Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (13 page)

Last night she could not fall asleep; she was sweating and had to take off her nightgown. While she wiped the sweat off her body with a damp rag she imagined how in a month Na’ima’s husband would caress his wife’s breasts. Shifra knew her thought was sinful, but she could not stop herself. She touched her own budding breasts. They felt like velvet. She imagined Musa entering her room, bending over and kissing the valley between her breasts while his delicate fingers touched her hardened nipples. Shifra jumped, her heart pounding with the shame of her fantasy.

Still under the music spell, Shifra didn’t hear it end. She was enveloped by darkness. From her hiding place she saw three people, two women and a man, carrying instrument cases bigger than the violin case she had seen the boy’s mother carrying.
Auf wiedersehn
, they said to each other, good-bye, see you
noch ein maal in zwei Wochen
.

Again, in two weeks, in two weeks; Shifra started running in rhythm with their words. In two weeks she would be back, too. Lifting her long dress, she ran even faster. Suddenly she felt the pinch of thirst and hunger. The music had made her forget she was famished.

If Shifra had glanced back at the house, she would have glimpsed the shadow of a woman behind the window’s curtains. She would have been alarmed to see her turn to her husband and say, “I’ve spotted the young Arab girl again, Otto. I don’t know why she comes here but I’ve seen her eyes, blue, like our Ruth’s.” The woman covered her face with shaking hands while her husband wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

1 7

M
usa stared at the unopened envelope on his desk He recognized Amina’s handwriting. Two weeks had passed since he last wrote and told her how proud he was of her decision to study nursing at Cairo’s Kasr El-Aini University Hospital.
What could she be writing now?
Impatient, Musa put his work aside and picked up the envelope.

A fifteen-year-old boy, the messenger cousin Abdullah hired to bring tea trays from the nearby
chaikhana,
ran into his cubicle, breathing hard,

“Sayyid Abdullah wants to see you in his office immediately!”

Musa followed the boy, wondering what was so important that Abdullah had to send for him. Fully occupying his leather chair, behind a large mahogany desk covered with papers, Abdullah held a telephone to his ear. He grunted from time to time, but as soon as he saw Musa he said, “He’s here. Talk to him.”

Abdullah handed the telephone to Musa and whispered, “It’s your sister Na’ima.”

Na’ima!
What happened? Was there something wrong with his mother, with Suha?
Anxiously, he took the receiver from Abdullah’s hands.

“Nai’ma, my dear sister,
Salaam Aleikum
, that’s a surprise, where are you calling from?” They had never installed a telephone at home. His father used to scoff, “What for? Good news travels fast, and for bad news there is always time.”

“What has happened?” Musa saw Abdullah discreetly leaving the office. On the phone, a weeping Na’ima said, “I am at the post office. Samira is here with me.” Musa heard her sniffling.

“Oh, Musa, you have to come home. Mother is not well. She cries all the time and she has taken to her bed. Even Samira can’t help her.” She paused. “Here, Samira wants to talk to you.”

“Musa, Musa,” he heard Samira shouting in the telephone, “are you there? Can you hear me?”

Musa thought that all the bank clerks could hear her screams.

“Yes, yes, I’m here,” Musa hurriedly answered. “What happened? What’s wrong? Stop tormenting me, the two of you.”

“You have to come home, my boy. Your mother needs you, your family needs you.” Na’ima grabbed the phone again, “Listen to Samira. Please come.”

A click ended their conversation. Musa realized that neither Na’ima nor Samira knew they had to add more coins.

Scared and anxious, Musa left Abdullah’s office. When he returned to his desk, he remembered Amina’s letter.
Could this letter be connected to his mother’s illness?
With one movement he tore open the envelope.

Most honored and dear brother Musa, Salaam Aleikum!


First I want you to know that I’ll be coming to celebrate my dear sister Na’ma’s wedding with all of you and wish Na’ima a life as clear of clouds as the skies of Jaffa in the spring
.


But I have news of my own I want to share with you. I hope you remember that when I first joined the British Red Cross I wrote that I took care of a wounded soldier. From the time we arrived in Cairo, we have seen each other often, and the more I saw him, the fonder I grew of him
.


