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  Abram misunderstood my smile. He put his big hand on my knee. “Yes!” he said, his voice shaking. “More than you think. Listen to this. Yhwh also said to me: ‘Your name will no longer be Abram but Abraham, and you will be the father of a multitude of nations. You will no longer call your wife Sarai, but Sarah. I shall bless her, too. And will give you a son by her. His name will be Isaac.’”

  I think the sky shook as Abraham spoke these words. Unless it was my womb. My mouth shook, too. I thought of my cry in the stream, of the miracle of age that had come to me this past moon and shattered the miracle of beauty. It’s quite possible I thought of all that, telling myself that what Abram was saying might be true and his god might finally be coming to my aid and supporting me.

  But I revealed nothing of what I was thinking. After all this time, it was too much to hope for. Besides, one look at the two of us, old Sarai and old Abram, and anyone would have laughed at the thought us in bed together, let alone me giving birth!

  No, I didn’t want to hear anything about the promise contained in Yhwh’s words.

  I put my hand on Abram’s hand. “I don’t mind changing my name to Sarah. And Abraham has a good ring to it, too. I don’t mind Abraham.”

  He sighed like a young man. His eyes shone, amused and radiant. His lips stretched in a smile, reminding me of the lips that had so seduced me once, on the banks of the Euphrates. “You don’t believe it, do you?”

  “Believe what?”

  “Oh, don’t pretend! You know what I’m talking about!”

  “Abraham, if that’s your name now, haven’t you noticed how old I’ve become?”

  “You’re not old. You only look as old as you ought to be, and I’m very pleased for you! Sarah, my love, Yhwh has announced it. He has blessed you. Your son will be called Isaac. What more do you want?”

  “Abraham, my dear, sweet husband, do stop dreaming. From whose womb is this son—this Isaac—to come?”

  “From yours. Sarah’s. Who else?”

  “And from whose seed?”

  “Mine. What a question! Oh, I see! You don’t think I’m capable anymore, is that it?”

  I could not restrain my giggles. “Oh yes. You’re capable of anything. But it’s all over for me, after all this time. Just because my name is now Sarah doesn’t mean I can give you a son. I’m wrinkled and I don’t have periods, which is as it should be. A woman is a woman, Abraham. Even me.”

  “Stuff and nonsense! You aren’t listening to the word of Yhwh. I, too, doubted. I, too, laughed. It made Yhwh angry. ‘Could anything be too difficult for Yhwh?’ He asked. “Sarah, all we need is to . . . Oh, stop laughing!”

  But I couldn’t stop giggling. I embraced my old husband. I took his head in my hands, kissed his eyes, placed his brow against my cheek. “You don’t need all these words just to go to bed with me, Abraham. But don’t be under any illusions. The woman I am now is a woman you don’t know. She can’t compare with Hagar.”

  With a grunt, he searched for my mouth, still in a bad humor. “You are Sarah and I am Abraham. That’s all that matters and, with the help of God Most High, I’m going to prove it to you.”

  Which he did.

  By satisfying me. By giving me a pleasure I had never known before, a calm, tender pleasure. I remembered the words of my dear Sililli: “Men never get tired of those things! They may not be able anymore, but as long as they can get their shaft up, they’re always ready and willing!” But a woman never tires of it either, even when her body is no more than a memory of her youth.

  After that, we both fell into a deep sleep. Mine was so deep that I did not hear Abraham get up in broad daylight. I was awakened by voices.

  “Masters!” Abraham was saying. “Masters, don’t pass your servant by. Here is water to wash your feet. Take advantage of the shade, this terebinth has thick foliage. Rest. I’ll fetch bread and pancakes. You need to gather your strength.”

  I heard the unknown travelers thanking him. “Do as you wish.”

  Abraham seated them beneath the terebinth and ran into the tent. “Quick! Prepare curds and fruit.”

  “But who are these travelers, Abraham?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if he had not understood my question.

  “Why all the rush?” I asked.

  “They are envoys, angels of Yhwh.”

  He went out again, still in a rush. Then I heard the voice of one of the travelers. “Where is your wife, Sarah?”

  I stopped dead. I was perplexed. They knew my new name, even though Abraham had only given it to me the night before!

