Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (18 page)

“If you have come to ask for my consent, the answer is no. I’ll never give my blessing to such a union. It’s against everything I believe in. It’s against our faith.”

Fatima’s words hit Amina like stones; torn between her wish to marry George and her wish to obey her mother. After a long silence, she said softly, “With or without your blessing I’m going to marry George. My future is with him.”

Neither one of them was aware that Samira and Musa witnessed their fiery exchange.

“Mother,” Musa started, but an angry Fatima stopped him, “I’m sure the two of you plotted this. You knew what she was going to tell me. You are now the head of the family. Hasn’t she asked for your approval?”

“I know she’s in love,” Musa answered.

“Love, love, don’t talk to me about love. You are both too young to talk about it. Love comes slowly, with time. My mother taught me about it and she was right. Children benefit when they listen to the experience of their elders.”

“I’m going to marry George,” Amina said again. “Musa understands me. It’s my own life I’m going to live, not a repeat of my ancestors’ lives.”

Fatima’s hand went to her throat, for she found it hard to breathe.

“You both want to destroy the family your father built. You want to destroy our honor. Go live your lives! I will never give you my blessing. Never!”

Samira signaled to Amina and Musa to leave her alone with Fatima.

“Drink this cup of strong coffee,” Samira lured Fatima, “I made it the way you like it, boiling water, no sugar.”

Fatima covered her face with her palms.

“I don’t need anything. After what I just heard I feel devastated. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you; you who always knows everything happening in this household before I do!”

“Sit Fatima, please calm down. Think of yesterday’s gorgeous wedding. People are going to talk about it for a long time.”

“That was yesterday; today the sky is falling over my head.”

“Fatima, how many years have we been together? You were eight years old when I started working for your family. That would make…” and Samira counted on her fingers, “more than thirty years.”

Fatima waited. Anytime Samira started talking about the past she always had something in mind.

“I remember you as a young girl, how old, fourteen, fifteen, when you were so much in love with your cousin Abdullah. You had eyes only for him. I still remember how bitterly you cried when your mother said that first cousins can’t marry.”

“This has nothing to do with what’s happening today,” Fatima replied sharply. “My parents had the right to decide whom I was to marry. They were wise in choosing Faud for me.”

“But did you love him? The night before your henna party you cried in my arms and do you remember what you said to me? You, the daughter of a most honorable Jerusalem family, wanted to run away from home!”

Fatima’s cheeks were suffused with a flush of red.

“I don’t know why you bring those forgotten things up. Faud was a good husband, a good father, a good provider. And yes, I loved him and you know that. I learned from my mother that marriage builds love, day after day, month after month, and that’s what happened to me. I was lucky. So don’t remind me of my foolish youth.”

“It’s true that you were lucky. But how many Muslim women are as lucky as you were? My mother wasn’t one of them. After drinking a few glasses of arak, my father beat her so badly that she had a bloody miscarriage. For one lucky woman like you, I know ten unlucky ones locked in unhappy marriages.”

“You are talking a lot today, and I still don’t know the purpose of it. What do you want? Do you want to change my mind? This will never happen, so don’t bother!”

Samira decided to try another angle. “The times are changing,” she started, “even the customs are not the same. You’ve given a good education to Amina and Musa and you encouraged them to taste the life of big cities, Cairo, Jerusalem. You allowed them to have freedom. And freedom comes with a price.”

“What price? What are you talking about? You think it is my fault that my daughter wants to marry a Brit? I am sure he’ll ask her to convert.” Fatima rubbed her temples. “Just the thought of it makes me crazy.”

“Why don’t you ask her, instead of imagining it? Maybe you’ll learn something, rather than instead of falling prey to your dark thoughts, to your nerves and worries. Talk to her, you still have time, she’s not leaving until tomorrow.”

Fatima raised her eyes.

“And when you talk to her,” continued Samira, “tell her again how much you love her and worry for her. Don’t let your pride get in the way. If you could ask the Prophet Mohammed what to do, he would say that it’s a bigger sin to lose a child than to lose your pride.”

Behind the door, Amina and Musa tried to listen through the keyhole, but the two women spoke in whispers. “You promised to help me,” Amina said bitterly.

“Eumi didn’t give me a chance,” answered Musa. “But we both know that Samira can move mountains. Have patience.”

PART  I I :

2 2

N
a’ima tried to turn over. Six months pregnant, she felt as big as an elephant. Her hand inched across the bed sheet but she didn’t find what she was searching for. The place beside her was empty. It was still dark outside. Where could Mahmood be? She tried to find a more comfortable position. Was it her fault that she got pregnant on their wedding night? She closed her eyes and remembered their arrival in Deir Yassin.

When cousin Abdullah ceremoniously opened the limousine door and she stepped out, still dressed in her red wedding gown, the entire village was there to welcome her. Mahmood, proud and a bit tipsy, took her in his arms and lifted her over the threshold. “You’ll have time to meet her tomorrow,” he turned away the well-wishers, “tonight she’s mine.”

All the men cheered.

The house, though small, looked clean. She saw the empty wooden shelves along one wall and thought to place there Amina’s gifts, the coffee and tea sets. Mahmood took her arm and guided her to a small alcove off the main room. A large iron-framed bed and two chairs were the only furniture.

“Here,” he said, “you can undress while I go to check on the sheep and the chickens.”