He has opened the world for me, by encouraging me to acquire a profession and always treating me as his equal. Because of his love for me, he said, he had started studying the Koran, in English, of course. He wants to learn more about our culture
.


He proposed to me a few times, but I always answered, I would be too busy with my studies to think about marriage. I plan to move into one of the apartments the hospital rents to its student nurses, to be closer to the hospital
.


Cousin Aiisha, who housed me for the last two months, wasn’t happy with my decision, but she understood that it would be for my benefit
.


A few days ago George told me, very excited, that his parents are coming to Cairo
.


“They want to meet you. They wrote that they can barely wait to see the girl who has stolen their son’s heart.”


Without giving me time to respond, George took a little box from his pocket and knelt in front of me. “Would you please be my wife?” he asked, opening the box
.


He placed the most beautiful sapphire ring on my finger and kissed my hands. Oh, Musa, it’s so marvelous to feel loved. At that moment I knew I was destined to marry him. George promised that after he finishes his law degree we’ll come to live in Palestine. I know that it was wrong not to ask my mother’s consent first
.


In the letter I wrote my mother, I didn’t dare write about George. I beg you to talk to her and explain that people can be happy even if they marry out of their faith. I know that our family values honor and pride, above everything and this will be a terrible offense. Dear, dear Musa, please intercede on my behalf
.


I pray to Allah to give comfort to my mother and for her to forgive me
.


I love all of you, and I hope that when you meet George, you’ll accept him as a member of our family
.


Musa was so troubled by his sister’s letter that he did not hear Abdullah walk in.

“I’m worried about your mother,” Abdullah said, eyeing Amina’s opened letter. “Less than two weeks before Na’ima’s wedding and she’s not feeling well. Is there anything I can do?”

“They want me to come home,” Musa answered.

“Then the best thing for you is to leave right away.” Abdullah looked at the trust paper lying on Musa’s desk. ”In my many years of work I have learned that the work is second in importance. The family comes first.” He patted Musa’s back. “Take good care of your mother.
Inshallah
, in two weeks we’ll dance at Na’ima’s wedding.”

1 8

A
fter putting away the clean dishes from the
Iftar
dinner, Samira said, “Children,” addressing the younger ones, “it’s time to go to bed.” She took Ahmed, almost asleep in his chair, in her arms.

“Rama, Nur, wait for me, I’m going to undo and brush your hair after I tuck Ahmed into bed.”

It was better to do something useful, rather than lie in bed and brood, like Fatima. Samira had guessed the reason for her sudden illness. She had seen the tear-stained envelope on Fatima’s desk and recognized the handwriting.

But facing Fatima wasn’t easy. Samira sensed that it wasn’t only sadness that brought her so close to despair. She, who had raised Fatima since she was a young girl, knew how proud of her family’s good name Fatima was. “Shame,” Samira heard Fatima whisper a few times, “it will bring us shame.”

It was Samira who decided that Musa should come home immediately. She convinced Na’ima to make the call.
Musa will be here soon
, she strengthened herself.

The girls were asleep. Na’ima had gone to her room, too, and Suha had left for hers as soon as she finished drying the dishes.
Lately she moves like a shadow
, Samira reflected, while walking into the courtyard. It was a beautiful night, full of stars. The hamsin had broken and a cool wind was blowing from the sea. I should open all the windows, and ask Fatima to come outside to breathe the fresh air.

From the courtyard Samira peered into Fatima’s bedroom. She saw her kneeling on her prayer rug. She heard a light sound, and wanted to turn around when she felt a hand on her shoulder. As her mouth opened to scream, she saw Musa.

He put a finger on his lips to silence her.
Only three months had passed since he left home, but he seems much older
.

“Have you eaten?” Samira asked, though she knew already the answer. She watched him eat, in her heart a mixture of happiness and sorrow. “You looked tired,” she said, “Go wash while I put fresh sheets on your bed. You’d better see your mother tomorrow. Oh, my boy, I’m glad you are home.”

