Three Daughters: A Novel (41 page)

The ceiling of Nijmeh’s bedroom was high and the floor was made of polished stone. Her mother had done everything to make it cozy—drapes and canopies and heavy rugs—but it still wasn’t cozy, and Nadia always stopped and looked around the room as if she were disappointed by the way it had turned out. Nijmeh thought the room was like her life—large, open, and cool.

Once her mother had said, “Darling, you do like riding, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you would tell me if you didn’t. Otherwise I would feel very bad.”

“Why?”

“Because then I would feel that you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.” Nijmeh didn’t respond. “Part of the reason I love you so much is that I know you. I loved you when you were a baby but much, much more now that I know you.”

Nijmeh looked alarmed. “What do you mean? You know what I’m thinking?”

“Sometimes. The expressions on your face give you away. I know what they mean from years of watching you. I know when you have good news to tell me. I know how you eat and how you sleep.

“Do I snore?” asked Nijmeh. She felt relieved. Her mother didn’t know much.

“No.”

“That’s good.”

Nadia had two feelings about riding with her daughter. There was the pleasure of passing along her expertise but also an ever-present fear. Suppose they were to ride too far and reach the spot where the plane had crashed? They might come upon some forgotten bit of debris and Nijmeh would want to know what it was.

30.

IN THE MORNING, IN THE EVENING, AIN’T WE GOT FUN?

V
ery early—she couldn’t have been more than three or four—Delal learned to tap-dance and sing like Shirley Temple. “On the good ship Lollipop . . .”—tap, tap, slide—“It’s a good trip . . .”—tappety-tap, tappety-tap—“to a candy shop . . .”—hop, hop, knee up, turn, turn.

She did it very well and looked very cute, but it wasn’t enough. They had always been examined as a pair. She was the funny-looking one. If Nijmeh had walked in, eyes and minds, including those of her parents, would have flown to that astounding face.

Nijmeh’s face was never boring and Delal knew with a grudging respect that this was because she wasn’t empty-headed. Her father put her through hell. She had to play soccer (ugh!) and go on idiotic hiking marathons to chart all the desolate desert spots where no human had trod for hundreds of years. On Saturdays she had to swim at the YWCA. Her mother’s demands were crazy, too. She made Nijmeh train in the art of dressage—got up like a man with a bowler hat and sitting on a stupid horse to coax it to show off. Two crazy parents who let their daughter choose clothes that were old-fashioned and never urged her to have a more modern haircut. Nijmeh didn’t own even one chemise or a pleated skirt or buckle loafers. What galled Delal more than anything was the waste. Nijmeh wasted everything about herself. She was fundamentally without any awareness of the effect she had on people or could have on people. She was fundamentally stupid. Squandering her looks. Squandering her brain. Delal could look around a room and know what was going on. She always knew where there was opportunity and took advantage of it. That’s what made her life exciting.

There was something else she felt about Nijmeh that she couldn’t even stand to think about, because it brought such a wave of confusion and discomfort. It had to do with the queer feelings she had for Uncle Samir. She had concocted a fantasy that she played out before she fell asleep. She was seated on his lap and then his hand would circle her shoulder, at which point he would bend to kiss her cheek. She would have turned her face so that he met her lips instead. He couldn’t help but stay there. On her lips, that is. Then of course he would pull away, but ever afterward she would imagine that he looked at her in a special way and tried to find ways of being alone with her. The humiliating part of this fantasy was that when she wasn’t wanting to play it out, she loathed Samir for making her feel so queer. He had never even asked her to sit on his lap, whereas her own father was always picking up Nijmeh around the waist so that her rump was in the air and plunking her down on his lap and stroking her hair and hugging her without ever thinking twice about it.

Delal was blessed with the genes for academic brilliance and was easily the smartest girl at
L’École Française
, but nobody envied her. It didn’t take her long to discover that brains were OK but the teachers were more responsive to the pretty girls. They listened to them more carefully, called on them more often, and made more of their accomplishments.

One day she was sitting in the locker room after a game of lacrosse that Helene Haddad had caused them to lose. Helene, riddled with guilt, kept rehashing the highlights of play, hoping to be reassured. Delal wanted only to scream at Helene, but instead she said, “Your voice is clear as a bell. It’s really beautiful.”

The rapt look of appreciation on Helene’s face was so profound that Delal was embarrassed to see it.

On another occasion she approached Maria, a popular girl from the inner circle. “Gee, you have great hair,” she said. “It bounces when you walk and it hangs just right.”

