Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (3 page)

“Where are your shoes? “Musa asked. Hearing that, she started crying again.

“Shush, shush, don’t cry, here, take my slippers,” he said. She looked undecided. “Don’t worry about me. I’m used to walking barefoot on the sharpest stones.”

He didn’t expect her to answer. To make her feel at ease he started to walk away, and after a while he felt her following him. In the deserted street, Musa blessed the darkness of the night, which made it possible for them to walk without attracting attention.

Though he knew he was taking her to a safe place, Musa was worried what his mother’s reaction would be when she saw him bringing an unknown girl to their home. He was his mother’s eldest son, and Musa knew he was her favorite. She never had a harsh word for him. She always saved for him the special delicacies she had reserved only for his father.

Lately he had seen his mother’s eyes lingering on him. Once she whispered “Musa, looking at you I see your father, may he joyfully rest at Allah’s breast, when he first came to take me as his bride. He was as tall as you, his hair and moustache as black as the sky at midnight, and his teeth as white as the Lebanon’s first snow.”

But now, Musa feared his mother’s anger. She was a force to be reckoned with. A widow, the mother of six children, two boys and four girls, she had taken the reins of his father’s business in her hands, proving herself as shrewd as his father had been. Her flourishing marketing skills had taken their famous citrus fruits to Alexandria, Beirut and even farther cities.

Musa took a furtive look at the girl who followed him at a short distance. They were walking the rocky steps of Jaffa’s narrow streets, older than the Sultans’ time. The
souks
and bazaars were closed, but the smell of strong spices lingered in the air. They were still at a distance from his house on Basra Street in the select Ajami neighborhood, where the houses built with tall iron gates and grated windows, were always locked during the night. Only
the hanging flowers on the iron latticed balconies were proof that there was life behind the closed shutters.

Musa turned into a narrow street and the girl followed him. They hadn’t exchanged one word since they started walking. Now they were on his street, close to his home. The girl slowed her pace, observing the big, somber-looking houses. Only a lost dog was heard howling from time to time.
What can be on her mind?
But he dismissed the thought as they were already in front of the massive gate of his family home, the house his grandfather Masri had built with stones brought from as far as Ashkelon and Caesarea.

Musa worked the intricate lock, and the gate opened with a tired squeak. They were in the large courtyard common to Arab houses. The house, built in the form of a horseshoe, surrounded the paved courtyard. It was dark and quiet. Musa sighed with relief. He’d give the girl something to eat, after which he’d spread a camel blanket on the kitchen floor for her to sleep on.

This would give him time to think of a way to introduce her to his mother in the morning, hoping to avoid raising her anger. But his relief was short-lived. He heard noise from the women’s quarters, saw a flickering candle moving behind the dark windows and heard quick steps. In less than a minute, his mother, the formidable Fatima Masri, faced her oldest son.

“
Kan bal
, I was worried,” she whispered. “
When enta
, where were you, the muezzin’s call was ages ago! You never come home so late. I even wanted to—” but she stopped her hurried words, stupefied, staring at the blond girl half hidden by Musa’s body.

Suddenly his mother couldn’t contain her fury. “Musa Ibn Faud, what in the name of Allah is this?” She tried to keep her voice quiet, not to awaken the household or the neighbors. “It wasn’t enough that you bring home stray dogs and cats, now you bring stray girls!” And after she took another look at the girl, she said with contempt “
Bint el-Yahood, a
Jewish girl?”

While she was talking, the girl started backing away. Musa, who was silent during his mother’s outburst, caught a glimpse of the girl’s maneuver and quickly placed himself between her and the gate.

“You are going nowhere tonight,” he said to her, softly but firmly. “My mother is a good person. I shouldn’t have surprised her like that.” Then addressing his mother in Arabic he said, “Honored mother, please let’s go inside. I’ll explain everything. Let your fury fall on my head, and not on this poor girl, probably an orphan, whom I found on the beach, all alone.” Musa’s lips were dry. “Have pity, Mother,” he added. “That’s what the Koran teaches us. And what if she’s a daughter of the Yahud? You do business with them, don’t you?”

While Musa talked, his mother’s eyes studied the girl, who kept her head down. She sighed. “How much I miss your father. He would have known what decision to make. What will your sisters and brother say when they see this strange girl in our house?” After a long silence she added, “She’ll have to leave at dawn.”

