As if by command, the entire family, including Samira, ran out into the courtyard. Shifra came out too, but kept a few paces distant from the family circle. Seeing Amina, her eyes opened wide. Amina’s family looked as surprised as Shifra. Where was the Amina they all knew?
She was dressed in a gray two-piece suit, the skirt barely covering her knees, with high cork-soled wedged shoes which made her look much taller than Shifra remembered. Her perfume invaded the courtyard. But the most unusual sight was her hairdo. What happened to her beautiful thick braids? Had she cut them? Her hair was jelly-rolled, like the models Shifra saw in the old magazines which wrapped the fish bought in the market.
Amina was all smiles, “Salaam Aleikum, honored Eumi,” she addressed her mother. “I’m happy to see you in good health.”
Fatima seemed hypnotized by her daughter’s new looks. Anger and disappointment played on her face. How was she going to react? Samira and the children watched her, waiting for a sign. But as fast as a flicker, Fatima’s clenched muscles relaxed and she opened her arms. Amina hugged her mother in the middle of the deafening noise made by Rama and Ahmed, each one pulling at her dress.
“Welcome home, my daughter,” Fatima said. “Now, with you in our midst, we can celebrate Na’ima’s wedding as she deserves.”
When it was the impatient Na’ima’s turn to embrace her sister, both had tears in their eyes. “I have so much to tell you,” whispered Na’ima. Amina whispered back, “So do I.”
Rama and Nur took hold of Amina’s hands, while she bent and kissed Ahmed three times on his cheeks exclaiming, “It’s hard to believe that all of you have grown so much in the five months since I saw you last. Salaam Aleikum to you, my dear Samira,” Amina said. Freeing her arms from her sisters, she embraced her old morabia.
During the commotion created by Amina’s arrival, Musa took Amina’s suitcase and package inside, and intentionally or not, brushed against Shifra and felt a sudden, thrilling tremor in her body.
“Put her suitcase in my bedroom,” ordered Fatima.
Na’ima and Amina looked surprised. Didn’t Fatima guess that the sisters had hoped to be together the few nights before the wedding? But Fatima had other designs regarding her prodigal daughter.
While Amina told the children about the gifts that awaited each one and the stories she was going to tell them about Cairo, Fatima approached Samira and murmured in her ear. “It was smart of us to make a dress for Amina to wear at the wedding, a dress that befits the daughter of Faud Masri, a daughter of Islam.”
“You have to thank Suha for it. She was the one who worked on it during the nights you slept so well,” answered Samira.
Amina’s ear caught the name and turned around, searching. “Suha,” she exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. With all the emotion and the commotion, I didn’t see you. I am glad to see you again.”
Rama, who couldn’t keep the secret anymore, interjected, “You have to see the dress she made for you. It is really beautiful. She sewed all our dresses.”
Shifra blushed. “She’s my sister now,” Rama took Shifra’s hand in hers, “During Ramadan I prayed for it every day.”
“Then she is my sister, too,” Amina said, smiling at her youngest sister.
If she had looked at Na’ima, she would have seen the bewilderment in her eyes. On the way home from Lydda airport, Musa had opened his heart and told Amina about his wish to marry Suha. Brother and sister promised to support each other in their quest for their mother’s approval.
Na’ima’s wedding festivities were to start on October 1st with the traditional henna party, when the hands of the bride and her sisters are dyed red. Fatima decided to have the henna party on the first night of Idul Fitri, the three-day holiday following the fast of Ramadan, usually celebrated with food, music, and visits.
Mahmood, his mother and a number of relatives had already arrived in Jaffa, and were hosted by Fatima’s neighbors and friends. Abdullah and his family also descended from Jerusalem and took rooms at a famous khan, an inn close to their neighborhood.
Though the henna party is for women only, sometimes a groom is allowed to participate. But since no party could be a real party unless there is music, from early morning the musicians had their instruments, the tabla and the oud, ready to start.
