The Harlot by The Side of The Road: Forbidden Tales of The Bible (43 page)

From time to time Amnon’s eye fell on one man in particular who simply could not be overlooked even in a crowd—the commanding figure of Absalom, one of his many half brothers, the son of one of
David’s wives, Maacah. Absalom was younger than Amnon, but he seemed to outshine his older brother in so many other ways: Absalom was taller, he was fairer, he was stronger and yet more graceful, he was more genial and thus better-liked among the courtiers. To Amnon’s consternation, Absalom was regarded by more than one of the busy* bodies in the court of King David as a more promising candidate to be the next king of Israel than Amnon himself, the rightful heir.

To Amnon’s relief, he did not encounter Absalom except on formal occasions, and he never found reason to seek out his half brother. Only when Amnon spotted him in the crowded courtyard was he forced to ponder why Absalom always seemed so good-natured and high-spirited when he himself, the future king of Israel, was always so angry and despairing.

One day, as Amnon stared down from his window, he spotted Absalom and the equally familiar figure of Tamar as they emerged from the palace and headed across the courtyard in the direction of Absalom’s house. Like Absalom, Tamar was the daughter of Maacah, and she shared her brother’s appealing features and graceful bearing. Amnon had grown up in the same household with the two of them, but Tamar had always clung to Absalom and allowed him to shield her from the playful attention of the other sons of the king. Now Absalom and Amnon had been allotted houses of their own by the king, but Tamar was not yet married and still lived in the palace. So Amnon did not encounter his half sister except on formal occasions when
everyone
gathered to listen to the king’s tired old tales.

Today, however, Amnon found himself staring at Tamar with new interest. He watched from his high window as she walked with long strides across the courtyard, looking up at Absalom and laughing at something he said. Amnon noticed that she was taller than he remembered, her hair longer, her body more womanly. She wore the gown of a royal princess—rich, colorful, and concealing—but the long sleeves and the generous folds of the skirt did not entirely hide from Amnon’s eyes a certain voluptuousness in her limbs and hips. Indeed, Amnon did not take his eyes off his half sister until she disappeared into Absalom’s house on the far side of the courtyard.

Amnon felt vaguely ill at ease as Tamar disappeared from sight. He swallowed involuntarily, as if something were caught in his throat—a sensation not unlike the one he felt when he recalled his father’s exploits with Bathsheba and the baby that grew even now in her womb. But he was aware of something else, too: a certain breathlessness that came upon him when he envisioned the movement of Tamar’s long legs as she walked across the courtyard and imagined what it might be like to stroke her long black hair or touch her smooth skin with his fingertips.

A servant interrupted his reverie, but Amnon waved away the food and drink that was offered. Later in the afternoon, the servant appeared with another meal. Amnon waved him away again, and the dish of food simply gathered flies on the floor of the corridor outside his door. At last, Amnon undressed and slumped into his bed. The next morning he was up early and spent the day at the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Tamar in the courtyard below. By the third day of his vigil, the servants were concerned enough at Amnon’s inexplicable fast to send for the only man they knew to be his friend, a cousin by the name of Jonadab.

“Son of the king!” Jonadab said with mock formality as he bulled his way into Amnon’s quarters. “Why do you sit so glumly morning after morning? You are wasting away for want of food! What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s Tamar,” said Amnon without turning away from the window.

“Tamar?” repeated his cousin. “Your sister? What about her?”

Amnon sat in silence for a moment, then stood up and faced his cousin.

“Tamar,” he said in an insistent voice, “is
Absalom’s
sister.”

“So tell me what it is about Tamar,” Jonadab persisted, “that makes you act like you are sick with a plague.”

“I think,” said Amnon slowly, “that I am in love with her.”

Jonadab laughed out loud—and then, when he saw the grave expression on Amnon’s face, his laughter turned into a sudden fit of coughing and he looked away in embarrassment. “Better the plague,” he muttered to himself, “than to be lovesick over your own sister.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” Amnon demanded. “I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. All I can do is think about how to get her into my bed. But I can’t even get her to talk to me, much less to come into my bedchamber!”

Jonadab pondered these shocking words for a moment. He was Amnon’s closest friend, perhaps his
only
friend, and Amnon would be king someday. And so Jonadab resolved to act as the friend of a future king ought to act.

“Get under the covers,” he said, “and pretend that you are sick.”

“I
am
sick,” said Amnon miserably.

“We’ll send word to your father that you are ailing,” Jonadab continued. “He will be worried, of course. After all, the illness of the next
king of Israel is a matter of the gravest concern. He will come to see you—”

“So what?” said Amnon. “It’s Tamar I want to see, not my father.”

“When the king comes to see you,” Jonadab continued, “you will ask him to send Tamar to nurse you back to health. Tell him you don’t trust the servants to prepare your meals properly. Tell him that’s why you are ill and cannot eat. ‘Let my beloved sister Tamar come and make a couple of hearty dumplings for me,’ you will tell the king. ‘Then I’ll eat out of her hand.’”

