KEZI LEANS HER FOREHEAD against the painted wood of her pado’s door, then presses her whole body against it. Her hand finds mine as she pushes open the door. “Pado? Mati? Aunt Fedo?”
Merem is first into the reception room, then Senat, and last Aunt Fedo, who is the only one to see me. They engulf Kezi. The mass of them rocks back and forth. Senat’s bass voice rumbles “Kezi” over and over. The reception room is small. I back into a corner next to the altar. In the faces of Kezi’s parents and her aunt I see the lines of grief.
Finally they separate.
Senat says, “We searched everywhere for you.”
Merem touches Kezi’s hair. Then “Your tunic . . .” She bends down to examine the hem. “Gold—”
“You brought a guest,” Aunt Fedo says.
Senat sees me. “Olus? Olus, the goatherd? Is that you?”
I nod. Merem and Aunt Fedo bow their heads politely to me. I raise my fist to my forehead.
“He knows,” Kezi says. “Everything.”
I feel my face redden.
Senat flushes too. “You know my shame.”
“Kezi,” Merem says, “why did you leave us?”
It’s Kezi’s turn to blush. “We were so sad. I had only a month. I didn’t want to be sad every minute of my last month.”
Merem nods. “Are you hungry?” She laughs, the same pained, ironic laugh as when she was sick. “You might as well eat.” She addresses me. “Olus, have you broken your fast? We are hospitable to guests”—she laughs again—“no matter what.”
Without waiting for an answer, she leads the way into the courtyard and from there to the eating room at the back of the house. Three chairs are pulled up to a square table from which the remains of breakfast have not yet been removed. Two servants bustle in from the kitchen. One clears the table. The other opens the doors to the alley behind the house. In wafts my mischievous breeze, stinking of refuse.
“Bring food for our guest and Kezi,” Merem says.
“Bring chairs,” Aunt Fedo adds. “Sit, Olus.”
I look to Kezi to see if I should sit when there aren’t enough chairs for all, but her eyes are on her family.
“Sit, Olus,” Senat says.
“Thank you for your kindness.” I sit and wish someone else would sit too, but they all stand. How can everything be so ordinary: the hospitality, the awkwardness of strangers?
A servant brings in a large barley cake, goat cheese, dates. Another servant carries in chairs. Everyone sits at last, Merem and Aunt Fedo on either side of Kezi. Senat rises immediately. He tells the servants to leave and gives each a task in a distant room of the house. Then he goes to the kitchen and sends the cook and his helper to the market. When he returns, Merem fills a plate for Kezi and me.
“Olus,” Senat says, seating himself, “how do you come to be here with my daughter?”
We should have thought this out and decided what to say. “I was at your brother’s wedding. I met Kezi there.”
“I want to hear everything,” Aunt Fedo says. “Olus and Kezi, speak slowly. There’s no hurry.”
“Yes, slowly,” Mati says. “The priest can wait.”
Senat glances obliquely at the altar flame and says nothing.
Mati moves her chair close to Kezi’s and touches her cheek. “Nothing is as soft.”
Kezi catches her mati’s hand and holds it.
Senat says, “My eyes have ached from not seeing my Kezi.”
“Aren’t you going to eat, Pado? Mati? Aunt Fedo?” Kezi leans over the table and puts food on a plate for each of them. “A large slice of barley cake for Aunt Fedo.”
Aunt Fedo says, “Your voice is different, Kezi. My rabbit ears hear—I’m not certain—an echo. Why is that?”
Kezi shrugs. It’s the goddess in her voice.
No one eats.
“Speak, daughter,” Senat says.
She nods. “Aunt Fedo introduced me to Elon. Remember?”
“I remember. He was so eager to meet you!”
I hear people in the street outside the red door. A dozen priests are coming.
“Go on,” Merem says.
“Listen . . . do you hear?”
The street door opens. The priests hurry across the courtyard. A priest knocks over a potted fern. Everyone hears the crash.