Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [50]
And she was gone before I could upbraid her for disturbing my bath.
I lay there in the water a while longer, trying to settle down in my excitement, mulling on the aftermath. I was of two minds. Pretty as she was, she annoyed me because of the brazenness of her action. It occurred to me then the reason why—because she was a slave she had no presence and so could move across these boundaries like a ghost.
I stood up in the bath and could not but help to admit to myself that thinking about her had stirred some part of me in a way I had not considered before this. In other words, I was ravenous for her, and I had to remind myself that up in New York my dear Miriam waited for me, and I was only biding my time before I could return to her. What kind of a man was I?
***
My mood of self-abasement didn’t last very long. I reveled in the coolness after the bath and soon dressed and went down to take my first Sabbath meal with my relatives.
The scene I encountered was quite foreign and enticing. I had no sooner entered the dining room when my large uncle, seated at the head of the table, with all the rest of the family already assembled (including one I had not met), touched a beefy finger to his lips while my aunt lighted two candles at her end of the table and said a quiet prayer.
“The Sabbath Bride arrives,” my uncle said when she had finished. “Sit, and eat with her.”
A flurry of activity at the doorway, and I turned to look as Black Jack the butler entered with trays of food while once again Precious Sally watched with anxious enjoyment from the entrance to the kitchen.
“Did you notice those candlesticks?” my uncle said, gesturing toward the flickering lights.
“Oh, no, Grandfather, not that story again,” Little Abraham groaned, a portent of noise to come.
“Hush,” said my aunt. “Let your grandfather tell your cousin the story.”
“They are pure silver, of course,” my uncle said, ignoring his grandson’s complaint. “And as you can see, they tell a story.”
I squinted in the light and leaned closer to the center of the table, discerning on the slender candlesticks the etching of a tree, a man and woman beneath it, and a serpent winding itself around and around the base of the holder.
“Ah, yes, Uncle, the Temptation.”
“A fine old story.” He looked across the table and stared—at my cousin Jonathan. “A fine story to give one’s attention to,” he said.
“Ah, yes, Father,” Jonathan said. “All of us would do well to pay attention to these stories.”
My uncle turned his attention back to me.
“These candlesticks have been in the family since the days of our life in Spain, and carried with us for generation upon generation, passed along from mother to daughter. Portugal. Africa. The Canaries. Holland. And then to the Indies, where the Pereiras spent a good deal of time before coming here. But you know that, of course.”
“Yes, Uncle,” I said.
“And, if you believe the stories about them…?”
Abraham made a mock groan and touched his hands to his stomach.
My uncle ignored him.
“The silver was supposedly mined in the hills of old Lebanon.”
Abraham groaned again.
“And the model for the female figure beneath the tree—”
“May I venture a guess?” I said.
My uncle gave me the nod.
“Salome,” I said.
“A tempting answer, but not correct.”
“Bathsheba,” I tried again.
My uncle shook his head.
“There is a legend…”
“Eve!” I said.
“The very one,” he said.
Again young Abraham made a groaning noise.
“Just a story,” my uncle said.
“But with a moral,” put in my cousin Jonathan in a voice that suggested that he was already well sated with wine.
“And that moral?” His father waited for an answer.
“Never give in to temptation, of course, though it lies all around us.” My cousin gave me a conspiratorial look. “Have you ever given in to temptation, Cousin Nate?”
“I…have sometimes eaten more than I should,” I said.
“You are too polite,” Jonathan said. “But then this is the Sabbath meal.”
“Jonathan, you might be polite yourself,” his mother said.
“Yes, excuse me, I am sorry, Mother.” He held up his