She dreamed of him that very night. Elam was walking on trampled clay along the stream which for some reason flowed right by her house. At first the young man was whistling carelessly, but then a strong wind appeared out of nowhere, and the stream, narrow and shallow at first, began to swell, to roar, and turned into a river. The sun hid; the wind grew fiercer; the river became deeper and wider, rumbling with invisible boulders and dousing Elam with water. Angry and wet, he decided to cross to the other side, but the waves, at first small, then the size of him, and then the size of a house, came crashing one upon another and rushed past him, not allowing him even a step forward. A monstrous wave knocked the young man off his feet; he drowned in the whirlpool, and then... Avital woke up, drenched from her own nightmare.
She learned from Khatifa that Elam worked as a scribe and accountant for a wealthy landowner. The rich man sold grain and traded with foreign merchants. In Jerusalem he had several shops where his people sold jewelry and fabrics. Elam, apparently, received a decent salary, judging by the embroidered clothes of fine fabric in which the girl saw him at the wedding. Khatifa also told her that Elam was the eldest of two brothers, and that his family attended the same synagogue where Shamai, Avital's father, now occasionally read the Torah.
Despite Elam mentioning at the wedding that they would see each other often, Avital did not see him once during the entire following week.
‘Still recovering from his heartbreak,’ she figured. She wondered how he would behave in the synagogue if he ran into the black-eyed beauty, now the lawful wife of another. But the following week, he didn’t appear at the service; nor were the newlyweds there.
However, another stranger appeared in the synagogue that same Shabbat.
Avital and Khatifa were a little late this time. When they hurried inside, everyone was already in their seats: the men, as always, on the left, and the women behind a low thin partition on the right. All the back seats in the women's section were taken, so the girls had to sit in the row closest to the reader.
After the prayer, which the sisters had barely made in time for, the chief Rabbi approached the stone table, laid an unopened scroll upon it, and beckoned one of the men forward, apparently wanting him to read from Scripture.
Avital turned to Khatifa and whispered in her ear, asking where the newlyweds whose wedding they had been guests at had gone. The Rebbe glanced at them sternly; Khatifa did not dare answer.
Meanwhile, a tall, dark-haired young man of about twenty-eight stepped forward and stood at the table. Tall and strong, he stood with surprising meekness and waited humbly while the old Rabbi unrolled the scroll. Khatifa leaned over to Avital and whispered in reply that the newlyweds had most likely gone to the groom's parents, away from Jerusalem and from Elam, so the Black-Eyed wouldn’t torment him or her husband with her riddles. Avital rolled her eyes playfully, suppressed a chuckle, glanced toward the Rabbi who had begun to read Scripture, and met the gaze of the man standing next to the reader.
Intelligent, clear blue eyes looked at her from a serious face. His face did not express anything, was simple and serious, but his eyes, slowly examining her laughing face and stopping at her eyes, seemed to look straight into her soul. The glance was brief, but Avital managed to come to her senses only after he lowered his eyelashes first.
The Rebbe finished reading and pointed with his finger, showing the young man where to continue. All the time while he was reading, Avital sat quietly and motionless, straining to hear every word and not understanding a single one. His brief glance paralyzed her, chained her to the rug on which she was sitting. The man finished reading, silently rolled up the scroll and returned to the men's side where she could no longer see him. What was sung and read after him, Avital neither heard nor remembered. Outside, after a failed attempt to seek the stranger out, she asked Khatifa,
“Who was this?”
“Whom are you talking about?”
“The reader.”
“No idea... This was the first time I ever saw him.”
Avital did not ask about him anymore. On the one hand, she was flattered that such a grown man paid attention to a fifteen-year-old girl; on the other, she was still confused by his deep soul-piercing gaze. Those clever eyes had read something in her heart in an instant—something she herself had no idea about. The sisters returned home almost at a run: Avital wanted to shake off the heavy impression left by the stranger.
