Three Daughters: A Novel (5 page)

When Nadeem came home for his leave, she was eager for night to come. She arranged herself on the bed in what she considered a friendly position.

Eight months after her wedding, Miriam passed her seventeenth birthday and noticed by the hem of her dress that she had grown an inch or two. She noticed also that her breasts were fuller and her waist thicker, but it wasn’t until her sister-in-law mentioned the possible cause that she realized she might be pregnant.

“When did you bleed last?” asked Zareefa.

“I don’t know. Two months. Perhaps more.”

“Perhaps more is the correct answer. Let me see your profile. Pull your dress tight around your stomach. Aha, there you are. You’re pregnant and you didn’t know it.”

Khalil Nadeem Mishwe was born on the third day of the new century. The narcissus was already pushing through patches of snow, promising an early spring. It was a long labor, for he was facing up. “This one will be a mama’s boy,” said the midwife with frustration. “He doesn’t want to come out.” She tried all her tricks to make him rotate, but in the end she put her hand in and turned him. “He won’t be easy to raise,” were her parting words. Afterward, Zareefa told Miriam that her screams could be heard in Nablus.

He was a serious-faced little boy with his father’s gray-brown eyes and his grandmother Jamilla’s pallid skin. He looked nothing like Miriam. He could have been anyone’s child. Instead of the sweet downy angel she had envisioned, she’d received a cranky, colicky boy who spit up the precious few ounces of milk his mother had made, then howled for more. Each day, Miriam guided her short, tender nipple into his mouth and each day he remained unfulfilled. He screamed and gnawed on his fist. After a week of the noise, Miriam gave him to a wet nurse.

Everyone was waiting to make a fuss—the first grandson—but Khalil didn’t do well with strangers. Even his father made him cry, but that was to be expected, for Nadeem was away for weeks at a time. Miriam washed the baby, swaddled him neatly, rubbed his limbs with olive oil and salt as her mother had taught her. When he slept she washed his clothes and cooked for the wet nurse.

“Leave him with me,” Zareefa urged her. “Go out by yourself.” But Miriam couldn’t relax, knowing he was capable of crying himself into a rage for several hours.

One day she found Khalil smiling broadly and burst into tears. When the baby saw her crying, his chin began to wobble. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I frightened you. Don’t cry.” She rocked him in her arms and kissed his wet cheeks. He hiccuped a few times and then smiled again.

Not long after, Miriam noticed that when Khalil took his nap in the afternoon, she no longer had the energy to wash and cook. Without intending it she would curl up beside him and sleep, too. After a week of this seductive fatigue, she realized with less joy than the first time that she was pregnant again.

6.

IT’S TIME FOR US TO MOVE.

I
n the spring of 1900, the new government road to Nablus reached Tamleh and Ibrahim Abu Shihady initiated horse-drawn carriage service to the Jaffa Gate for a fare of thirty cents. If a traveler brought his chickens and other belongings, the smells together with the motion unsettled some of the occupants and it was common to see ashen faces hanging out of windows. The service was a great convenience to everyone, especially the sick who needed to make the journey to the hospital.

Some workers from Bethlehem who built the government road where it passed Tamleh told of a faraway country called America, where men from their village had gone to make their fortunes and were sending large sums back to their relatives. A few men from Tamleh immigrated to the States and stories of their success caused a painful awakening in some of the young men who were left behind, including Nadeem. He finished the church at Madaba and joined his brother as a guide for the Easter pilgrims, but he was preoccupied. The stories had kindled his ambition.

Miriam was busy with Khalil and the new pregnancy kept her feeling unsettled. The Sisters of Mar Yusef had received four sewing machines from America and invited the neighborhood women to learn to sew. Miriam and Zareefa made European-style trousers, but the pair intended for Nadeem had one leg slightly shorter than the other. “Nadeem loves you,” Zareefa teased. “He’s wearing those terrible trousers.” He wore the trousers every day and Miriam knew she wasn’t the cause of his restlessness.

One night, Nadeem announced at dinner that he was going to build a house for his family. He would put it up himself, he said. His mother stopped eating. “And where do you propose to get the money to pay for this new home?”

“I have enough money to start,” answered Nadeem, deliberately filling his mouth with food. It was the custom for young men to build their homes one room at a time as finances allowed.

“A start? Why start what you can’t finish? And what is a start? A wall? Two walls? What good will that do? You can’t live inside two walls. You must have four. Plus a roof.” She let him digest this information so he could better appreciate her conclusion. “And if there are four walls and a roof that’s an entire room. Not a start.”

“What’s wrong?” asked his father. “There’s plenty of room here.”

“There isn’t plenty of room,” said Nadeem. “It’s crowded and will become more so with the new baby. Besides, Miriam is anxious to have her own home.”

Miriam looked up, startled. They had never discussed a home. Umm Jameel threw her a look. “It isn’t crowded,” she said flatly. “Zareefa and Jameel have moved out.”

“Will you be happy with a home of your own?” he asked Miriam when they were alone.

