in Alexandria, the ones who were not yet betrothed, the ones with little appeal, went into the vineyards during the grape harvest and danced for the men in need of brides. We went late in the day before the sun set, all of us wearing white dresses and bells sewn on our sandals, and the men would be there, waiting. You should’ve seen us—we were scared, clinging to one another’s hands. We carried drums and danced in a single line that moved like a serpent through the vines.”
She paused in the telling and I could see it clearly—the sky singed red, the girls twittering with apprehension, the sway of white dresses, the long, serpentine dance.
As she resumed her story, her eyes seemed to darken at the edges. “I danced each year for three years until finally someone chose me. Ruebel.”
I wanted to cry, not for myself, but for her. “How would a girl know she was chosen?”
“The man would come and ask her name. Sometimes he would go to her father that very night and the contract would be drawn.”
“Could she refuse?”
“Yes, but it was rare. She would not risk displeasing her father.”
“You didn’t refuse,” I said. This both captivated and dismayed me. How different her life might have been.
“No, I didn’t refuse. I didn’t have the courage.” She smiled at me. “We make our moments, Ana, or we do not.”
Later, alone in my room, the house deep in slumber, I removed the white marriage dress from the chest and with the snipping knife, I cut the hem and the sleeves into long tatters. I slipped it on and crept from the house. The air caused cold scintillas of flesh to rise on my arms. I mounted the ladder to the roof and climbed like a night vine, the shreds of my dress fluttering. A small wind stirred the dark, and I thought of Sophia, the very breath of God in the world, and I whispered to her, “Come, lodge in me, and I will love you with all my heart and mind and soul.”
Then, on the roof, as close to the sky as I could get, I danced. My body was a reed pen. It spoke the words I couldn’t write: I dance not for men to choose me. Nor for God. I dance for Sophia. I dance for myself.
xxx.
When the seven days of mourning ended, I walked through the center of Sepphoris with my parents and aunt to synagogue. Father had been reluctant for us to appear in public so soon—rumors about my missing virginity blanketed the city like rotted manna, but Mother believed a demonstration of my devoutness would soften the vitriol toward me. “We must show the entire population we bear no shame,” she said. “Otherwise they’ll believe the worst.”
I can’t imagine why Father went along with such stupid reasoning.
It was a clear, cool day, the air oiled with the smell of olives, everyone in their woolen cloaks. It didn’t seem like the kind of day trouble would find us; nevertheless Father had ordered Antipas’s soldier to traipse behind us. Yaltha didn’t usually come with us to synagogue, which was a relief to my parents as well as my aunt, but here she was today, adhered to my side.
We walked without speaking, as if holding our breath. We wore no splendor; even Mother was clad in her simplest dress. “Keep your head bowed low,” she’d told me when we first set out, but I found now I couldn’t do it. I walked with my chin lifted and my shoulders back, the tiny sun perched over me trying very hard to shine.
As we neared the synagogue, the street grew crowded. Spotting our subdued little entourage and then me in particular, the people halted their progress, clumped together, and stared. A swell of muttering rose up. Yaltha leaned close to me. “Fear nothing,” she said.
“She’s the one who laughed at the death of her betrothed, Nathaniel ben Hananiah,” someone shouted.
Then another voice that sounded vaguely familiar cried, “Harlot!”
We kept walking. I kept my eyes straight ahead as if not hearing. Fear nothing.