Three Daughters: A Novel (4 page)

4.

YOU MUST MARRY SOMEONE.

I
hear you can read and write,” said one of the visitors. They had come purposefully up the hill, three figures in fine clothes.

Miriam looked at her mother, but Jamilla was twisting her rings. “Very little.” The visit was like waiting for honey to drip on a cold day. Slow and stiff.

“Don’t be modest,” said Jamilla quickly. “Miriam can read or write anything.” This was not true. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair. The visitors were her aunts, vaguely related through Nabiha. But there was an air about them—they were wealthy. They were dressed in crepe de chine, and their arms jangled with at least a dozen bracelets.

“And you went to the school for rich Muslims? The school for the Darawayis and Faidys?”

“I had little to do with the girls. They went home when my lessons began.” Umm Jameel—as was the custom, she was called by her first son’s name, mother of Jameel—who seemed to be the important one, ironed out her fat fingers. “How is it that rich Muslims go to denominational schools?” she asked, as if this oversight were Miriam’s fault.

“I’ve no idea,” said Miriam. “Perhaps it’s for their good. Or for their ill,” she added fatalistically.

“Did they teach you sewing?” Umm Jameel persisted. “Do you embroider?”

“They taught the girls cross-stitch, which my mother had already taught me.”

Umm Jameel took a bite of a cookie. “And did you bake these delicious cookies?”

“She helped,” offered Nabiha quickly. “Miriam is often away with her father. She interprets for him in his business.”

“And from whom do you get those blue eyes?” This came from another aunt who had been quietly inspecting the room.

Jamilla looked troubled. “No doubt from my husband’s family.”

After what seemed an interminable pause, the three women rose, exchanged kisses with their hostesses, and left.

“It’s wonderful,” said Nabiha, clapping her hands above her head.

Jamilla looked after the departing Umm Jameel and muttered, “
Kalb hamil khurj mal
.” A dog carrying a saddlebag of wealth. However, she, too, was smiling.

“Why did they want to know so much about me?” asked Miriam.

“And why not?” said Jamilla with indignation. “That’s what they came for. To look us over. They want you for Nadeem.”

“Who is Nadeem?”

“Nadeem Mishwe. He’s the second son of Umm Jameel. The family’s very good.” Jamilla’s voice became serious. “Her sister, the thin one, is married to a man who owns orange groves in Jaffa. One uncle went to Argentina and sends back gold lira. Nadeem’s family has just one vineyard and the grapes are inferior, but he’s a first-class mason. He’s working on a church in Madaba.” Jamilla looked at her daughter appraisingly. She had heard rumors while waiting in line at the
taboon
to bake her bread, but had been afraid it was in jest. Even now, her heart fluttered with apprehension that she had misinterpreted. “He wants you for his wife ” she told her daughter.

For Miriam it was all too clear. This was the prelude—the visit to make a match. The fat woman was the mother of the eligible boy. She summoned up the weddings and funerals where these three faces had passed and struggled to attach them to a son. Was it the short, pudgy idiot who tied three dogs together so that they tore each other to bits? Was it the tall, thin boy with boils on his cheeks? Was it the balding man who had already lost a wife?

“Baba, do I have to marry? Suppose I don’t want to?” Happily no one could interpret what she and her father signed to each other.

Mustafa looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t you want to?”

“I like my life as it is. I don’t want to leave you and Mama. I like working with you at the stand.” The idea of marriage frightened her, but she was too embarrassed to tell him.

“We can delay it,” Mustafa signed. “But he’s a fine man. It’s an advantageous marriage.” Having gained respectability late in life, Mustafa, too, was caught up in the idea of a good match.

She went to her mother. “Until now,” she reasoned, “I didn’t know about them and they didn’t know about me.”

“That’s where you are mistaken, Miss Schoolgirl. They have been thinking of you for Nadeem for a very long time. He’s your cousin. He’s healthy. Employed. You must marry someone. Who would be better? Tell me, who?”