Maria, who had never considered her hair any big asset, hesitated for a moment and then her mouth stretched out a mile in a grin. Delal sought out Sonia and zeroed in on an unlikely attribute, her long graceful neck. People devoured praise. They seemed starved for it. She wasn’t sloppy with her words. She found the very best thing to say and then said it sincerely. Many of the girls had never had such a heartfelt and imaginative compliment. They decided Delal was fun to have around. She never complained. If anyone asked how she was, she answered, “Splendid.” To admit to unhappiness would remind them that life wasn’t rosy for unpopular girls. She played the French horn in the school band because it was big and shiny and made her stand out.

Her daily litany in front of the mirror was, “You’re a master of illusion,” a line culled from a billboard for Binky Bonaventure, a local magician. She always gave the impression of being in a hurry with many things to do. She kept away from Nijmeh. She wasn’t rude, but she was distracted or busy—whatever it took to discourage chumminess.

The spring she turned eleven, the school presented
Peter Pan,
and the coveted role of Peter—with a costume of green tights, a glamorous spiked green tunic, and a jaunty cap—went to her cousin. Delal was distraught. In her mind the pinnacle of achievement would be to appear on the stage wearing that fabulous costume and uttering those humorous lines that made the audience respond with helpless laughter and adoration. She wanted to be Peter and nothing else would do. She memorized all of Nijmeh’s lines and mouthed them with her during rehearsals. At night, unable to check her imagination, she slapped that perfect face until it was red and swollen.

A few days before the play there was a half-day holiday. Emir Abdullah (with Britain’s blessing) was being crowned king of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Delal invited Nijmeh to visit for the afternoon. “My father got me some new records,” she said. “We’ll play them on the Victrola.”

Nijmeh went gladly. To her, Delal was witty and outrageous. Delal was family.

Delal put on a record of Eddie Cantor singing, “Ain’t We Got Fun?” “Isn’t that fantastic?” She did a little pirouette and began singing along. “ ‘In the morning, in the evening, ain’t we got fun?’ Do you like it?”

“Yes,” said Nijmeh.

The record stopped and Delal said, “Let’s go outside and I’ll show you a magic flower that will bring you any wish you want.” Nijmeh laughed—a reaction that annoyed Delal.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d believe in magic.”

“Why is that?” asked Delal curtly.

“You’re too smart.”

“What wish would you want?” asked Delal.

“I’d have to think,” said Nijmeh. “I don’t have any particular wish.”

Delal frowned. “See, that’s where we’re miles apart. I have at least ten—fifty—wishes at my fingertips.”

They walked to a small patch of brush behind the courtyard. She took a leaf in her hand, held it near her forehead, closed her eyes, and chanted, “Shiny, shiny flower, all aglow. Bring my wish before I go.” Delal opened her eyes. “Now you. Take the leaf.” Delal urged Nijmeh to break off the largest leaf, “rub it hard so that the juice comes out on your fingers and rub it on each cheek. When you’re done, close your eyes and make a wish.”

It never occurred to Nijmeh not to do it. She wanted to please Delal and show her that she liked having fun, too.

By the following evening, Nijmeh was in an agony of itching. Her face had swollen dangerously and her hands and arms were covered with patches of blistered skin. She couldn’t open her eyes wide enough to see her way across the stage, much less play the role of Peter. “Oh, dear.” Madame Boulanger looked around helplessly. “Does anyone know some of Nijmeh’s lines?”

“I know them,” said Delal. “May I try?”

The teacher looked pitiful, her shoulders slumped in defeat. Visions of a cherubic Peter were dashed. “All right, dear. Let’s hear what you remember.”

Delal was very good on stage. She was impish and relaxed. From the audience’s distant vantage point, she was better in the part than Nijmeh would have been.

Madame Boulanger rushed to congratulate her. “Delal, you saved the play,” she said. “I can’t believe it. The part couldn’t be in better hands. I thank you and the cast thanks you and the school thanks you. You are Peter Pan.”

Delal smiled and said nothing. Being a star was exhilarating, but something far more important had been accomplished. She had been pitted against Nijmeh and had found a way to win.

February 4, 1947. The radio reported that the London talks had ended in failure. Britain might impose a solution but also might want the Palestine problem placed before the United Nations, which some predicted would result in Russia backing the Arabs and the US backing the Zionists in the Security Council.

The Arabs said, “They’re going to give our country to the Zionists. Just like that? Who will do that? The UN at Lake Success. What a foolish name.”

