Sarah: A Novel

by Marek Halter

  Translation copyright © 2004 by Howard Curtis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Crown Publishers, New York, New York.

  Member of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

  www.crownpublishing.com

  Originally published in France by Robert Laffont, Paris, in 2003.

  Copyright © 2003 by Robert Laffont, S.A., Paris.

  CROWN is a trademark and the Crown colophon is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  Map by Sophie Kittredge

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Halter, Marek.

  [Sarah. English]

  Sarah: a novel / Marek Halter.—1st American ed.

  1. Sarah (Biblical matriarch)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PQ2668.A434S2713 2004

  843'.914—dc22 2003019648

  eISBN: 978-1-4000-8094-6

  v3.0_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quotes

  Map of the Journey of Abraham and Sarah

  Prologue

  Part One UR

  The Bridal Blood

  Abram

  The Herb of Infertility

  Part Two THE TEMPLE OF ISHTAR

  The Sacred Handmaid

  The Shawl of Life

  Part Three HARRAN

  Sarai’s Tears

  Abram’s God

  Part Four CANAAN

  Abram’s Words

  Salem

  Sarai’s Beauty

  A Child of Drought

  Part Five PHARAOH

  Sarai, My Sister

  Land and Grain

  The Truth

  Part Six HEBRON

  Sarai’s Veil

  Solitude

  Jealousy

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Therefore a man leaves his father and his mother and cleaves to his wife, and they become one flesh.

  —GENESIS, 2:24

  If a man is a river, a woman is the bridge.

  —ARAB PROVERB

  Frailty, thy name is woman!

  —WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Hamlet

  Who is this that looks forth like the dawn,

  fair as the moon,

  bright as the sun,

  terrible as an army with banners?

  —SONG OF SOLOMON, 6:10

  PROLOGUE

  Twice during the night, my chest stopped filling with air. Twice, it was empty, and as dry as a leather goatskin. Although my mouth was wide open to the dawn wind, I could not drink it in. I lifted my shaking hands in the darkness. Pain ran through my bones, greedy as vermin.

  And then it stopped. Twice, the air returned to my lips, flowing over my tongue as cool and sweet as milk.

  It’s a sign. I know how to recognize the signs. After so many years, so many trials and tribulations, Yhwh, the invisible god, is going to separate Sarah from Abraham. Tonight, tomorrow night, very soon. He will take my life.

  That’s the way things are. That’s the way they must come to pass. There’s no point protesting, no point being afraid. Yhwh will mark out my route away from this land that still bears my steps. An old woman’s steps, so light the grass hardly bends beneath my weight.

  That’s the way things are, the way they’re meant to be. The next time the air refuses to come into my mouth, I won’t be so scared.

  This morning, as dawn was spreading over the meadows and dusty cliffs around Hebron, I left the mothers’ tent, but instead of going to wait outside Abraham’s tent with bread and fruit, as I’ve done thousands of times since he became my husband, I came here, to the hill of Qiryat-Arba, and sat down on a stone at the mouth of the cave of Makhpela. It took me a while to climb the hill. But I don’t care how hard it is. If Yhwh decides to take my breath from me in broad daylight, this is where I want my body to collapse, here, in this garden, in front of this cave.

  This place fills me with peace and joy. A white cliff surrounds the mouth of the cave like a well-constructed wall. From beneath the shade of a huge poplar, a spring runs down into a vast semicircular garden. Its slope, like a palm open in greeting, descends toward the plain, marked with long low walls built by the shepherds, planted with thick trees, and fragrant with sage and rosemary.

  From here, I can see our tents drawn close around Abraham’s black-and-white tent. There are too many to count. Hundreds, I suppose. The sheep stretch as far as the eye can see, their wool brilliant white against the grass, which is greener than the water of a pool. It’s the end of spring. The rains were mild and came at the right time. I can also see the smoke rising vertically from the fires, which is a sign that the east wind, heavy with sand and dryness, will spare us again today. Even from up here, I can hear horns, dogs barking as they gather the sheep, occasionally the cries of children. My hearing is no weaker than my sight. Sarah’s body still holds out!