How quickly it all took place. The men came trudging up the hill, as the women had done. “We, the Mishwe family of the clan of Janin, have come to ask for the hand of your daughter, Miriam, to be the bride of our son, Nadeem.”

Please, Nabile, say no.
Her uncle was answering for her father. Listening in the back room, she heard Nabile answer, “
Mabrook
,” the traditional word of agreement. It was done.

At the betrothal, Father Ricard placed her in the center of the room and went to get the bridegroom. She felt thin and empty. The new dress was stiff and ballooned awkwardly above the waist every time she moved. What was the priest saying? He had placed someone next to her but she didn’t dare steal a glance. If she looked she would have to accept what she saw.

The priest was finished. Her father kissed her forehead. Now she had to turn. She saw an ear, red at the tip. He was nearly shoulder to shoulder with her. There was something vaguely familiar about him. It was the young man at the vegetable stand! Then she remembered that several times, in moments of weakness, for lack of anyone else, she had plucked him from that spot near Jaffa Gate and put him in her daydreams. This was her punishment. It had come true.

“You are tall,” he said. “Almost to my eyes.” He had taken her outside.

She looked at him contemptuously. She was as tall as he. “Is that why you chose me?”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s a poor reason.”

“And what would be a better one?” he asked teasingly.

“Strength,” she said. Any answer would do.

“Well, now,” he said playfully, “are you strong?” He extended her arm to inspect it, but she didn’t feel playful. “You aren’t pleased by this match?” he asked kindly.

“My parents have chosen for me and I will do as they say,” she answered quietly.

“That’s wise. And honest,” he said, making a virtue of her joylessness. “It’s better to start a marriage without mistaken ideas. Then there are no disappointments but, instead, pleasant surprises.”

“What sort of pleasant surprises?” she asked suspiciously. She was surprised that she could challenge him so easily. Her peevishness didn’t seem to bother him at all.

“Many. The joys of creating a pleasant home and a . . .” He had been about to add
family
, but thought better of it. He blushed.

“You’re right,” she agreed, reassured by his nervousness. They walked in silence and she looked him over. He was slight, with a long face like his father, but with very large, lively eyes and excellent even teeth that were visible when he smiled. He had a ruddy complexion, not that awful yellow of men who smoked the
narghilla
so much. His hair was thick, a medium brown. He was tanned from the sun, which made his light eyes look lighter. She had seen her cousins married to men who weren’t half as acceptable as he. Yet she felt nothing.

“Every girl feels exactly the same way. Ex-act-ly,” said Diana, who, since the birth of her son, felt entitled to an opinion on everything. “But that’s no reason to refuse such a decent man.” She surveyed Miriam insolently, head to foot. “
Labis el-’ud yajud
.
” Clothe a stick of wood and it will do well. Miriam had a lovely lithe body, while Diana grew fatter every year.

The evening before the ceremony, the Mishwe women prepared a henna mixture that they daubed on Miriam’s hands arms and legs. Then they wound them in cloth.

Jamilla had never been more maternal than on the morning of Miriam’s wedding day. Gently, she removed the cloth from her daughter’s legs and arms. She shooed away George and Salim, who were fascinated by their sister’s flaming limbs and had begun to wrap each other in the stained muslin. Miriam sat quietly while her mother sponged her face, neck, and back but then, quite suddenly, tears slipped down her cheeks and she took the rag away from Jamilla. “Mama, I’m frightened. I don’t want to go and live with the Mishwes. Umm Jameel doesn’t like me.” She had a hundred protests but this seemed the easiest to say.

“Of course she likes you. She chose you for her son. They act high-handed because of the money, but don’t worry. Once you have a son, you’ll have some power, too.”

“It isn’t only Umm Jameel.” She was crying harder, despairing that her mother didn’t understand. “I don’t want to be married. Mama, I can’t help it. I know Nadeem is a fine man but I don’t want him. I don’t know him at all. What does it matter if I don’t marry? Please, Mama, please don’t make me go.”