“It’s what every woman would wish.” She had no way of knowing if he was being foolish or not. Could she depend on him? “But what about the expense? Do we have the money?” It occurred to her that she had no idea if they had money or how much.

“It will only be one room at first but we can add to it,” said Nadeem.

“Of course. That’s all I would expect.” As the idea grew, she became excited. It would be wonderful to have a home of her own. It would be exciting to decide how it would look and to furnish it. “Do you really believe we can do it?”

He was delighted to see her happy. “Yes, I do. In fact I’m certain of it. It’s time for us to move.”

Nadeem ordered a load of
mizzi hulu
, the hard white limestone that held well with lime cement and was the best for home building. He had the advantage of experience with masonry, but building a house was a haphazard affair. There were no village regulations, no engineers, and no architects. The first task was to dig a hole and make a rainwater cistern, but since this would take precious time away from the main structure, he started with the room.

The wheat harvest was only five weeks away and the fruit harvests would follow, but the haste worked in his favor. He had helped many cousins to build and now they were willing to return the favor.

Miriam was interested in every bit of progress and visited the site daily. Mentally she divided the space . . .
we’ll sleep here . . . Khalil there. The table will be here, the khabbiya there.

Nadeem could work on his house only two days at a time. The other days he took the dusty walk to Jerusalem to act as a guide. Unlike Jameel, who welcomed the carriage ride, he preferred to walk and think. Chagrined that his ambitions had no ready opportunity, he had rebellious thoughts. His parents hadn’t prepared him to be competitive or ambitious.

Nadeem’s own father was content to farm a second-rate vineyard that produced inferior grapes. He walked with a small broom with which he swept the dung or snow—depending on the season—from the approach to the Franciscan chapel, where he sat and prayed daily. Nadeem wondered what his father prayed for since his life didn’t change. He and Jameel had been educated without foresight. Father Kuta had come to start the Latin church and had scoured the households to fill his school, hoping to attract the parents away from the Greeks. Nadeem and Jameel had learned to read and write, to add and subtract, to decipher the Psalter in French, and they had acquired a crude knowledge of European history. They knew nothing of the culture of the ruling Ottomans.

When Nadeem became old enough to serve in the Turkish army, his father had paid a head tax through their sheik to have someone else serve in his place. Perhaps Nadeem would have been better off going into the army and seeing something of the world. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so naive.

Opportunity came in the person of Monsieur Freneau, a vivacious businessman from Paris who wanted to visit Jesus’s childhood home in Nazareth. It was a lengthy trip that required an overnight stay. When they camped for the night, M. Freneau asked to share Nadeem’s sweet-smelling olive oil soap and was so appreciative of its aroma and benefits that he asked to keep the bar. “I’d like to take some back to France,” he said.

“I’ll bring all I have to your hotel,” Nadeem offered graciously.

Two weeks after M. Freneau returned to France, Nadeem received a cable at the Hotel St. Anselm, which was his base: SEND SOON STOP TEN GROSS MT. CARMEL SOAP STOP EXCELLENT MARKET HERE STOP GOOD PROFIT FOR YOU STOP LETTER OF CREDIT TO COME STOP.

Nadeem went to the Crédit Lyonnaise and the Deutsche Palestina Bank, but no letter of credit had come through in his name. There was nothing from France at the Austrian post office either. He had spent his funds on his house. Ten gross of soap together with the shipping charges would come to at least one hundred dollars. He would have to believe that after he sent the soap and expended the money, M. Freneau would honor the debt and add a profit. He stopped at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to think, sitting by himself in one of the side chapels. He remembered that M. Freneau prayed like a child with his hands together pointing up. He slept on his back, his arms and legs spread out, as if inviting only kindness from the world. He had told Nadeem that he sold lingerie and fine linens in a shop on a wide boulevard in the heart of Paris.

That night Nadeem asked Miriam for the money she had received for their wedding. “It’s temporary. I’ll return it to you.” She went to the chest where she kept her belongings—her special clothes and jewelry—and pulled out a small kerchief knotted tightly to hold twenty gold lira. To spend money for pleasure was considered foolish, so what else was there to do with the money? She gave it to her husband.

The roofing bee for their new house took place just twenty-three days after they had begun, and ten days later they were able to sleep under it. How different were her feelings in this pleasant room where everything was hers. She knew each slight indentation in the flat stones that Nadeem had fit so expertly to make a charming floor. The room was large and airy with the daring addition of a mezzanine that allowed extra space for sleeping. The walls were smooth and whitewashed and there were four windows for a cross breeze. The nooks and shelves he built ingeniously into the walls held bedding and cooking pots, and she kept busy rearranging their belongings. She picked flowers, swept the floors, polished and puffed. She put the chairs against one wall and later against another. She washed and scoured and then viewed the results with an interest that never jaded.

When Nadeem arrived in the evenings, she could hardly wait to show him new curtains or a new arrangement in a corner of the room. As she waited to see him approaching up the old pilgrim road, she realized she was eager for him to arrive. It was very confusing. If she didn’t love him, why did she feel so satisfied when he ate the food she cooked? And if she did love him, why did she still have moments of intense longing and restlessness? These feelings seemed unnatural. Nothing more was waiting for her. How could her heart play such tricks on her?

