Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (15 page)

“Musa, you are going too far. This is no way to talk to your mother,” Samira said, taking charge. “Please, Sit Fatima, reconsider. Wasn’t she the one who sewed all nine of Na’ima’s wedding dresses, one more beautiful than the next? Wouldn’t you have invited such a talented seamstress to the wedding? The girl has been living with us long enough, and though it might not be your will, I think she deserves it.”

Samira turned to Musa, “Apologize to your mother and leave us alone.”

She never gave him orders, but Musa understood.

Fatima sat prostrated while Samira paced the room, mulling over how she could dissipate Fatima’s anger, and more than that, convince her that Musa was right. She couldn’t say like in the old days,’a good night’s sleep will cool you off ’, or, ‘Pray to Allah and He’ll show you the way.’

She loved all of them so much, Fatima, Musa and Suha, that orphan who was trying so hard to please, just the way, she, Samira was. “
You are a good person, Samira, you’ll find the way,
” a voice seemed whispering in her ear, a man’s voice with a Yiddish accent, Mr. Grunwald’s voice? The time was short. Samira had witnessed the scene in the kitchen, that very evening, just before she served the Iftar meal. Musa came in and seeing Suha, he asked her feverishly, “Are you happy here?” Samira saw Suha’s neck suffused with color before she nodded. No words, but for Samira that was enough. Suha wouldn’t need the love potion from Uhm Zaide.

“I want to brush your hair,” Samira started, as in other times of stress.

“Not now,” Fatima answered. “I have no patience for it. Leave me alone.”

“Now is the best time,” insisted Samira. “Besides, I want to talk to you.”

“Didn’t you say enough? Now, leave.”

“You’ll have to hear me, Fatima Masri, even if you fire me afterward. For more than twenty years, I’ve worked for you. You know that I’m ready to sell my life to the devil to save yours.”

“Say what you have to say and leave.”

Samira was undisturbed by Fatima’s harsh tone, “Please, help me remember. Didn’t Faud
Effendi
have a good friend in Alexandria? If I’m not mistaken, he was French, married to an Egyptian woman, wasn’t he? He was one of Master Faud business partners.”

Fatima was surprised, “That’s true, but why are you asking me that? It was a long time ago, before Faud died. What’s so urgent? You make it sound as if it’s a matter of life and death.”

“You told me that only death could separate them. Something happened to that fellow before Faud
Effendi
died. What happened?”

Fatima stared into Samira’s eyes. Samira returned the most innocent of looks.

“He died in a car accident, both he and his wife. Faud was inconsolable. For days he couldn’t eat or sleep”. Fatima seemed to be looking into a gallery of ghosts, “Why do you ask me? I have no time for charades.”

“Wasn’t there a child, a girl?” Samira softly asked, “What had happened to her? “I don’t know what got into you to ask those questions tonight. Yes, there was a girl. She was two years younger than my twins. Some said that she escaped alive from the accident. Faud tried to find her, ready to adopt her, but he lost track. She was such a pretty child.”

Silently and gently, Samira undid Fatima’s long hair. She started to brush it when Fatima, as if waking from a dream, asked sharply, “Samira, why did you bring all this up? You knew what happened, didn’t you? What’s on your mind?”

“You said it yourself. You would have adopted the girl, if you had found her.” Samira took a deep breath. “Think of Suha as being that girl.”

Abruptly, Fatima snatched the brush from Samira’s hand, “What nonsense. How dare you compare the two, and come to me with such a proposition? That girl, I loved her with all my heart. Oh, Samira, you not only disappoint me, you make me angry!”

Fatima got up. “Go, and don’t talk to me again.”

“Please, Sit Fatima, think,” Samira insisted.

She knew she had to play her last two cards, “Think of Musa. You heard him. Maybe he has fallen in love with the Yahud girl.”

Seeing the flicker of shock in Fatima’s eyes, Samira changed her approach. “Maybe not, but for sure he has some warm feelings for the girl he saved from drowning. He feels responsible for her. He is also stubborn, especially when he thinks that he is right.”

Fatima didn’t answer.

Samira played her trump card, “You don’t want to lose your son, your comfort and consolation at old age.”

While Samira talked, Fatima prostrated herself on the rug, “
Allah Ackbar, Allah Ackbar
,” she wailed, “Save me, save me, and give me sustenance.”

