taking Sophia’s place. She was a delight! But enough of old tales. Tell me about the disharmony.”
“My father, like you, would have preferred many sons. They did not come. He has difficulty now with carpentry measurements. More and more he leaves the work to me and finds pleasure in sitting in the sunshine of the garden and musing about old times.”
“And your mother?”
“My mother desired daughters as handmaidens to serve her every wish. They did not come. And now she is past the age for bearing children. She has turned sour and resentful and would be a burden on any bride of mine.”
“And you, Joseph? What do you wish for?”
He thought for a moment, eyeing the floor, and then spoke quietly. “An intelligent girl, one who has household skills, but one who can truly be a loving partner just as you describe your Sophia.” He paused. “Peace in the house would be nice also.”
“Ah.”
“And it is a complicated matter.” He looked at me. “Have you the custom here—when the bride marries she goes to her husband’s house?”
“Depends on what money they have.”
“For us it is always. The men in the bride’s family keep the family’s income intact. The man’s family pays the bride-price. The woman comes to their house.”
“It is a different arrangement here. How much is the bride-price?”
“In Nazareth, usually four hundred shekels or so for a virgin. Less for a widow.” Joseph grimaced. “But I cannot imagine a woman who would wish to marry me and be under the thumb of my mother.”
“Perhaps the price paid may need to be higher.”
“Yes. Nazareth is a small village. The families are well acquainted with each other. I cannot imagine a woman who would be my wife for less than five or six hundred. Or more,” he added.
I nodded in agreement. “As is said, two women in a house often are one too many.”
Joseph sighed. “That is certainly true in my mother’s case.”
“So, shall you wait until they are gone and you are free to choose?”
He gave me a long look and then replied. “I have thought of that.”
“But your father, though older, seems energetic still. Your mother may be so, as well. It could be quite some time. And you, have you no desire for the comfort and closeness of a woman?”
He smiled. “I prefer my own company at present.”
We both turned our eyes to the hearth and watched the flames licking at the logs for a while.
“And you,” Joseph asked at last, “have you no desire for the comfort and closeness of a woman?”
A sudden vision of Sophia bloomed in my mind. A day when we had gone walking in the countryside and she slowed and turned to me, her face radiant as she told me that she was with child. A joyful day. I had suppressed all memory of that day for long years since her death. My eyes filled with tears.
“Alexios?”
I wiped my eyes. “A sudden memory,” I replied huskily.
“Sophia?”
“Three years we had together. Wonderful years.”
I smiled. “My father wanted me to marry a younger girl in town. He told me, ‘She has the build fit for a mother of many children.’ But I had glimpsed another woman in the marketplace. I had seen her as she picked out fruit. A lovely smile, a slim build, and such beautiful dark hair she had, coiled respectably under her headscarf. I knew at once that we were meant for each other. I learned of her name from the fruit seller. Sophia. A friend spoke to her father.
“Another memory. How delighted she was early in our courtship at my gift to her of a hair comb carved from olive wood. She danced around me, laughing with excitement as she waved the comb in her hand. Then she handed the comb to me and said. ‘You must be the first to comb my hair with this.’ With that she pulled off her scarf, loosened several pins, and her lovely long hair tumbled almost to her waist. It was the day of our first kiss.”
I turned to Joseph, my eyes moist. “Imagine! A woman in her twenties, passed over for whatever reason by others. Soon to be considered a spinster, only good for service as an aunt to the children of her brothers and sisters.”
Joseph smiled. “But saved for you. I remember a verse of the Psalmist. ‘You have put gladness in my heart, more than when grain and wine and oil increase.’”
“Yes, great gladness for each other and a deep love I had never dreamed possible.” My voice grew husky. “Three years—”
I could not speak further.
Joseph leaned over to me and put a hand on my shoulder and spoke softly.
“Alexios, better than no years at all.”
“Not true! To have the warmth of love and partnership. To wake with joy every morning knowing that once again I would see her dear face, and then, gone! Never to see her again! It is a living death for me!”
“Is this what you believe?”
“Yes.”
“I think a different way.”
Sudden anger rose in me and I glared at him.
“Yes, you Jews have your God to comfort you! Mind the Commandments you have been given and the sacrifices and burnt offerings that you make to appease your God! Follow the rules and enter the heavenly kingdom. A fool’s dream! Empty words of consolation, I say!”
Joseph spoke quietly. “I believe you will see Sophia again.”
With an edge to my voice I said, “Is this your way of consoling me? Stop.”
His soft voice continued. “Please do not be offended.”
“What rubbish!” I wanted to slap him and shake his whole frame for such talk. Instead I pulled his hand from my shoulder and turned my face away.
“Alexios, death is real. When I think of my own mortality, at times I am frightened of the darkness that may come and feel powerless. But there is something other than the Law and the Commandments that gives me hope in times when hope seems impossible.”
I turned back to face him with scorn in my voice. “So, are you among those who consult the witches and seek news of the departed?”
“No, never! My hope comes from a prophet of old named Micah. In a time when my people were trodden down by the rich and powerful, he said many things, but of them all, one saying is inscribed on my heart: ‘What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.’”
“Huh!” I snorted, “A fine notion.”
“Alexios, I know you find
