“Rebecca or Shayna. Teacher or domestic servant. For me, what matters is that you Jewish meidelach all bring in good money for me”
Becca pulls a large, colorful shawl over her shoulders. Should she? Shouldn’t she?
Is it better to go out as a Western woman, dressed in her own clothes? Or better to pull a shawl over her shoulders, her head?
She pulls one corner of the shawl over her hair. A tassel dangles down the middle of her forehead. Turkish princess. She stands in front of the window; the shadows of the alleyway are quite effective at turning it into a mirror.
She squints at herself, then throws off the shawl.
She has asked Fortuna for a mirror, but the request had clearly struck her hostess as outlandish in the extreme. Besides, it looks like Fortuna has no need for a mirror. Her complexion, slightly dark, is always perfect. No unsightly bumps or pimples or blotches. Her eyes are wide, and she rings them with black kohl each morning. How she does that without a looking glass, who knows.
She peers at herself, but sees only the stone wall opposite the house. Oh, to be so confident in your beauty. Not too large and too small, without ear lobes that hang too low or a nose that is slightly too wide, or a chin that shows when you guzzle too many sweetmeats.
She will go as she is. Becca. With no chaperone. This waiting and begging for both Fortuna and Nissim to be available, begging them to walk her through the streets, wait for her, return her home, it feels so wrong. Demeaning.
She thinks about leaving a note to Fortuna to tell her where she has gone, but she still has not worked out whether the woman can read.
Outside, she walks quickly through the narrow lanes. The noise grows as she nears the souk, and she marvels at her newfound competence with the city streets. The alleyways are starting to become less labyrinthine, more distinct.
A loud wailing sound comes from the second house on the left. Becca hesitates, then raps smartly on the door. Inside, a baby cries. Another rap. A Muslim woman opens. A relief. She was afraid that it would be a man, and then she would have to negotiate from the doorstep, for her own safety. The woman has one crying baby in her arms. Another lays on the floor on a colorful rug. Twins. How, well, not really, very charming.
“Passport.” Becca says, loudly and slowly. “Passport.”
The woman crinkles her eyebrows, says something unintelligible, and then places the baby in Becca’s arms, before scooping up the baby on the floor.
As long as the baby’s tears do not stain her dress.
"Thank you for your efforts, surely you are a brave and courageous reporter and I admire your values. But these subjects do not belong in our newspaper”