Three Daughters: A Novel (33 page)

“Oh, no. I kill them first.”

“You shoot them?” Could this tiny girl handle a gun? Was it safe?

The girl laughed heartily. “No madam, that would scatter the flock. I kill them with my lance and the knife.”

“Oh, no! You don’t mean it. Who put you here? It’s not safe.”

“Please, madam, it’s very safe. I’m happy for the job. My brother had it, but he’s too old now. Don’t worry.”

But she did worry. The girl looked so frail. And it was such a lonely spot. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. Nadia went back to the spot a week later, but all trace of the girl and her camp was gone and the area was picked clean of any green scrap.

She never returned to the cottage before late afternoon and ate gratefully from whatever simple dish of food was left by Mary Thomas, a part-time caretaker who lived at the bottom of the hill. After the hours of riding and fresh air, Nadia sank into her bed at night too exhausted to think. Ultimately she would have to face up to her life, but not yet. One day she stayed out later than usual and it was almost dusk when she entered the cottage. A violet sky gentled the light coming though the windows, making the room appear more comforting than it was.

Her skin, already rosy from the outdoors, was aglow from the heat of the ride and her hair, sun bleached and unbound, fell exuberantly around her face and shoulders. Despite the healthy bronzed skin and bountiful mane, her gray eyes appeared vulnerable, as if trapped in an unfamiliar place. A thin cotton shirt was snug against her breasts and riding breeches outlined her hips. She had unbuttoned the shirt so that her long neck was visible, and also the hollow below her neck that ended with her breasts. In the cool semishadows of the stone room, she looked beautiful.

Samir gripped the mantel where he stood to keep from taking her in his arms. He hadn’t bothered with the lamp.

When she saw him, she instinctively went toward the window. Did she think she could crawl out and escape? The silence was uncomfortable and her skin crawled. There was so much to say and yet there was nothing to say. The question foremost in her mind . . . why had he done it? He had education, wealth, and good looks. He had been groomed to lead from infancy. Rasa Tabul or Jaqueline George would have gladly married him and they, like him, were prepared for such a marriage.

Her anger had dissipated during these two weeks and she was left with a leaden resentment. “Why did you do it?” she finally asked.

He sat down, bending over his knees with his hands dangling before him. The pose indicated the aftermath of an emotional struggle. “Not out of arrogance,” he said. “It was nothing like that. One day—it must have been a few years ago—I caught a glimpse of you at a soccer game up in the stands. The sun had caught your hair at just a certain angle so that it seemed you were being singled out by heaven.” He gave a short rueful laugh. “Something had your attention—it wasn’t my brilliant playing—and you turned. There was a look of defiance on your face. I thought,
Why should a young girl feel defiant?
Defiance means you’re struggling against something that threatens your independence. I thought back to your parents, to Miss Smythe or someone else at school that could be trying to subdue you. Then I realized it went beyond that. You were defiant for some deep and personal reason that perhaps you didn’t know yourself. That’s when I fell in love with you. I was intrigued as a young man is intrigued and yes, mainly because you weren’t paying attention to the game in which I was the star. The other girls were cheering each play, but I couldn’t get anything out of you.”

He went to stand at the mantel and she was grateful for the chance to study him without having to face him. She had expected anything but this. The silence was palpable and held them in place. He was wearing Western riding breeches and boots but the traditional headgear. His face, framed by the kaffiyeh, was flushed, the dark brows prominent, the large eyes soft and earnest. His hands looked strong and capable yet were made innocent by the leather watchstrap of the student punctuating his wrist. She was surprised to find that she wanted to touch him, but then it came back to her that he had tricked her. He had willfully maneuvered her into a marriage without her consent. He was selfish, unfeeling, despotic. “Why have you come here?” she asked derisively. “To claim your bride?”

“If you mean physically,” he answered—and she was aware that his eyes swept over her body—“the answer is no. I don’t want to force myself on you. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. It’s your home now. I’ve had them bring Rami, a fine gentle horse for you to ride, and my father has sent a girl to cook for you. She’ll stay with Mary Thomas. I’ve rented a house on the old Jerusalem Road. It belonged to Dr. Malouf, remember? I’ll be waiting there for you whenever you’re ready to come.” He took another long, unnerving look at her and then left promptly. She heard the sounds outside as he mounted and galloped away.