Jamilla looked worriedly toward the door. “The Mishwes will be here any minute.” Then, seeing her daughter so desolate, she threw back her shoulders defiantly. She wasn’t afraid of the Mishwes. “Let them come. They’ll see we’re not panting after them.” She took Miriam in her arms. “You think marrying doesn’t matter because you’re young. But in a few years, you’ll be the odd one.” She picked at the edge of Miriam’s undershirt. “You’ll get used to Nadeem. We’ve all gone through it and nobody went mad. Look at the Ajlouny girl. She hid in the fig huts for a week before marrying Hassan. She was covered with scrapes and thin as a rail at her wedding. But now, does she go around weeping? No. Even in the worst cases, things work out.”

“What about Mary Salamy? She couldn’t marry the boy she loved.”

“Mary Salamy was a fool,” said Jamilla decisively. “She made a big commotion. Her brother had to make a trip here from America to convince her. In the end she married her cousin anyway. Now she has three children and a winter home in Jericho. Don’t shed tears for Mary Salamy. Does she even remember the boy she loved? What does a young girl know about choosing a husband? This is a much more reliable method. Nadeem is part of our clan. He’ll act honorably.”

“Honorably? What does that have to do with me? What does that mean?”

Jamilla thought a moment. “This is the way things have been done for many, many years. We all survived. It will be all right in the end. Come and wash your face.”

Would it be right in the end, she wondered? It was so easy to do what they wanted and so hard to resist. Surely her father wouldn’t consent to something that would make her miserable. She rose with a sigh, held up her arms, and allowed her mother to slip on the red silk wedding dress.

When she was ready, Miriam stood in the center of the room she knew so well, with all of its familiar smells. The twins looked awed by her beauty. She wore a heavily embroidered vest over her wedding dress. A veil came down over her face and clasped in her hands was a sword, signifying that her family would defend her honor and her chastity.

Daud poked his head into the room. “You’re going to ride the horse to the church? Watch out it doesn’t run away.” He grinned, uncomfortable in the role of well-wisher.

Next came her grandmother to bid her a tearful farewell. At the last moment, Jamilla held her daughter in her arms and whispered softly against each cheek, “
Mabrook.
” Tears formed again in Miriam’s eyes. She took her mother’s hand and kissed it.

Mustafa led her outside. Shyly he touched her veil and pulled out her dress to admire it. That familiar face that had contorted and grimaced to make itself understood looked suddenly unsure. They had walked together all those years pushing the cart. Miles and miles of silence. She stood perfectly still, not trusting herself to speak. She thought he was going to help her mount the horse but instead he walked a little ways toward a copse of oaks and, before she could protest, she saw that he was crying. She had seen him shed tears only one other time—when he was rubbing salve into the insect bites she had received in Philistia.

Baba! Baba!
For one thrilling moment, Miriam thought she wouldn’t have to go through with it, but then Mustafa came walking back to her, his face composed and smiling. He held her sword until she was safely mounted, then signed his message: “Every day, with all my heart, I will miss you. And each time I think of you, you will feel my blessing.” She opened her eyes as wide as possible to stop the flood of tears and bent down to kiss her father one last time. Then, looking straight ahead with her body erect—it was here that she determined to withstand whatever came—holding the sword across her lap with one hand and the reins with the other, she started off toward the church while the rest of the family followed, clapping and singing.

5.

COME TO BED.

T
he family had retired and left the lower room for the bride and groom. Over the mattress they had set a canvas bower on four sticks with flowers drooping down. Miriam and Nadeem continued to sit like a king and queen. All evening, Miriam had wished she could go to sleep in her familiar bed, but now she was wide-awake. Nadeem got up and disappeared into the other room. She thought of how he had removed the paste from her face, the last ritual she had endured. He had anchored his fingers behind her ears and wiped her cheeks with his thumbs. She had been faintly comforted. Now the muscles in her face ached from false smiles. Phase after phase of events, each one nailing her in place.

