“You must tell him to do as I say and forget this talk of revenge,” said Joseph. “You must do this now, tonight. If he raises a hand to me, if he so much as threatens me in the company of my guard, he must die.”
“I doubt that my son will listen to my words,” I said sadly. “He hates me, for I am the cause of his unhappiness.”
“Nonsense,” said Joseph, with the supreme self-confidence that made our brothers so jealous. “The men of Egypt honor their mothers like no other men in the world.”
“You do not know,” I said. “He called his grandmother Ma. I was no more than his wet nurse.”
“No, Dinah,” said Joseph. “He suffers too much for that to be true. He will listen to you, and he must go.”
I looked at my brother and saw a man I did not know. “I will do as you say, master,” I said, in the voice of a good servant. “But ask me for nothing else. Let me be free of this place, for it is a tomb to me. Seeing you is like stepping into the past where my sorrow lies. And now because of you, I lose all hope of my son.”
Joseph nodded. “I understand, Ahatti, and it will be as you say except in one matter. When my wife comes to the bricks again—and I have already dreamed of a second son—you must come and attend her.
“You may come without seeing me if you like, and you will be well paid. Indeed, you will be paid in land if you wish, you and the carpenter.”
I bridled at the suggestion that I was a pauper, and announced, “My husband, Benia, is master craftsman in the Valley of the Kings.”
“Benia?” he asked, and Joseph’s face crumbled into regret. “That was the baby-name for our brother Benjamin, the last-born of my mother, who died giving him life. I used to hate Benia for killing her, but now I think I would give half of what is mine only to hold his hand.”
“I have no desire to see him,” I said, surprising both of us with the anger in my voice. “I am no longer of that world. If my mothers are dead, then I am an orphan. My brothers are no more to me than the livestock of our youth. You and I were kin as children, when we knew each other well enough to share our hearts. But that was in another life.”
The great room was silent, each of us lost in memories. “I will go to my son,” I said finally. “Then I will be gone.” “Go in peace,” said Joseph.
Re-mose lay facedown on the bed in his handsome suite. My son did not move or speak or show me any sign of recognition. I spoke to his back.
His windows overlooked the river, which glittered in the moonlight. “Your father loved the river,” I said, fighting tears. “And you will love the sea.
“I will not see you again, Re-mose, and there will be no other opportunity to speak these words again. Listen to your mother, who comes to say goodbye.
“I do not ask you to forgive my brothers. I never did. I never will. I ask only that you forgive me for the bad luck of being their sister.
“Forgive me for never speaking to you of your father. That was your grandmother’s command, for she saw secrecy as the only way to keep you from the agony that cuts you low today. She knew that the past could threaten your future, and we must continue to protect you against the accidents of birth. The true story of your parentage is still known only by you, me, and Zafenat Paneh-ah. There is no need to tell anyone else.
“But now that we share this secret, I will tell you something else.
“Re-mose, your father was called Shalem, and he was as beautiful as the sunset for which he was named. We chose each other in love. The name I gave you at my breast was Bar-Shalem, son of the sunset, and your father lived in you.
“Your grandmother called you Re-mose, making you a child of Egypt and the sun god. In either language and in any country, you are blessed by the great power of the heavens. Your future is written on your face, and I pray that you will have the fullness of years denied to your father. May you find contentment."
“I will remember you in the morning and in the evening, every day until I close my eyes forever. I forgive your every harsh thought of me and the curses you may hurl at my name. And when at last you do forgive me, I forbid you to suffer a moment’s guilt in my name. I ask that you remember only my blessing upon you, Bar-Shalem Re-mose.”
My son did not move from his couch or say a word, and I took my leave, brokenhearted but free.
CHAPTER FIVE
RETURNING HOME WAS like being reborn. I buried my face in the bed linens and ran my hands over every piece of furniture, every garden plant, delighted to find things where I had left them. Kiya walked in to find me embracing a water jug. I sent her to tell Meryt I was home and
then walked as fast as I could to Benia’s workshop.
My husband saw me approach and rushed out to greet me. It seemed that we had been parted for years rather than days. “You are so thin, wife,” he whispered as he held me in his arms.
“I fell ill in the city,” I explained. “But I am healthy again.”
We studied each other’s faces. “Something else happened,” Benia said, drawing his fingers across my forehead and reading something of the past days’ shocks. “Are you back to stay, beloved?” he asked, and I understood the cause of the shadows beneath his eyes.
I reassured him with an embrace that earned us a loud hoot from the men in the workshop. “I will be home as soon as I can,” he said, kissing my hands. I nodded, too happy to say more.
Meryt was waiting with warm bread and beer when I returned to my house. But when she saw me, she cried, “What did they do to you, sister? You are skinny as a bone, and your eyes look as though you have wept a river.”