Samira waited. When Fatima raised her head, Samira helped her up. Fatima’s eyes were red. She cried as she said, “In this holy month of Ramadan, you want me to commit the biggest sin, you want me to lie. I wouldn’t do that, not even for the Prophet Mohammed.”

From the tone of her voice, Samira knew she had gained some ground. “I am not asking you to lie. Besides, the wedding takes place after Ramadan ends.”

“What do I say to people who ask me who she is? That she is the Yahud girl Musa saved from drowning?”

“Nobody will ask you. Everybody’s attention will be on the bride and groom, or on Amina and Musa returning home after
a long absence: Suha will wear a hijab and
jelebia
. She will stand near me.”

“And what if somebody addresses her? You seem to have thought of everything, but have you thought of this possibility?” Fatima’s voice was breaking as she said, “Samira, Samira, seeing how sly and cunning you are now, could I trust you in the future?”

Samira fell to her knees. She was moved by the bitterness in Fatima’s voice.

“Sit Fatima,” Samira took the hem of Fatima’s dress and kissed it, “maybe not today, but sometime later, you’ll think again, and you’ll not judge me so harshly. I had nothing in mind but the happiness of your family.”

She looked up at her mistress. “As for what you asked me before, if Suha is questioned, I’ll make sure that I answer for her. She is too shy.”

Fatima sighed. “Don’t be sure you’ve convinced me. Have you thought about Na’ima’s reaction? She has a right to decide if she wants Suha at her wedding.”

That was a consideration Samira hadn’t foreseen. Fatima was right. Na’ima could be an obstacle.

“See, as clever as you are, you don’t have answers for everything,” Fatima said. “Go now. I’d like to say that I am going to forget our talk, but it would be a lie.”

Samira left. Although she had not achieved what she wanted, she did not doubt that the seed she had planted in Fatima’s mind would bear fruit. Yes, talking to Fatima was important, but who would approach Na’ima?

“I’m counting the days,” Na’ima had told her. “Four more days until Amina comes home. Oh, we’ll have so much to talk about.” Suddenly, she hugged Samira, “And by this time, next week, I’ll be married! I can hardly believe it.”

2 0

A
mina was expected to arrive one day before the start of the wedding festivities. At dawn Musa left for Lydda airport. Though it was still early, the entire Masri household was already on its feet.

From her window, Shifra watched the bustle. Young boys from the neighborhood hung colored lanterns in both courtyards. In her guttural voice, Samira gave short orders, pointing to where they were to be placed. Nur and Rama filled baskets with the traditional sugar-coated Jordan almonds, while Fatima checked Na’ima’s dresses once more for any small defect that might have escaped her critical eye.

Exhilaration was in the air. Shifra, to whom Samira had explained the customs of a Muslim wedding was as excited as the bride. At Samira’s urging, Shifra had used the remnants of a material matching the color of her eyes to sew a dress for herself. It was a modest
jelebia
, without any of the adornments she added to the dresses she made for Na’ima, for Fatima or the white dress awaiting Amina. Samira had bought a white
hijab t
o cover Shifra’s head.

Na’ima, meanwhile, was busy opening the boxes of gifts she received from the groom’s family, from neighbors, from Aiisha, her mother’s cousin in Cairo, and especially the little packages with which Amina had showered her every day for the last week.

“Eumi, come see,” Na’ima exclaimed with the opening of each new package as the mailman delivered them: an Egyptian shawl, a bottle of perfumed oil, a papyrus with her and Mahmood’s names encircled in elegantly designed hieroglyphics.

Later in the morning, after the rented long tables had arrived, Ahmed arranged the borrowed chairs and ottomans around them, while Rama and Nur set the tables with the starched embroidered tablecloths that Fatima kept in a chest in her bedroom, gifts she had received twenty years earlier at her own wedding.

In the kitchen, the baskets of fruits and vegetables, delivered and ready for the big event, were competing for space with pots and pans lent by neighbors. Moving around in the kitchen was so treacherous that Samira, the kitchen’s supreme chef, had to chase the children away, “This is not the time to fall and break a leg.”

At noon, a cheerful voice called out from beyond the gate, “
Inshallah
, I’m home. Nur, Rama, Ahmed, open the gate quickly and give your sister a big hug!” Musa followed Amina with a suitcase in one hand and a big package in the other.

As if by command, the entire family, including Samira, ran out into the courtyard. Shifra came out too, but kept a few paces distant from the family circle. Seeing Amina, her eyes opened wide. Amina’s family looked as surprised as Shifra.
Where was the Amina they all knew?

