Sarah: A Novel Read online

  From her grove, Sarai could also see a large part of the city, and, towering over it like a mountain, the ziggurat, the Sublime Platform. Not a day went by that she did not come here to admire the gardens of the ziggurat. They were a lake of foliage between earth and sky, full of every flower and every tree the gods had sown on the earth. From this riot of greenery emerged the steps, covered in black-and-white ceramics, that led up to the Sublime Bedchamber, with its lapis lazuli columns and walls. There, once a year, the king of Ur was united with the Lady of Heaven.

  Today, though, she had eyes only for what was happening in the house. Everything seemed to have calmed down. Sarai had the impression they had stopped searching for her. When the handmaids had appeared earlier in the garden, she had been tempted to join them. But now it was too late for her to leave her hiding place. With every hour that passed, she was more at fault. If anyone saw her in this state, they would scream with fright and turn away, shielding their eyes as if they had seen a woman possessed by demons. It was unthinkable that she could show herself like this to the women. It would be a blemish on her father’s house. She had to stay here and wait until nightfall. Only then could she perform her ablutions in the garden’s irrigation basin. After that, she would go and ask Sililli for forgiveness. With enough tears, and enough terror in her voice, to mollify her.

  Until then she had to forget her thirst and the heat that was gradually transforming the still air into a strange miasma of dry dust.

  SHE stiffened when she heard the shouts.

  “Sarai! Answer me, Sarai! I know you’re there! Do you want to die today, with the shame of the gods on you?”

  She recognized the thick calves, the yellow-and-white tunic with its black border instantly.

  “Sililli?”

  “Who else were you expecting?” the handmaid retorted, in an angry whisper.

  “How did you manage to find me?”

  Sililli took a few steps back. “Stop your chattering,” she said, lowering her voice even more, “and come out of there right now before anyone sees you.”

  “You mustn’t look at me,” Sarai warned.

  She emerged from the copse, straightening up with difficulty, her muscles aching from her long immobility.

  Sililli stifled a cry. “Forgive her, almighty Ea! Forgive her!”

  Sarai did not dare look Sililli in the face. She stared down at her short, round shadow on the ground, and saw her raise her arms to heaven then hug them to her bosom.

  “Almighty Lady of Heaven,” Sililli muttered, in a choked voice, “forgive me for having seen her soiled face and hands! She is only a child, holy Inanna. Nintu will soon purify her.”

  Sarai restrained herself from rushing into the handmaid’s arms. “I’m so sorry,” she said, in a barely audible whisper. “I didn’t do as you told me to. I couldn’t.”

  She did not have time to say more. A linen sheet was flung over her, covering her from head to foot, and Sililli’s hands clasped her waist. Now Sarai no longer needed to hold back, and she leaned against the firm, fleshy body of the woman who had not only been her nurse, but had also been like a mother to her.

  “Yes, you silly little thing,” Sililli whispered in her ear through the linen, the anger gone from her voice, the tremor of fear still there, “I’ve known about this hiding place for a long time. Since the first time you came here! Did you think you could escape your old Sililli? In the name of almighty Ea, what possessed you? Did you think you could hide from the sacred laws of Ur? To go where? To remain at fault your whole life? Oh, my little girl! Why didn’t you come to see me? Do you think you’re the first to be afraid of the bridal blood?”

  Sarai wanted to say something to justify herself, but Sililli placed a hand on her mouth.

  “No! You can tell me everything later. Nobody must see us here. Great Ea! Who knows what would happen if you were seen like this? Your aunts already know you’ve become a woman. They’re waiting for you in the chamber of blood. Don’t be afraid, they won’t scold if you arrive before the sun goes down. I’ve brought you a pitcher of lemon water and terebinth bark so you can wash your hands and face. Now throw your soiled tunic under the tamarisk. I’ll come back later to burn it. Wrap yourself in this linen veil. Make sure you avoid your sisters, or nobody will be able to stop those pests from going and telling your father everything.”

  Sarai felt Sililli’s hand stroking her cheek through the cloth.

  “Do what I ask of you. And hurry up about it. Your father must know nothing of your escapade.”

  “Sililli.”

  “What now?” Sililli said.

  “Will you be there, too? In the chamber of blood, I mean.”

  “Of course. Where else should I be?”

  WASHED and scented, her linen veil knotted over her left shoulder, Sarai reached the women’s courtyard without meeting a soul. She had gathered all her courage to approach the mysterious door she had never gone anywhere near.

  From the outside, the chamber of blood was nothing but a long white wall with no windows that took up almost the entire space below the quarters reserved for the women: Ichbi’s wife, sisters, daughters, female relatives, and handmaids. The door was cleverly concealed by a cane portico covered with a luxuriant ocher-flowered bignonia, so that it was possible to cross the women’s courtyard in all directions without ever seeing it.

  Sarai went through the portico. Before her was a small double door of thick cedarwood, the bottom half painted blue and the top half red: the door of the chamber of blood.