The following day, having done chores around the house in the morning, Avital left her mother and Khatifa to their sewing and went to the market. Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, was approaching. The summer heat was already beginning to subside, the air was getting cooler in the mornings, and the heat lasted only a few hours at the height of the day.
The market was full. Merchants who traded in fabrics and jewelry counted on special profits these days: all the women wanted to look beautiful during the holiday. As the holiday approached, the bazaar transformed into something magical: it sparkled with the gleam of adornments and mesmerized with the vibrant array of fabrics in the tents and shops of foreign and local merchants.
Even its air had changed: the smell of donkeys, goats, sheep, camels that prevailed here before Passover had now given way to the aroma of incense.
Half-dressed boys scurried back and forth with jugs of water on their heads. In separate rows sat sellers of sweets, vegetables, and wares. Muscular Roman soldiers also wandered past the shops: closely cropped and clean-shaven, they kept in small groups and made sharp remarks at pretty Jewish girls.
Avital walked past the colorful shops and tents, past the shouting sellers and cautious buyers, past the onlookers and the bargainers, past those drinking and chewing as if spellbound; this pre-holiday fuss so intoxicated her head as if the entire enormous bazaar with its endless hustle and bustle was directly connected to her heart: the more crowded and noisy it became around, the livelier blood ran through her veins.
She stopped at a tent with jewelry when someone touched her elbow. The girl turned around: beside her stood smiling Elam.
“Hello, Avital,” the tall young man said hesitantly. He looked different today than on that wedding day—tousled hair, ink on his fingers, a fresh face, simple clothes.
“Hello, Elam!” She turned to him and smiled broadly. “What are you doing here?”
He pointed to the inkwell and writing implements on his belt.
“Working. And you?”
“Just wandering around. I did not expect the bazaar to be so huge... and so beautiful! So many things!”
“Yes, the market is fascinating... until you get tired of this very noise and colorful rags,” he laughed briefly and asked, “Are you going to be... wandering around here for long?”
“I don't know. Why? I wanted to look over there and over there,” she pointed to the rows of fabrics and scrolls, “and then I'll go home... And you?”
“Wait here for me, okay? Don't leave. I'll ask my master for leave, and then I'll walk you home. Well... if you don't mind.”
She lowered her eyes.
“All right, I'll wait.”
Elam hurried off into the crowd; Avital remained by the counter with bracelets and necklaces. The smile with which she had seen Elam off still lingered on her lips, and the seller, deciding that she was interested in a purchase, began to lay out new jewelry from under the counter, praising their beauty and elegance. He looked at her ingratiatingly, though his eyes suspiciously flickered to her simple dress, but Avital placed his polished stones back on the counter and stepped back, embarrassed: she had no money with her. Elam returned faster than she expected.
“Follow me,” he said out of breath, took her hand, and they rushed past the colorful shops and tents. Elam knew the market well: he easily made his way through the crowd and remembered where and when to turn. They stopped near sweets.
“Would you like something?” Elam asked, pushing his companion closer to the counter.
Avital was embarrassed to admit that honey, raisins, and figs were the only delicacies she had tried so far, and in the baskets in front of the elderly toothless merchant were so many yummies... She drooled.
“I don’t know... Unless you want something.”
He bought her something round and hard, sprinkled with sesame seeds. He didn't buy anything for himself. They got out of the market crowd and now went slowly.
“Where are we going?” Avital asked, her tongue scraping at the sweet seeds stuck to her teeth.
“You're about to see Jerusalem differently,” he slyly looked at her from above and shone with joy.
Avital also felt freer. She hopped along merrily.
“You said we'd see each other often, but I haven't seen you once in the last week. Are you done grieving?”
Elam slowed down and lowered his head; his face darkened.
“You really want to know about all this?” he asked coolly.
“No, not really... Forgive me.” She felt ashamed. The last thing she wanted was to hurt anyone with her curiosity. Besides, the reminder of the black-eyed minx turned out to be unpleasant for her as well: something resembling jealousy stirred in her chest. Elam said nothing, but Avital sensed that he wanted to speak out. And it also seemed to her that he did not so much want to pour out his resentment, to free himself from it, as to arouse in her, Avital, an admiration for his proud loneliness.