Amnon stirred when he heard the sound of hushed voices outside the door of his quarters, and he peered out from beneath the covers to see what was astir. He heard one familiar voice—his servant’s—and a couple that he did not recognize. One voice belonged to a woman, and his heart raced at the thought that Jonadab’s wild plan might have actually succeeded in bringing Tamar to his bedchamber. Then he let his head fall back against the pillow—and waited.

Quite to Amnon’s surprise, the first and crucial step in his cousin’s plan had been successful. King David himself, attended by a small crowd of guards and retainers, had appeared briefly the previous day, spent not more than three minutes in Amnon’s presence, and then bustled out again without saying more than three words. The king had seemed unconcerned over his son’s ill health, just as Amnon had expected, and seemed to take more interest in the view from the window of Amnon’s room than in Amnon himself. But at least the king had listened to Jonadab’s somber appraisal of Amnon’s ill health, and he had even stayed long enough to hear Amnon recite his lines. “Let my sister come and take care of me,” Amnon had pleaded, “and I will nibble on those luscious heart-cakes right out of her hands.” After his father left, he had fretted over his choice of words and his unfeigned ardor in speaking them—perhaps the king would detect what he
really
wanted from Tamar.

“Do you think it will work?” Amnon had asked anxiously when the house was finally cleared of visitors.

“Of course it will work,” Jonadab had responded cheerfully. “And when you have Tamar in your arms, dear cousin, please do not forget who put her there!”

Now Amnon waited, breathless again, his heart racing, as the servant made a noise at the door and peeked inside the dark room.

“Lord, your sister Tamar is calling on you,” said the servant in a whisper. “Shall I send her away?”

Amnon sat upright in bed and fairly shouted “No!” Then, fearing that he sounded rather too healthy, he reclined again and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “No, no, do not send her away—I am always happy to see my cherished sister.”

A moment later, the very thing that had occupied his long hours of reverie for so many days finally came to pass. Tamar stood before him, and his heart gladdened at the expression of concern and even affection that he imagined he saw in her face.

“Thank you, dearest Tamar,” he croaked, “for coming to me.”

Tamar, more curious than caring, cast a long appraising glance at Amnon.

“Father sent a messenger to summon me,” she said. “‘Go to Amnon,’ the messenger said, ‘and fix him some dumplings.’”

Tamar paused for one long moment, as if to signal to Amnon how strange it seemed to her to be summoned to his house for such an odd favor. Then she continued: “The king commanded me to come, and so here I am.”

“Thank you, dear sister,” Amnon said, “for attending me in my illness.”

“You don’t
seem
very ill, dear brother,” said Tamar. She paused again before adding: “Thank God.”

“Yes, thank God, I am feeling much better now that you are finally here,” said Amnon, watching her with a fixed gaze that unnerved her. “Suddenly, I find myself very hungry. Will you make some dumplings for me as I asked?”

“Yes, brother,” Tamar allowed, “that’s what I came here to do.”

Now Tamar gestured to a young woman who stood in the corridor with a covered basket, and the servant began unpacking the ingredients for the meal: a jar of flour, a jug of water, a small cruse of oil, some seasonings folded into the corner of a cloth and tied with string, and an earthenware mold in the shape of a heart. The servant set to work at the big fireplace at the far end of the room, and soon the water was boiling. As Amnon watched in utter silence but with rapt attention, Tamar kneaded the water and flour into dumplings, pressed the thick dough into the mold, dropped them into the boiling water, then fished them out again with a long wooden spoon that the servant handed to her. An aromatic scent of spices and yeasty dough wafted through the darkened room. Finally, Tamar heaped the steaming dumplings onto a platter and handed it to her servant, who crossed the room and stood dutifully at the side of Amnon’s bed.

“There’s what you wanted,” called Tamar. “Go ahead and eat.”

Amnon looked at the platter of dumplings, then back at Tamar, and finally he glared at the others who stood expectantly around the room—a couple of Tamar’s servants, and his own servant, too, and even one of the youngsters who tended the stove in the kitchen and now sat in the doorway with wide eyes. Everyone was watching him; everyone,
it seemed, wanted to witness the end of the remarkable encounter between Amnon and his sister.

“Get out!” he cried out, suddenly finding his old voice and shouting harshly at the servants. “Get everybody away from me!”

All of them stirred and scattered. Tamar’s servant handed her the plate of dumplings, waited a moment for her nod, and then left the room. His own servant was the last one to leave the room, and he thought to pull the door closed behind him. Only Tamar remained, standing solemnly near the window and watching her brother in silence from across the room.

Amnon shivered uncontrollably as he lay alone in his bed, and he felt suddenly flushed with fever, as if he really
were
ill after all.

“Bring the food to me,” Amnon called, his voice suddenly thick and hoarse, “so I can eat out of your hand.”

Tamar approached the bed where Amnon lay, casting a brief glance toward the door, and held out the platter of dumplings.

Amnon reached out and seized the wrist of her right hand. The platter fell to the floor and the dumplings rolled in the dust. She cried
out in fright and surprise, but Amnon held her fast and pulled her bodily toward him.