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.
8 8
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,
9 1
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.
93
'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
94
spiritual as men. They are false treasures, as the scriptures say.