  “She’s in the tent,” Abraham replied.

  “Next year, on this very day, your wife Sarah will have a son.”

  I couldn’t help it. I thought of the night I had just spent in Abraham’s arms and I laughed. Not a giggle this time, not a chuckle or an amused little laugh, but a laugh such as I had never had in my life. A laugh of belief in Yhwh’s words and of disbelief in those same words. A laugh that shook me from head to foot, that streamed through my blood and into my heart, that flooded my chest and coiled in my womb like a tremor of life.

  A laugh that upset Yhwh, for the travelers asked rather dryly: “Why all that laughter?”

  Immediately, from behind the flap of the tent, I tried to lie. “No, I didn’t laugh.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Impossible to hide the laugh, impossible to lie to God.

  But now I know that Yhwh granted me that laugh, because I deserved it. After so many years of being only Sarai, Abram’s wife with the barren womb, here I was, an old woman called Sarah, and fertile! Sarah, who would give birth to Abraham’s offspring, my son Isaac! How could I not laugh?

  No, I wasn’t laughing at Yhwh. Who would dare? I was only laughing at myself, at the route my life had taken. At my fears, my consolation, and my delight.

  For it all came to pass.

  It was my turn to know how it felt to have a big belly, and heavy hips and breasts that swell and grow hard. To break out in sweats and be subject to whims. At last I saw Abraham kneeling between my thighs, his ear pressed against my navel, trembling like a young man and exclaiming, “He’s moving, he’s moving!”

  It was my turn to be afraid, to have sleepless nights and gloomy thoughts. I remembered Lehklai, and all the women I had seen die while giving life.

  It was my turn to feel a boundless pride, and parade my swollen belly through the whole valley of Hebron. “Who would have thought it?” I would say to whoever wanted to see my belly. “Sarah and Abraham are expecting a boy born of their flesh. As old as they both are, that is the will of Yhwh.”

  They, too, laughed.

  As the travelers had predicted, it was my turn to climb onto the bricks of childbearing, with my brow moist with sweat, pain in the small of my back and screams in my mouth. But I was lucid enough to say to the midwives: “If things go badly, don’t hesitate to open my belly and take the child out alive. I’ve had my time.”

  But Yhwh was in my body. To everyone’s amazement, it was a short labor, the kind you might expect of a woman who’d already had twelve children. Isaac was born, a fine, round baby, soft as honey bread. My Isaac, the most beautiful child who ever came into the world!

  From birth, he had Abraham’s lips, and eyes that went straight to your heart. As soon as he grew, everyone would realize how strong and farsighted he was going to be—but with some of his mother’s grace and beauty, too.

  People came from far and wide to see him. “Who would have thought it?” they all cried. “Sarah breast-feeding a son for Abraham’s old age!”

  They would leave again, impressed by the greatness of Yhwh, admiring His power and the accuracy of His promises.

  Even Eliezer of Damascus came to see me. He hadn’t changed. He was a handsome man, but his lids were too heavy for his eyes. Seeing him again, I thought of those pretty sulfur-yellow flowers you see on the banks of the Salt Sea. When you go to pick them, you fall into one of the cracks in the rock the
flowers have been concealing.

  He acknowledged grudgingly that Isaac was as handsome and as strong as they said, then changed the subject. “Your nephew Lot’s behavior in Sodom leaves a lot to be desired. He shows no respect for Yhwh. He’s constantly drunk, and sleeps with whoever he likes, young or old, women or boys. They say he even does it with his own daughters.”

  “‘They say . . .’ Have you seen him doing it? Were you in his tent holding a candle?”

  He laughed, venomously. “They say it, and I believe them. It doesn’t matter if I’ve seen him or not. God Most High sees him. He’s going to be angry, you can be sure of that.”

  “Whether you like it or not, Eliezer,” I replied, “Abraham loves Lot, and won’t abandon him. He’ll plead for Lot’s life with Yhwh, if he has to.”

  That’s exactly what happened. Yhwh destroyed Sodom, but Abraham begged him to spare Lot. He said to Yhwh, “You can’t make the just die along with the wicked!” And God Most High heard him. Eliezer wasn’t happy about that. I never saw him again. Good riddance. There’s someone who’ll be forgotten forever.

