Enchantress: A Novel of Rav Hisda's Daughter (21 page)

“If she didn’t accept the
get
, she wouldn’t receive her
ketuba
,” I pointed out.

“Exactly. But even so it was two weeks before the agent found her. Then she made a fuss when Rava tried to remove some of his belongings from the house, declaring that her
ketuba
settlement included the house and its contents.” Mari shook his head. “In the end, he took away nothing, not even his clothes.”

I let out my breath in relief. Hallelujah, Rava was free.

“I assume your brother Tachlifa returned from the West safely,” Mother said when Mari returned to his porridge.

“Yes, he and Samuel were there when we arrived. I apologize for not informing you sooner.”

 • • • 

The day before Yom Kippur, I worked up the courage to walk to town to see my sister, Achti. The bond between us had cracked when Rami died and she took my son, and time had done nothing to heal the breach. Achti was surprised to find me at her door, but she could hardly turn me away.

“I want to thank you for how well you’ve raised Chama. He’s already so good at Mishna that I’m certain he’ll be a scholar when he grows up,” I said. “I also need to ask your forgiveness for anything I’ve done to injure or upset you, both recently and in the past. Once I remarry, I may never be back in Sura for Yom Kippur.”

“I am thankful Chama can continue his studies at Father’s, and not with some teacher far away,” Achti said.

Noting she had not accepted my apology nor offered one of her own, I brought the conversation back to my original subject. “Is there anything I’ve neglected to ask forgiveness for?”

“I do not understand how you could want to marry this Rava, but that is your decision.” She locked eyes with me. “I do know that my husband will never forgive you for marrying the man who killed his brother.”

My attempt to exchange forgivenesses was clearly fruitless, but the Rabbis said to try more than once. “Believe what you like about Rava. I am asking you to forgive me.”

“I suppose he can’t be that guilty if you can bring yourself to marry him,” Achti replied. “So I forgive you.”

We walked to her courtyard gate, and when she made no effort to embrace me or kiss me good-bye, my parting words were, “I would appreciate you and Ukva not telling Chama why you think Rami died. There may come a day when my son needs to live with me or study with Rava.”

As I dragged my feet back to the villa, I had a feeling my request to Achti had come too late. The possibility that my son would grow up sharing Ukva’s enmity toward Rava was like a knife in my side.

 • • • 

I was so engrossed in these painful thoughts that at first I didn’t recognize the male voice shouting at me.

“Dada,” it repeated several times, each louder than before. “Come out of the clouds and greet your brother.”

As if woken from a dream, I jerked my head up to see who had interrupted my reverie. “Tachlifa,” I shouted as I ran to where he was supervising a line of containers being moved from the canal dock into the courtyard.

I slipped between a cart carrying barrels and jars and another loaded with wooden crates. “Tachlifa.” I threw my arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you again.”

My brother hugged me tight, then kept his arm around me as he continued to direct where his merchandise should be stored. “I am very glad to see you again, Dada, and about your splendid news.”

Suddenly another voice, a deep male voice like no other, was addressing me. “Aren’t you glad to see me again?”

Astonished that he should be here so soon, I whirled around and beheld Rava approaching. Adding to my consternation was how different he looked. It wasn’t just that he no longer wore a married man’s turban, but his hair and beard were now elegantly trimmed and curled. He was dressed differently too. His stylish tunic and trousers were tailored to fit perfectly.

Tachlifa released me and gave me a little push in Rava’s direction. “Your future husband may be an impoverished scholar who doesn’t care about his appearance,” my brother said. “But I am not about to let anyone who sees him this week realize that.”

I wanted to embrace Rava, but the place was too public to do more than grasp his hands. “I am very glad to see you again, and to see you looking so well.” Surely he would notice how my eyes shone with joy. “Your hair smells nice too.”

“If you prefer this hair oil to my old one, I can ask Tachlifa to obtain more.”

“You should wear a scent that you like,” I said, happy just to be with him.

“I won’t notice it after a while, but you will be the one to wake up each morning smelling it.” Some men might have said this seductively, but Rava was completely serious.

I leaned close and whispered, “I look forward to that day no matter what hair oil you use.”