But Elam remained silent, and the girl decided not to impose herself.
They passed the last of the tents; it became more difficult to walk: the road curved as it climbed upward, turned into a narrow lane, then widened again. There were more trees here, and the houses were farther apart.
Elam walked looking down at his feet, occasionally moving ahead, then waiting for her. Avital glanced sidelong at his profile. A hooked nose, bulging moist eyes, short straight eyelashes, sparse beard growth on his chin and cheeks—she noted all these there, at the wedding.
Now, in the bright light of day, she could distinguish fine lines running down from his nose to the corners of his mouth. He seemed older to her now.
The long silence became awkward, and she asked,
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one. And you?”
“I’ll be sixteen soon.”
Elam nodded. They climbed higher and higher, and it became more difficult to breathe, but she tried not to fall behind.
“Will you get in trouble for leaving work early? Also, where do you work?” She kept wanting to draw him into the conversation and thereby smooth over her blunder.
“I’m a scribe for Eliav. I keep the books, write out bills, check accounts in shops, and everything related to this.”
"And he let you leave early? He must respect you, doesn’t he?”
“I don't see Eliav often. Everything is run by his manager. The owner trusts the manager, and the manager trusts me.”
“That’s good. It's good when there’s trust. What else do you do besides keeping the books?”
“I help in the shops when it’s too busy.”
“And today?”
“Today I said that I really needed to get off early.” Elam looked at her and smiled. Avital’s heart eased.
“What about land? Does your father own a lot?”
“Yes. I have a younger brother; they manage without me.”
Avital furtively looked at his figure: tall, rather well-built, but the fact that he did not engage in physical labor was evident from his thin shoulders and callus-free palms. His long, ink-stained fingers were as slender as a girl's.
As they climbed up the lane, clay houses were replaced by stone ones; the fences stretching ahead, with beautiful ornamental work along their upper edges, were also made of stone.
“I haven't been here before. Where are we?” She looked around in surprise.
“Impatient, aren’t we? This is the Upper City.”
“Are we even allowed here?”
Khatifa, who showed Avital around the city, did not bring her to this part of Jerusalem. Once, after Avital asked her sister who lived there, Khatifa brushed it off: “All sorts of rich people and Romans. We shouldn’t go there."
“Why not?” asked Elam. Noticing confusion on her face, he added, “There is one beautiful spot here; you will like it.”
They turned down another street, then another, and yet another, until they found themselves in front of a high solid stone fence. At its base grew two strong elms; their shade covered the fence and part of the courtyard. The stone-paved street was cleanly swept and deserted.
“We’re here,” said Elam. He grabbed a low branch of a tree and climbed onto the fence. Avital, after a little fumbling, did the same. The fence turned out to be quite wide.
Beyond it, in the distance, Avital saw a tidy courtyard in front of a house with columns and ornate carvings on the walls. Elm branches hung over into the courtyard so that Elam and Avital were under a kind of arch of curved boughs and lush leaves, making it difficult for anyone from the house to see them.
“Not much of a protection against thieves, such a wall next to trees,” Avital whispered. “Whose house is this?”
“The master’s,” Elam answered in a low voice, but then added more loudly, “Don’t worry, no one will see or hear us here. Besides, in case of thieves, he has dogs.”
“Some guards! Why didn't they bark at us?”
“Well, they know me!”
“And the servants?”
“The servants too. At this time of the day, everyone is in the house; we cannot be seen from there. Look around instead.”
Avital fidgeted, straightened her dress, tossed back her long curls, and began to look around. Through the swaying lace of branches and leaves, she saw in the distance small clay houses of Lower Jerusalem nestled on top of each other. It was quiet all around; the noise of the bazaar didn’t reach her ears, making it seem that the city below was sleeping under the midday sun. It was so nice to climb into the cool shade of the trees after a long walk along a hot dusty road... Avital took off her sandals and pressed her hot feet against the cool stones.
