by Marek Halter
Sefoba did not have the time to question her further, because just then a mocking laugh rang out behind her.
“Of course not! Of course nothing terrible happened! Don’t worry, Zipporah, Sefoba was the only one here who imagined any such thing!”
Orma, looking all the more beautiful in her rage, took Zipporah by the arm and pulled her away from Sefoba. The poison of jealousy was clearly visible on her face.
“Where you were, you weren’t in any danger, were you? Certainly not from the vengeance of Houssenek’s sons!”
There was no doubt that she had guessed where Zipporah had been. Orma might be silly, but only about certain things.
Zipporah remained calm. “Has Reba already left?” she asked.
Disconcerted, Orma screwed up her eyes, as if sensing a trick. But all she could see was the dazzling light of the courtyard. She waved her hands in the air. “Who cares about Reba?”
“She gave him back the fabric this morning,” Sefoba sighed.
“You gave him back the fabric?” Zipporah said, genuinely surprised.
“The fabric! That’s all you can think about. Do I have to marry for a piece of fabric?”
“You seemed very proud to wear it last night.”
“Oh, I admit it suited me! It looked good, and it was fine for dancing in, so I put it on and danced. What of it? That was nighttime. In the torchlight, it looked beautiful. This morning, in the light of day, I realized I didn’t like it any more. I didn’t like it at all. I gave it back to Reba, and that was it. Of course, if you’d been here, you’d have stopped me.”
Orma was smiling, proud of how provocative she was being. Sefoba dried her tears with the back of her wrist and grimaced. “Reba was so humiliated,” she said, “that he took his knife out and cut that wonderful fabric up into little pieces. Then he called for his she-camels and left without a word of farewell to Father. Poor Father was already ill from drinking too much last night. You can imagine what he thought about it all. Of course, you weren’t there . . .” She broke off, and smiled to soften the effect of her words. “I picked up the pieces of the fabric. They’re under my bed.”
“I don’t care a fig for Reba,” Orma muttered, clearly feeling the argument slipping away from her. “Let’s not talk about Reba. Besides, all this is your fault, Zipporah.”
“My fault?”
“Don’t make that face. You found out where the Egyptian is hiding, didn’t you?”
Zipporah’s hesitation was an admission.
“I was sure of it,” Orma said, triumphantly. “So that’s where you’ve been!”
“Is that true? Did you go and see him?” Sefoba’s surprise, with its hint of reproach, upset Zipporah more than all of Orma’s nagging.
“Yes,” she admitted at last.
Orma, who until now had perhaps not been so sure of what she was alleging, seemed to find this confirmation hard to swallow.
“You found him?” Sefoba said, wide-eyed and openmouthed. “You saw him?”
“I saw him.”
“Of course!” Orma said. “What a hypocrite you are, Zipporah! Yesterday you told us to say nothing to Father, to leave the Egyptian alone. Oh, the poor man, we must let him keep his secrets! But today you didn’t even wait until daylight to run after him!”
“I took him something to eat and drink, that’s all.”
“Oh! How kind of you!”
“I thanked him for what he did yesterday.”
Orma laughed, with a laugh that made Zipporah blush. “Where is he?”
“He is where he is.”
“Oh, all right,” Orma hissed, scornfully. “Don’t tell me anything, there’s no point! Father also wants to thank the stranger. He’s been waiting for you to come back to find out where he is.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. I’m not like you. I don’t put on airs to hide the truth.”
JETHRO was lying on his bed, where Zipporah had left him the previous night. A few extra cushions had been arranged around him. It was very dark in the room, and his white hair shone like a block of limestone. His eyes were still shut, and his hands were crossed high on his chest. With rapid fingers, a young handmaid was massaging his stomach through the thin linen of his tunic, while another, so old that her face was nothing but a mass of lines, stood near the doorway, preparing an infusion.
Occasionally, a little murmur would escape Jethro’s lips, although it was hard to say whether it was an expression of suffering or relief. The young handmaid would relax the pressure of her hands and peer into her master’s face, but all it revealed was the extreme pallor of an old man whose insides were a mess.
