LITMIR.BIZ

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hadn’t moved from that place on the bank where he’d first spotted the couple, but their path to the water’s edge was steadily bringing them closer to him, and as the distance between them narrowed his eyes found more to beguile them. The woman, for instance, was wearing copious ornaments of jewelry—anklets, wristlets, necklaces—all as dark as her skin, yet carrying half-concealed in their darkness an iridescence that made them shimmer. The man had decoration of his own: elaborate patterns painted or tattooed upon his thighs, which were visible when his robe, which was cut to facilitate the immensity of his legs, parted.

      But the most surprising detail of their appearance did not become clear until they were within a few yards of the water. The woman, smiling at her mate, reached into the folds of her robe, and with the greatest tenderness, lifted out into view a tiny baby. The mite bawled instantly at being parted from the comfort of its mother’s tits—nor did Zelim blame the thing; he would have done the same—but it ceased its complaints when both mother and father spoke to it. Was there ever a more blessed infant than this, Zelim thought. To be in such arms, to gaze up at such faces, to know in your soul that you came from such roots as these? If a greater bliss were possible, Zelim could not imagine it.

      The family was at the water now, and the couple had begun to speak to one another. It was no light conversation. Indeed from the way the pair stood facing one another, and the way they shook their heads and frowned, there was some trouble between them.

      The child, who had moments before been the center of its parents’ doting attentions, now went unnoticed. The argument was starting to escalate, Zelim saw, and for the first time since setting eyes on the couple he considered the wisdom of retreat. If one of this pair—or God Almighty help him, both—were to lose their temper, he did not care to contemplate the power they could unleash. But however fearful he was, he couldn’t take his eyes off the scene before him. Whatever the risk of staying here and watching, it was nothing beside the sorrow he would feel, denying himself this sight. The world would not show him such glories again, he suspected. He was privileged beyond words to be in the presence of these people. If he went and hid his head, out of some idiot fear, then he deserved the very death he would be seeking to avoid. Only the brave were granted gifts such as this; and if it had come to him by accident (which it surely had) he would surprise fate by rising to the occasion. Keep his eyes wide and his feet planted in the same spot; have himself a story to tell his children, and the children of his children, when this event was a lifetime from now.

      He had no sooner shaped these thoughts, however, than the argument between the couple ceased, and he had cause to wish he had fled. The woman had returned her gaze to the baby, but her consort, who’d had his back to Zelim throughout most of the exchange, now cast a look over his shoulder, and fixing his eyes upon Zelim, beckoned to him.

      Zelim didn’t move. His legs had turned to stone, his bowels to water; it was all he could do not to befoul his pants. He suddenly didn’t care whether or not he had a tale to tell his children. He only wanted the sand to soften beneath him, so he could slide into the dark, where this man’s gaze could not find him. To make matters worse the woman had bared her breasts and was offering her nipple to the babe’s mouth. Her breasts were sumptuous, gleaming and full. Though he knew it wasn’t wise to be staring past the beckoning husband and ogling the wife, Zelim couldn’t help himself.

      And again, the man summoned him with the hook of his fingers, but this time spoke.

      “Come here, fisherman,” he said. He didn’t speak loudly, but Zelim heard the command as though it had been spoken at his ear. “Don’t be afraid,” the man went on.

      “I can’t…” Zelim began, meaning to tell the man his legs would not obey him.

      But before the words were out of his mouth, the summons moved him. Muscles that had been rigid a few heartbeats before were carrying him toward his summons, though he had not consciously instructed them to do so. The man smiled, seeing his will done, and despite his trepidation Zelim could not help but return the smile, thinking as he walked toward his master that if the rest of the men were still watching him they would probably think him courageous, for the casual measure of his stride.

      The woman, meanwhile, having settled the infant to sucking, was also looking Zelim’s way, though her expression—unlike that of her husband—was far from friendly. What radiance would have broken from her face had she been feeling better tempered Zelim could only guess. Even in her present unhappy state she was glorious.

      Zelim was within perhaps six feet of the couple now, and there stopped, though the man had not ordered him to do so.

      “What is your name, fisherman?” the man said.

      Before Zelim could reply, the woman broke in. “I’ll not call him by the name of a fisherman.”

      “Anything’s better than nothing,” the husband replied.

      “No it’s not,” the wife snapped. “He needs a warrior’s name. Or nothing.”

      “He may not be a warrior.”

      “Well he certainly won’t be a fisherman,” the woman countered.

      The man shrugged. The exchange had taken the smile off his face; he was plainly running out of patience with his lady.

      “So let’s hear your name,” the woman said.

      “Zelim.”

      “There then,” the woman said, looking back at her husband. “Zelim! Do you want to call our child Zelim?”

      The man looked down at the baby. “He doesn’t seem to care one way or another,” he remarked. Then back at Zelim. “Has the name treated you kindly?” he asked.

      “Kindly?” Zelim said.

      “He means are you pursued by women?” the wife replied.

      “That’s a consideration,” the husband protested mildly. “If a name brings good fortune and beautiful women, the boy will thank us for it.” He looked at Zelim again. “And have you been fortunate?”

      “Not particularly,” Zelim replied.

      “And the women?”

      “I married my cousin.”

      “No shame in that. My brother married my half-sister and they were the happiest couple I ever met.” He glanced back at his wife, who was tenderly working the cushion of her breast so as to keep the flow of milk strong. “But my wife’s not going to be content with this, I can see. No offense to you, my friend. Zelim is a fine name, truly. There’s no shame in Zelim.”

      “So I can go?”

      The man shrugged. “I’m sure you have…fish to catch…yes?”

      “As it happens, I hate fish,” Zelim said, surprised to be confessing this fact—which he had never spoken to anyone—in front of two strangers. “All the men in Atva talk about is fish, fish, fish—”

      The woman looked up from the face of the nameless child.

      “Atva?” she said.

      “It’s the name of—”

      “—the village,” she said. “Yes, I understand.” She tried the word again, several times, turning the two syllables over. “At. Va. At. Vah.” Then she said: “It’s plain and simple. I like that. You can’t corrupt it. You can’t make some little game of it.”

      Now it was her husband’s turn to be surprised. “You want to name my boy after some little village?” he said.

      “Nobody will ever know where it came from,” the woman replied. “I like the sound, and that’s what’s important. Look, the child likes the sound too. He’s smiling.”

      “He’s smiling because he’s sucking on your tit, wife,” the man replied. “I do the same thing.”

      Zelim could not keep himself from laughing. It amused him that these two, who were

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