“No more than I,” he whispered back, still in that serious tone. “But enough on this subject. Can you find time to speak with me in private before Yom Kippur begins?” His voice was tight with urgency, and I was filled with sudden dread.

“After the midday meal. Why? Is anything wrong?”

“For the first time in a great many years, nothing is wrong,” he assured me. “But I’ve had much to think about these last few weeks, and I need you to grant me atonement for my sins against you.”

“As I told you months ago, I forgive you—” I began.

“Not the dutiful forgiveness you owe any Jew who asks,” he interrupted, “but true atonement, from the heart, that comes after you hear my confession. We must start our marriage with a clean slate.”

I sighed with relief. “In truth, the only thing I planned to do until the fast begins tomorrow evening is to review Mishna tractates Yoma, Sukkah, and Rosh Hashana.”

“I’ve been blessed to marry the only female scholar in Bavel,” he said. “But I’d prefer to confess first and study afterward.”

Curious to hear what he was so desperate to repent, I replied, “Then we will.”

 • • • 

That afternoon the children were occupied with their studies, allowing Rava and me some privacy in the shady orchard.

“I realize that my failure to vanquish my
yetzer hara,
despite Rav Oshaiya’s instruction, made you suffer last year,” he said solemnly. “I was rude to you at meals, quick to anger, and gave no thought to how my actions might make you feel. It still shames me that I accused you of casting a love spell on me, when I was guilty of wanting to cast one on you.”

“I forgive you. I know your suffering was greater than mine.” I took his hand and squeezed it. “However, I think our pain resulted not from your failure to vanquish your
yetzer hara
but rather from your belief that you could.”

“What do you mean?” He looked at me in surprise.

“You and I were fated to wed, which strengthened your
yetzer hara
to a level impossible to resist.” I began to get lost in his dark eyes so I gazed down at the ground. “I am guilty of trying to entice you. That’s why I started wearing that labdanum perfume, so you would remember how much I wanted you in the desert.”

“I see that fate strengthened your
yetzer hara
as well.” Rava almost smiled, but then his face fell. “However, I doubt Rav Oshaiya will accept that as an excuse for my failure. I’m relieved that I won’t have to return to Pumbedita until after our betrothal. At a minimum he will be disappointed in me, and I fear he’ll get so angry he might refuse to teach me.”

“You can ask his forgiveness later. There must be something I did that hurt you.”

He hesitated. “I don’t understand why you were so aloof after my father died. You have no idea how I looked forward to seeing you when I returned, but you ignored me.”

I cringed at his reproach. “Please forgive me. My sisters-in-law thought you were pretending to reject me as part of a cunning plot to make me desire you. They convinced me that my constant presence in Pumbedita made you take me for granted, and that you would pursue me if you were afraid of losing me.”

Rava was silent for so long that I was certain he was fighting to contain his anger. But he hadn’t let go of my hand. “Perhaps my
yetzer hara
was more cunning than I knew, but I never imagined my actions were having this effect on you.” He shook his head in amazement. “All I could think was that you must have attracted a suitor in Sura, and that you wanted nothing to do with me after spending Pesach with him.”

“I will forgive your mistakes if you will forgive mine.” I leaned my head against his shoulder.

“Gladly.” He lifted my chin so he could look at me. “Speaking of my father, he has more than forgiven me. He is delighted that I’ve finally divorced Choran.”

“Your father?” Rav Joseph had been dead for six months. He must have come to Rava in a dream. “What did he tell you?”

Even though we were alone, Rava gazed around nervously and lowered his voice. “After my father died, I begged Rav Oshaiya to teach me how to speak with the dead.”

I gulped with amazement. “And he did?”

He nodded. “That’s why I’m afraid he’ll stop teaching me. I have so much more to learn.”

“How did you do it?” I asked eagerly. This was incredible.

“The partition between this world and the next thins on the night before Rosh Hashana, making it possible to summon the dead. The supplicant must fast from sunrise to sunset, then go to the person’s grave and recite the incantation.”

I was disappointed when he didn’t share the specific words, but I hadn’t expected him to.