It was the talk of the town. Samir and his new bride were not living together.

The week of festivities that followed even the most humble wedding never took place. The bride had ridden off on her horse. Poor Miriam. Poor Nadeem to have to deal with such a girl. As for Samir, there was no explaining his behavior. Why such an exceptional man would have chosen such a troublesome and plain—yes, all in all, she was hardly beautiful—and ungrateful woman, no one knew. Perhaps she was pregnant.
Ya Allah
, that’s what the English had done to the morals.

She stayed at the house for another week. She rode Rami, the most comfortable mount she had ever had, a magnificent horse that seemed attuned to her in every way. She tried not to think of who had brought her this wonderful horse. She purposefully exhausted herself so as not to have to think of the inevitable.

One night, though, she awoke and sat up. Her head was as clear as it had been in weeks. He had said he loved her. He had said,
That’s when I fell in love with you.

26.

I WAS AFRAID OF NEVER BEING LOVED BACK.

S
he felt foolish knocking on the door of his house. She had waited until dark because he was more likely to be there, but she had no idea how he would greet her. Now that she wanted him, the thought that he loved her seemed remote. Maybe she should leave right now before he answered. To arrive at a strange house, looking for your husband, with no idea of how it would end.

The door opened.

“Hello.” Was that her voice?

“Hello.” He was in shirtsleeves and the skin around his eyes was dusky. He was tired. His hair was tousled, as if he had run his hands through it a thousand times. He was sorry that he’d married her and was anguished over how, in God’s name, he could get out of it. She trembled. “Are you cold?” he asked, but there was no emotion in his voice.

“No. I’m frightened.”

“Frightened? Of what? Of me?”

“Not of you.”

“Then of what?”

“I’m frightened that you don’t want me anymore.” Frankness might provoke that little teasing that would tell her he was on her side.

“Ah.” He nodded his head up and down. “So that’s it. Well, we could discuss it right here—if you still don’t want to come in. Or you could come in.”

His tone was lighthearted. Thank God. “I’ll come in. Thank you.”

She had tried to look her best. She was wearing a straight navy skirt covered by a long wool sweater with a belt. In a fit of anxiety over how to glamorize herself, she had cut the front of her hair and it now hung in curly bangs across her forehead. She had smeared every crazy thing around her eyes to make them look larger, but had left her mouth naked. If they kissed and he tasted lipstick, he would know that she was trying to be more glamorous than she was.

“This is where you live?” She walked a few steps here and there but retained nothing of what she saw. “Charming . . .” It was a blur of half-timbered stucco. She had passed this house a hundred times without any premonition that it would be important in her life. How odd.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his chin and then ran his hand through his hair again. “After being on my own in England, I couldn’t seem to settle in at home. It was time I had a place of my own.”

There was a deep silence that made her excruciatingly aware of him in a new way. His blood seemed close to the surface of his skin, making it glow. If he would only put his arms around her and put an end to this anxiety—but that seemed unlikely.

“Why would you think I don’t want you anymore?”

Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed. “You look tired, for one thing.”

“I could be tired for any number of reasons. Why would that necessarily mean I’m tired of you?”

“You look emotionally tired.” What did that mean?
God, stop me from talking nonsense.
England had changed him. He seemed much more sophisticated than when he’d left, and she was very provincial.

“Ah. If that theory makes sense, would the opposite also be true? You look marvelous. Does that mean you’re not tired of me at all?”

The compliment stunned her. She looked to see how serious he was. To answer would be to betray her feelings before he had declared his. Well, hadn’t she come to do exactly that? To tell him she’d decided to be his wife after all?

She needed courage. She felt young and inexperienced. It was so difficult to slough off pretense and commit herself. There was a lifetime of vulnerability and only her obstinacy to protect her. He had always been held up as someone unattainable and she had been the poor relation. She wasn’t even pretty. What fool in such a position would say
I love you and I hope you love me back
?

“It’s hard for me to answer you, Samir. I’m not good at baring my heart.” That was true enough and the strength of that statement helped her along.

“Who is?” he said somberly.

She was able to get control of her voice. “If I tell you I’ve decided to come back, you could say, ‘It’s too late, little lady. You had your chance.’ Samir”—she looked at her hands and fidgeted with a silly friendship ring, a gift from a girl whose name she couldn’t remember—“I don’t want to be alone anymore. I want to be here with you. I had to get over my resentment of what you did to Victor, but in the end . . .”

