mine and closed his eyes. I tried now to picture it . . . to picture him. Already his features had dimmed a little in my mind. It terrified me, this slow disappearing.
Pamphile stepped into the courtyard, bringing our supper. “Would you prefer to eat here in the garden?”
I sat up, the image of Jesus scattering, leaving me with a sudden, sharp aloneness.
“Let’s eat here,” Yaltha said, setting aside her book.
“Has there been a letter today?” I asked Pamphile. She’d agreed to alert me to the arrival of a courier, but even so, I queried her about it daily.
“I’m sorry, no.” She gave me an inquisitive look. “This letter must be very important.”
“My brother promised to send word when it’s safe for us to return to Galilee.”
Pamphile stopped abruptly, wobbling her tray. “Would Lavi return with you?”
“We couldn’t travel without his protection.” I realized too late that I’d spoken without thinking. Lavi had lost his heart to her, but it seemed she’d lost hers to him as well. If she knew the letter meant Lavi’s departure, would she conceal it from me? Could I trust her?
She poured wine into Yaltha’s cup, then mine, and handed us bowls of lentil and garlic stew. “If Lavi returns with me,” I said, “I’ll make certain he has money to buy passage back to Alexandria.”
She nodded without smiling.
Yaltha frowned. I had no trouble reading her face: I understand you wish to secure her loyalty, but will there be money for such a promise? Other than the sum I’d set aside for our return, there were only enough drachmae to pay Haran’s rent for four more months, no more.
When Pamphile had departed, Yaltha’s spoon thudded against her bowl. I, myself, could find no appetite. I lay back once more upon the earth, closed my eyes, and searched for his face. I could not find it.
vi.
I pressed five drachmae into Lavi’s palm. “Go to the market and purchase a travel pouch made of wool, one that will hold my scrolls.” I led him to the stone jar in my sleeping chamber, pulled out the scrolls one by one, and spread them across my bed. “As you see, our old leather pouch is no longer large enough.”
His eyes moved over my stockpile.
“There are twenty-seven of them,” I said.
Afternoon light was falling from the small window, pale green from the palms. I stared at the scrolls, at years and years of begging and scrounging for the privilege of writing—every word, every ink stroke hard-won and precious, and I felt something flood through me. I don’t know if I would call it pride. It was more of a simple awareness that somehow I’d done this. I felt amazed suddenly. Twenty-seven scrolls.
During the year we’d been here, I’d completed my narratives of the matriarchs in the Bible, and also written an account of Chaya, the lost daughter, and Yaltha, the searching mother. I took it to my aunt before the ink had fully dried. Upon reading it, she said, “Chaya is lost, but her story isn’t,” and I felt that my words were a balm for her. I re-created the verses of grief for Susanna that I’d written on the potsherds I’d left behind in Nazareth. I couldn’t remember all of them, but enough to satisfy me. I wrote the tale of my friendship with Phasaelis and her escape from Antipas, and finally of the household in Nazareth.
Lavi looked up from the pile of stories. “Does the new pouch mean we’ll be traveling soon?”
“I’m still awaiting the letter telling me it’s safe to enter Galilee. I wish to be ready when it comes.”
I was in need of a larger pouch, it’s true, but my motive in sending Lavi into the city was also ulterior. I was considering how to broach the matter when he said, “I wish to marry Pamphile.”
I blinked at him, startled. “And does Pamphile wish to be your wife?”
“We would marry tomorrow if we could, but I have no means to care for her. I will have to find employment here in Alexandria, for she will not leave Egypt.”