  Sarai had only a few steps to take to open this door. But she did not move. Invisible threads were holding her back. Was it fear?

  Like all girls her age, she had heard many stories about the chamber of blood. Like all girls her age, she knew that once a month women went and shut themselves in there for seven days. During full moons, they would gather there to make vows and petitions that could be said nowhere else. It was a place where women laughed, wept, ate honey and cakes and fruit, shared their dreams and secrets—and sometimes died in agony. Occasionally, through the thick walls, Sarai had heard the screams of a woman in labor. She had seen women go in there, happy with their big bellies, and not come out again. No men ever entered, or even tried to peer inside. Anyone curious or foolhardy enough to do so would carry the stain of their offense down with them to the hell of Ereshkigal.

  But in truth, she knew very little of what went on there. She had heard the most absurd rumors, whispered by her sisters and cousins. Unopened girls did not know what happened to those who entered the chamber of blood for the first time, and none of the munus, the opened women, ever divulged the secret.

  Her day had come. Who could go against the will of the gods? Sililli was right. It was time. She could not remain at fault any longer. She must have the courage to open that door.

  HER eyes, dazzled by the bright daylight outside, took some time to accustom themselves to the darkness. A mixture of strong odors floated in the enclosed air. Some she recognized: the scent of almond and orange peel oils, the smell of sesame oil, which was used in lamps. After a moment, she noticed another smell—thicker, slightly nauseating—that she had never smelled before.

  Shadows took shape within the shadows, figures moved. The chamber of blood was not completely dark. A dozen candles in brass disks diffused a yellow, flickering brightness. The chamber was both larger and higher than Sarai had imagined, with other, smaller rooms off to the sides. The brick floor was cooled by a narrow channel of clear water. At the far end, the gentle murmur of a fountain could be heard.

  A handclap made Sarai jump. There before her were three of her aunts, and behind them, standing slightly to one side, Sililli and two young handmaids. They all wore white togas with broad black stripes, and their hair was held in place by dark-colored headscarfs. They were smiling affectionately.

  Her aunt Egime, the eldest of her father’s sisters, took a step forward. She clapped again, then folded her arms over her chest, keeping her palms
open. Sililli handed her a pottery pitcher filled with scented water, and with a graceful gesture Egime plunged her hand in it and sprinkled Sarai.

  Nintu, mistress of the menstrual blood,

  Nintu, you who decide on life in the wombs of women,

  Nintu, beloved patroness of childbearing, welcome Sarai, daughter of Taram and Ichbi, Lord of Ur, into this chamber. She is here to purify herself, and to entrust her first blood to you. She is here to become pure and clean again for the bed of childbirth!

  After this prayer of welcome, the other women clapped three times, then took turns throwing the scented water over Sarai, until her face and shoulders were streaming. The scent was strong, so strong that it penetrated her nostrils and her throat, making her feel slightly intoxicated.

  When the pitcher was empty, the women surrounded Sarai, took her hands, and pulled her into one of the alcoves, where a high, round, narrow basin stood. Sililli untied her linen veil, and she was pushed naked into the basin. It was deeper than she had supposed: The freezing water reached to just below her barely formed breasts. Sarai shivered, and hugged herself in a childish gesture. The women laughed. They emptied phials into the water, then rubbed her vigorously with little linen bags filled with herbs. The air was filled with new scents. This time, Sarai recognized mint and terebinth, as well as the curious smell of weasel bile, sometimes used for smearing the feet as a protection against demons.

  The oil softened the water. Sarai became accustomed to its coolness. She closed her eyes and relaxed, and soon, the tension and the fear faded under all the rubbing and stroking.

  No sooner was she used to it than Egime was already ordering her out of the bath. Without wiping her, or covering her with even a small cloth, Egime led Sarai to another part of the room, where a brightly colored carpet had been rolled out. She made her stand with her legs apart and placed a wide-necked bronze vase between her thighs. Sililli took Sarai’s hand. Egime, her eyes fixed on the vase, started speaking in a loud voice.

  Nintu, patroness of childbirth, you who received the sacred brick of childbearing from the hands of almighty Enki, you who hold the scissors to cut the birth cord,

  Nintu, you who received the green lazulite vase, the silagarra, from almighty Enki, gather the blood of Sarai.

  Make sure that it is fertile.

  Nintu, gather the blood of Sarai like dew in a furrow. Make sure that it is making its honey. O, Nintu, sister of Enlil the First, make sure that Sarai’s vulva is fertile and as soft as a Dilum date and that her future husband never tires of it!

  A strange silence followed.

  Sarai could feel her heart beating against her temples and in her throat. The skin on her legs, buttocks, shoulders, belly, and forehead was beginning to prickle with heat, as though it had been stung with nettles.

  Then, in the same sharp, commanding voice, her old aunt repeated the prayer. This time, the other aunts recited it in unison with her.

  Once finished, they started all over again.

  Sarai realized that this would continue until her blood ran into the bronze vase.