Neither handmaid interrupted her work when Zipporah appeared. She stood waiting in the doorway, watching, with some repulsion, as a brown liquid oozed from a distended cloth held by the older handmaid. When the old woman finally made way for Zipporah, Jethro became aware of her movements through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes wide, and his lips quivered in a smile of contentment. “Daughter, you’re finally back.”
“Good day, Father.”
“Let him drink his infusion first,” the old handmaid interrupted. “You can speak afterward. The infusion mustn’t be allowed to rest, or it’ll lose its effect.”
She pushed her young companion aside unceremoniously and placed the wooden bowl in Jethro’s hands with an authoritative gesture. He sat up, grumbling, and barely looked at the mixture before gulping it all down. Looking straight ahead, he held out the empty bowl, with a scornful “Bah!”
The old woman clucked sternly. “What did you think? That Horeb would make your innards young again in a flash?” She gathered her things together in a basket. “It’ll be better in a moment,” she went on, in a tone it would have been impossible to contradict, “and tonight you’ll feel fine. But next time, ask me before you drink something you don’t know.”
Jethro said nothing in reply. He lightly touched the young handmaid’s thigh with his wrinkled fingers. “You can go, too, my dear. Your hands are blessed by Horeb.”
The two women went out into the dazzling light of the courtyard. Jethro’s eyelids closed again like rumpled curtains. He groped along the side of the bed until he found Zipporah’s hand and clasped it firmly.
“Reba gave me an Eastern concoction. A kind of tar. You heat it on the embers and breathe in the smoke. Apparently, if you go about it the right way, it causes all kinds of images in your mind, and everything seems different—tastes, smells, objects. Perhaps I’m too old, or it wasn’t properly prepared . . .” He laughed into his silky white beard, and his laugh immediately turned into a reluctant sigh, accompanied by a grimace. “I know perfectly well what I feel. It’s as if I’ve drunk all the jars of wine and beer in the house and Horeb is punishing me by patting me amicably on the head with rocks from his mountain.”
“Do you want some water? More cushions?”
“No, nothing. Your presence is enough.” He opened his eyes again, and his pupils gleamed in the darkness. “Reba’s a good boy, worthy of the duties awaiting him. He’s curious about the world, and he has a sense of justice. He knows the difference between truth and illusion. I felt ashamed when he left this morning. For the first time in a very long time, I, Jethro, was ashamed. Of myself and my daughters!”
“Father! I had no intention of—”
He squeezed Zipporah’s hand tighter. “Not so loud. Words also become stones if you throw them too hard.”
“Please don’t think I could have prevented Orma from giving the fabric back to Reba. Right now, there’s nobody she hates more than me.”
Jethro groaned, although whether it was a result of the pain in his body or Zipporah’s words was unclear. “The stranger,” he sighed. “Is it true there’s a stranger among us? A stranger who rescued you from the hands of Houssenek’s sons?”
“Yes.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes, at the well of Irmna.”
“And you said nothing t
o me about it.”
“We were safe. And Reba was here last night. I would have told you today.”
Jethro’s chest shook with laughter. “After your long walk?”
The old woman had told the truth. The infusion was already starting to take effect. Color was returning to the old sage’s cheeks and his voice was not only regaining its clarity but was capable of mockery. Zipporah set her lips and said nothing. She did not feel guilty, but hurt. Realizing this, Jethro patted her hand.
“According to Orma, the stranger is a prince of Egypt. What is a prince of Egypt doing in the land of Midian?”
“He may be a prince, but he isn’t Egyptian.”
“Oh?”
He waited for her to continue. She paused for a moment. Here, in front of Jethro, the memory of Moses’ fingers on her face filled her with embarrassment. “He told me this morning.”
“That’s good news. So Orma’s talking nonsense.”
“I took him some food and beer.”
“Why doesn’t he come here, so that I can thank him for what he did for my daughters?”
“I don’t know.”
Jethro gave her a sharp look.
