He had gone there to assess it and examine the furniture with the intention of buying it, but he had seen Futna, checked her over, gotten her, but he could not get the house, which had not been for sale.
Sitt Amira greeted me and offered her condolences, assuring me that if it were not for her health and the difficult political situation she would have done her duty in such circumstances. She would have visited us at home to comfort us, and she would have visited the tomb and read the Fatiha for the repose of my father’s soul. But now that I was in Jerusalem, she would do the right thing, she said and winked at me. I didn’t understand the meaning of the wink, thinking it was a sign of illness or old age. I later learned that a wink between women meant shared secrets, and the secret I shared with Amira was her hesitation to invite me in front of this army of people present at the diwan to avoid including them in the invitation. In any case, we visited and talked, reverting to serious conversation.
At the mention of Hillary Clinton and Washington, the Bey told us that he had worked in the American capital, attached to the embassy, for more than five years. He told us that he had lived his life to the fullest, but that Arab women like me tried their best to hang on to him because he was a catch for a husband and they were without men or husbands. He couldn’t explain this phenomenon. He inquired and investigated the matter and found out that the secret lies in Arab men, not Arab women. But what was the secret?
He turned to me unexpectedly, but I shook my head to express my total ignorance. Then the Bey volunteered that the secret was the virility of the Arab men that Arab women couldn’t handle. I asked him, without smiling or fluttering my eyes, “Can an American woman handle one, then?”
He laughed, his neck shook, and his bridge shined as he repeated, “Ha, ha, oh only one? Oh!”
Futna exclaimed, “You naughty bunch!” while everybody laughed and I did too, amused by the laughter of the Bey, the sight of his jiggling jowls and pounds of flesh. Futna whispered to my ear, “Thank God I didn’t marry him.”
I whispered, “Why, did you intend to marry him?”
She replied hurriedly, covering her mouth with her hand, “I’ll tell you later, later.”
Sitt Amira reminded us in a powerful voice that contrasted with her any build and her delicate bones that such words should not be uttered in the diwan, in the presence of women and children. One of the women in the audience said haughtily, aiming her words at Sitt Amira and her daughter-in-law, “The diwan is not for children, because visitors do not usually bring children.”
Abd al-Nasser blushed and so did his wife, but Sitt Amira did not blink. She was waiting for an opportunity to prove to the others that bringing her grandson to the diwan was not a sign of her daughter in law’s modest social background or the result of a life of poverty and the Musrareh neighborhood. Her son Abd al-Nasser, thank God, was doing very well with a shop in Bab al-Khalil as large as two or three ordinary shops, and his name was mentioned everywhere,, he was known to travel agencies and tourists. She turned toward me, then, looking serious, she asked Futna, “Did you take her to the tourist shops area?”
She inquired in all earnestness, as I was thinking about my father’s early childhood as a messenger in a souvenir shop.
Futna whispered to me, “Your late father had very much wished to have a small souvenir shop before he immigrated to the U.S. My brother has a very big souvenir shop.”
Naturally, she did not mention my father’s funding of the shop lest I, as heir, add it to my inheritance claims.
On our way to the souvenir shop district, Futna told me two things: first, that the family—that is her mother, her father, and her brother—didn’t know about her pregnancy and that she didn’t know how to break the news to them. Her mother, despite her strong personality, was old-fashioned and very conservative about matters of honor. She feared God, and the artificial insemination in Hadassa Hospital would be contrary to the moral ideals that she had observed throughout her life in the holy city of Jerusalem. Woe to Futna when her mother learns the truth. She will unleash her fury at her.
The second thing Futna told mc was about the rime that preceded her marriage to my father and how she had been on the verge of marrying the Bey. Marrying the Bey! This was the second time she had surprised me and I said as much because the Bey was much too old for her. He could have been her father. She reminded me that my father was not younger than the Bey or her own father, and that she was, in case I had forgotten, my age or younger. This was true; Futna was younger than me in everything—age, looks, and maturity—but she treated me with a respect close to deference. My age was a factor, but being an American and speaking English, a language she didn’t know, added to my prestige. Her mother spoke French and English fluently, and Abd al-Nasser, made good use of her language expertise as well as her ability to handle correspondence with Taiwan and the organization of the business. Abd al-Nasser had inherited his father’s Stupidity and laziness.