One day Miriam walked to her mother-in-law’s at dawn to help prepare for a Sunday dinner. The families were constantly visiting and it was unthinkable not to remain for the midday meal. On this morning she and Umm Jameel had rolled out triangles of dough and filled them with diced lamb or wilted spinach and onions. Miriam took the filled dough to the
taboon
,
together with open round loaves spread with
zatar
spice and oil, and waited for them to bake.

Jameel and Zareefa came for the meal, as did Umm Jameel’s sister, her sons, and their families. Zareefa took Khalil on her lap and clapped his dimpled hands together. “Let’s see this big boy,” she said. To Miriam’s surprise he allowed himself to be kissed. “You’ve been cooking since dawn,” said Zareefa to Miriam. Miriam inclined her head toward her mother-in-law. She had become more tolerant of Umm Jameel, who in turn was not so quick to criticize the mother of one son with another possibly on the way. “First the wheat for the tabouleh was too soggy and had to be replaced. Then the dough for the pies didn’t rise enough.” Miriam yawned unexpectedly and felt light-headed.

“You’re pregnant again, I almost forgot. Me, too. Perhaps we’ll have them together. You another boy and I another girl.” Zareefa’s voice was high with anxiety. She cared deeply about her standing in the clan.

Umm Jameel, looking flushed and weary, finally sat down. It was a crowded table and everyone became engrossed in eating, with the children scampering in between them. For a moment it was quiet.

“I’ve begun a new enterprise,” said Nadeem suddenly.

“Oh? What is that?” His mother stopped eating.

“I led a Frenchman to Nazareth and he was enchanted with the Mt. Carmel soap. He cabled to send ten gross, which I did yesterday.”

“He sent you money for them?” asked his father.

“Not yet. Just the cable requesting the soap.”

“You sent the soap before he sent the money?” asked Umm Jameel.

“Yes,” said Nadeem. “A letter of credit is coming.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “How could you be so foolish?” said Umm Jameel, pushing away her plate.

“I don’t believe it was foolish,” said Nadeem calmly. “He will pay.”

“Why should he pay? He has no need to pay. He has the soap that he will sell.” Umm Jameel answered her own pointed questions and became more agitated as her monologue progressed.

“He will pay because he will want more soap,” Nadeem answered logically.

“More soap? Why does he have to get more soap from you? He can get more soap from anybody. There are many who will send him more soap. But I can tell you that none of them will send it without getting payment first. He’ll get more soap but not from you. He’ll find another”—Nadeem’s father sent her a warning look, but she continued—“fool to send it to him.”

The silence resumed. Miriam’s face burned with indignation, but to speak in her husband’s defense would be more disruptive. Besides, she, too, thought Nadeem had acted unwisely, though she would never say so. The children, alerted to the tension, chewed slowly and stared. Nadeem left the table and walked out into the afternoon sunlight. Umm Jameel rose and followed. “Yes, fool,” she reiterated in case he had forgotten. “How could you do such a thing? Why didn’t you ask for advice?”

Nadeem reentered the room with his mother behind him. “It wasn’t foolish,” he said calmly. “I know the man will pay. I didn’t act in a stupid way and you can’t speak about something that you know nothing about.”

“We shall see, Mr. Businessman,” said Umm Jameel, but all the rancor was gone from her voice. “All right. Come and eat. It is done.”

“It’s done and we shall see,” said Nadeem and resumed his place at the table and began to eat.

Miriam was glad to return to her uncluttered house with the bundle of extra food that Umm Jameel had packed for her. Three times she opened her mouth to ask about the soap venture, but she closed it again. Nothing good could come from discussing it. She couldn’t clarify her feelings about it. It was exciting to think he would succeed, but she had qualms.

“Aren’t you going to see if there’s mail?” She had waited two weeks to ask the question. The mail came from Jerusalem to Tamleh every other Thursday and was distributed in the village square near the tomb of el Khalil. Those in a hurry went to Jerusalem, either to the Turkish postal building or to the several foreign post offices maintained by the Europeans.

“I won’t wait anxiously only to come home empty-handed,” he explained calmly. “If a letter comes, it will find me.” The days lengthened into weeks and no letter found him.

A month after the Easter season was over, the yellow heads appeared on the grains of wheat. Everyone left home and went to the fields—men, women, children, and babies in their cradles. Farmers reaped simultaneously by law and all willing hands were hired. Nadeem gladly took part, for his funds were depleted.

Miriam’s pregnancy made her feel queasy and sapped her energy, but nearly half the women in the village were pregnant and all of them helped in the harvest. They had to leave their lovely clean homes and stay in the
kasr
, which was no more than a crude stone hut filled with flies and the stench of dead animals that had crawled in during the winter. After one night fighting the odors, Miriam and Nadeem chose to sleep out of doors, holding Khalil between them. After several hours of stooping in the fields, much of the time with Khalil in a sling on her hip, Miriam’s lower back sent out angry protests. She awoke to pain and felt it worsen as the day wore on.