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Chapter 1

Rebekah of the violet eyes heard a voice that would haunt her the
rest of her life.

"I know she's only ten. I'll be patient."

She hugged her doll and tossed on her pallet. The heat, the flies,
and the soothing words of the strange man in the next room
interrupted her sleep. Visitors were rare in her home. Her widowed
mother left at dawn to wash other people's laundry. In the
evenings, Rebekah learned from her mother to bake pistachio cookies
and crispy rice, to differentiate between aromatic herbs, and to
flatter the man who would one day take care of her.

Rebekah pressed her ear to the makeshift wall.

Her mother's cough shattered the silence.

As if the cough had originated from her own lungs, Rebekah clutched
her chest.

"She's the prettiest girl in Persia. I'm saving her for a rich
husband."

Suspended between wakefulness and sleep, Rebekah heard the man's
melodious persistence, promises of china dolls and lace skirts,
chickpea candies and saffron halva, fantasies peculiar to her
dreams.

*

Soon after, Rebekah and her mother went to the house of
bougainvillea to visit the Ancient Zoroastrian, a clairvoyant who
had witnessed the rise and fall of dynasties. She was the only
person alive who had seen a time before evil was introduced into
the world, a time when the great prophet Ahura Mazda of goodness
ruled.

At the end of the alley of pomegranate trees, Rebekah and her
mother approached the single room buried under lavish flowers. They
parted the branches, searching for the low entrance, and nudged
open the door that was never locked. Lingering at the threshold,
they waited to be acknowledged.

The old woman sat cross-legged next to a brazier heaped with
blazing coals on which seeds of rue crackled and smoked, permeating
the air with anticipation. The Zoroastrian's ash-colored skin
stretched taut over fragile bones. She had lost all her hair to the
ravages of time. Her purple eyelids concealed inquisitive
eyes.

Rebekah's mother averted her gaze from the turquoise amulets that
hung around the woman's neck, and the red chicken eyes that were
set in gold and glared at her from the Zoroastrian's pierced
earlobes. "Holy One, I've promised Rebekah's hand in marriage.
She's here to ask for your blessing."

The Zoroastrian did not lift her head, open her eyes, or ask any
question. She had gazed into her fire and had seen Rebekah and her
mother approach. The old one had clutched her bony knees and had
chuckled out in glee. She had shifted closer to the flames to
better inhale the scent of pearls, silk, rapture, and bliss.
Neither the mother nor the child was aware that marvelous miracles
were about to occur in Rebekah's life.

"Rebekah's fate is sealed," the Ancient Zoroastrian murmured in a
voice that had retained the vigor of youth. "Her future is
embellished with crowns and jewels. A life of lust and passion,
conspiracy and love. At times, it will be difficult, but never,
ever hopeless."

The Ancient Zoroastrian set her veined hand on Rebekah's head. "May
Ahura Mazda bless you and may he grant me more years on this earth
to revel in the impending miracles."

*

In the synagogue of the One-Eyed Rabbi, Rebekah's mother folded a
parchment and handed it to Rebekah. "This is signed proof you're a
married woman." She pressed her lips to her daughter's golden
curls. "Your husband is rich. You'll live in comfort."

Glancing at the parchment that dangled from her fingers, Rebekah
knew she had to accept her fate. She was sad but not scared.
Promises of toys and veils and sweets, of kindness and patience and
love reverberated in her head. Her mother had married her to the
stranger with the sweet voice.

"Your husband will not join you in bed before your first menstrual
period," her mother whispered, tears in her voice. "Since I won't
be here for long, you must demand that he keep his word."

For the first time Rebekah understood the gravity of her mother's
endless coughing and the terrible wheezing in her chest, and why
she had found it necessary to discuss the importance of a wife's
responsibilities.

Rebekah held her mother's hand as she led her past the stalls in
the bazaar toward her husband's house. The ground was thick with
chicken feathers, horse manure, and decayed melon rinds. The cries
of the vendors of ice water, hookah pipes, and hot tea filled the
air. Lopsided poles held white canvases that sheltered vendors from
the fierce sunshine. Goods were exhibited at the entrances --
strings of figs suspended overhead, roasted nuts and dried beans
overflowing canvas sacks, cones of sugar perched on sloping
counters. The greengrocer in his skirted robe, belted at the waist
with a multicolored shawl, lifted his cone-shaped hat and scratched
his shaved head. He wet his henna-tinged forefinger in his mouth,
then smeared his saliva on Rebekah's cheeks to scare away the evil
eye. From an assortment of persimmons, pomegranates, and yellow
melons open to the flies and street dust, he chose a pomegranate,
quartered it, and offered her a slice. "For the violet-eyed
beauty."