  As for Lot, after Yhwh had saved him by Abraham’s good graces, he sent me a calf and some scents, telling me through his servant that my happiness was his happiness and that he was going away to live with his family in the Negev Desert.

  Poor Lot! I loved him less than he wanted and more than I should. He was a victim of my miraculous beauty. He remains a shadow in my life. Like Hagar.

  After Isaac was born, she came to see me with Ishmael. Once, twice, then more and more frequently. We had very little to say to each other. She would hang on Ishmael’s every laugh, while I, always a little afraid for Isaac, would keep my eyes open and hope her son didn’t do anything naughty.

  “Look how affectionate my son is with your son,” she said one day. “The two brothers are going to be really happy together!”

  “I don’t think so,” I replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s better if you go away. You’re no longer my handmaid and Isaac doesn’t need a brother. Your son is big. Now you can walk and find a place that’s all yours.”

  “But why? I loved you more than a mistress. Like a sister . . .”

  I interrupted her with a gesture. “No, Hagar. My jealousy isn’t dead, only put aside. My wish that Isaac should be Abraham’s only heir isn’t dead either. Be sensible. We don’t like each other. Our sons won’t like each other because they’ll feel the mistrust between their mothers. I can say to you ‘Go!’ because it’s in my power. And I do say it.”

  I resisted all her tears and entreaties.

  Even now, there are those who blame me for what I did.

  Was I wrong? How to know? I was proud of my happiness and didn’t want any shadow over my laughter.

  But Yhwh, to teach me humility, saw to it that my laugh was transformed into a cry.

  It happened one morning when the sky was low, although there was no rain. I was looking for Isaac and couldn’t find him. I went down toward Abraham’s tent, and there I saw the two of them, loading the packsaddles of an ass with wood. Abraham had that solemn look of his. I even thought he looked pale: There was something milky about his complexion despite his brown skin. Isaac was his usual amiable, carefree self. But he was dressed in a new tunic that I didn’t remember having given him that morning.

  I was intrigued. I watched them without going any closer. Abraham sat down on the back of the ass and took Isaac in his arms. He kicked the ass, and they set off at a jog along the road to Moriah.

  At first, I watched them as they moved off into the distance. Then I felt my whole body tighten.

  A presentiment caught me by the throat. My heart and my fingers felt ice cold. I had no idea what was going to happen; all I knew was that I mustn’t let Isaac out of my sight. So I ran after them. Ran as fast as my old legs and my breath would let me. This time, I regretted being old.

  As I ran, it occurred to me that the plateau of Moriah was a place where Abraham often made offerings to Yhwh. Sacrifices of ewes, lambs, or rams. Perhaps he was only taking his son with him to teach him how to make offerings and let him share in his word with God Most High.

  Then I thought again of his gray face and Isaac’s new tunic. The bags that hung on the ass’s sides contained the wood for the fire, but where were the ram, the lamb, the ewe?

  I was having difficulty keeping up with them. I could hardly breathe, so strong was my anxiety. I reasoned with myself, tried to calm down. “But what are you thinking?” I said to myself. “It’s impossible. Why even think it?”

  But I did think it.

  When I finally reached the top of the little slope that leads to the plateau of Moriah, I saw them, a hundred paces away.

  Isaac was heaping wood on the altar. A fine pyre, carefully arranged. Abraham was standing to one side, an absent look in his eyes. I saw him take his long knife from his belt and I knew I hadn’t been mistaken.

  I was about to scream and rush to them.

  “Isaac! Come to my arms, Isaac! What are you doing, Abraham? Have you gone mad?”

  But not a sound passed my lips. My screams were silent. I couldn’t run, I couldn’t take a single step forward. I was behind a fissure in a rock and something, some force, was keeping me there. As I watched, Abraham called Isaac to him. He stroked his cheek, took the rope that was used for binding the wood on the altar, and tied his arms with it. I fell to my knees in the dust. I was powerless to do anything but watch.

  “Oh, Isaac, my son! Don’t hold out your arms! Run, get away!”

  But Abraham lifted him, and carried him to the pyre.

