Pillars of Light by Jane Johnson Read Free Book Online

flowing from them. Suddenly, she felt quite at ease, not a Muslim girl intruding into a Jewish house but a welcome visitor.
    “How old are you, my dear?”
    “Seventeen,” Zohra said. Then, “Is Nathanael here?” she asked.
    Sara shook her head. “I’m so sorry, no, he’s not. Sit down. I’ll bring some tea—or would you prefer something cold? Some pressed lemon, or some watered wine?”
    “A little watered wine would be lovely.” This woman seemed so sophisticated, she did not want to seem gauche by refusing.
    By the time Sara returned, Zohra was already regretting her choice. She took the glass with trembling fingers and touched her lips to it. The wine tasted both bitter and sweet, but not unpleasant. She swallowed and felt it slide coolly down her throat, leaving a burning tingle behind. Wine was like nothing she had ever tasted before. She was reminded that in the
Thousand and One Nights
bad women drank wine often, and then came to grief.
    “Nathanael is in Jerusalem,” Sara said. “He left yesterday.”
    Zohra’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She could think of nothing to say, the disappointment was so keen. Jerusalem was a week’s journey away. She took another huge gulp of the wine and almost choked. “When will he come back?” she managed at last.
    “He’s gone to study at the institute. Medicine, like his father. I expect he’ll be back for visits.” Sara smiled.
    They sat quietly for a while, Zohra trying not to cry, drinking her way steadily to the dregs of her glass because she didn’t know what else to say or do. Then she got to her feet and handed the empty vessel back. “I must get home.”
    “Come back any time,” Sara said. “Now you know where we are. I’m sure Yacub would be delighted to see you again.”
    Zohra promised that she would visit, though her voice sounded faint and distant even to herself. At the front door, she touched the
hamsa
.
    “Why do you have a Hand of Fatima?” she found herself asking. “I mean, I thought only Muslims had them …” She wanted to biteher tongue off for saying something so clumsy. It must have been the wine.
    “We call it a Hand of Miriam,” Sara said. “And if you look you’ll find them on the doors of old Christian houses, too. They’d call it a Hand of Mary. You see, we’re none of us so different, are we? Do come back and see us, Zohra. You’re always welcome.”
    Zohra ran nearly all the way home, reaching the corner where the Armenian sisters spent the day on their doorstep, their sharp eyes on the lookout for anything they might trade as gossip, before realizing she had forgotten to collect the bread and pastries and had to run back down to the third bakery and endure the scolding of the Widow Eptisam.
    The house was in chaos by the time she returned, for her cousins had all arrived early and were milling about the kitchen. Nima was flustered, having been caught in her work clothes with her hair askew and smears of oil and flour on her face, while both her sisters-by-law wore immaculate robes glittering with embroidery fresh from the best seamstresses in Damascus, heavy gold earrings and alarming quantities of kohl, as if they were attending a wedding rather than a family meal. Zohra held out the tray of baked flatbreads and pastries, but Nima pushed it back at her, eyes flashing. “My daughter will entertain you while I change!” she said sharply, then lowered her voice so that Zohra alone could hear. “Make them tea and settle them in the guest salon, and don’t waste another second.”
    Zohra sighed and accepted her punishment. “Aunt Mina, Aunt Asha, Cousins Khalida and Jamilla, come and sit in the cool, and I will bring you mint tea.”
    Khalida and the aunts let themselves be bustled out of the kitchen—they did not want to spoil their expensive silks—but Jamilla hung back, and turned burning eyes upon Zohra.
    “Have you heard from him?”
    Zohra felt her heart stop. How could she know about