Futna, too, was not very bright, but Sin Amira considered her smart because she had married my father and insured her life rill death. She would have loved to have married a rich man herself, but she did not; first, because she was not fair and blonde like Futna, and second, because at that time she didn’t know that money was important. And, finally, because her generation or those who inherited the family name among them did not view money the way they do now. Money, as her father, Hajj Ibrahim used to say, comes and goes, but origin, honor, and good manners are the measure and the scale. When Ra’fat al-Shayib proposed to her, Hajj Ibrahim did not hesitate to accept and neither did his daughter Amira, because in addition to being well-mannered and well-behaved, Ra’fat belonged to a good family.
We reached the souvenir shop district before noon. It was humid and rainy, and Bab al-Khalil was as usual swarming with tourists, activity, a few pedestrians, priests, nuns, and vendors of ka’ek, sweets, and lemonade. Sitt Amira was sitting in the middle of the shop behind her son’s desk, reviewing the accounts, opening letters from companies, and getting ready to reply to them. There were piles of paper, writing pads, a fax machine, and a typewriter m front of her. When she saw us she came to greet us cheerfully, then asked the salesman to show us the most beautiful merchandise for me to choose whatever I liked and suited my taste for myself and my friends. She suggested, and then later insisted, that I buy mother of pearl crosses and a maquette of Jerusalem for my American friends in Washington and New York and an embroidered dress to wear in Washington that would represent Palestine and show Americans that Palestine has a civilization, as would be made obvious by this kind of embroidery.
Futna wanted to talk to her mother. “Mama, I want to tell you something but promise me not to shout,” she told her. But Sitt Amira did not pay attention to her daughter; she was used to her endless, silly stories. Anxious, Futna looked at me for courage and said: “Alarm, what I want to tell you is very important.”
Sitt Amira continued to pour the coffee, then placed the cups beside us on the edge of the desk where she was sitting. She later said, with little consideration for her daughter’s words, “All right, dear, tell me, tell me.”
Then, addressing me, she said, “Here is your coffee, Zayna, I hope you like it. I bought the coffee this morning on my way to work and I asked the salesman to add more cardamom to it. Taste it and let me know if it’s sweet enough for you.”
Futna twisted and turned in her seat, pulling her vest around her sides, then looked at the empty shop and the street full of people and said nervously, “Mama, are you listening to me?”
Her mother took a sip of her coffee, raised her eyes, looked at Futna, and said indifferently, “Yes, I’m listening, of course I am.”
Futna twisted and turned in her seat, feeling scared as the moment of truth drew near, forcing her to face the situation seriously and unequivocally, possibly for the first time since the artificial insemination. Here she was facing her mother, this exemplary woman, this role model, this capable and intelligent mother w
ho had trained her children to speak the truth to her without maneuvers or trickery or any possibility of escape. This mother who had taught them the art of struggle for survival, is the daughter of Hajj Ibrahim, the well-born man, son of the guardian of the Haram al-Sharif and keeper of the keys of the Aqsa Mosque. She is also Hajjeh Ra’ifa’s daughter, a well-known woman in the circles of charitable organizations and orphanages. Sitt Amira herself is the descendant of a noble family and, most important, was a student at the nuns’ school. She learned refined manners and knows right from wrong, qualities that reveal the well born. Futna, who didn’t enjoy a similar education, idealized her mother and believed firmly and unambiguously that Sitt Amira occupied a place one-degree below God. This was evident in the expressions she often used: “On my mother’s life this and that happened” on my mother’s life so and so said this” my God! What would happen if mother knew about this or that.”
Sitt Amira glanced at me apprehensively and then turned to her daughter, clearly annoyed, and said, “I’m listening.”