Scattered clouds drifted slowly across the clear blue sky. Their shadows crawled over the city wall to the hills in gray patches. To the right, not far away, in the rays of the generous sun, the Temple shone with gold.
“How nice it is here, Elam... Is it true that the Temple is still being built?”
“It is true. Only not with the same zeal as under the Great Herod. And that tower over there is called Baris, see?” He pointed to the high tower next to the Temple. “Herod finished building it and renamed it Antonia, in Roman.”
“Why?”
“In honor of Antony. There was this Roman commander. You know the story: Cleopatra, Antony...”
“Yes!”
“This same Antony gave Herod his consent to become king in his own country.”
“So, Herod sucked up to the Roman by naming the tower after him?”
“More like he paid tribute to a friend.” Elam plucked a leaf from a branch and bit the juicy stem with his teeth.
“How wrong. If I were king, I wouldn’t grovel before the Romans,” Avital said passionately, but Elam smirked.
“If he hadn’t groveled, he wouldn’t have become king. Besides, he didn't grovel that much. In his youth, they say, he was a wise and talented commander. And he rebuilt this city from scratch, and not just this one. So there was something special about him, about Great Herod. Neither Philip nor Antipas can compare to him... But we shouldn’t be discussing kings and Romans so loudly here.”
Avital held her tongue with difficulty. She wanted to object that the mad king was not so beloved by the people for whom he had allegedly rebuilt cities; she herself had heard so many times how unfavorably her father and uncle Eliashiv spoke of him.
Her uncle hated Romans with a fierce hatred. In his youth, Eliashiv had suffered a cruel insult from a Roman legionary. Once a prominent Roman noble arrived in Jerusalem, and one of his officers took notice of Khatifa’s mother, then only just married. When it turned out that the young woman feared God and shunned the lecherous foreigner, the Roman mocked her crudely in front of everyone. Eliashiv took offense and threw himself into a fight. In the end, the Roman departed for home with a nagging sense of not quite satisfied revenge, while Eliashiv was left with two scars on his back and cheek from the officer's whip.
But those were matters of the past. Avital recently made a pact with herself not to argue about things she didn’t fully understand, and judging by Elam’s confident speech, he knew what he was talking about. Instead, she asked,
“Do you come here often?”
“Sometimes. When I get tired of the noise, the market, or just want to be alone.”
“Mm...” Avital nodded and began peering at the houses and streets of the Lower City, trying to spot the place where they’d met. She did not find the bazaar, but recalled merrily,
“It was nice you came back quickly! That poor seller decided that I would buy something from him and praised his bracelets so much, it made me feel uncomfortable.”
Elam's gaze made the girl blush.
“Avital... Can I ask you something?”
Her heart skipped a beat. She had felt so at ease and comfortable with him, as with a brother, and now he was about to speak of something she was unconsciously afraid of.
“Go ahead,” she said as casually as she could, turning away towards the city.
“Are you seeing anyone? I mean, are you engaged to anyone?” His question sounded muffled and hesitant.
“Whew...” she exhaled and laughed. “If I were seeing someone, I wouldn’t have gone with you to who knows where, right? If I were engaged, I would sit quietly at home and embroider a dress for the wedding like Khatifa.” Avital tilted her head and looked at the guy playfully. Then she added more seriously,
“No, there is no one. In the village where we lived, by some miracle, only girls were born around my time. The richer ones were betrothed to neighbors’ sons back when the girls were babies. My mom and dad aren’t rich at all... So, well, no one so far. Though we often played wedding back when we were kids, and I had my own permanent fiancé. But he got married a long time ago, so...” She glanced at Elam.
It was clear that her words were to his liking, although he frowned at the remark about the fiancé, so Avital added,
“It was just a childish game; he was seven years older than me.”