She bit into the bloody fruit, sucked on the seeds, and tasted the
familiar tang of powdered nutmeg and ice flowers. She dropped the
rest in her pocket to save for her husband.

They reached the end of the Alley of Ezekiel the Cobbler. "This is
your home," her mother whispered. "Your husband is thirty-four
years old. He'll take care of you."

Her home was the color of mud. From behind an iron fence that
protected the house, she saw jasmine bushes, a walnut tree, and a
patch of arid land.

"Rebekah," her mother said. "Look! Enough space for you to plant
geranium and flowering almond and myrtle like your garden back
home."

"Water our garden, Madar. Don't let it dry like this."

At her mother's touch, the gate groaned open. Rebekah stepped into
the smell of hot coals. She pressed her nose to her mother's chador
to inhale her scent of caramelized sugar and licorice.

Her mother squeezed her to her breasts. "You'll never be alone.
I'll always be looking over you," she said, releasing her and
walking out the door.

Rebekah ran to the window and peered out through the curtains, past
the rusting iron gate. Clutching her doll in one hand and the
parchment in another, she watched her mother's wide hips disappear
around the turn of the alley. A bird fluttered against the window.
The breeze ruffled the leaves of the ancient walnut tree. She
turned around to look for the stranger, her husband with the
lullaby voice of a storyteller.

Heavy, gold-colored drapes darkened the room. Silver masks,
features frozen in laughter, stared down at her from a mantelpiece
above a massive kiln in the center. Her stomach churned at the
glitter. She averted her gaze from the flames in the hearth, from
the poker; mesh glove and thongs suspended from hooks hammered into
the cracks in the baked mud walls around the furnace.

"I am Jacob the Fatherless." A fat man with crossed eyes that
quivered under heavy brows faced her.

His grating voice shattered her dreams. This was not the man with a
voice like music.

His hand that smelled of burning metal grabbed her doll and sent it
flying toward the kiln. She rushed to catch the doll. Flames licked
the cotton face and devoured the wool dress. Rebekah leaned over
the ledge that faced the kiln and thrust her hand into the fire.
Jumping back, she stuffed her fingers into her mouth to soothe the
burnt flesh. Her doll sizzled into black smoke, gray ash,
nothing.

Jacob the Fatherless bowed in mock courtesy and straightened,
lifting his stomach with a groan. Spidery legs sprouted from his
swollen body, and dark, knotted curls framed his bloated cheeks. "I
am a blacksmith -- a creator," he said, his crossed eyes struggling
for balance. "I melt iron into any shape and alloy I want. All my
life I've worked toward a day when everything I melt will turn into
gold."

Her mind reeled, trying to contain the scream that choked her. Why
had her mother abandoned her to this man?

He spat into the fire, tilted his head, and paused to relish the
sizzle. "Your mother negotiated a bargain. She married you to Jacob
the Fatherless. A man born without a father."

Her mother's lessons came to her rescue, and she gazed at Jacob
with wet, violet eyes, blew on her hand, and fluttered her lashes,
pretending fascination.

"Soon I'll become the richest man in the Jewish Quarter. Do you
know why? I'm one of the few who endures this fire. The heat has
ignited a permanent furnace in my heart. Even in my sleep, flames
lash behind my lids." He shot another stream of spittle into the
flames, then stared back at her. "I know a secret that will make me
eternal like gold -- remain forever in one form or another, liquid
or solid. Then, like God, I'll never die. Do you understand,
Rebekah?"

Rebekah did not.

But that evening when she watched him melt objects in the man-sized
furnace in the bedroom, she understood fear. Fear of the kiln, the
fire, the madness in his eyes, the heat that turned into beads of
sweat on his face while he molded metals into knives, cauldrons,
and pots. In the kitchen, he nailed metal sheets on the counter and
the wall behind the wood burner, in the dining room over the table
and stools, in their bedroom on top of the baked-mud floors.

Past midnight, his eyes raked the house for scraps to feed his
voracious flames. He formed ornamental trinkets from the remnants
of metal and locked them in a box. He dangled the key in front of
her face.

"Who are the trinkets for?" she asked, curiosity overcoming her
fear.

He unbuttoned his coat and dropped the key in the secret pocket of
his vest, stroking the place where it was buried. "One day you'll
know."

When dawn glanced through the window, he nodded toward one of the
pallets that flanked the kiln in the bedroom. "You may retire
now."

He occupied the other pallet. He tossed about, grumbling for hours,
then raised himself and approached her. He lingered overhead,
tapped his small, feminine feet against her pallet. Lifted the
blanket and stared down at her. She squeezed her eyes shut and
pretended to be asleep. Pressing his thumb on the artery at the
side of her neck, he counted the pulse of her fear. The acrid odor
of liquid iron flowed from his hands and stung her nostrils.