  Youth knows nothing of time, old age knows nothing but time. When you’re young, you play hide-and-seek with the shade. When you’re old, you seek out the warmth of the sun. But the shade is always there, while the sun is fleeting. It rises, crosses the sky, and disappears, and we wait impatiently for its return. These days, I love time as much as I love Isaac, the son I waited so long to see.

  For a long time, the cycle of seasons left no trace on me. One day followed another, and my body showed no sign of them. That lasted many years. My name wasn’t yet Sarah, but Sarai. They said I was the most beautiful of women. My beauty was a beauty that inspired as much fear as desire. A beauty that seduced Abram as soon as he set eyes on me. A beauty that never faded, troubling and doomed, like a flower that would never bear fruit. Not a day went by that I didn’t curse this beauty that wouldn’t leave me.

  Until Yhwh at last wiped out the terrible act that was the cause of everything. A sin I committed as an innocent child, for love for the man who was then called Abram. A sin, or a word I wasn’t able to hear, for we knew so little then.

  The sun is high now. Through the fine needles of the cedars and the dancing leaves of the great poplar, it warms my old body. I’m so thin now, I could wrap myself in my long hair, which has never turned white. Such a little body, but one that harbors so many memories! So many images, scents, caresses, faces, emotions, and words that I could populate the whole land of Canaan with them.

  I love this place. Here, the memories gush from me like a waterfall cascading into a river. The cool air from inside the cave brushes my neck and my cheek with the tenderness of a familiar whisper. At moments it seems to me it’s my own breath, the breath that Yhwh withheld from me last night.

  In truth, this place is a nail in the pillar of time, like the pottery nails used to mark the presence of the souls in the splendid walls of my city, Ur.

  Two nights ago I received another sign from Yhwh. I had a dream with my eyes wide open. I was still breathing peacefully, but my body was stiff and cold. In the darkness of the tent, without even the moonlight filtering through the canvas, I suddenly heard the banging of metal tools on stone and the voices of men at work. I wondered what kind of work they could be doing in the middle of the night, so close to the mothers’ tent. I wanted to get up and look. But before I could lift myself up on my elbow, I saw. I saw with my eyes what only the spirit of dreams can make us see.

  It was no longer night but day. The sun shone down on the white cliff and the mouth of the cave of Makhpela. That was where men had been working since the first
light of dawn, building walls, thick, solid walls. A beautiful facade, complete with door and windows. A house of stone as splendid as any palace in Ur, Eridu, or Nippur. A dwelling I recognized immediately.

  They were building our tomb.

  The tomb of Abraham and his wife, Sarah.

  I shall be the first to take my place in it. My beloved Abraham will lay my body there so that at last I can attain the peace of the other world.

  My dream faded. The blows of hammer on stone ceased. I opened my eyes. The tent was dark, and Rachel and Lesha were sleeping beside me, breathing peacefully.

  But the meaning of the dream remained with me. All of us to whom Abraham’s invisible god revealed Himself, this now numerous people to whom He offered His covenant for all eternity, we know only cities of tents, cities of desert and wind and wandering. Yet I, Sarah, was born in a house with thirty rooms, in a city that contained a hundred similar houses, its most beautiful temple as high as the hill of Qiryat-Arba, its outer walls thicker than an ox.

  In my whole life, following Abraham into the mountains where the Euphrates rises, walking beside him in search of the land of Canaan, or even as far as Egypt, I have never seen a city as splendid as the Ur I knew as a child. And I have never forgotten it.

  Nor have I forgotten what I was taught there: that the strength of the people of Sumer and Akkad lies in the beauty of their cities, the solidity of their walls, the perfection of their irrigation systems, the magnificence of their gardens.