She looked up at him with wide, puzzled eyes. “Victor was so easily persuaded to leave me.” She paused for a big statement to come. What a curious little house. Ridiculously, at that moment she noticed that the room had extra angles. “I also have to face the fact that probably”—it was difficult to say these things—“I loved you long before you considered loving me.” The room was so quiet, the words exploded in her ears. “You can understand. I was afraid of never being loved back.” Oh! What a thing to say.

He was just staring. What did that mean? A damp breeze made the hairs on her arms move. Why did his eyes look as if pain were just beneath the surface? “Samir?” She went and put her arms around his waist, feeling, with a shiver of surprise, the solid back. A warmth that included the comforting smell of his cotton shirt enveloped her. He brought his hands up and pushed back her new bangs to see more of her face. He gave her a thorough, penetrating look and placed his mouth over hers. Her will snapped in two, pathetically brittle against the onslaught of relief and exhilaration.

They kissed like lovers who have been separated by tragic events. His lips parted and she had her first taste of her new husband. He took a quick hungry tour of her mouth and then, as if wary of frightening her, stepped back. Her hand caressed his bare warm neck and that small proof of her right to him filled her with hope. She pulled away and looked at him. “Is it going to be all right?”

“You’re my wife,” he said as if she’d forgotten. He put his hands in his pockets and looked down at his shoe. “I’m deeply sorry for the way we got married. I thought you were making a mistake with Victor. Even so, I was sorry the moment it was done.”

She shrugged. She wouldn’t say it was all right. She wouldn’t say anything. “You shouldn’t blame your mother,” he added. She shrugged again. She had blamed him primarily, but now she was certain it was all her mother and a remote anger had to be tucked away. He waited. “I was going to bed when you came, but perhaps you’re hungry?”

“No. Please go to bed.” She hadn’t even thought. Things were moving too fast. She felt tall and gangly and unable to move or say anything graceful. He was going to have to handle everything, but he looked uncomfortable, too.

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked.

“No. Yes. A little.”

“The bed is big enough for both of us.”

“Is it?”

He pointed to the other room. “I sleep in there.” She let him lead her into a small bedroom with the same odd angles. The bed was for two and she wondered if the size was an accident or if he had expected her to come to him all along. She walked as far away from him as the room allowed.

“Are you frightened?”

“Should I be?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He thought a moment. “No one’s ever died of it.”

She smiled. “That’s good.”

“I won’t rush you.”

“I know.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.” She didn’t sound convinced and her eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a way to escape.

“I’ll put the light out,” he said gallantly.

“It’s all right.” She sat down on the bed, facing a wall with a washstand. She heard him undressing in the dark. His shoes. He stood up. His trousers and shirt. Everything. She felt the bed move and heard the springs creak. He was waiting for her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t disappoint you.” She still didn’t move. That moment, if she could have received a wish, it would have been to be beautiful. Then she could accept his passion gracefully. She wanted him to be awed by her beauty and to desire her to madness. She wanted to ask him if he loved her, but she said, “Here we are,” as if summing up an exhausting journey.

He moved across the bed and she felt his breath on her neck and his hands on the buttons of her sweater. He undressed her with deliberateness—as if now that she was in his care, he would do everything for her—and placed her in the center of his bed. He found her lean, taut body staggeringly sensual. Long legs and hard smooth thighs, beautiful broad sculpted shoulders, and such a flat, wide midriff that her breasts rose up as a sumptuous surprise. “Look at you . . . so beautiful.”

“I’ve never thought of myself as beautiful.”

“You are to me.” First he lay alongside her and then he raised himself up and kissed her.

“I was just wishing I were more beautiful.” She spoke into his lips.

“Shh.”

He traced the outline of her body and began again, more seriously, from shoulders to breasts to the center of her belly. She kept absolutely still until he smoothed back her thighs in an effort to widen the space between her legs. Then she tried to sit up. “Shh. Don’t worry.” He held her down with kisses. “It might hurt,” he said as he eased himself inside. At this point, a sound escaped his lips that made her totally alert. He said something like “ooh,” or “ah,” a moan that at first she mistook for disappointment and then realized was an irrepressible sigh of pleasure, which meant that he was thrilled to be in this incredibly awkward position. She was embarrassed to be listening, but the sounds had a curious effect on her own nervous system. Little electric currents ran through her body each time he moaned and she found herself raising her hips to meet him. For the first time, she believed he might really love her.