Fatima Masri walked toward the house as Musa and the girl followed her. “It’s late, Musa. There is food in the icebox. Eat and give her some, too. Afterward, bring her to my room. I’ll put a blanket on the floor for her to sleep on.”

In the large kitchen with walls covered with blue tiles, each one with an intricate design, Musa silently made Shifra a sign to sit at a small table. Shifra looked at her hands. They were full of sand. Musa followed her gaze. “Come,” he said, showing her the ceramic basin and pitcher standing in a corner, “You can wash your hands there.”

While she washed, he took from the icebox the remnants of the supper, a leg of lamb, goat cheese, and leben. From a shelf he took a basket filled with pita bread and placed it on the table.” Eat, eat,” Musa urged, seeing her indecision, “You must be famished.”

His eyes feasted on her. Here, in his house, she seemed a thousand times prettier than the girl he saw on the beach. Her
cheeks were rosy from the walk, and her hair, damp at the temples, shone like a myriad of lights. He saw her pour a tablespoon of lebenia on her plate and break a pita, after she murmured something he couldn’t understand. Both ate in silence. Though he insisted, he saw that she wouldn’t eat any more, but looked grateful for the glass of cold water filled with nana leaves he offered her. When he got up, Shifra got up too.

“I’ll show you to my mother’s room,” he whispered.

They walked through a dark corridor, where the moon’s light was filtered through the latticed windows. Fatima’s large bedroom was the first one in the women’s quarters. Musa pointed his finger toward the camel blanket by the foot of the large bed. He wanted to bid her a good night’s sleep, or sweet dreams, but he didn’t want to wake up his mother, who, according to the neighbors, slept with one eye open to better watch over her family’s fortune.

3

A
s usual, Fatima woke up at the first call of the rooster. She was born into an old Jerusalemite family of means, and her dowry at marriage brought her husband more golden bracelets than the wives of his brothers did. Yet she loved to work. She despised idle women. She frequently urged her daughters to be industrious, work on their embroidery, especially after she discovered they had a real gift for it. Their peacock designs were so successful that the girls could barely satisfy the orders from the bazaar shops.

She felt a shock when she saw the blond girl asleep at the foot of her bed. Slowly, she remembered the events of the previous evening. Anger and pity filled her heart, anger toward Musa, who dared bring this girl into her home, pity, as she looked at the girl’s innocent face. Who was she? What was she doing alone on the deserted beach? Had she run away from home? Was she lost? Should she, Fatima alert the British police? She disliked having anything to do with the police. Yet she knew she couldn’t keep this girl in her house.

Her thoughts turned toward Musa. He’d had such a sensitive soul, ever since he was a child. She remembered the wounded
pigeon that fell into their courtyard and how carefully he bandaged its wing and didn’t let anyone else feed it. Musa wasn’t like other young men, ready for a brawl or to spend a full day smoking
nargilea
at the coffee house.

He was a good son, always respectful, and though she knew that it wasn’t his inclination to be a merchant, he helped her by keeping the accounts up to date. Musa had a good head for numbers. If he had continued school, who knows? No, she chased the thought, Musa was the oldest, and should follow in his father’s footsteps.

And he was so handsome! A few matchmakers had already approached her, but she drove them away. He was too young, she told them. But wasn’t his father the same age, just short of nineteen, when he married her?

She looked again at the sleeping girl. Her face in the pale light of dawn had the glow of a red apple.
What in the name of Allah made him bring her home
? Musa was too shy to address a girl. Enough thinking! She had a long day in front of her. A ship intended for Alexandria was waiting in Jaffa’s port to be loaded with her cases of oranges, grapefruit and bananas. It was time to get out of bed.

At the sound of Fatima’s steps, Shifra opened her eyes. First, she looked around her, confused. Then she jumped up, frightened. Fatima put a finger on her lips to keep her silent. Shifra quickly bent and folded the blanket she had slept on and then smoothed her wrinkled skirt. She passed her hands over her hair, trying to smooth it, too. Her movements were watched by Fatima’s scrutinizing eyes. When Fatima left the room, she motioned to Shifra to follow her.