  So, when day had broken, I went to see Abraham. While he ate, I told him what I had seen in my dream.

  “It’s time for our people to build walls, houses, and cities,” I said. “Time for us to take root in this land. Remember how we loved the walls of Salem. How dazzled we were by Pharaoh’s palaces. But in this camp, the camp of the great king Abraham, the man who hears the word of Yhwh and is heard by Him, the women still weave canvas for tents as they did when your father Terah’s clan camped beneath the walls of Ur, in the space reserved for the mar. Tu, the men with no city.”

  Abraham listened, never taking his eyes off me. “I know you’ve always missed the walls of your city,” he said, smiling, and his beard quivered.

  He took my fingers in his, and for a long moment we remained still. Two old bodies linked by our hands and by the thousands of tender words we no longer need to speak.

  At last, I said what I had been wanting to say since my dream had faded. “When I’ve stopped breathing, I want you to bury me in the cave of Makhpela, on the hill of Qiryat-Arba. The gardens around it are the most beautiful I’ve seen since the gardens of my father’s palace. They belong to a Hittite named Ephron. Buy them from him; I know he won’t refuse. Once you’ve buried me, bring masons from Salem or Beersheba. If they’re as skillful as Pharaoh’s masons, so much the better. Ask them to build walls at the mouth of the cave, the most beautiful, most solid walls they can build, for the tomb of Abraham and Sarah. It will be our people’s first house, a place for them to gather, in all their great number, happy and confident. Isaac and Ishmael will be with them. The two of them together. Isn’t it up to us, with the help of Yhwh, to ensure the future?”

  Abraham had no need to promise me he would carry out my wishes. I know he will, for he always has.

  Now, I can wait in peace for my breath to leave me. Wait and remember. 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. A fragrance of lily and mint comes to rest on my lips. Swallows play and sing above the cliff. Just like that day. The day the blood flowed for the first time between my thighs. The day the long life of Sarai, daughter of Ichbi Sum-Usur, daughter of Taram, began.

  The Bridal Blood

  Sarai clumsily pushed aside the curtain that hung in the doorway and ran to the middle of the brick terrace that overlooked the women’s courtyard. Dawn was breaking, and there was just enough light for her to see the blood on her hands. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears.

  She did not need to look down to know that her tunic was stained. She could feel the fine woolen cloth sticking wetly to her thighs and knees.

  Here it was again! A sharp pain, like a demon’s claw moving between her hips! She stood frozen, her eyes half closed. The pain faded as suddenly as it had come.

  Sarai held out her soiled hands in front of her. She should have implored Inanna, the almighty Lady of Heaven, but no word passed her lips. She was petrified. Fear, disgust, and denial mingled in her mind.

  Only a moment ago, she had woken suddenly, her belly ringed with pain, and put her hands between her thighs. Into this blood that was flowing out of her for the first time. The bridal blood. The blood that creates life.

  It had not come as she had been promised it would. It was not like dew or honey. It flowed as if from an invisible wound. In a moment of panic, she had seen herself being emptied of blood like an ewe under the sacrificial knife.

  She had reacted like a silly child, and now she felt ashamed. But her terror had been so great that she had sat up moaning on her bed and rushed outside.

  Now, in the growing light of day, she looked at her bloodstained hands as if they did not belong to her. Something strange was happening in her body, something that had obliterated her happy childhood at a stroke.

  Tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and all the days and years to come, would be different. She knew what awaited her. What awaited every girl in whom the bridal blood flowed. Her handmaid Sililli and all the other women in the household would laugh. They would dance and sing and give thanks to Nintu, the Midwife of the World.

  But Sarai felt no joy. At that moment, she wished her body was someone else’s.