Then, as if a warning light had gone on in his head, he stopped all sound and movement. Right away she knew what had stopped him. He was wondering if she were a virgin. She held her breath, waiting for him to continue, but the drama of what might have been kept raking through her mind. What if Victor hadn’t held back? What if Samir found that another man had been there first? Would he get up and leave her there and never return? Suppose something was wrong that wasn’t even her fault? She heard him sigh when he broke through but this time the sigh made her wary. Was it passion or relief? He went deeper and deeper inside her. Oh! She could feel him and she wanted to squeeze herself around him, holding him inside her until . . . “Samir . . . stay still . . . for God’s sake. Stay!” Good God, she had been pushed into talking about it.

“It took a lot,” he said to the air. He spoke and exhaled at the same time. It sounded as if he were just out of a crisis. She knew what he meant. It had taken a lot to bring them to this bed. It remained to be seen if he would find it worthwhile.

She fell deeply in love—that old knocking behind the ribs and breathless surprise—after she began living with Samir. He was tolerant and thoughtful, traits she hadn’t expected from a man who had been the center of attention all of his life.

The miracle was they were uncannily alike. Both preferred to be out of doors, even in bad weather, over anything else. They still read difficult classics like students preparing for placement exams. He liked to tease her over the way she held the book up to her nose and sat favoring one haunch, as if still sentenced to the cramped prison of the Friends’ middle school desks. “Too vain to get glasses?”

“My eyes are perfect.”

She teased him about his wardrobe—actually, she was awed by the quality and quantity of his clothes, which far outnumbered hers. She was stunned by the revelation that his mother had had a dressmaker’s dummy made to his adult measurements and it was stored at a London haberdashery where they could make up anything from underwear to three-piece suits and have them fit perfectly.

Her cooking was awful, but he considered that amusing and hired Mary Thomas’s daughter to prepare the main meal. “You’ll be doing her a favor,” he told Nadia. “She wants to repay me because her mother lives in one of the farm cottages rent-free.”

“What will I do?”

“Miss Smythe told me the girls’ tennis team needs a coach. And they can always use an extra pair of hands in the science laboratory.”

There was a more visceral side to their relationship. Nadia was so tempted by sex that, often, it took over her will. Some days, whatever touched her body—her underpants, her brassiere, the edge of a table innocently meeting her crotch—aroused her. Riding a horse made her so wildly excited she rubbed herself against the animal until she came. During lovemaking she wasn’t above maneuvering her body or grabbing him to satisfy a greedy throbbing spot. She would have died if Samir commented on her style, because when she wasn’t aroused, she was chagrined. She would catch him smiling down at her as if he were amused by a charming weakness. He never said, “Wow. I didn’t expect you to be so hungry.” Yet that’s what it felt like. Hunger.

After lovemaking they liked to relive their shared past while sprawled on their bed. “Remember the time . . .” he would begin, and then they vied to recall school day catastrophes. The day they had gone to Jerusalem with Mr. Knudsen to see
Henry V
and Hanna Taban had dropped his camera from the balcony, hitting a woman below and knocking her out. The spring Margaret mistook a can of potpourri for Darjeeling tea and served it to the British chief secretary who was judging the English speaking contests. The afternoon that Pudgy Watson had slipped on the slick soles of his new shoes, unwillingly skating into the headmaster’s wife from St. Luke’s School in Haifa, who was visiting. “She went down like a bird,” said Samir, laughing so hard it sounded like choking. He seemed so young to her, rolling helplessly in bed.

“Did you really hate me all that time?” he asked.

“You did everything right and that annoyed me. Everything about you was better than anyone else. You had a wristwatch that I coveted for two years. It had a round gold case and Roman numerals and a tan strap.”

“I’ll give it to you now,” he offered sheepishly. “It’s around here somewhere.”

She ignored him and waved her hand in the air. “It wasn’t the watch, but what the watch stood for. You were so poised. You had perfected a cold, disinterested stare that absolutely paralyzed me.”

“No. It wasn’t cold. Cool, maybe. But never toward you.”