The Book of Esther: A Novel by Barton Emily

Author:Barton, Emily [Barton, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781101904091
Publisher: Crown/Archetype
Published: 2016-06-14T04:00:00+00:00

Uyghur food, it turned out, resembled Khazar food. Legumes and rice, fresh vegetables in this season, some roasted goat. Because they didn’t observe kashrut, there was also soft cheese on the table, mixed with an herb. Esther’s camp politely declined it, though if pressed, she would have added some to her bowl. The laws of hospitality outranked dietary laws in theory, though in practice, she’d never seen their relative importance tested. As everywhere in Khazaria, there were grapes and so there was wine. No one blessed it here. Esther had long thought wine was part of why the first kagan, fifteen hundred years before, had chosen to convert his nation to Judaism: because this land abounded in vines, and Judaism was the only religion with so many opportunities to bless their fruit. Imagine, if he’d chosen to become a Yishmaelite, what would have become of all the vineyards! Eating in the Uyghur camp, observing their customs—they eschewed utensils, used their long-fingered hands with grace—she understood that any number of things she thought of as Khazar had as much to do with the soil from which they grew as with anything particular about the people who ruled the land or with their religion.

Göktürk didn’t eat with his men. No doubt it was part of his menace and mystique to go unseen. She wondered if he ate special, richer food up in his tower.

Before the meal concluded, word came through Tselmeg that their leader wished to offer his guests access to the bathhouse, a luxury. Benyamin and the other men grunted and clapped with pleasure. When they quieted, Esther asked, “Is there a separate one for women?”

Tselmeg looked over one shoulder, then the other, before wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “We don’t have women here.” He stared at the pointy tips of his riding boots. “Except for prostitutes. They bring them in a few times a week.”

Esther’s first thought was, Jewish prostitutes? Who were their fathers?

“Late in the evening, we escort them into the baths so they can wash. If you’d like to do that?”

“Yes,” Esther said, not looking at him because she felt equated with a prostitute. “Thank you.”

She was battling to keep herself awake when he came to fetch her from her tent. As she followed him, she saw the last stragglers heading home from their bath, their faces less grim, scrubbed clean, and their wet hair catching the moonlight. Tselmeg didn’t say anything as they walked. The bathhouse to which he escorted her was nothing like a mikvah: a wooden building resembling a barrel. Inside was a large wooden tub, in which one both soaked and washed oneself. Steam rose off the water, which smelled like a pond, and petrol torches burned in wall sconces, wafting acrid smoke. After Tselmeg left, she pulled the wooden door to, then took off her clothes and climbed in.

Esther discovered a bench running around the tub’s perimeter. She sat down, the hot water lapping her chin and her earlobes. It was filthy.

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