“I don’t know,” she repeated, and hesitated. On the way home, she had decided to confide in her father, to tell him everything. She had never in her life tried to conceal anything from him. Yet now she could not bring herself to say anything. The words she had planned to use, all the things she had wanted to confess, including her fears—none of it crossed her lips. There was only one thing she felt able to reveal: “The reason I didn’t say where I was going this morning was to stop Orma from going with me.”
Jethro groaned, and cautiously shook his head. “My daughters!”
“Orma is Orma. I’m not like her.”
“As far as pride is concerned, anyone would think you had the same father and mother!”
Zipporah shrugged her shoulders, sending a ripple down through her wide tunic.
“What is he, then, your stranger, if he isn’t Egyptian?” Jethro insisted.
“A Hebrew.”
“Oh!”
“That’s what he says.”
Surprise jolted Jethro out of his stupor. “A son of Abraham?” he asked.
“He says, ‘Of Abraham and Joseph.’”
Jethro nodded. “Of Abraham and Joseph, of course. A Hebrew of Egypt.” For a moment, he stared up into the darkness at the beams and palm leaves above his bed, where flies were buzzing. Then he leaned down, picked up a goblet of water left by the handmaid, and sipped at it. “That may be. Those who trade with Pharaoh say that in Egypt the Hebrews are slaves. If this Moses is a slave from Egypt, Orma is even sillier than I thought to take him for a prince.”
“No,” Zipporah said gently. “I don’t think he’s a slave.”
“Oh?”
“Sefoba and I also took him for a prince. He has the bearing. He doesn’t fight like a slave, either.”
“You talked to him. What did he say?” Jethro’s gaze now was calm but forceful.
“He said: ‘I’m not from Egypt anymore.’”
“And then?”
“That’s all.”
“Just one sentence. You went to see him and he only spoke one sentence?”
Zipporah laughed, but the laugh sounded false. “He isn’t at ease with words. With our language.”
“A Hebrew?”
“So it seems.”
“But you’re at ease with yours,” Jethro said with a smile.
Not with him, Zipporah thought. Not with Moses.
“Orma says you forbade her to tell me about him.”
“You can’t forbid Orma anything,” Zipporah sighed.
Jethro waited.
“If you saw him . . . His manners . . . Orma and Sefoba said to him straight away: ‘Come and see our father!’ He refused. He didn’t even hesitate. I immediately thought: He’s a fugitive. He wants to stay in the shadows. He’s a man in hiding. And I owe it to him to respect his wishes and not force him to talk about things he’d prefer to keep quiet about.”
Jethro looked at her for a moment and nodded, more in admiration than with irony. “You did the right thing. But I’m your father, and he’s on my land . . . I’m curious. I want you to send him two boys, with a camel and a sheep. The sheep is for milk and the camel so that he can come and see me. He’s to be told that I would go and see him myself to express my gratitude, but I’m too old and frail. He’s also to be told that he would do me the greatest of honors if he came and sat down with me under the canopy.”
Zipporah sat in silence, her eyes lowered, her fingers fidgeting with the folds of her tunic.
“Well? Aren’t I polite enough for a prince of Egypt? Have I forgotten something?”
“What if he still refuses?”
“Let’s wait until he does.”
“I’m sure he’s done nothing wrong.”
“You’re making me even more curious.”
“Orma will want to go with the boys.”
Jethro wagged his finger, a merry gleam in his eyes. “Oh no! Not you, not Orma. I said two boys, and two boys it will be.”
Orma’s Anger
The stranger Moses did not come back with the young shepherds.
“He said thank you for the animals. He asked to be shown how to get milk from a sheep, that was all.”
Jethro looked pensive, but made no comment.
Two days passed, and there was no sign of a prince of Egypt coming along the road from the west on a camel. The hours went by with a slowness such as Zipporah had never known. The more time passed, the more anxious she became. She had to admit it: The fear never left her. Fear of Moses coming and fear of him not coming, it was all the same. Fear of the memory of their last moment in the cave.
Sleep became difficult. She had to endure Orma’s sighs as she tossed and turned on her bed. “Zipporah, are you asleep?” Orma would whisper from time to time, half sitting up.
