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Authors: Ann Brashares
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know why I said that. If I could have thought a moment, I wouldn’t have wanted her to remember me.
I doubt she understood me. I can’t even remember what language I used. Anyway, it took less than a second for one of those bulky servants to put his hands on me. I was skinny and small, and he picked me up and threw me across the alley. Then he strode over and kicked me in the ribs and again in the chest.
“Stop!” she cried out. She threw the curtains aside.
His foot was already cocked, and he kicked me again in the face. “That’s the wife of the magistrate, you insolent rat,” he muttered at me.
She got out of the litter, to the surprise of her servants. People were crowding around now. “He’s just a boy!” she said. “Do not touch him again.” She spoke an elegant Greek.
“I’m sorry,” I said, also in Greek. She leaned down and put her hand on my cheek. I felt blood leaking out of my nose. I owed her so much, and she owed me nothing but disgust, but she was kind to me. I wondered, feebly, how I was going to be in a position to make anything right for her.
“I am sorry,” I said again, in the old Aramaic, the same words I used to apologize to her the first time. If it sparked a memory in her, I don’t know. I am always hoping. She looked sad.
“I’m sorry to you,” she said, and she stood up. “Take him home to his mother,” she ordered a female servant. She disappeared behind the curtains.
I had no home or mother by that point, so I fled the servant before she could kick me, too.
Every day for a year or more I waited by that same stall in the hope of seeing her again. I concocted elaborate plans of what I would do when I saw her. I scripted the things I would say if I could get close enough. I found a job hefting bags at a spice stall nearby and bought her small treasures with the money I made: an orange, a piece of honeycomb. But I never saw her again. I died of cholera before I had the chance.
From that moment, as I look back, I can trace the beginning of a few unlucky themes that would carry on for centuries. Our lives being mismatched in time. Her being someone else’s wife. Her forgetting me.
In spite of getting beaten, seeing her was the best moment in my life. I was bewildering to myself, honestly, and I was looking for patterns. Even if she was only an idea, the idea was comfort. She had come back. She was alive again, in spite of what I had done to her. She was beautiful again. She prospered. I could see her again. Not that I would see her, but at least I could. In some way that’s when I first understood the regenerative power of life.
I clung to the idea that there was a point to my living over and over, and to my strange memory. I thought it would give me the chance to cure my sin and make it right. Little did I know how long and fraught a road that would be.
People sometimes talk about the power of first impressions, and believe me, there is truth to it. The path of your life can change in an instant. Not just the path of your life but the path of all your lives, the path of your soul. Whether you remember or not. It makes you want to think hard before you act.
What if I hadn’t burned down her house? How many times have I thought that thought? What if I had seen the insanity of what we were doing and put a stop to it? What if I had saved her and her family and the rest of the village as best I could? I would have gotten killed, but so what. I got killed a few years later, anyway, and didn’t accomplish anything by it.
If I had saved her instead of murdering her, we might have come back into the world together with ease and harmony, time after time. I don’t mean to suggest there are simple formulas. But certain souls cohere. It’s rare but possible. Certain souls pair up eternally, not unlike geese or lobsters. I’ve witnessed it a few times. But it takes two powerful wills to make it so, and mine accounted for one. It wasn’t enough for me to want to find her
I doubt she understood me. I can’t even remember what language I used. Anyway, it took less than a second for one of those bulky servants to put his hands on me. I was skinny and small, and he picked me up and threw me across the alley. Then he strode over and kicked me in the ribs and again in the chest.
“Stop!” she cried out. She threw the curtains aside.
His foot was already cocked, and he kicked me again in the face. “That’s the wife of the magistrate, you insolent rat,” he muttered at me.
She got out of the litter, to the surprise of her servants. People were crowding around now. “He’s just a boy!” she said. “Do not touch him again.” She spoke an elegant Greek.
“I’m sorry,” I said, also in Greek. She leaned down and put her hand on my cheek. I felt blood leaking out of my nose. I owed her so much, and she owed me nothing but disgust, but she was kind to me. I wondered, feebly, how I was going to be in a position to make anything right for her.
“I am sorry,” I said again, in the old Aramaic, the same words I used to apologize to her the first time. If it sparked a memory in her, I don’t know. I am always hoping. She looked sad.
“I’m sorry to you,” she said, and she stood up. “Take him home to his mother,” she ordered a female servant. She disappeared behind the curtains.
I had no home or mother by that point, so I fled the servant before she could kick me, too.
Every day for a year or more I waited by that same stall in the hope of seeing her again. I concocted elaborate plans of what I would do when I saw her. I scripted the things I would say if I could get close enough. I found a job hefting bags at a spice stall nearby and bought her small treasures with the money I made: an orange, a piece of honeycomb. But I never saw her again. I died of cholera before I had the chance.
From that moment, as I look back, I can trace the beginning of a few unlucky themes that would carry on for centuries. Our lives being mismatched in time. Her being someone else’s wife. Her forgetting me.
In spite of getting beaten, seeing her was the best moment in my life. I was bewildering to myself, honestly, and I was looking for patterns. Even if she was only an idea, the idea was comfort. She had come back. She was alive again, in spite of what I had done to her. She was beautiful again. She prospered. I could see her again. Not that I would see her, but at least I could. In some way that’s when I first understood the regenerative power of life.
I clung to the idea that there was a point to my living over and over, and to my strange memory. I thought it would give me the chance to cure my sin and make it right. Little did I know how long and fraught a road that would be.
People sometimes talk about the power of first impressions, and believe me, there is truth to it. The path of your life can change in an instant. Not just the path of your life but the path of all your lives, the path of your soul. Whether you remember or not. It makes you want to think hard before you act.
What if I hadn’t burned down her house? How many times have I thought that thought? What if I had seen the insanity of what we were doing and put a stop to it? What if I had saved her and her family and the rest of the village as best I could? I would have gotten killed, but so what. I got killed a few years later, anyway, and didn’t accomplish anything by it.
If I had saved her instead of murdering her, we might have come back into the world together with ease and harmony, time after time. I don’t mean to suggest there are simple formulas. But certain souls cohere. It’s rare but possible. Certain souls pair up eternally, not unlike geese or lobsters. I’ve witnessed it a few times. But it takes two powerful wills to make it so, and mine accounted for one. It wasn’t enough for me to want to find her
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