“Come to bed.” She jumped and stood immediately. He handed her the nightshirt his mother had bought as part of her trousseau. There was only the glow of the oil lamp, but she could see he was as tense as she. He left the room and she ran outside, thankful that the heavy door was unbolted. She breathed in, grateful for the sweet-scented air, and waited.

“You don’t wish to sleep?” He stood a few feet away.

“No.” He deserved a kinder tone.

“What is it? The strange house?”

She wished he would stop talking and leave her alone. “Yes.”

“You are welcome here. This is your home now,” he said anxiously. Then, laughing nervously, he added, “It’s a nice home, too. Our mattress comes from France.” He made a deprecating sound. “My mother succumbs to every promise of European merchandise. This mattress has little springs in it that make it unique. Like . . . they say it’s like sleeping on a cloud. Perhaps you’ll have an opinion in the morning.” He waited for her to speak but she made no sound. “Aren’t you anxious to try it?”

“No.”

“Were you planning to stand here all night?” His voice had begun to relax.

“Perhaps.”

“Then I will have to stand with you.”

“Why?” She was mildly surprised.

“In case of wolves. Or hyenas. Or swooping bats.”

“Swooping bats?” She turned to him for the first time.

“Yes. Come here closer to me.”

She didn’t move, so he came closer to her and took her hand. He spoke in a serious tone and she knew he was talking of their situation. “Don’t be upset, Miriam.”

“I’m not upset.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“I’m quite happy,” she said stubbornly. He put his arm around her shoulder and, for the first time, she didn’t stiffen.

“I’m not so brave either, you know. We’re new to it together.” She felt the accumulated exhaustion of the previous week like an oppressive weight. She had no will left and pride wasn’t enough to withstand the pull of events. It was done. She was a married woman and had to obey her husband. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. He took the opportunity to turn her toward him and hold her in a loose embrace. “Let’s go inside.”

“Arrange your nightgown.” Words made it worse. She made no attempt to move. “Arrange your nightgown.” He said it kindly, repentantly. She turned and faced the wall. What worse thing could he do if she disobeyed him? She tried not to think of the whole world doing this. In every house. In every country. The sultan. Dr. Malouf. She was aware of him pulling down the skirt he had so recently pulled up. One of her arms was out of its sleeve and he tried gently to put it in its rightful place. When the gown was safely down, he kissed her cheek. “Everything will be all right.”

When dawn came she felt the bed shift and saw that he was sitting up, facing away from her. He felt the mattress move and turned to smooth her hair.
Just go
, she thought.
Then I can walk outside.

He brought one of the new dresses he had purchased for her and a new undershirt, which he placed on the bed. “These are for you.” He left and she put on the clothes because she had nothing else there except the wedding dress. She had to urinate badly but saw no bedpan. Seeing the passage clear, she walked outdoors toward a copse. First she relieved herself and then sat on a stump, taking huge gulps of air.

“Look,” said her mother-in-law, when she returned, “the hem of your new dress is all dirty. Come here, let me brush it for you. What a shame to get it dirty so quickly. Why were you out so early?”

“To get some air.”

“Air? Air is everywhere. No need to go so far and dirty your dress.”

“
Shu ismak
?
What is your name?” Miriam turned around and saw a very old woman, Nadeem’s grandmother, who was tugging at her arm to pull her down beside her.

“My name is Miriam.”

“What? What did you say?” She turned to Nadeem and pulled him down beside her, too.

“My name is Miriam,” she said again loudly.

The old lady took a surprised breath. “
Shu
?
She speaks like a man.”

“All right,
hullus
, Yuma
. Stop it,” Nadeem’s mother interrupted. “Drink your coffee.”

Over his grandmother’s head, Nadeem was studying Miriam’s face. “You have such blue eyes.” He laughed delightedly, as if this were an unexpected bonus.

“They see as well as brown ones.” She realized with shame this was Jamilla talking and tried to make amends by inspecting his eyes. “Yours are
asaleya
—honey colored.” She smiled and the look of gratitude on his face made her feel embarrassed.