  “I hate you, Abraham, how could you, how dare you? Your son, your only son! My only life.”

  But Abraham did it. He laid Isaac on the altar. There was a look of surprise in Isaac’s eyes, but he did not weep. Abraham stroked his brow. He kissed him, and the hand that held the knife moved away from his hip. Slowly, Abraham raised his arm, and the blade glinted in his hand.

  Then I, Sarah, cried out:

  “Yhwh, god of Abraham, listen to my voice. A mother’s voice. You can’t. No, You can’t demand my son’s life, Isaac’s life. Not You. Not the god of justice.

  “Listen to my cry. If you let Abraham bring down his knife, may the sky darken forever, may the waters engulf the earth, may Your work disappear, may it shatter like Terah’s idols that Abraham destroyed in Harran.

  “It took me all my life to give birth to Isaac. It took Your will, the breath of Your mouth, for him to be born. What other proof of Your power do you demand? When You allowed my old body to give birth to Isaac, You became for all of us, women and men, the god of the miracle of life. Oh, Yhwh, preserve this life! Who would believe in a god who vents his wrath on innocent children? Who would obey a god who spreads death and kills the weak?

  “Oh, Yhwh! When I was young, I prayed to the gods of Ur, who loved blood. I turned my back on them and grew old at Abraham’s side, and in all that time I’ve never seen a just man abandoned by You. You saved Lot. Is Isaac worth less than the just men of Sodom?

  “When Your voice resounded in the air, Abraham said at once, ‘I am here!’ Not a day goes by that he doesn’t show us that You are our blessing. Let Isaac die, and you will be our curse.

  “What is a god who kills, Yhwh? What kind of order is he bestowing on the world? I say to You, a mother is stronger than a god in such cases. There is nothing, no order, no justice, that can take a child from his mother.

  “Oh, Yhwh, stay Abraham’s hand! Throw away his knife! Your glory will find a dwelling place in my heart and in the hearts of all the mothers of Canaan. Don’t reject my prayer; think of us, the women. It is through us that your covenant will sow the future, from generation to generation. I cry to You, Yhwh: Keep Your promise to me, and my hope will always be in You.”

  In fact, I’m not certain I did cry out. But at the very moment I sent up my supplication, the thunder rumbled, the clouds poured out their wat
ers, and a ram came trotting toward Abraham.

  “Abraham!” I cried. “Abraham! The ram, look at the ram behind you!”

  This time my cry rang out, though even now, Abraham maintains that it was Yhwh’s voice he heard, not mine. So it seems we cried out together.

  No matter. It was over. The only thing the knife cut was the ropes on Isaac’s wrists. My son saw me and ran to my arms.

  I didn’t laugh with joy. I wept. I wept for a long time, with a terrible sense of fear.

  And here I am today, alone here outside the cave of Makhpela, watching my life come to an end. Alone, for how long is it since I last saw my son’s face? He has grown, and is no longer as close to me. He’s becoming a man, totally occupied with his love affairs and his duties as Abraham’s right hand. But such is life, and that is how it should be.

  Wait and remember, that is all I can do in the little time I have left.

  There is no wind and yet, above me, the leaves of the poplar tremble, filling the air with a noise like rain. Under the cedars and acacias, the light dances in patches of molten gold that remind me of the softness of Pharaoh’s skin. A memory that fades with the fragrance of lily and mint that comes to rest on my lips. Swallows play and sing above the cliff. All is well with me.

  Oh, I see I was wrong. I’m not going to be alone for my last journey after all. I can see a crowd setting out from the valley. A whole nation is climbing the hill. And yes, it seems to me I can see Isaac in front. And Ishmael behind him. And Abraham by their side.

  Oh, my tender husband, how slowly you walk. Like a very old man. Like the man I have loved so very much and who is coming to hold my hand before Yhwh takes my breath from me. Oh, my beloved, place me, the mother of those who believe, in the cave of Makhpela, and pray to God Most High that Sarah and Abraham be long remembered.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would never have seen the light of day without the advice and help of Jean-Pierre Allali, Leonello Brandolini, Clara Halter, Nicole Lattes, Susanna Lea, and Nathaly Thery.

  They have my deepest thanks.

  About the Author