She then put down her coffee cup and sat as rigid as a statue. Futna, overcome with a crushing sense of fear, replied, “Mama, my God, what shall I say!”
The mother replied firmly, “Say it.”
Futna asked her in a conciliatory tone, “Promise you won’t get upset?”
The mother didn’t reply but continued to stare at her. Futna looked around her again and said suddenly, as if spitting something from her mouth, tired of having kept it secret for so long, “Mama, I’m pregnant.”
The pupils of the mother’s eyes dilated as if someone suddenly had hit her on the head. She turned as pale as a corpse. Had it not been for the sound of her breathing, we would have thought that she was dead or that she had had a stroke or a heart attack. She didn’t say a word. She asked neither how nor when, but stared, first at her daughter and then beyond her at mysterious spaces invisible to us, and possibly to her.
Futna broke the silence, saying, “I told Zayna and she didn’t mind, mama.”
The mother neither responded nor looked at me or at her daughter, but continued to stare and breath heavily.
Futna went on saying, “My late husband wouldn’t have been upset,” but her mother neither replied nor moved.
Futna began to defend her action as if her mother had accused her of wrongdoing, “Mama, why don’t you answer me? I did nothing that would anger God. It was a simple surgery done at the hospital; the doctor wore gloves and a mask and was assisted by a female nurse.”
Receiving no reply from her mother, Futna went on talking with greater enthusiasm, looking at me for moral support, “It’s a very simple procedure, simpler than opening a pimple. It takes two to three minutes and does not even require an anesthetic. In other words, it’s like a regular gynecological check up.”
There was still no reply from the mother, causing Futna’s voice to rise and quiver as she continued, “Oh Mama, why don’t you answer me? I’m telling you, it’s a simple procedure that many women have undergone before me, five or even ten years ago. It was done in America and Europe twenty years ago. If we don’t do it here it’s because we don’t have enough doctors and first-class, clean hospitals. In Europe and in Israel, medicine is very advanced and so are we.”
A bitter smile appeared on the mother’s lips, but she didn’t comment and went on staring at the empty space before her.
Futna’s voice shook even more and its pitch rose almost to a shout as she said, “Mama, say something. You make me feel guilty, even though I didn’t do anything wrong. What do you want me to swear by to convince you that I did nothing that would anger God? What can I say to convince you that I didn’t commit a sin? Mama, it was only a simple surgery that took only an hour of my time. There was only the trip to the hospital, the procedure, and then the doctor said, ‘Congratulations, you’re pregnant’ It was like a dream, I don’t even remember how it happened and how I did it! I have a hard time believing it myself sometimes, and I sometimes wonder, saying to myself: Oh my God! Is it possible that I am pregnant like other women! All my life I’ve wished for a baby, all my life I’ve dreamed of becoming pregnant. It didn’t happen with my first husband, or the second one, but now I am pregnant from Hadassa, Oh God Almighty!”
The mother emitted a snoring sound that resembled the noise made by a sheep or a bull being slaughtered. Her head and chest shook as if she had received a strong jolt that made her stagger. The hand she had placed on the desk moved as a result, spilling the coffee and the water. Futna jumped toward her mother from across the desk to prevent her from falling, but the mother’s head fell on the desk over the papers and the mixture of coffee and water.
Futna shouted like a crazed person, “What happened? What happened?”
I, in turn, ran to the telephone to call a doctor or an ambulance, but I quickly remembered that I was in Jerusalem, a foreigner in a foreign place, and I didn’t know whom to call or what number to dial. So I went out to the street calling for help, but the people in the street were foreigners, even more so than I, and I saw no one but vendors, customers, and a large group of tourists.