A week later, when the last feast had been eaten and the last handkerchief full of coins counted, life settled down to what it would be. One morning Nadeem said to his mother, “I’m leaving today and I won’t return for three weeks.”

“Why tell me?” She waved him away. “Tell your wife.”

Miriam recoiled at this response. Umm Jameel invited confidences, then chided the boys for their dependence on her.

“I will tell my wife,” said Nadeem confidently, “but I will tell you also. After all, I’ve been telling you where I’m going for twenty years.”

“All right. All right.” Umm Jameel, approached with logic, retreated.

“Come,” said Nadeem to Miriam, “let’s go outside.”

They walked in the direction of the Franciscan monastery. He put his hand across her back for support. “You mustn’t let my mother bully you,” he said. “It’s just a habit with her. She must say the harsh thing. It comes to her automatically. But she listens to reason when it’s offered.”

“It’s all right. My mother does the same. Are you going to finish the church soon?”

“I doubt that it will ever be finished. It’s a huge cathedral.”

“What does a mason do?”

“He cuts stone and lays it in a course with mortar between the rows to embed it tightly.”

“It sounds very difficult.”

“It must be set straight, of course. And the mortar must be mixed properly and have an even thickness. Sometimes the design is intricate.”

“Do you like this work?” She had just noticed he had a birthmark behind his left ear and that his ears, which had been exposed by his wedding haircut, were large but somehow balanced the shape of his face and gave him an overall pleasing appearance. She had also noted, in their short life together, that he bathed often and ate little for a man.

“I would enjoy my work more if I were in charge. I know more about working with
mizzi hulu
than the
muhandis
, the foreman who comes from France. He used the wrong proportion of lime. But that’s how it is. They bring foreigners to build the important buildings.” He spoke as if he had put a distance between himself and the things he couldn’t change.

“What sort of church are you building?”

“Greek. In a month I’ll stop and my brother and I will work as guides for the Easter season.”

“And after that?”

“After that I’ll look for a business that will make us more wealthy.”

“More wealthy?”

“Yes.” The sun lit up his face and he looked young and earnest. “I’m a mason for the simple reason that my mother’s family owns quarries. This is the easy way, but I’m not the master of my fate.”

Not the master of his fate? He had chosen her. “But every man is the master of his fate, unless, of course, God intervenes.”

“Well, I will intervene.” He smiled.

“Look. Look how the grape leaf is falling apart.” Umm Jameel held up the leaf and let the rice and pine nuts dribble out. “You must roll it neatly. Not too much stuffing. Then squeeze it.” She stopped to demonstrate. “Like this.”

This was part of being married—having your mother-in-law teach you to take care of her son. Zareefa, Jameel’s wife and Miriam’s new sister-in-law, strolled in and saved her from the row of limp boiled leaves. “What’s the difference?” she commented airily, picking up a leaf and then letting it drop. “They’ll eat it in five seconds, whether it’s tightly wrapped or not.” She stretched and yawned. Zareefa was ready to give birth and constantly sleepy. She wasn’t beautiful but her gracefulness and height made her seem so. She had slim hips, a dark poreless complexion, and a beautiful large mouth.

Umm Jameel ignored Zareefa and redirected Miriam’s attention to a squash in her hand. “You didn’t hollow this properly. One side is lumpy, the other too thin.” Miriam winced as her mother-in-law needlessly threw away the uneven squash.

The quality of life was different at the Mishwes’. They were relaxed about money. Umm Jameel overbought food and then threw much away. The mattresses were covered in damask. The walls were smooth. The main room had two divans, although no one used them. She had heard the mattress maker say that no one in Jerusalem sat on the floor anymore, but on chairs. Everyone was wearing frock coats and trousers, so they couldn’t sit cross-legged in comfort.

Zareefa rose and pushed her mother-in-law playfully on the shoulder. “Umm Jameel, leave the
kusah
and grape leaves and come with us for some air.” She yawned again.

