Henna House (33 page)

While I was drawing, Rosa and little Esther squatted next to me. Esther took her second finger and began copying my letters in miniature. Rosa rocked back and forth on her heels.

I had gotten almost to the end of the alphabet when Rosa shook her head and snorted, “No, that just won't do.” She got up, stepped forward, and stamped out the beginning of my alphabet, leaving a blurry, illegible smudge underfoot. Esther scampered back and took a perch on one of the big rocks behind us.

“But it is as I have said. The letters correspond to pictures. I am not making anything up.”

“Yes, but the pictures are the wrong ones.”

I cocked my head, squinted at the remaining letters, wondering what they looked like to her. Were her eyes that bad? Maybe my drawings were incomprehensible to her.

“What I am saying is that they are not
our
letters.” She thumped her chest, pointed to me, and then back at herself. “
Our
letters would show this—” She reached for little Esther, pulling her from the rock and gesturing to the enchanting curve of the child's cheek. “Or that—” She pointed over to the acacia, where one of her companions was nursing a babe. The child's legs kicked, and with one hand, he was playing with his toes.

Rosa puckered her lips. “Draw me the letter that shows the lips of a
babe pursed to suckle.” Then she reached for her own breast, cupped a hand, and lifted it up. “Or the fullness of the breast at which he sucks. Now, that is something I could read, a letter drawn from my life. And you know what? It would read me back. Tell
my
stories.” Another one of the women stood up, and came to join us from under the acacia. She was older than Rosa, maybe even old enough to be her mother, though they didn't look anything alike. She bent down over my letters, the ones Rosa hadn't smudged. Her dress was a flowing expanse of dusky black between her legs. She had a dot on her forehead and a ring in her nose, and big hoops in her ears. Her nose was like an eagle's, pointy and sharp.

She nodded her agreement and smiled, adding in a soft high voice, “Those letters”—she pointed to the collection of Hebrew letters in the earth—“come out of men like globs of spit, or spurts of wet heat from their phalluses. But where is the letter that could show this?” She put her hand in between her legs, crudely, over her own sex. Then she pointed at the letter vav, which took the shape of a straight line. “That letter is a staff or a man's member, or perhaps it is his weapon, his spear? See the pointy tip? It is a man's tool. Used for man's business. But where is the letter that shows the sweet doorway to the Garden of Eden?” Once again, she put her hand in between her legs. “The letter that shows how we welcome men in and out of this world?”

Rosa cackled her agreement, and then added, “And where is the flower letter that shows this?” She raised her hands and showed me her henna, the lush garden of blossoms on her palms.

“Adela, that is your name? Adela, the letters you draw belong to
them
.” She gestured to where the men were smoking hookahs and chewing khat. “Next time we meet, on the road between somewhere and nowhere, show me
our
alphabet.” She thumped her chest. “Teach me
our
language”—she motioned toward her companion with the eagle nose, her sister with the babe at her breast—“and then we can teach each other how to speak it.”

I fumbled for words and stood there for a moment not saying anything. Then I remembered Aunt Aminah's tale and said, “But ladies, I have heard marvelous stories about
your
men using letters for weapons. How they draw letters in the air, fell their enemies without shedding blood. What could be more powerful than that?”

Once again Rosa shook her head. “Sha, don't be ridiculous. Our men fight with spears and shovels, knives and clubs. Fierce, yes. Dangerous? Of course. But legends don't win wars, and neither do letters. And if you think they do, then you are the one who needs lessons, not us.”

At this they both laughed, sharing a joke at my expense. I thought for a moment, and then I squatted once more. I drew a
kaf,
, the letter that takes its form from a cupped palm.

“You are right, some of the letters are men's letters,” I said. “But there are also female ones. This one is an open palm, see? A hand that can pet a cheek or offer a quenching drink of water. And here is
mem
.” I drew
and
. “This one is water, see the ripples, how they come from waves? We women have within us the spirit of the tides and waves.
Mem
is our letter every month when we flow like the waters. And this one,
tet
”—
—“is a basket, a market basket slung over our shoulders, perhaps filled with potatoes or onions we will use to make our evening soup. And this one is
peh
”—
. “Look, it is a mouth, maybe a mother's mouth calling her child in for dinner or singing to her as she falls asleep in our arms.”

Rosa's and the eagle-nosed woman's faces both burst into easy smiles. They clapped their hands. “Wonderful,” Rosa said, and the other woman added, “Good, good. At least we will have something to start with.”

*  *  *

We left early the next morning. I turned just as we were about to round the bend that would take us to the road out of the river valley. I saw Rosa and Esther standing by the closest of their reed huts, watching us depart. Little Esther yelled to me, “Good-bye, sister-whoever-you-are.” I waved, making my hand into a kaf, the cupped palm letter
. Rosa waved too. And for a brief moment our cupped palms were an entire alphabet unto themselves, a system of writing that did not represent, but actually
created
, the entire world.