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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 meant Shekure’s previous
home； and knew at once that this would singe Black’s heart； I opened a door
of hope for him by tacking the word “probably” onto the end of my
statement。
“Have you seen her newly returned husband？” he asked me； looking deep
int