  She took a deep breath. The smell of the night fires floating in the cool air of early morning calmed her a little. The coolness of the bricks beneath her bare feet did her good. There was no noise in the house or the gardens. Not even the flight of a bird. The whole city seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the sun to burst forth. For the moment it was still hidden on the other side of the world, but the ocher light that preceded it was spreading over the horizon like oil.

  Abruptly Sarai turned and went back through the curtain into her bedchamber. In the dim light, it was just possible to make out the big bedstead where Nisaba and Lillu lay sleeping. Without moving, Sarai listened to her sisters’ regular breathing. At least she had not woken them.

  She advanced cautiously to her own bed. She wanted to sit down, but hesitated.

  She thought of the advice Sililli had given her. Change your tunic, take off the sheet, roll the soiled straw in it, go to the door and take some balls of wool dipped in sweet oil, wash your thighs and genitals with them, then take some other balls, scented with essence of terebinth, and use them to absorb the blood. All she had to do was perform a few simple actions. But she couldn’t. She didn’t know why, but she couldn’t bear even the thought of touching herself.

  Anger was beginning to replace fear. What if Nisaba and Lillu discovered her and roused the whole household, crying out across the men’s courtyard, “Sarai is bleeding, Sarai has the bridal blood!”

  That would be the most disgusting thing of all.

  Why did the blood running between her thighs make her more adult? Why, at the same time as she gained the freedom to speak, was she going to lose the freedom to act? For that was what was going to happen. Now, in exchange for a few silver shekels or a few measures of barley, her father could give her to a man. A stranger she might have to hate for the rest of her days. Why did things have to happen that way? Why not another way?

  Sarai tried hard to dismiss this chaos of thoughts, this mixture of sadness and anger, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even remember a single word of the prayers Sililli had taught her. It was as if a demon had banished them from her heart and mind. Lady Moon would be furious. She would send down a curse on her.

  Anger and denial swept through her ag
ain. She couldn’t stay here in the dark. But she didn’t want to wake Sililli. Once Sililli took charge, things would really start.

  She had to flee. To flee beyond the wall that enclosed the city, perhaps as far as the bend in the Euphrates, where the labyrinth of the lower city and the reedy lagoons stretched over dozens of ùs. That was another world, a fascinating but hostile world, and Sarai wasn’t brave enough to go there. Instead, she took refuge in the huge garden, which was full of a hundred kinds of trees and flowers and vegetables and surrounded by a wall that in places was higher than the highest rooms. She hid in a tamarisk grove clinging to the oldest part of the wall, where sun, wind, and rain had, in places, dissolved the stack of bricks and reduced it to a hard ocher dust. When the tamarisks were in bloom, their huge pink flowers spread like luxuriant hair over the wall and could be seen clear across the city. They had become the distinguishing feature of the house of Ichbi Sum-Usur, son of Ella Dum-tu, Lord of Ur, merchant and high-ranking official in the service of King Amar-Sin, who ruled the empire of Ur by the will of almighty Ea.

  “SARAI! Sarai!!”

  She recognized the voices: Lillu’s piercing shriek and Sililli’s more muted and anxious tones. Some of the handmaids had already searched the garden, but finding nothing, had gone away again.

  Silence returned, except for the murmur of the water flowing in the irrigation channels and the chirping of the birds.

  From where she was, Sarai could see everything but could not be seen. Her father’s house was one of the most beautiful in the royal city. It was shaped like a hand enclosing a huge rectangular central courtyard, which was reached through the main entrance. At either end, the courtyard was separated by two green-and-yellow brick buildings, open only for receptions and celebrations, and by two smaller courtyards, the women’s and the men’s. The men’s quarters, with their white staircases, overhung the temple of the family’s ancestors, the storehouses, and the room where her father’s scribes worked, while the women’s chambers were built above the kitchens, the handmaids’ dormitories, and the chamber of blood. Both opened onto a broad terrace, shaded by bowers of vines and wisteria, with a view of the gardens. The terrace allowed the men to join the women at night without having to cross the courtyards.