She was dressed in a gray two-piece suit, the skirt barely covering her knees, with high cork-soled wedged shoes which made her look much taller than Shifra remembered. Her perfume invaded the courtyard. But the most unusual sight was her hairdo. What happened to her beautiful thick braids? Had she cut them? Her hair was jelly-rolled, like the models Shifra
saw in the old magazines which wrapped the fish bought in the market.

Amina was all smiles, “
Salaam Aleikum
, honored Eumi,” she addressed her mother. “I’m happy to see you in good health.”

Fatima seemed hypnotized by her daughter’s new looks. Anger and disappointment played on her face. How was she going to react? Samira and the children watched her, waiting for a sign. But as fast as a flicker, Fatima’s clenched muscles relaxed and she opened her arms. Amina hugged her mother in the middle of the deafening noise made by Rama and Ahmed, each one pulling at her dress.

“Welcome home, my daughter,” Fatima said. “Now, with you in our midst, we can celebrate Na’ima’s wedding as she deserves.”

When it was the impatient Na’ima’s turn to embrace her sister, both had tears in their eyes. “I have so much to tell you,” whispered Na’ima. Amina whispered back, “So do I.”

Rama and Nur took hold of Amina’s hands, while she bent and kissed Ahmed three times on his cheeks exclaiming, “It’s hard to believe that all of you have grown so much in the five months since I saw you last.
Salaam Aleikum
to you, my dear Samira,” Amina said. Freeing her arms from her sisters, she embraced her old
morabia
.

During the commotion created by Amina’s arrival, Musa took Amina’s suitcase and package inside, and intentionally or not, brushed against Shifra and felt a sudden, thrilling tremor in her body.

“Put her suitcase in my bedroom,” ordered Fatima.

Na’ima and Amina looked surprised. Didn’t Fatima guess that the sisters had hoped to be together the few nights before the wedding? But Fatima had other designs regarding her prodigal daughter.

While Amina told the children about the gifts that awaited each one and the stories she was going to tell them about Cairo, Fatima approached Samira and murmured in her ear. “It was smart of us
to make a dress for Amina to wear at the wedding, a dress that befits the daughter of Faud Masri, a daughter of Islam.”

“You have to thank Suha for it. She was the one who worked on it during the nights you slept so well,” answered Samira.

Amina’s ear caught the name and turned around, searching. “Suha,” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. With all the emotion and the commotion, I didn’t see you. I am glad to see you again.”

Rama, who couldn’t keep the secret anymore, interjected, “You have to see the dress she made for you. It is really beautiful. She sewed all our dresses.”

Shifra blushed. “She’s my sister now,” Rama took Shifra’s hand in hers, “During Ramadan I prayed for it every day.”

“Then she is my sister, too,” Amina said, smiling at her youngest sister.

If she had looked at Na’ima, she would have seen the bewilderment in her eyes. On the way home from Lydda airport, Musa had opened his heart and told Amina about his wish to marry Suha. Brother and sister promised to support each other in their quest for their mother’s approval.

Na’ima’s wedding festivities were to start on October 1st with the traditional henna party, when the hands of the bride and her sisters are dyed red. Fatima decided to have the henna party on the first night of
Idul Fitri,
the three-day holiday following the fast of Ramadan, usually celebrated with food, music, and visits.

Mahmood, his mother and a number of relatives had already arrived in Jaffa, and were hosted by Fatima’s neighbors and friends. Abdullah and his family also descended from Jerusalem and took rooms at a famous
khan
, an inn close to their neighborhood.

Though the henna party is for women only, sometimes a groom is allowed to participate. But since no party could be a real party unless there is music, from early morning the musicians had their instruments, the
tabla
and the
oud
, ready to start.

Seated on the chair of honor in Fatima’s large living room, Mahmood’s mother waited for her future daughter-in-law to pay her respects. In their bedrooms, the sisters checked on one another for the last details. Wearing a splendidly adorned red velvet dress and a tulle head scarf covering her face, Na’ima followed by her three sisters and her mother made her entrance.

While Na’ima’s future mother in-law was busy telling the other guests her recipe for henna dye, Samira entered the room with the henna preparation, accompanied by a helper holding trays of crescent walnut pastries and tall glasses filled with ice water and nana leaves. Hearing the last words, Samira exclaimed, “This henna was made with the same recipe!” The mother-in-law took the henna and smeared it over Na’ima’s fingers and her forehead, “The henna will keep you and your future family in good health,” she said.