Three Daughters: A Novel (47 page)

“You make him sound weak, and he’s not.”

“Not weak. Just not tried and tested in the same way as a poor man or one who’s plain. When it comes to love, you have to make up their mind for them. It takes work and a little psychology. You’ve got to paint a little picture for James of the two of you as really bound together and that usually means sex. It’s not such a big deal, you know. I mean, in any other country. Only here they make it seem as if it’s the difference between life and death. But it isn’t. If you want to keep James and make him feel committed, I would make it my business to go to bed with him.”

This little speech left Nijmeh with an odd expression on her face. A look of discovery. “I think you’re probably right.”

“Of course I’m right.” They were both silent. Nijmeh was looking down and Delal took the opportunity to stare. When she spoke it was with unaccustomed sincerity. “I keep thinking if I stare long enough I’ll finally get inside your face and see how it’s made. See how you’re made. The difficulty is I can’t seem to get a good enough look at you. It’s just skin and bones, but it’s so much more than that.”

“Skin and bones is all it is. What you’ve got up here”—Nijmeh touched her head and her heart—“and here is what draws people to you.”

“That sounds sweet, but it’s not true,” said Delal calmly. “If a man decides to marry me, it will be because of my money. Maybe afterward he’ll find out what’s in my head and in my heart, but not soon enough to make a difference.” Nijmeh started to protest, but Delal held up her hand. “Please. This isn’t a bid for sympathy. Believe me.”

“The things that attract people are hidden and mysterious. My mother was no beauty and my father—he could have had anyone—chose her. Besides, no man that you decide on will have a chance to escape. You’re a determined girl with astonishing confidence and a generous heart.”

33.

THERE IS A MAN WHO IS BOTH CULTURED AND ACCOMPLISHED . . . A DOCTOR.

W
hen he thought about it, Samir felt unprepared to negotiate a betrothal for his daughter. He had always felt above all that social jockeying. It was so artificial. He had assumed that the man for Nijmeh would materialize when he was needed. This stupid assumption now placed him in a peculiar position.

If his father hadn’t died. If his mother hadn’t left. If he had had more brothers and sisters. If the wars hadn’t killed so many people. If so many young men hadn’t immigrated to America. If the partition hadn’t wreaked havoc on so many lives. Then there would have been a network of family to handle the matter of Nijmeh’s betrothal. As it was, any one of his office girls knew more about the eligible men on the marriage market than he. The girls had discussions that sounded sensible (when they weren’t giggling). In his vulnerable state, he was tempted to seek their help. They had practical information that he lacked. They also had the instinct needed for matchmaking. But what could he say—
I need a prince for my daughter . . . and fast?

A more discreet source of information was Rose Muffrige, who worked at the post office. People said Rose knew everything that went on, that was about to go on, or that had already ended. It was a bitter joke. He would have argued mightily that gossip had no good end and he didn’t support it as a pastime, but he needed information.

Rose was surprised to see him, particularly so early in the morning. “The boss comes for stamps? Why?”

“To find out what’s going on. Isn’t this the place?” No use beating around the bush.

Rose, a large-bosomed woman with an elaborate upswept hairdo, was precisely framed by the shiny grille. She looked artificial and theatrical. “I’d be embarrassed to waste your time with silly gossip.” She lowered her eyes shyly.

“What gossip?” he asked eagerly.

“Comings, goings, budding romances. Who’s adding to his house. Who’s changing jobs.” Rose, in her nervousness, was too eager to rattle off her credentials.

He stared at Rose as if he expected a performance. “If you had a daughter, which young man would be your first choice for her?” He tried to sound casual. “Someone cultured . . .” His voice trailed off. This was awkward.

Rose looked dumbfounded. Samir was making her his confidante. She waved her hand in the air, trying not to appear flustered, and took up his sentence. “Someone accomplished. Humble yet strong. Someone a wife could respect.” Samir nodded. “Oof . . .” The task was too much for her. “There are boys and there are boys. Let me see.” She was quiet for a long time as if riffling through a mental file. She also looked worried. Someone she considered eligible might make Samir laugh. Nijmeh was a precious only child.

