Quarantine (16 page)

the bleaching lye had activated on the camel's back. 'First came

the stench, and then the cloud of thread-flies,' Musa said. 'Then

fled the Greek.' So from then on Musa only bought and sold

the darker-coloured wools with well-fixed dyes, and cloths

which could stand a little dust and were not bleached.

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Musa was indulging his two women. He let them pull out his

stock of wools from the dark recesses of the tent and smiled as

sweetly as he could while they sorted through the yams. This

was a combination that Musa enjoyed - the fabrics and the flesh.

He liked his wife to lift her clothes and straddle him, sometimes

facing his huge chest, sometimes looking at his toes. He liked

her clothes to fall on to his naked thighs and chest. Fabrics were

more sensual than skin, he thought. He was a merchant, after

all.

Marta shook her head and pushed aside all the rusts and

browns, the wools which Miri seemed to prefer. A birth-mat

which could not be white should try at least to be distinctive.

She took Musa's sample rod and let the coloured yams drop

loose. She showed them to the sun, but they were not transformed

by light. These were the colours of a Roman's robe. There was

nothing worthy of a birth.

'Take these,' said Musa who, now that Aphas was asleep, had

been commenting, with unusual animation for a man, on every

sample that the women fingered and rejected. But he did not

want them wasting decent wools on Miri's mat. He reached

across and pulled two half-hidden, remnant hanks of wool on

to his knees - the vibrant, eggy orange, and the purple that he'd

considered prostitutes might wear. He freed the yams a little and

spread the strands across his hands, so that the women could

inspect them. They were his customers.

'Good wools,' he said. 'The brightest in the market-place.

Find a brighter wool. Or one more flattering. ' He could imagine

Marta, reclining like an empress on a purple-orange mat, and he

the emperor. Too late he saw the wool was badly spun. He tried

to hide the broken strands, but too many pieces fell loose, like

unpinned hair. 'Good wool,' he said again. 'Some threads have

snapped. You see? But you can knot the ends and weave them

in. It's free. No need to haggle for a sweeter price. Be quick. '

He flicked the purple wool at Aphas's sleeping head. 'This fellow

here might want to show his purse and take a bargain home.'

The women laughed at first. Musa had surprised them. Was

he teasing? They recognized poor wool. Besides, his colours

were comically ill-judged. The orange and the purple were

bickering on sight, a florid uncle and his gaudy niece. The

women frowned and rubbed their chins, and tried to visualize

the finished mat. This wouldn't do. They shook their heads.

'What do you want for nothing then? Gold thread?' asked

Musa, raising his voice and narrowing his eyes at Miri. 'Don't

shake your head again. A wife should never shake her head.' He

shook the wools. 'It's these or nothing. Go without a mat.' He

closed his eyes, and wiped his face dry with the wools. His wife

had slighted him. In front of Marta. There was a price to pay.

The wine was draining from his heart. He'd beat his wife for

this.

'Give birth on straw,' he said. He half-opened one eye, like

a lizard, to see what effect his firmness had. His wife, of course,

had no expression on her face. But Marta seemed embarrassed.

Perhaps, for Marta's sake, it would be wise to seem more generous. 'Miri does not want to bear her child on straw,' he said to Marta. 'Speak to her. She's stubborn when she wants.' He held

the remnants up, the merchant and the liar once again. He'd

have their custom yet.

'Take, take,' Musa said, feigning impatience. He threw the

wools down at Marta's feet, so that she had to bend to pick them

up. At last, the lizard opened up its second eye. He ran his tongue

across his lips. If Miri was a skinny goat, he thought, then Marta

was a horse. 'Those colours bring good luck, ' he said, back in

the market-place. 'You'll have a boy. You'll have two boys,

Miri. As strong as bulls. Two little gods. An orange god, a purple

god. '

A good luck mat that promised sons? Marta pushed the wools

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together. She bunched the yams. Perhaps the orange and the

purple were not incompatible, after all. These were the fertile

colours of the darkness and the day, the harvest sky at night, the

ready, outer leaves of maize. She smiled at Miri. Helping Miri

with the weaving might bring good luck to both of them. Miri

shrugged and took the wools. Her husband had decided on the

purple and the orange. That was that, and not another word to

say. There wasn't any point in bargaining for better wool, or

any of the yams in the earthy colours that she preferred. She'd

have to bear her child on the sort of mat that a perfume-seller

would use to lay out his wares.

'The orange one. You see? Your choice is good,' Musa said,

congratulating the women and himself on their good taste. 'This

is the very best. It's from the swamps. Beyond the swamps. A

hundred days by camels, then a hundred days by boat. And then

you have to walk, up to your knees in weed. They take the

colour from the plants. Everything is orange there. The sky. The

leaves. The people's eyes . . . They all wear cloaks of orange

wool and disappear against the land. They are invisible. The

purple one? It's Tyrean. The weavers there take dyes from fish.