"Open your legs!" he ordered.

"You promised!" she cried, her eyes springing open, her hands
struggling to escape.

"No one," he growled, "extracts promises from Jacob the
Fatherless."

"You gave your word of honor!"

"Honor! What honor?"

She fought to keep her thighs locked. "Madar!" She screamed,
certain the urgency of her pain would summon her mother.

He thrust her thighs open and mounted her.

His howls sounded like a wolf's, and his moans like those of
wounded animals. Or were those her cries, her pain, her loss? Where
was the man who had asked for her hand, who had promised to be
patient?

Blood burned her thighs.

"Never, ever grow," he panted, emptying himself.

*

By twelve, Rebekah's violet eyes had acquired a defiant spark, her
curls the sheen of gold, and her lips the blush of wine. The burned
skin on her fingers had the pallor and snug fit of an old glove
that had, at last, conformed to her hand, and like her, had learned
to cope with and survive the world of Jacob.

Her veiled gaze followed him as he shuffled around their home. Even
in his absence, she didn't dare search the house for the gold
bullion he amassed with the money he earned melting iron. Every
evening he sent her into the garden before he made sure nothing was
missing, then he changed the hiding places of his wealth. He sat
down to dinner, calling her back.

Tonight he fished a large bone from a bowl of hot stew. The heat
did not penetrate the thick skin of his fingers. He slammed the
bone on a metal plate to empty the marrow, soaked bread and mint in
it, and devoured the concoction. He stroked his bloated stomach,
stuffed a skewer of ground kebab with mint leaves into his mouth,
and belched. A smile of contentment hovered on his face. He
complimented her on the freshness of the mint she picked daily,
reminding her that without his money that bounty would not have
been possible.

She looked forward to the hours she spent cultivating her herbs,
not only because her patch of land evoked the home she longed for,
but also because from behind the railings she could observe the
dancing Gypsies. Rebekah fed the earth with leftover stew and
chickpea paste and sprayed the leaves with a mixture of honey and
wine to attract the praying mantis. On Fridays, when the first
chorus of cymbals, tambourines, and shakers rang about the
neighborhood, she walked to the fence, expecting the Gypsies.
Colorful, flowing skirts and sleeve ruffles came into view first
around the bend of the alley, then plump, feminine figures twirled
and spun and swayed in dances Rebekah captured again in her dreams.
The vegetation in her garden doubled in size and turned a deep,
glossy green, and the dances in her dreams developed and matured in
ways she did not understand. What she found out was that something
as innocent as a bunch of herbs concealed a secret that helped her
subdue Jacob. The taste, the scent, the sizzle of burning mint must
summon his lust for gold and pacify him. If he did not chew or
smell mint, he seemed to appease himself with her body.

Selecting a sprig, she inhaled the tangy-sweet fragrance. Was it
addictive? She touched a leaf to her tongue, tore and chewed on it,
tasting its bitter tartness. Why did he prefer it toasted? She held
the leaves over the embers on her stove. In her mouth, it was like
fire, the acrid taste of her burned fingers. If only she could
muster the courage to ask the wandering Gypsies if mint regulated
some part of the body. Added to a man's sense of virility? Dampened
his cruelty? Made a tight-fisted man sometimes generous?

Even Jacob, at times, strove to be generous. One warm Saturday
evening, when nightingales and the scent of jasmine lured Rebekah
to her herb garden, Jacob arrived with a rolled parchment.

"The plan for our new house. I'll build it even farther from the
garbage pit."

Rebekah realized the importance of owning a home far from the pit,
a mound of garbage in the center of the Jewish Quarter around which
makeshift stalls displayed fruits, nuts, and spices. She missed the
inviting scents and friendly voices; the comforting closeness of
people, her mother's avid bargaining as she selected provisions.
Didn't her mother know she was not allowed out of the house alone?
Why didn't she visit? Did Jacob forbid it?

"Come inside, Rebekah," he called out. "Sit on my lap, while I
explain. I'll build our house at the end of the Alley of Lanterns,
where a plot of land is so expensive, your little mind won't grasp
its value."

"Can I choose the furniture?"

"No," he replied.

"The fabrics for the curtains?"

"What do you know about fabrics?"

"My mother says I've a talent for colors."

"You have none."

"Yes, I do."

His fleshy hands slid under her hips, raised her high in the air,
and dropped her to the floor.

"Madar!" Her breath twisted in her lungs.

"She can't hear you," he barked.

Lying flat on her back, his shadow a dark blanket between her and
the light of the oil burner, she swore that one day she would
destroy Jacob the Fatherless.

*

Dawn after dawn, she splashed cool water on her face, tossed a
chador over her head, and walked with Jacob to the Alley of
Lanterns to watch him build their house with his own hands. He dug
her an estakhr behind the house, paving it with turquoise tiles and
filling it with fresh water from a well he had dug.