The Zionists said, “They’ll never partition. World opinion is against us.”

The resolution to provide a Jewish homeland went round and round. The Jews, fearful the plan would be defeated, went on a terrorist rampage. Arabs retaliated. Railroad lines from Haifa to Cairo were regularly blown up. The buses from Tamleh to Jerusalem stopped running and the mood was grim.

Christmas Eve, 1947. Tense and strange. No carols could be sung in Shepherds’ Field because of the curfew. Most of the holiday mail had been lost because of a robbery at the main post office and the Mishwes received no holiday greetings from their sons in America.

Miriam crocheted a large red stocking for Nijmeh to hang on the fieldstone fireplace in the sheik’s house. She stood vigil each dawn at the greengrocer’s, hoping for one last shipment of Jaffa oranges to place in the toe for luck.

Her relationship with her granddaughter was disappointingly formal. She worried that the deepness of her voice made her sound stern. She wanted to tell Nijmeh a joke, but all the jokes Zareefa told her were risqué—they had to do with British soldiers having sex with simple country girls. Sometimes she would sit next to Nijmeh with a protective arm over her shoulders as if to soften the stiffness of their conversation. “Tell me, how is the school? Do you like it?”

“Yes, of course, Teta.”

She always said the same thing and worried that Nijmeh might assume she was senile. At times she had to squelch a desire to say exactly what was on her mind:
How do you feel about your overprotective father and your horse-crazy mother? Are you disappointed?
And what if Nijmeh said yes? What could Miriam do about it? Wasn’t she the one who had put the marriage together?

She wouldn’t have done anything in her life differently, except perhaps kept up her schooling. She didn’t regret Max, although now his memory was pale and cold. Her comfort and satisfaction came from an unexpected reliance on Nadeem. He took care of her more than was necessary. She was strong and fit yet he always took her arm when they walked, as if he needed to feel her reality. He liked to bring her food at family picnics, fussing over her plate until it was filled with her favorite things. “Here it is,” he would say, placing a napkin on her lap. “What else? Is there anything else?”

He retrieved her shoes from wherever she kicked them off and placed them side by side, ready for her. He cultivated her garden, painstakingly picking off the weeds. He never went down the road away from her without turning back to wave. Their marriage had appeared so arbitrary—a girl from this household and a boy from that one. They hadn’t chosen each other out of love or necessity. Yet despite that, he had decided to adore her.

The only way she acknowledged his devotion was to accept it. She didn’t have the gift of graceful thanks and her attitude toward him—it appeared to be indifference, but was really fear of closeness—had hardened into habit. She was on the verge of discovering how much he meant to her but, as it happened, it was soon too late. The Christmas orange didn’t bring luck.

In that indelible year of 1948 the rain came very late. It was January 4 before the precious water descended in torrents and, despite the regular noise of bombs and the frequent funerals, everyone was overjoyed to see the springs fill up. Three days later, at Miriam’s urging, Nadeem went to Jerusalem to look for mail from the boys.

It had been a while since he had walked on the Nablus Road and he anticipated each landmark with a peculiar psychic comfort. Even as a boy, this walk had always lifted his spirits. Around the first hill that rose from the valley, there were still traces of the ancient Roman road. To the east was Tel el-Ful, where Saul had lived. He stopped on Mount Scopus to experience the same awesome view of Jerusalem’s domes and minarets that Alexander had seen. Down the slope he could see the British war cemetery with its rows of crosses. So many lives had been taken during the first tragic war. So many promises had been made, and they had come to nothing.

Nadeem was shocked to find that already he needed a zone pass to go from one part of the Old City to another. The streets were deserted and some of the shops were bricked up, while others had their iron gates shuttered. The Semiramis Hotel had been blown up the previous day and everyone was still in shock. Bulos Meo’s Oriental shop on David Street had its shutters closed, but a small side door opened and he stopped to wish Bulos a happy new year before continuing.

As he walked, head bent against the raw wind, it never occurred to Nadeem to return home. He knew these winding streets as he knew his own house. He had his favored spots in the Old City that reminded him of the days when he was part of the merchant community and arrived with the throng of workers each morning. Customarily he entered from Damascus Gate, as it was the most convenient, but he hadn’t been in the city for many months and had the urge to go around to Jaffa Gate and see what was new. Just as he approached, he heard a roar and saw an armored car barreling toward the gate and then one of the occupants threw a bomb into the throng of people. The driver turned, drove back to the corner of Princess Mary Avenue, threw another bomb, then accidentally crashed into a wall.