As she still seemed unsure of what to do next, he impatiently repeated, “I want to find you undressed and waiting for me. I’ll not be long.”

Unpacking the filmy nightgown that had been Amina’s gift, Na’ima felt herself invaded by heat from her soles to her head. The only window had no curtain, and she made a mental note to make one, first thing in the morning. She turned off the single bulb and undressed. She sat on the bed and felt the coarse sheet prickling her skin.

Mahmood came in, his breath smelling of arak. With one hand he turned her on her back, the other reaching to knead her breasts. He lowered himself on top of her. “You don’t need this,” he said, fumbling with her nightgown and throwing it over her head. He forced his hands between her thighs, and before she knew it a sharp pain made her scream. He was pounding her, his breath short and heavy, while she felt that something sticky trickled down her legs. The pain didn’t stop. He moaned. The sheet scratched her shoulders. When he was finished, he turned his back to her. She wanted to get up to clean herself, but he stirred and she became afraid.

“Where do you go?” he asked in a drugged voice. “I’m not done yet.”

He pushed her back and entered her again. Na’ima wept.

“Don’t,” Mahmood said. “I am fed up with you women. The other one cried, too. You must’ve been told what your duty is.”

He laughed. “In time you’re not only going to like it but you’ll beg for it.”

The next morning when Mahmood’s mother brought the baby, who had slept with her that first night, a proud Mahmood showed her the bed sheet covered with bloodstains. His mother embraced a dumbfounded Na’ima.

“I was sure of it! Now I’m going to show it to the neighbors, too. They were making bets that my son wasn’t marrying a virgin, you being a city girl. I’ll keep the sheet to show it to your mother as well.”

The following nights continued in the same fashion. Na’ima became used to it, and though Mahmood’s touch wasn’t tender, Na’ima liked to feel his strength overpowering her. To please him she started to move her hips in rhythm with his movements.

“I told you you’d like it,” her husband laughed, pinching her nipples.

During the day, Na’ima kept busy putting the presents away, cooking for Mahmood and taking care of Nassum, Mahmood’s little boy. She loved the baby, who reminded her of her brother Ahmed at the same age, when she and Amina competed to be the first to bathe or feed him. She felt that Nassum returned her love from the way he smiled at her while his eyes followed her every move.

She started feeling tired and nauseous six weeks after her wedding. When she told her mother-in-law, Mahmood’s mother kissed her on both cheeks and said, “
Mavrook, mavrook
, I’m sure it’s going to be a boy. I’m running to tell Mahmood. What a breeder my son is,” and she laughed happily.

But it turned out to be a difficult pregnancy, and Mahmood’s memories, still fresh from his first wife’s pregnancy, left him continuously upset and preoccupied. Na’ima saw that he didn’t seem as happy at the prospect as his mother was, and she didn’t know the reason. Months passed and she felt sicker every day. “You’ll feel better when you feel the child moving,” her mother-in-law told her, but Na’ima felt just the opposite.

“Why don’t you invite your mother to come be with you for a little while?” Mahmood’s mother proposed. When Na’ima finally wrote to her mother, she didn’t dream that the thought of a grandchild would revive her mother’s old energy.

After her three older children left home, Fatima suffered from lassitude and fatigue. Samira tried to lure her by cooking her specialties, but Fatima left most of the food untouched.

“You should go somewhere,” Samira said one evening. “You need fresh air. Go to Jerusalem, go to Abu-Gosh. How about visiting Na’ima?”

“It’s too soon,” Fatima said. “She has to get used to her new life first.”

“Nonsense,” retorted Samira. “You refused to go to Cairo to Amina’s wedding; now you don’t want to go to Na’ima, though you know very well that you’ll enjoy being close to Musa and the rest of your family. You need them. The older one gets, the more one needs family.”

“Don’t harass me. If not for you, Amina wouldn’t have married that Brit. You pressured me,” Fatima said bitterly. “‘For the sake of not losing her,’ you said. What kind of wedding was that, with the British consul marrying them? And how do I know that she is not going to convert, if she hasn’t already?”

Fatima’s cheeks burned from the pathos of her words, but Samira didn’t concede. She said, “Read me again your cousin Aiisha’s letter. Was there something in it about Amina’s converting? I don’t remember.”

Reluctantly, Fatima rummaged in her pockets until she found the letter.

To my most honored cousin, Fatima, Salaam Aleikum
,


Fatima stopped to search for her glasses. Samira saw that the letter was stained from dried tears. Who knew how many times she had cried over it?

I just returned from the British Embassy. I promised Amina, for whom I was a witness at hercivil ceremony, to write to you. Though only George’s parents and I were there, we felt that it was a very moving event. Your daughter looked splendid, dressed in a mother-of-pearl gray suit and a petit chapeau of the same color with a veil that covered half of her face. She held a bouquet of white roses in her gloved hands. A white rose was in George’s lapel. His face radiated happiness
.


The consul, an aristocratic-looking gentleman, asked if they want to say something to one another before taking their vows. Blushing, Amina nodded. She then read in English a love poem by Omar Khayyam. At his turn George, looking into her eyes, recited a poem by Lord Tennyson. I cried, and George’s mother had tears in her eyes, too
.


Oh, my dear, dear cousin, I know that reading this letter pains you, but I believe in destiny, fatma, your name. Amina and George were destined for one another. After the ceremony, we drank champagne in their honor. The young couple left immediately for their honeymoon, a cruise on the Nile
.