367

I　AM　ESTHER

I　was　putting　lentil　soup　on　the　boil　for　our　evening　meal　when　Nesim　said；

“There’s　a　visitor　at　the　door。”　I　replied；　“Make　sure　the　soup　doesn’t　burn；”

handing him the spoon and giving it a couple of turns in the pot while

holding　his　aged　hand。　If　you　don’t　show　them；　they’ll　stand　there　for　hours

idly　holding　the　spoon　in　the　pot。

When　I　saw　Black　at　the　door　I　felt　nothing　but　pity　for　him。　There　was　such

an　expression　on　his　face　I　was　afraid　to　ask　what　had　happened。

“Don’t bother to e inside；” I said； “I’ll be out as soon as I change

clothes。”

I donned the pink and yellow garments that I wear when I’m invited to

Ramadan　festivities；　wealthy　banquets　and　lengthy　weddings；　and　took　up　my

holiday　satchel。　“I’ll　have　my　soup　when　I　get　back；”　I　said　to　poor　Nesim。

Black　and　I　had　crossed　one　street　in　my　little　Jewish　neighborhood　whose

chimneys　labor　to　expel　their　smoke；　the　way　our　kettles　force　out　their　steam；

and　I　said：

“Shekure’s　former　husband　is　back。”

Black　fell　silent　and　stayed　that　way　until　we　left　the　neighborhood。　His　face

was　ashen；　the　color　of　the　waning　day。

“Where　are　they？”　he　asked　sometime　later。

From this question I guessed that Shekure and her children weren’t at

home。 “They’re at their house；” I said。 Because I m