The outhouse stood in a corner of the courtyard. Fatima pointed out to Shifra. She waited for her outside and then pantomimed that she’d take her to wash her hands and face.

When they entered the kitchen, Musa was already there. On the iron stove, the steam from boiling water was billowing. Musa never got up so early, Fatima thought. He looked at his mother
with anxious eyes, red from lack of sleep. He avoided looking at Shifra, who kept her eyes downcast.

“She has to leave this house immediately,” Fatima told her son, interrupting his formal greetings, “I want her out before your sisters are up. Her place is not here.”

When she saw how pale her son’s face became, Fatima added, “I’m not going to turn her over to the police, if this is what you are afraid of. I will talk to one of my Jewish customers, Mr. Berkowitz maybe. He is a good man. He’ll talk to her and find out who she is and help her go back where she belongs.”

Musa bowed his head. All of a sudden Fatima saw him jump. He was running toward the gate where a frantic Shifra was there before him, trying to unlock it. Fatima heard him say in a gentle voice, “You can’t leave before having a glass of tea and something to eat. My mother is not throwing you out.” He spoke to her in English.

Reluctantly the girl returned. She went to the basin and turned toward Fatima with questioning eyes. “You can wash,” Fatima nodded. The girl undid her hair. A cascade of gold suddenly lit the kitchen. On the wall above the basin was pinned a small mirror in a mother-of-pearl frame. Fatima saw her looking furtively into the mirror, while she redid her braids.

The mirror reflected something else too. It was Musa, watching the girl with the eyes of a drunkard.
A drunkard or a man in love
, Fatima’s heart had recognized the look.

“Come, eat,” Fatima said, while quickly placing on the table jars of tahini, humus and leben. Musa added pita and brought the tea glasses already filled with mint leaves. The girl seemed hesitant. Fatima saw Musa look at her expectantly. She knew that in her presence Musa would not address the girl directly.

“
Bo’u, Ochel
,” repeated Fatima, remembering how the Jewish neighbors from the old quarter in Jerusalem used to call their children when it was time to come home for supper.

We should get rid of her quickly
. Fatima cleared her throat, “I have an idea,” she said, “I’m going to take her to Nathan, the Moroccan watchmaker. He always opens his store early in the morning. I will tell him what happened. Maybe he has already gotten word of a missing girl.”

As Fatima got up from the table, she was surprised to see the girl, who had eaten only pita with her tea, already standing at the sink washing and drying the dishes. “
Poor lamb
,” she thought for a second.

To Musa, she said “It’s time you go. They are starting the loading early. A good boss is always the one who arrives first.”

After a long glance at the girl, Musa left. He was already at the gate when he returned and shyly said, “She has no shoes, mother. Please let her have a pair of your old slippers.” He sounded supplicant. Fatima nodded.
I have to get rid of the girl
, nagged her again.

“Follow me,” Fatima told Shifra, when they were out on the street. She didn’t want to be seen walking alongside the girl. Nathan’s store wasn’t far away. They had to cross a few streets. From time to time, Fatima turned her head to see if the girl was behind her.

At the main thoroughfare, on Jerusalem Boulevard, a stubborn mule, kicking and making a lot of noise, stopped traffic. People were trying to cross the street between the stopped cars and buses. The noise was deafening. Everyone screamed. Fatima looked back to see if Shifra was close by, but she couldn’t see her. She turned, peering everywhere, wondering if she would have to go back to find her, but people were streaming all around.

Maybe it was better this way, Fatima thought. What would she tell Musa, when he asked her what happened to the girl, crossed her mind. But she dismissed it quickly. She had more pressing matters. It was time to take care of her business.

4

H
er eyes were still searching for a narrow passage or a shadowed porch where she could hide from Fatima’s vigilant eye when the tumult and crowd around the stubborn donkey provided her with the chance to disappear. Shifra walked through streets that seemed to be leading her in circles until she saw the clock tower at the end of one street. From there she knew the way to the beach. Nobody would look for her there.

Shifra descended the rocks, grateful to be wearing the velvet embroidered slippers the Arab woman gave her that morning. When she found a shadowy place, Shifra sat down and looked around. Few people were on the beach, and, to Shifra’s relief, no one paid attention to her.