The Abyssinian Proof

19

Saba lay naked and sweating on the hot bellystone, arms by her side, legs pressed tightly together. Steam enveloped the small chamber and weak columns of light fell toward her from the round windows in the dome. She stretched luxuriantly, arching her back, letting the steam and the heat caress her. It was early and only the servants were awake. She was alone in the hamam at the back of the house.

She felt languorous. Slippery with soap, she began to explore. Her hand trailed slowly across her collarbone, then her breast and her belly. She reached between her thighs and let her fingers slide across the damp swollen flesh, the delicate mounds and mysterious valleys. Her body charged up to meet her touch. Her fingers fell into the ready space, the opening that flared with exquisite pain, obliterating all else. She cried out. The pain was irresistible.

Once, while Malik was out, she had discovered hidden in his library a folder of graphic miniatures. She had frozen with shame, but only for an instant. Then she had become intrigued, stealing back several times to memorize every detail. The images colonized her dreams and made of them lush gardens in which she lingered willfully long after the dawn call to prayer. Although Malik’s death darkened her mood, it had also heightened her senses.

Suddenly, a short, heavy figure emerged from the mist and pressed a bath mitt against her face. Saba struggled but couldn’t get away. She felt a rough hand push her legs apart. When the finger impaled her, her back arched in pain and terror.

“Slut, slut, slut.”

Saba recognized Gudit’s voice. The mitt covered her mouth so she couldn’t scream.

“I saw you try to seduce the pasha with your honey cakes,” Gudit said in a harsh tone. “I know everything and you, you little slut, know nothing. Someday you’ll be grateful that I stopped you.”

She took the flesh between Saba’s legs between her fingers and pinched and pulled at it as if she were trying to tear it off. The pain was intolerable. Saba fought and this time managed to pull the mitt off her face and wriggle out of Gudit’s grasp.

Gudit slapped her. “You belong to us.”

The two women struggled on the bellystone. Saba was amazed at the old woman’s strength, but pushed her off again. A knife clattered to the floor. Slipping across the wet marble, Saba ran through the door to the cooling-off room. She turned, slammed it in Gudit’s face, and bolted it. Heaving with terror, Saba fell to her knees, the marble beneath her blooming pink with blood.

Saba didn’t tell her mother about the attack. She was ashamed and, she acknowledged to herself, nervous about what other subjects such a conversation might open up. She said nothing because she knew her mother relied on Gudit, her lifelong friend who had helped her carry the burden of leading the Melisite community. Instead, Saba avoided the midwife, who had been released from the hamam by a puzzled kitchen maid. Saba concealed her bruises with fine clay under her veil. Although the physical pain began to subside, her fury multiplied. When she became priestess, she vowed, she would see to it that Gudit regretted her cruelty.