palmfuls. The older Jew had trouble kneeling, let alone
lying on his chest and reaching for the water. He held his side,
and frowned with pain. Marta scooped water up for him, losing
most of it between her fingers before she could get her cupped
hands, still shaking from the fright she'd had, up to his mouth.
He shook his head, apologized. It would not do to let his lips
or tongue come into contact with her skin. He gave his felt
skull-cap to her. It didn't hold much water but it absorbed
enough for the old man to squeeze into his mouth. At first he
tried to remove the scabs of earth from the felt before he drank,
but he soon settled for the simple life by swallowing the water
first and then picking the grit and sand off his lips and tongue.
The badu was the last to come, evidently not alarmed by Marta's
scream. He could not easily reach the water either with his hands.
He jumped into the grave and got down on his knees to drink.
He had the manners and the narrow backbone of a goat.
There's nothing like a desert water-hole for making good,
brief neighbours out of animals that have nothing much in
common other than a thirst. There is the story of the leopard
and the deer, standing patiently in line while vipers drink. And
the tradition amongst travellers that anyone who pushes at a well
will die from drowning. Their bones will never dry. So these
four strangers, gathered round the cistern, were more careful
and polite than they might have been if they had met, say, at a
crowded market stall, where the sharpest elbows and the shrillest
voice would get the leanest meat. Even the badu, for all his
childish, knee-deep impropriety, kept to his comer and was
careful to avoid the other dipping hands. There was a good deal
of nervous laughter, as well. They knew they were a comic sight
- unwashed, unrested, far from home, and with the rankest
water, hardly clean enough to irrigate a field, slipping through
their fingers, down their chests and legs. So, once they'd filled
themselves with water and were sitting on the rocks waiting for
the sun to come and dry their clothes, they had no reason to
behave as if they were entirely strangers. Like fellow travellers
sharing tables at an inn, and knowing they would share the same
uneasy stomachs in the night, they had to talk. They'd come
into the hills for privacy, perhaps. But there were customs to
observe. Customs of the water-hole. Customs of the road. And
for the men, the awkward and restraining customs oflanguage and
49
demeanour forced on them by the presence of an unaccompanied
woman. Who knows how these three might have spoken and
behaved if Marta, handsome and imposing, her throat and arms
and ankles close enough to study and to touch, hadn't been
there? Who was the viper? Which the leopard and the deer?
Marta knew that she was disconcerting. Men stared at her,
even in Sawiya where she was no longer any novelty, as if her
presence made them uncomfortable. They stopped their work
to watch her walking down the alleys towards the well. She
could hang the sickle and stay the saw. The same men watched
her coming back, balancing a filled pitcher of water on her
shoulders. They hoped to see her arms lifted above her head.
Her breasts would spread high and flat across her chest. Any man
that watched would know that her stomach was still unburdened
by a child, and - for reasons only understood by men and
cockerels - that was arousing. But Marta misread their stares,
and stared back at them, meeting eye for eye. Why should she
feel ashamed? If they grinned or whispered amongst themselves,
then she could guess exactly what they said and why they smiled.
She was for them a fruitless tree. 'Poor Thaniel,' they must have
said. 'No sign of any crop this year. Two barren wives. Too
much to bear.'
Poor Marta, though. Despite her boldness in the alleyways,
she was embarrassed by herself Her sterility. Her size, which
she considered to be
lying on his chest and reaching for the water. He held his side,
and frowned with pain. Marta scooped water up for him, losing
most of it between her fingers before she could get her cupped
hands, still shaking from the fright she'd had, up to his mouth.
He shook his head, apologized. It would not do to let his lips
or tongue come into contact with her skin. He gave his felt
skull-cap to her. It didn't hold much water but it absorbed
enough for the old man to squeeze into his mouth. At first he
tried to remove the scabs of earth from the felt before he drank,
but he soon settled for the simple life by swallowing the water
first and then picking the grit and sand off his lips and tongue.
The badu was the last to come, evidently not alarmed by Marta's
scream. He could not easily reach the water either with his hands.
He jumped into the grave and got down on his knees to drink.
He had the manners and the narrow backbone of a goat.
There's nothing like a desert water-hole for making good,
brief neighbours out of animals that have nothing much in
common other than a thirst. There is the story of the leopard
and the deer, standing patiently in line while vipers drink. And
the tradition amongst travellers that anyone who pushes at a well
will die from drowning. Their bones will never dry. So these
four strangers, gathered round the cistern, were more careful
and polite than they might have been if they had met, say, at a
crowded market stall, where the sharpest elbows and the shrillest
voice would get the leanest meat. Even the badu, for all his
childish, knee-deep impropriety, kept to his comer and was
careful to avoid the other dipping hands. There was a good deal
of nervous laughter, as well. They knew they were a comic sight
- unwashed, unrested, far from home, and with the rankest
water, hardly clean enough to irrigate a field, slipping through
their fingers, down their chests and legs. So, once they'd filled
themselves with water and were sitting on the rocks waiting for
the sun to come and dry their clothes, they had no reason to
behave as if they were entirely strangers. Like fellow travellers
sharing tables at an inn, and knowing they would share the same
uneasy stomachs in the night, they had to talk. They'd come
into the hills for privacy, perhaps. But there were customs to
observe. Customs of the water-hole. Customs of the road. And
for the men, the awkward and restraining customs oflanguage and
49
demeanour forced on them by the presence of an unaccompanied
woman. Who knows how these three might have spoken and
behaved if Marta, handsome and imposing, her throat and arms
and ankles close enough to study and to touch, hadn't been
there? Who was the viper? Which the leopard and the deer?
Marta knew that she was disconcerting. Men stared at her,
even in Sawiya where she was no longer any novelty, as if her
presence made them uncomfortable. They stopped their work
to watch her walking down the alleys towards the well. She
could hang the sickle and stay the saw. The same men watched
her coming back, balancing a filled pitcher of water on her
shoulders. They hoped to see her arms lifted above her head.
Her breasts would spread high and flat across her chest. Any man
that watched would know that her stomach was still unburdened
by a child, and - for reasons only understood by men and
cockerels - that was arousing. But Marta misread their stares,
and stared back at them, meeting eye for eye. Why should she
feel ashamed? If they grinned or whispered amongst themselves,
then she could guess exactly what they said and why they smiled.
She was for them a fruitless tree. 'Poor Thaniel,' they must have
said. 'No sign of any crop this year. Two barren wives. Too
much to bear.'
Poor Marta, though. Despite her boldness in the alleyways,
she was embarrassed by herself Her sterility. Her size, which
she considered to be
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