After a few moments, her eyes brightened and a smile of triumph spread over her face. “There is a man who is both cultured and accomplished . . . a doctor,” she whispered and looked around. “He’s on his way home here for a visit. Paul Halaby. You remember his grandfather owned the first car. He drove it even if he only had to go one block. The family was always modern. They sent Paul to Johns Hopkins, the finest medical school in America. He was the only boy, after all, and they wanted his life to be important. He’s tall,” she emphasized, as if this statistic would clinch her choice. “After a few years in practice, he’ll be back here for good and take care of all of us. He’s my first, second, and third choice. He would be perfect for Nijmeh.”

He didn’t know what to say. This seemed to be the end of Rose’s monologue. He cocked his head, nodded, and mumbled good-bye. Outside he rotated his shoulders, first forward and then backward to release tension. It was the first time in many days that his mind wasn’t buzzing with too many thoughts. Could he trust this suggestion? At least he had taken some action instead of just brooding. Any girl would be excited over a doctor. Paul Halaby. Of course. Now he remembered the name. The parents had gone with their son to the States.

Paul Halaby. Paul Halaby. His mind latched on to the name and it went clickety-click with each step. He turned it this way and that. He pictured a tall, dignified man in doctor’s clothes with a mask across his face. A doctor was important. He dealt with life and death. My God, could this be the answer?

He was a textbook case of the hometown boy who goes away and makes good. His father’s brother had gone to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, Maryland, and become a doctor, and when Paul Halaby reached college age, he followed his uncle to Maryland and medicine with admirable dedication. He was the only son in a family of five girls. Early on his parents had made him believe that he was the earth, the sun, and the moon, and he’d grown up with the expectation that life would treat him well and give him every opportunity. After graduation he was offered a residency in his specialty, obstetrics and gynecology, at a medium-sized hospital in Washington, DC.

He had been a resident for two months and was examining a young woman complaining of persistent cramps and also irregular menses. His fingers were well inside the patient’s vagina while the other hand pressed down on her pubis to better palpate the uterus, which felt engorged and spongy, two reliable signs of pregnancy. He stopped probing and was formulating the words to deliver this news.

“Don’t take your hand away. Please.” Her voice was intentionally sensual and he was so startled that he yanked his hand away.

“Nuts. I should have kept my mouth shut. A few more pokes and I would have been there. Now what do I do?” She was annoyed. She lifted her knees, took her legs out of the stirrups, and rocked herself from side to side. He was stunned and uncertain and also deeply aroused. The more she rocked the harder he became. She stopped rocking and flapped her legs, bringing her knees together and then letting them fall apart. That didn’t exactly cool him off. “Come on, lover,” she said smoothly, “don’t leave me like this.”

He barely had the patience to unzip his pants and climb on top of her. “Hey, not so fast.” On one of his upward strokes, she let him slide out and closed her legs to tease him. “Take it easy.” He was too far gone to accommodate her. His hand parted her legs and he put himself inside her quickly. “Put your hands under me,” she commanded. “You’re not touching me where I need it, damn it. Come on, lift me up. You’re a doctor, don’t you know what I need?” He was so close to coming that he was beyond being insulted. He pressed her to him and she arched and wound her legs around him. With his body shuddering and his conscience shattered, they climaxed together, which seemed idiotically romantic.

“Oh, God, I’m late for an appointment,” she said, immediately jumping off the table and disappearing behind the little screen. “By the way, did you find the problem?”

“The problem?” He was still in the throes of deep regret.

“The cramps. Remember?”

“Oh, yes. It looks like you’re pregnant.”

There was a long silence. Then a sigh. Then, “Damn.”

When he had the courage to tell one of the other residents what had happened—not the whole story, just that a patient had requested that he not remove his hand during a vaginal examination—the young doctor had grunted ruefully. “You lucky son of a bitch, I’m in gastroenterology. I get the middle-aged men with cranky bowels who haven’t had an easy BM in years. Of course the nurses are ready to hump anytime, but they want dinner first and who has the money for that.”

In the fifties any doctor over five feet tall—height was so important that Alan Ladd was placed on a hidden box so he would photograph taller than his leading ladies—could have anything he wanted from almost anyone. Not only sex, but also good tables in restaurants, good service from car mechanics, smiles from the dry cleaners, choice produce from the grocery clerk.
Doctor
in front of a name acted as a beguiling ether that softened people and made them munificent, respectful, and eager to please.

