farmers must have squirreled them away last winter to get a higher price now, in midsummer. They might be an excellent barter. But as soon as she had decided this, she saw other things, better things.

There, in the corner, a man pounded a sheet the color of the sunset into the shape of a bowl. The sheet bent with each hammer blow, and when it resisted, into the fire it went, to soften it once again. The man’s
quickness was astonishing. Even more remarkable was the fleck of shimmering ash that surrounded him, like the lingering glow of an oil lamp. Naava stood to get a better look.
Tap tap
went his hammer;
ping ping
went the bowl. They sang an anthem of praise to their maker. The man set the bowl off to the side and wiped his brow. Naava reached out to touch it, but the man noticed her interest and, at the last moment, shook his head and muttered a warning.
Tsss,
he said.

Farther down, a pale young man with a square jaw and fine cheekbones sat on a wooden stool with children clinging to him like possum babies. The man was using a reed cut on an angle to draw gouges in a square shard of wet clay. He dipped his head in concentration, put his weight on the reed, then held it up for the children to see. The little ones laughed and clapped. Naava instinctively looked for Dara among them, but she didn’t see her sister’s telltale head of polished wheat.

She had forgotten about Cain and his quest for the sky, and she had forgotten the prince. Instead, she was overwhelmed—transported—by the silvery fish hanging from hooks; the lush ruby and amber jams; the ladies with turquoise nose rings and hennaed hands; the powdery yellowed hands of the saffron merchant; the elaborate painted leatherworking; the squawking basket of ducks; the dozens of snakes roasting; the tang of
mersu;
the sharp odor of cucumbers, split open; the jars of cinnamon and rose water; and the endless waves of that thing called linen, in more colors than she had ever dreamed of.

The linen was a phenomenal thing, so smooth and soft and thin. And this, she decided, was what she would barter for with Aya’s cheese. She would study it and replicate it at home. What she did not know then was that there was no replicating it if she did not grow the blue-headed flax, and how would she have known what flax was if Adam and Cain did not yet know.

The girl laying out the linen was not much older than Naava. She had two golden rings—one through her nose, the other through her lip—and freckles across her nose as profuse and brown as the flecks on a robin’s egg. Naava pointed to the umber fabric, and the girl pulled the cylinder from the pile and unrolled it in earthy waves. Her eyes crinkled up as she smiled and took Naava’s hand in her own, encouraging her to stroke the cloth, to
feel how unbelievably soft it was, nodding
yes?
at Naava’s obvious enthusiasm. But as Naava pulled the cheese from the donkey’s sling, the girl’s face fell. She touched the musty cheese, sniffed it even, then backed away, taking the cylinder of fabulous cloth with her. She yelled abrupt, angry words at Naava.

Naava held out the cheese again, thinking the girl must have mis understood, but the girl shook her head
no
and turned away. Disappointment as sharp as cactus thorns jabbed through Naava’s happy anticipation. Part of her felt shame that she offered nothing unique. Part of her felt anger that she had been rejected. She turned and yanked on her donkey’s reins, slapping its hindquarters.

Naava did not feel spite exactly, although her behavior, which she wore like garlic, pointed in that direction. In fact, if she had been injured with words that she understood right then, she would have run away and blubbered like a child. She did not have the ability to fail yet, or to look stupid, without it hurting her ego. The space between Naava’s childhood and womanhood, in the end, was too small to measure, and it was in this uneasy place that she existed for the time being.