  The ceremony seemed to go on for ever. With each word that Egime uttered, Sililli’s hand squeezed Sarai’s fingers. All at once, a cold pain froze her back and thighs. She was ashamed of her own nakedness and the position she was in. Why was it taking so long? Why was the blood taking so much time to flow now, when only this morning it had been flowing so abundantly?

  The prayer was repeated twenty times. Finally, the water was tinged with red. The women applauded. Egime seized Sarai’s face between her rough fingers and planted her lips on her brow.

  “Well done, child! Twenty prayers, that’s a good number. Nintu likes you. You should be pleased and thank her.” She took the bronze vase and placed it in Sarai’s hands. “Follow me,” she ordered.

  At the far end of the chamber of blood, against a red-and-blue mud wall, stood a terra-cotta statue, taller than Sarai. It was a statue of a woman with a round face and thick lips, her curly hair held in place by a metal ring. In one of her hands she held a tiny vase, identical to the one that Sarai was carrying. With the other hand, she held high the scissors of birth. The altar below the statue was covered with food, as if laid for a feast.

  “Nintu, Midwife of the World,” Egime whispered, her head bowed, “Sarai, daughter of Taram and Ichbi, salutes you and thanks you.”

  Sarai looked at her, uncomprehending. With an irritated pout, Egime seized her right hand, dipped her fingers in the blood, and rubbed them over the belly of the statue.

  “Now you do it,” she ordered.

  Pursing her lips in disgust, Sarai obeyed. Egime then took the bronze vase and poured a few drops of menstrual blood into the small dish held by the statue of Nintu. When she stood up again, her face was wreathed with a big smile, quite a change from her usual expression.

  “Welcome to the chamber of blood, daughter of my brother. Welcome among us, future munus! If I’ve understood Sililli’s muddled explanations correctly, it seems you haven’t eaten since this morning. You must be hungry.”

  There was a great burst of laughter behind Sarai. It was Sililli. Sarai let herself be drawn into her arms, finding it surprisingly comforting to lay her head on her handmaid’s ample bosom.

  “You see,” Sililli whispered, with a touch of reproach in her voice, “it wasn’t so terrible. It wasn’t worth making so much fuss over.”

  THAT evening, before her meal—cakes and fruit and barley and honey biscuits and fresh ewes’ cheese—she was given a new tunic, a fine linen tunic with black stripes, like the one worn by her aunts and the handmaids, and a shawl for her hair. Then the women taught her what to do when her periods came: how to make little wool tampons dipped in a special oil, the one whose strong, slightly disagreeable odor had greeted her when she first opened the door.

  “It’s olive oil,” Egime explained. “A rare and precious oil produced by the mar.Tu, the men with no city. You can thank your father for that: He has it brought for the king’s wives and sets a few amphoras aside for us. When there’s none left, we use flatfish oil. Believe me, that’s much less sweet and really stinks. After we’ve used that, we have to soak our buttocks in cypress oil for a whole day. Otherwise, when our men come to our beds, they might think our vulvae have turned into fishing baskets!”

  The joke was greeted with gales of laughter. Finally, Sililli explained to her how to fold the linen that she had to wrap around the area between her thighs.

  “You must change it every night before going to bed and wash it the next day. I’ll show you the sink, at the other end of the chamber.”

  In fact, the chamber of blood contained everything women might need during their seven days of confinement: comfortable beds, plenty of food—fruit, meat, cheese, cakes—supplied by women from outside, and lots to do. There were baskets overflowing with spun wool, and weaving frames full of work in progress.

  As Sililli was only there because of Sarai’s initiation, she could not spend the night. Before she returned to the women’s courtyard, she prepared an herb tea, which she gave to Sarai in a steaming goblet.

  “That way you won’t have a stomachache tonight,” she said, kissing Sarai gently on the head. “Now, I’m not allowed back in here until twilight tomorrow. If anything’s the matter, just ask Aunt Egime. I know she’s a bit abrupt, but you can see how much she loves you.”

  She must have put something else in the drink besides herbs for the stomach, for not long after she had left, Sarai fell into a deep sleep untroubled by dreams.

  When she woke, her aunts and the handmaids were already busy, weaving with just as much dexterity in the semidarkness as they would in broad daylight, chattering all the while like birds, and only breaking off to laugh or to swap good-natured jibes.

  Egime ordered Sarai to thank Nintu and offer some food on her altar. Then Sarai washed herself in the basin, while a handmaid poured oils into the water and smeared her belly and thighs with a scented pomade.

  Whe
n she was clean, Egime asked if she was still bleeding regularly. After that, Sarai had a breakfast of ewes’ milk, slightly curdled cow’s cheese mixed with honey, and barley bread soaked in meat juice and spread with crushed dates, apricots, and peaches.

  But just as she was about to help with the weaving, and to learn how to pass the spindles between the thinnest threads, her young aunts approached, bearing a tall sheet of bronze.

  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.”