It's fish or snails. They never say.'

He told them how each year he went to Tyre to buy and sell.

'They only have the purple wools,' he said. 'The women can't

stand the constant smell of fish or snails. But when they see my

orange wools, and put them to their noses, they run to fetch

their husbands or their fathers. It doesn't matter, Miri, that the

yams are thin. Who cares about a broken thread when the colour

is so strong and sweet?' The women didn't disappear when they

wore orange cloaks in Tyre, Musa explained. They were as

madly visible as butterflies. As were the women in the south

when, on his return from Tyre, they bought his stock of purple

wools and could be seen at last against the orange leaves and sky.

'Sometimes it seems to me that I am trading only in colours,

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not in wools,' he said, keen to end the transaction on a magic

and unworldly note. 'I am like someone who sells sounds instead

of drums and pipes. I deal in smells instead of food. Old man,

wake up. Here's something wonderful.' He tossed his empty

flask into Aphas's lap. 'Imagine it, old man. A caravan of colours,

music, smells. So Jight a cargo. Watch how the camels run. A

man could make a fortune out of that. Ask her. She'll see.' He

pointed at Miri. What did he mean, 'She'll see'? Would Miri

see her husband make a fortune? Or would she travel to the

south with him, a hundred days, a hundred days, and then a

walk, her baby strapped across her chest, his camel panniers

leaking sounds and colours on the path, shedding smells into the

knee-deep waters of the swamp?

'That's it. The donkey's gone,' Shim said, when he and the badu

came back to the tent and joined the others amongst the wools

in the shade of its awnings. Then, 'There's someone there. A

boy, I think. ' He wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He

ran his tongue around his lips. He puffed his cheeks and blew

out air. He wanted everyone to see how tired and thirsty he'd

become. When Musa offered him the water-bag, as hospitality

dictated that he should, he could firmly shake his head, the

handsome man of principle and fortitude. He'd hold his hands

up, palms out, as if the very sight of water in a bag offended

him. He'd spit, to show he would not even swallow phlegm to

ease his thirst. Here was an opportunity to gain respect and

admiration - some recompense for the rent and water tax which

the landowner had exacted from him. He was beyond temptation,

they would see. He would not break his fast until the sun was

down. He would not cheat, as evidently they had done. He saw

the range of food and drink at Musa's feet, the empty flask in

Aphas's lap, and held his fellow cavers in contempt.

Shim did not have the chance to spit. Musa snapped his

fingers for the women to be quiet. He waved the blond forward

impatiently. He wanted to hear exactly what he had to report -

not because he cared that Shim was tired and dry and beyond

temptation, or that the donkey was gone, or that the badu,

swaying like a hermit in a trance, had twisted his hanks of hair

so tightly that there was blood - and flies - on his scalp.

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'What boy? What sort ofboy?' he said. 'What do you mean,

There's someone there? Say where.'

'Below the top,' said Shim. He vaguely gestured at his toes.

'A good climb down . . .'

'What did he say? Was he the fifth that you saw walking? Was

he a Jew? The one I saw was just a villager. Is that the one? He

had an accent from the Galilee,' said Musa.

Shim shrugged. What did it matter who it was? 'Such heavy

work,' he said. 'Animals weigh twice as much when they're

dead. I'm parched . . .' He remembered the badu. 'Him too.'

'A skinny man. Was he a skinny man?'

Another shrug from Shim. 'Not . . .' He paused. He didn't

like to say 'Not fat' to Musa. 'Not fat like you.' 'Not strong,' he

said instead. 'We didn't speak to him. We only dropped the

donkey off That's what we promised you. It fell . . .' Again, a

gesture with his hand. 'It missed him by a whisper. But it was

thirsty work.'

'Describe him, then. What kind of person, do you think?'

Shim spread his hands and laughed. How should he know?

His landlord was a tiresome man, obviously obsessed with taking

rents and picking profits off every creature on his land. He'd not

co-operate with such a cormorant. 'Someone who hasn't any

wealth, I'd say. Don't waste your time on him . . .' He held his

hands up, palms out. He shook his head. 'You'll not get rich. '

At least Musa was silent for the moment. His mouth had fallen

open and his eyes were wide. Here was Shim's opportunity to

have his say. He stepped three paces further into the tent and

stood where he could speak softly and with dignity, and still be

heard by everyone. 'And do not think to offer me your waterbag,' he said. 'The spirit of my quarantine is that I must refuse all food and drink while there is any light. Others might be less

exacting with themselves. An older man, perhaps, might be

forgiven for his lapses. And women by nature cannot be as

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spiritual as men. They are false treasures, as the scriptures say.