Umm Jameel shook her head but gave them a tolerant wave of her hand and went for the water jars. “
Tayib
, as long as you’re strolling, bring back water.”

“You certainly know how to handle her,” Miriam said when they were out on the road. It was the same town but the vistas were different. There was a charming glen on the side of the road. Now, in midwinter, with plenty of rain in the ground, the lavender crocuses crept around the rocks and tender shoots of wild anemones crisscrossed the slopes.

“We have a truce,” said Zareefa circumspectly. “As long as I might be carrying her grandson, she’ll leave me alone. But”—she laughed ruefully—“God help me if it’s a girl.” She then added airily, “Anyway, Nadeem will make a lot of money and build you a fine home away from Umm Jameel.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” In all of her thoughts of escape, Miriam had never considered this.

“With Nadeem, it’s possible,” she said decisively. “With Jameel, no. Jameel lives to eat and drink. But Nadeem is methodical. He will go, step by step, building something. He’s too serious but you can change that.” Miriam didn’t respond. “It wasn’t a love match?” Zareefa asked delicately.

“He was chosen by my parents. My mother was very joyful.”

“But not Miriam.”

“In the end, perhaps it doesn’t matter. Those that marry for love learn to hate and those that start out not loving perhaps learn to do so.” She was repeating, word for word, something Dr. Malouf had said to her before the wedding.

“For Nadeem, it was a love match. He looks at you adoringly. You have an unusual voice. It drives men crazy.”

Miriam blushed. “His grandmother doesn’t think so. She keeps asking if I’m a man.”

Zareefa laughed. They continued to the spring, but midway Zareefa began to have pains and they returned without the water. Umm Jameel changed her expression. “Is it true? Is it coming now?”

“Yes. It’s coming.”

Umm Jameel was quarreling with the midwife, who wanted Zareefa to sit in a contraption that resembled a chair with a hole in the middle. “The baby will drop down through the hole,” said the midwife.

“
Shu . . . megnuneh, ente
. You’re crazy. Get out,” said Umm Jameel.

“Please,” argued the midwife. “I know what I’m doing. Every lady in Jerusalem is having her baby this way.”

“Every
megnuneh
,” said Umm Jameel. She turned to her sister, who had arrived. “Please, Halla, get Dr. Malouf to recommend someone else. Hurry.”

Halla took Umm Jameel out to the garden. “Zareefa is safe. Don’t worry. This is a better position for the baby to come out. Lying down puts the baby in the wrong direction.”

“Suppose he falls on the floor?”

“The midwife will catch him. Any one of us can catch him.”

“We did it the old way for thousands of years.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps only in our lifetime.”

“
Yullah, hullus
,” said Umm Jameel. “Let’s go inside.”

In the center of the room was the wooden chair with a crescent-shaped hole in the seat and, under it, a large bowl of water. The midwife squatted beside it. Zareefa sat upright. Rivulets of sweat ran down her back and collected momentarily in the dimples above her round pink buttocks, which were framed by the chair in a provocative way. “I feel like pushing,” she said. Her voice was childishly excited.

“Not until I say,” replied the midwife curtly. Her hand felt Zareefa’s belly. “Now, it’s very hard! Push, push, push! Stop! No more for now!”

There was a half hour more of pushing and stopping and then the midwife went under the chair and became very busy. “
Tayib
, it’s coming.
Ya
Allah
, look. Such a beautiful face. Come on, one more big push.
Yullah
, come on.” She eased out a shoulder, the body, and finally the legs. But there were no more exultant cries. It was a girl.

Umm Jameel took the baby. “It’s only the first,” she said with a sigh. “She’ll help her mother with the others. She’s healthy,
salamu aleiki
. Let God give her happiness.”

When the others had gone inside to eat, Miriam took the baby in her arms. The feel of the infant overwhelmed her. This magical being could insure her happiness. She was so perfectly formed. The mouth was like a small double-peaked heart. The skin was softer than the fleece of a newborn lamb. She wanted one just like this. That would make everything right.