For the masochistic women of the fifties, the doctor was the ideal lover. Doctors were busy with important things. Too busy to think about sex except if you caught them unaware and against their better judgment coaxed an erection out of them. The idea of this important, dedicated, tousle-haired man innocently finding succor right under his nose—in a woman’s body—was romantic manna. Doctors could have it any time they wanted it, with anyone they wanted, wherever they wanted. They didn’t have to sweet-talk or cajole. They didn’t even have to say thank you. Only “You’re welcome.”

Paul Halaby had two additional enhancements—not that he needed them—he was fairly good-looking and he had the European patina that was dynamite for women of that generation who had been sold a bill of goods by Hollywood about dark and handsome lovers. Just before he left the American capital to find a wife, he had bedded eighteen women on the staff of Bedford Hospital and five patients, all but two of whom had initiated intimacy. This was in addition to casual dates outside his profession. He had a partially subsidized apartment in one of the large rental buildings on upper Connecticut Avenue that also housed three other doctors from Bedford, whose wives were delighted to feed Paul hot, tasty meals.

Though he was amoral when it came to American women, Paul still clung to his background, and it was this nagging fear of losing it all—of being set adrift in this new country without any of the comforting traditions of his childhood—that sent him back to the village to look for a bride. He was thirty-three, a doctor with a promising career, and undeniably attractive. They might as well have said Jesus Christ was back in town, for every mother’s head was dancing with possibilities.

Peter George’s head was dancing a little ahead of all the others, but he kept his plans a secret. Casually, he asked his sister to give a small party before the whole village descended on the visitor. Perhaps the doctor would take the time to see his beloved Delal for what she was, a charming, educated woman with exceptional abilities. Perhaps he also needed a little financing to enhance his own practice.

January’s weather was always quixotic. It could be delightfully warm and dry. Or miserably cold and wet. The old-time farmers insisted there was a pattern to it, but they couldn’t agree on what it was. On the day Nijmeh went to say good-bye to James, the air was damp, the visibility poor, and before the bus got halfway to Jaffa Gate, it began to snow heavily. The big flakes accumulated and within minutes, only the rotundas of the mosques and the Russian compound were visible. The bus plodded along into no-man’s-land, which seemed appropriate for her mood.

The other passengers looked around as if to ask,
Will we make it?
When they saw Nijmeh, they stared. She was wearing a mouton fur coat—her parents’ Christmas gift—that was very becoming.

One of the women looked down at Nijmeh’s feet and pointed with dismay at her thin-soled shoes. “
Shu?
” she cried. “
Habibty
, you’ll catch cold.” In her tender state, that simple bit of friendliness made Nijmeh’s eyes fill.
What am I going to do without him?
Now that he was finally going, she felt inadequate to hold him. She was trying to invent the woman James would leave behind.

She tried to think about her future in a hopeful way so she wouldn’t appear sad to him. He would be in new and stimulating surroundings while she faced the same routine. A few of the girls at school had found places in American colleges—Swarthmore, Davidson, and Vassar—and they were very excited. She was already overeducated and should have been a junior in college. She could probably even be admitted with advanced standing to a university. Maybe she should tell James she had plans for college, too. She didn’t want his last memory of her to be of someone whose life was aimless.

“I don’t want you to think of me as someone weak and dependent,” she said when they had settled at a table in a small coffee shop near the Via Dolorosa. “I’d hate that.”

“No chance of that.” He smiled.

“I don’t want you to think of me as a person who can’t think for herself either.”

“Now why would I think that?” He was still amused.

“You’ve accused me of being brainwashed often enough.” Her lips clamped together and grew thin. She inspected his profile and, while the smile was gone, he didn’t look sad. He wasn’t despondent. “If you recall, it was I who constantly nagged to consummate this relationship.” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice, although she knew it was damaging. Their lack of physical involvement loomed as a fatal mistake on her part. Delal was right. How could he feel bound to her and keep her close to his heart when they had never made love?

James looked around to see if anyone had overheard. He reached for her hand across the table and pressed it between both of his. “I regret one thing,” she said softly.

“What’s that?”

“That we haven’t been lovers all along. I’d feel much better if that were the case.”

He put on what she thought of as his fatherly face. He was moved but also perplexed. “We went all over that. I didn’t want to put that kind of pressure on you.”

“I didn’t feel pressured. The only reason not to do it was so you wouldn’t spoil me for someone else, isn’t that so?”