Zipporah would not move.
“I know you’re not asleep. You’re thinking of him.”
Zipporah still would not move.
“Me, too,” Orma would moan. “I’m also thinking of him. You’re stupid to pretend.”
Zipporah would wait until her silence wearied her sister. But when Orma had finally dozed off, she was left with her own confused, half-conscious thoughts, and beneath her closed lids she would see again all the moments she had already shared with Moses, both in dream and in reality.
On the second morning, she lost patience. She rose at dawn and rushed to the door of the domain to look along the west road. It was still as pale as milk—and empty. Zipporah waited for the rocks and bushes to regain their dusty colors, then for shadows to form. But the road remained empty.
Wearily, gritting her teeth against the desire she had to jump on the back of a mule and trot to Moses’ cave, she went back to the women’s room. Faces turned to her, all bearing the same question: “Isn’t the Egyptian coming?”
When Orma arrived, she sensed something. “What’s happening?”
There was a silence, then a voice replied: “Zipporah went to wait for him at dawn at the door of the courtyard. And still he didn’t come!”
Chuckles and stifled laughs broke out here and there. Orma’s face, previously taut with anger, now assumed a mocking expression, which merely enhanced her beauty. Zipporah left the room, her back arched in defiance. She promised herself not to show any more signs of impatience.
On the evening of the third day, when the sky was aflame but still no man or camel had appeared, Orma went and asked Jethro for permission to go herself to see Moses the next day.
“To do what?” Jethro asked, feigning surprise.
“To get him to come, as you asked!”
“No, I didn’t ask any such thing! I invited him to sit beside me, which would have given me pleasure and done me honor. But if he doesn’t want to, I’ll respect his refusal as much as his acceptance. He can keep the camel and sheep I sent
him, and then I won’t feel as if I’m indebted to him.”
This answer was somewhat disconcerting for Orma, but did not convince her. “You’re wrong, Father,” she said, knitting her lovely brows. “He won’t come. And I know why.”
“Oh?”
“He’s a prince of Egypt.”
“So it would seem.”
“A man accustomed to being shown a lot of respect.”
“You mean a camel and a sheep are not enough to express my gratitude?”
“No, I mean that sending two boys to tell him you want to see him isn’t enough to overcome his wounded pride.”
“Is his pride wounded?”
“If it weren’t, he would have come by now.”
“Do you think so?”
“He fights for us, your daughters, and saves us. One against four. He could have been killed. And then he runs away! It makes no sense, Father. Have we ever seen a stranger refuse to sit with you? Something has been said or done that has displeased him.”
“By whom?”
“Zipporah. You know the way she speaks sometimes. As if she were you! Or else she says nothing when she ought to speak. Did you know that when we were at the well, she didn’t utter a word, not even thank you?”
“She went to see him to apologize. She took him fruit and beer. The only thing she didn’t do was pass on my invitation.”
“But was she able to forget her pride and be less stiff in the way she spoke to him?”
“She had no reason to be stiff toward him. Didn’t you ask her what they said to each other?”
Orma laughed scornfully. “You don’t ask Zipporah such things! All I know is what I saw. When she came back, she looked like someone who has something to hide.”
Jethro sighed. “Whereas if you’d gone to the cave, I suppose things would have been different?”
“He’d be here by now.” There was no getting away from it: Orma’s smile, at that moment, was irresistible.
Jethro pulled at invisible knots in his beard, surprised at how perceptive Orma was being, for once. He thought of curbing her enthusiasm by telling her that this prince of Egypt was merely a Hebrew, perhaps even a runaway slave. But he said nothing, fearing the scene his daughter might make if she heard this. He himself, in truth, was beginning to feel annoyed at being kept waiting so long. Orma was right: Had they ever seen a stranger refuse to sit with him? Why did the man not come? What made him so extraordinary? It might be quite normal for Orma to think about nothing else than seducing a stranger, but the same could not be said of Zipporah, the most sensible of all of them. At least until now!