I cut my trip short and returned to Wadi al-Rihan, escaping the artificial surroundings, Amira’s illness, and her daughter’s pregnancy. I went seeking my uncle’s surroundings of sincerity and truth. I went looking for the blue sky over the cracks of his farm, the twinkle of lemons under the falling rain, and the plastic houses for the chicks where even-one hid whenever a strong westerly wind blew. I longed for the conversation we would have on the way to the fish market and the farm and Nablus, where my cousin the toffee maker lived; we would speak words that came directly from the heart, the broken dreams and the memories, some sweet and some bitter. Their hope was to find peace one day, and rest after a long struggle. My uncle looked at me and laughed and coughed, while I drove and spoke about my feelings of loss and my heart longing for rest. He commented on my words, saying affectionately, “My God, how cute you are Zayna! You were lost! You were seeking rest? What should I say? What would Nahleh say? What would Mazen say?”
He went on talking about his worries and those of his children, “Mazen is tired and burdens others with his uncertainties. Mazen goes from one house to the other, moves from one girl to another, between friends and caféés. When he talked about politics, we said fine, but what then? What would he do after politics and the headaches it causes? He has no work, no wife, no children, and no car, what then? What does he want to do with his life? He does not want to work with me cultivating the land, and he refuses to run a grocery that I’m willing to open for him. He doesn’t want us to finance a project for him to provide him with an income. He produces nothing but words, he talks about politics, but says nothing about his work and his worries, and neglects his soul and heart. I would tell him, what then my son? Beirut is lost, Amman is lost, and Tunis too, and you’re here today. Yesterday has passed and we’re here today, what would you like to do with your life? Nahleh would wink at me asking me to stop, because of his heel. His heel has been mended with a piece of metal and the surgery was successful, and thanks be to God, he now walks like me and even better. He is two meters tall and maybe more and there is nothing he needs.”
My uncle would stop to catch up his breath, then resume, agonizing over his son, “I’ve given up, Zayna. I can’t say a word to him like a father usually would. I don’t like his frowning. He’s like a giant, and he’s as proud as a prince. He’s conceited and always has been. He’s gallant and proud, and I always treated him like a prince. Everyone, his mother, Nahleh, and even the neighbors used to say that this young man was like a prince, but what then? We’ve had it with princes and politics, with the Nassers and the Guevaras. I always encouraged him to be active, to look after his own future, to search for his path, for something to do for the rest of his life, for the many years he had before him. He’s over forty now, which means that he is a man, a man with brains, and those his age are married with children taller than themselves, and alread
y in college. But my son, the good one, hasn’t yet settled and has chosen neither the temporal nor the spiritual. He’s in a daze and makes me dizzy. This has been going on for a long time and isn’t over yet, making me wonder, what next? Talk to him, Zayna, advise him; he might listen to you and be convinced. He might find an idea in your words that would guide him.”
I promised to help more out of pity for my uncle than from a belief that I could change his attitude. But my uncle continued, “Talking about America and life there, the hard work and the struggle of the Americans working like machines might awaken him from his dreams. He keeps saying that soon America, like England, will shrink and start begging. But it is we who shrank and our only worry is to find food. We face nothing but worries in our life. Can we continue to live now the way we lived in the past? The answer is obvious and one doesn’t need second sight to see it. Why can’t Mazen see it? In God’s name, Zayna, tell him to open his eyes. The world has changed and Mazen Hamdan is a child of this world and he can’t change that. He has to wake up and look to his own interests. Who is he counting on? He has to wake up and take care of himself. Whatever he does he is still Mazen Hamdan, not Guevara. Tell him that.”
We went looking for Mazen, riding in the station wagon. We searched everywhere, at his friends’ houses, in caféés, at the fish market, and at the municipality, but we found no trace of him. At the municipality they said he was in Nablus, and in Nablus we were told he was in al-Tur. There we were told that he was with Umm Grace and her daughter visiting a priest. The priest said that they had returned to Wadi al-Rihan. We finally gave up and returned home without further ado. We ate our dinner in the warmth of the kitchen, while my uncle’s wife prepared tea with maramiyeh and fried goat cheese. Every now and then Nahleh would look in, wearing her nightdress and with rollers in her hair, and inquire mockingly, ‘The Bey hasn’t come yet?”
The Inheritance Page 8