"Your private estakhr!" he announced, pausing for her
appreciation.

Rebekah watched the sun dance on the golden waters and her heart
beat with anticipation. Could the Ancient Zoroastrian's prophecy of
jewels and love and happiness come true in this house?

Jacob lifted a finger. "You must always swim fully dressed, or I'll
flog you to death. Even the stars of heaven must not set eyes on a
single toenail of yours. Be chaste and virginal at all times,
except in my bed, when you'll transform yourself into a whore. And
I'll reward you by treating you like a queen."

The next evening, Jacob arrived home carrying a dress of crushed
velvet, a pair of kid boots, and a chador of China silk. He flung
them at Rebekah's feet, stepped back, and slapped his thighs with
gleeful pride.

Rewarded for the evenings she had surrendered her body to
him!

She slipped back into the kitchen to serve his dinner: shank, bone
marrow, and mint. Tonight, as every other night, she hid a portion
of the meal. Her loneliness was easier to bear if she imagined a
time when the stranger with the sweet voice would knock on her door
and ask her to collect provisions for the road because they were,
at last, leaving for a safer place.

"Where's the mint?" Jacob demanded when Rebekah returned with the
steaming stew.

She hurried back to the kitchen. Delicate leaves, slender sprigs,
lush bunches of mint had become her friends. Most of his waking
hours, while he labored over the kiln, he chewed or smelled mint
she picked from her garden. It seemed she had trained him, like a
dog, to associate the taste and smell of mint with that of liquid
gold. Now the scent of mint made him feel as omnipotent as when he
melted gold, so that he didn't seem to have to copulate with her as
often to validate himself.

She heard his approaching steps, heard him linger at the door,
enter the kitchen. She did not move. There was nowhere to flee. He
was behind her, his stomach flattening her against the wood burner,
his breath on her neck, his voice calling her a whore-wife, his
hands tearing her vest, groping her buttocks, dragging her back
into the room, pushing her down on the pile of garments he had
purchased.

Not only had he thrust early womanhood upon her, but he felt he had
made up for it with a heap of expensive fabrics and sheer veils she
despised.

Her gaze roamed the ceiling, forming shadows of fantastical animals
and birds and plants, a world where the pain of Jacob's body on top
of her and the bitterness of his broken promise to her mother did
not matter. A place where the Ancient Zoroastrian's miracles would
come true, where she would whirl around as free as the dancing
Gypsies.

"Say you're my whore-wife!" Jacob's voice came from afar.

"Never."

"One day you will," he moaned, crushing her into velvet and
silk.

Soon, she thought, he will rise and go about his work. For a few
hours, she would be left alone in the refuge of her imagination.
She tugged the chador of China silk from under her head and studied
its shades of orange, red, and yellow. The colors of fire. She
threw the veil over her face to inhale the smell of silk and dye
and shame.

Jacob's breathing settled. He lifted himself and tossed a coat over
his naked body. "Wait right here. I've a surprise for you."

Her palm sliding over her body, Rebekah watched her husband leave.
Her hips were slightly fuller, her breasts beginning to ripen, and
so was her shame.

"Come out," she heard Jacob calling from the garden.

She buried her face in the rustle of silk. She would not go out.
She did not need any more garments or jewelry or perfumes that
reeked of disgrace, favors that fed her grief.

Through the silk and velvet that covered her ears, she heard him
summon her with the tone reserved for times he believed he was
indulging her. Had he mistaken the humiliation on her face for
gratitude? When his voice curdled with irritation, she lifted
herself.

She leaned naked against the doorway. The breeze carried a biting
coolness, and the moon sailed in a cloudless sky. A raucous noise
came from behind the house. The stamping of hooves?

Jacob emerged into the garden, pulling a donkey by a rope tied
around its neck and muzzle. Her breath caught at the most beautiful
sight she had ever seen. The animal's pelt was the color of onyx,
with a goose-white band that stretched from its muzzle all the way
down to its lush and restless tail. With every jerk of the rope,
the donkey turned its neck, thrust its red tongue out, and spat at
Jacob. The animal's hard kick sent Jacob flying to the ground.
Rebekah pursed her lips to stifle her laughter. She felt an
immediate affinity with the stubborn donkey.

Jacob ran after the donkey, pulling the animal around to face her.
"This is the only male who may glance at a single strand of your
hair."

Rebekah was ecstatic. She had found another who would spit at
Jacob. She saw that the animal's penis dangled almost to the
ground. To spite all signs of masculinity, she named him
Venus.

Excerpted from HAREM © Copyright 2002 by Dora Levy
Mossanen. All rights reserved.

 

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