Out of habit—the kind that makes one return a “how are you?” with the same question—she almost asked Elam if he had a fiancée but caught herself: that woman didn’t need to be mentioned again. Besides, a wave of irritation at his unfortunate love welled in her once more. Avital slipped on her sandals and asked,
“Do you like your job?”
“Not that I like it, but I'm not complaining. Writing comes easily to me, I get a good salary, and besides, Halek has become so used to me that it is easy for me to get along with him. Plus, there's still time to disport oneself.”
Avital did not quite understand what he meant by “disporting oneself" and asked again. She didn't like the word.
“I’ll show you later,” Elam answered. “Besides, I manage to read interesting scrolls that Eliav buys from traveling merchants and sells in Jerusalem.”
“I like to read, too.”
Elam raised his eyebrows.
“You know how to read?”
“Yes. You’ve seen my dad; he sometimes reads Scripture in the synagogue. He taught me when I was little.”
Elam looked at her with wide eyes.
“It’s just that sometimes he copies books at home; that interested me, so he began showing me different letters. And I learn quickly. I’ve read the Torah and Psalms when he wasn’t looking. Once they brought some scrolls to our village, dumped them in a heap right in the middle of the market—wanted to burn them, but I secretly took one home. Turned out to be some long boring story about the Medes, but I imagine I can read just about anything that falls into my hands.”
“I can't say I love to read, but reading is more pleasant than work. You know, in Rome, many women excel in reading; civilization, apparently, is gradually penetrating Judea, too,” he chuckled.
“I heard that in Rome women get divorced and even run synagogues—well, or whatever their institutions are called... They don’t believe in our God... It would probably be bad if Jewish women became like them.”
“You’re nothing like a Roman, but there’s so much in you... You’re unusual, Avital,” and again he looked at her with that gaze that made her blush crimson.
Avital did not answer, and Elam tore off a twig from an elm tree, left three leaves on it, and carefully put it in her hair.
“I need to go back now,” she said, by now completely red.
They got off the fence and walked back, rejoicing at the easy descent and the cheerful mood that seized both.
Elam walked her all the way home: he remembered that her family lived in the house of Khatifa's father, and he knew Khatifa through mutual acquaintances—those guys and girls with whom he sometimes spent his free time.
Reaching the house, Avital hesitated; Elam was the first young man with whom she had spoken for such a long time alone, and now she did not know what to do: invite him into the house or say goodbye on the street. Figuring that the latter would be impolite, she, overcoming fear and awkwardness, brought him into the house and introduced her new friend to her parents.
Shamai was flustered and kept smiling; he did not know how to behave at first. Together with Eliashiv, he led the young man to the mats in the courtyard adjoining the other houses, and there they talked with him until the evening.
Meanwhile, Avital was helping her mother in the kitchen and tried hard not to meet her eyes. Elam, it seemed, was the only one in the house who behaved naturally. When the girl came out into the street that evening to say goodbye to him, he said,
“An interesting man, your father.”
Avital said nothing; Elam lingered for another minute and finally said,
“Well, see you soon.”
Avital awaited questions from her parents, but when she walked past the kitchen to her and Khatifa's small room, Eliashiv, Shamai and her mother only exchanged silent glances, and out of the corner of her eye Avital caught sight of the smiles on their faces.
‘This is not at all what they think,’ she thought, flushing. ‘Though what else can one think of...’
Khatifa didn't say a word either.
Washing up before bed, Avital recalled the day's events and imagined Elam: his stained thin fingers, the caring movement with which he put a branch into her hair, his quick bouncing gait, his large eyes pausing for a long time on her face.
She felt joy at the memory of how easy it was to talk to him, and then asked herself again and again: ‘Is this really it?’ Then she recalled the scene at the wedding, the black-eyed beauty, and his sullen red face. Now she wondered what they could have talked about for so long with her father and uncle. All these thoughts whirled around in her head until her eyes began to close, and in her ears she heard the distant rumble of approaching sleep.
Nearly asleep, she suddenly realized: today he had forgotten the Black-Eyed forever.