Musa hugged her. “I think I should see my mother right now,” he insisted, but Samira stopped him, “Rest first,” she said.

Fatima couldn’t fall asleep after Samira told her that Musa had arrived. “Oh, my son,” she whispered to herself, “Oh, ibni, oh, my dear son is home.”

Amina, in her short letter, read and reread many times, wrote that she was going to move from cousin Aiisha’s house
. Is it proper for a girl to live alone in one of the hospital apartments? And what is the important subject that she has to talk to me, about which she couldn’t write about? What’s the mystery?
Oh, her migraine would not stop.

Was not the mukhtar’s wife right, when, with a mocking smile, warned what could happen if she, Fatima, let her daughter do as she
pleased
? Fatima pressed her hands to her temples. Her forehead felt encircled by fire.

Fatima opened the window and was refreshed by the sudden cool air. As she glimpsed outside, she was reminded of the unfinished work, her plan to open the wall between her courtyard and the unused land next door. Faud, her husband, had bought it after Ahmed was born. She could still hear his joyful voice. “Now, with the birth of our second son, we need to enlarge our house. This property is my gift to you for giving me another son.”

And he kissed her. She could still feel his lips touching hers. Faud had died before Ahmed’s first birthday. She never made use of that property. For years she thought that buying it was a bad omen.

For Na’ima’s wedding, she decided to break the wall between the two courtyards to have ample space for the dancers, one courtyard for men, the other for the ladies, as was the custom. But her head could not stand the workers’ hammering. She asked Samira to tell them to stop.

Tonight, she sighed with relief, Musa will take over and finish the work. Her daughters would plant the flowers and seeds of cyclamen, roses and hyacinth that Samira bought at the flower market and Suha watered every day. Fatima closed the window and turned off the light.

Allah be praised
, Musa is home; and for the first time in a week, into a deep sleep.

Musa woke up early. He heard the muezzin call for the
Fajr
, the first prayer of the day. Certain that his mother was still asleep, he decided to pray at the mosque. Allah knew how much strength he needed to face his mother and appease her.

Last night, during the bus ride from Jerusalem to Jaffa, Musa’s heart beat loudly in his ears; he was going to see Suha again! He wondered how he would handle the painful talk with his mother.
And most important, would he be able to make her listen to his own plea?

Prostrated, his forehead touching the cold mosaic floor, Musa prayed for guidance. “Oh, Allah Ackbar, God of the Universe, in this holy month of Ramadan show me the way, give me direction and I’ll follow your will.” After the prayer, he felt the weight his heart carried had become lighter. Musa stepped out, and for a moment the sun blinded him. In the few months he’d lived within the walls of Jerusalem, he had forgotten how brilliant Jaffa’s morning sun was.

He had not walked for more than a minute when he heard a voice calling him. “Musa
Sayyid
, Mister Musa, wait for me.”

It was Yusuf, one of Musa’s classmates. Limping more than usual, a big smile on his face, Yusuf caught up with him. He was a sickly child, always dragging his paralyzed leg.

“It’s been a long time since I saw you last,” Yusuf said, “Where have you been?”

“Salaam Aleikum! Good to see you, Yusuf.” Musa kissed him on both cheeks, as was the custom. Then he started telling him about his work in his cousin’s bank in Jerusalem. Impressed, Yusuf said, “I always knew you were meant to do great things.”

“And what are you doing?” Musa asked.

“I spent some time at the Kasr El-Aini Hospital in Cairo, hoping the doctors could help me walk better. They tried all kinds of boots on me, but I couldn’t get used to them, so I returned home.”

“This is the hospital where my sister Amina studies to become a nurse,” said Musa.

“Good. Kasr El-Aini is the biggest hospital in the mid-east,” boasted Yusuf, “people come from all over to study or be treated there. But,” Yusuf’s eyes looked at him questioningly, “How come you are home? I hope nobody is sick in your family.”

“Everything is fine. My sister Na’ima is getting married in a few weeks. I am so glad I met you; I will ask my mother to invite you to the wedding.”

“
Mavrook
- congratulations! It will be a real honor to attend.”