“Did he actually appear, or did you just hear his voice?”

“I sensed my father’s presence but saw nothing. He said he was with my mother now, and he sounded happy,” Rava said. “He told me that he forgave me for not ridding myself of Choran earlier, so he could dance at my wedding instead of making himself sick with worry over my unhappiness. Now that he’s in the next world, he understands that events must progress at the appropriate time.”

“So that’s why you couldn’t leave Machoza until after Rosh Hashana.” I knew I shouldn’t ask him, but I couldn’t restrain myself. “Could you help me talk to the dead?”

“In the first year or two, it can be done, but the longer it’s been since a death, the more difficult it is for a spirit to return.” His eyes clouded with pain. Did he think I wanted him to conjure Rami?

“I was thinking of my daughter, but I suppose we would have to travel to Sepphoris to do that.”

“We will not be going to Sepphoris in the next two years.” There was a glint in his eye. “When I bid my father farewell and said I would speak with him next year, he told me I would be too occupied with his grandson’s birth to come to Machoza.”

There was such awe and joy in his voice that I lifted up my head, expecting him to kiss me.

But he demurred. “It’s not that I am loath to kiss you. I prefer to be strict and wait until we are officially betrothed.”

“Are you sure your
yetzer hara
isn’t being devious again?” I teased him. “Hoping this will make me more eager to kiss you?”

“Nothing could make me more eager to kiss you than I am now,” he replied. “But I have bread in my basket now. I can wait and not be distracted during Yom Kippur.”

Maybe he was confident of his
kavanah
, but I knew it would test mine to keep my focus on repentance and atonement instead of thinking about our upcoming betrothal.

 • • • 

Rava proved how strict he could be with himself by fasting for two days for Yom Kippur because we had not received the official message from the Sages in the West that established the true date of Rosh Hashana. On account of this uncertainty, Babylonian Jews celebrated Rosh Hashana for two days and Sukkot for eight. At least he was lenient with others, for he reassured me that he expected neither me, our children, nor anyone in our household to observe the strictures he placed on himself.

Tachlifa took advantage of Rava’s extra day of atonement to go over what I earned from my share of his business. “I don’t want you to appear ignorant when it comes time to finalize your betrothal documents.”

“But I still can’t multiply or divide properly,” I said in despair.

He chuckled at my consternation, but before I could chastise him for making fun of me over something so serious, he said, “I have a gift for you that should prove helpful.” He pointed to a beautifully lacquered box on a nearby table.

I removed the top and was confronted with two rows of grooves, a smaller row above and a large row below. Each groove contained painted wooden balls, the upper section with two balls in each groove and the bottom with five. “It’s lovely, but what is it?”

“It’s a counting box. They say all the merchants in China use it, so I got a couple, for you and Mariamme.”

“How does it work?” Was it possible this strange box of grooves and balls would enable me to do mathematics?

“It’s quite easy. First I’ll show you how to add and subtract.”

Tachlifa began with simple numbers and rapidly progressed to longer ones. In an hour I had mastered both addition and subtraction. Multiplication was not quite so easy, and when it came time for our midday meal, I still needed his help with large numbers. Division was more complicated, and it took until sunset for me to understand the technique, though I was far from proficient.

“Don’t worry, Dada. We will work on this next week,” he said, closing the box when Rava joined us. “I guarantee that by the time I leave for the West, you will be expert enough to teach Mariamme.”

 • • • 

I had no time to practice the next morning, for no sooner had we finished our morning meal than Father gathered me, Rava, and Tachlifa together, along with my brothers Mari and Nachman, to begin drawing up the betrothal documents. We had to finish well before Shabbat if they were to be ready for the banquet on First Day.

I was glad we only had the one day, for I couldn’t wait to see Rava’s reaction when he saw all his mortgages among the dowry I was bringing.

“Now for financial matters,” Father said, inclining his head toward Mari.

“My sister has several sources of income, some of which are restricted as to her husband’s benefit,” he began. “Rava is entitled to what her silk weaving and
charasheta
work brings in, as well as to produce from her
ketuba
lands, but our grandfather vowed that her husband should not benefit from the property he bequeathed her.”