Seated on the chair of honor in Fatima’s large living room, Mahmood’s mother waited for her future daughter-in-law to pay her respects. In their bedrooms, the sisters checked on one another for the last details. Wearing a splendidly adorned red velvet dress and a tulle head scarf covering her face, Na’ima followed by her three sisters and her mother made her entrance.
While Na’ima’s future mother in-law was busy telling the other guests her recipe for henna dye, Samira entered the room with the henna preparation, accompanied by a helper holding trays of crescent walnut pastries and tall glasses filled with ice water and nana leaves. Hearing the last words, Samira exclaimed, “This henna was made with the same recipe!” The mother-in-law took the henna and smeared it over Na’ima’s fingers and her forehead, “The henna will keep you and your future family in good health,” she said.
Afterward each one of the sisters got their fingers smeared with henna, a lucky sign for finding a good husband. Amina allowed her fingers to be smeared. She did not wear her engagement ring. She wanted to talk to her mother first. But Musa had asked her to wait for the day after Na’ima’s wedding, and she agreed.
Mahmood entered the room, and after he bowed respectfully in front of the old ladies, his mother smeared henna on his little finger. It was the first time Amina saw him, but she would have recognized him anywhere from Na’ima’s descriptions as well as from Musa’s letter. A hunk of a guy, that Mahmood, Amina concluded.
In spite of the loud music, they heard the cries of a baby.
“It must be our little boy,” Mahmood’s mother said, getting up quickly. A woman entered the room holding in her arms the five-month-old child.
“I’m sorry to disturb, but I can’t make him stop. Maybe he has colic.” Mahmood and his mother jumped at once, but Na’ima was quicker.
“I want to hold him, please. In two days I’ll be his mother, we’d better start getting used to one another.” She cradled the little boy in her arms, and as if by magic, he stopped crying and smiled at her.
Amina’s eyes shone with admiration, while Na’ima’s mother-in-law gave her a kiss. “That’s a good omen,” she said. “You’ll have a good marriage.”
At noon the next day, the Imam, accompanied by Mahmood and two of his friends, his witnesses, arrived at Fatima’s house for the religious wedding ceremony. Na’ima was told she could choose to participate or not, since Musa would represent her, but she wanted to be a part of it. Cousin Abdullah was her second witness. Only male witnesses were accepted by Islamic law.
The Imam started by reading the Surah Nur from the Koran, “Marry those among you who are single and those who are fit,” after which he added the words of the Prophet, “No house has been built in Islam more beloved in the sight of Allah than through marriage.”
The Imam asked Na’ima first, “Do you agree to marry Mahmood?”
With tears in her eyes, but in a clear voice, Na’ima answered, “Yes, with all my heart.” Then the Imam asked Mahmood the same question. Mahmood nodded. He and his witnesses were asked to sign the Nikaahnama, the marriage contract.
Following the ceremony, Mahmood was led to the women’s section to receive the blessing of his mother, Fatima, and the other elderly women from both families. Fatima had decided to bypass the obligatory gifts that the groom was supposed to give to his bride’s sisters as well as a money dowry due to her family. “Inshallah,” Fatima had said to him at their engagement, “We’ll talk again when you sell the first harvest of your new olive orchard.”
Fatima bypassed the old tradition concerning the meal following the ceremony; instead of eating separately, at their first meal together, Na’ima and Mahmood were seated at the head of the table
, with the Koran between them, while a long scarf covered their heads.
The many dishes and delicacies brought to the table, one by one, were greeted by the guests with admiration. In the kitchen, the fine chopping of dill, parsley and green onions ready for the tabbouleh salad never stopped; while the shashlik and shish-kebab sizzled on the skewers.
The fame of Fatima’s kitchen and her exquisite dishes had reached beyond the circle of her family. Now that she was honoring her son-in-law’s family and his friends, she served the best. Scents of the Mediterranean spices zaatar, sumac and roasted cumin danced in the air, and the guests, already cheered by the glasses of arak and the sweet wine made by the Latrun monastery monks, felt their appetite renewed with each dish.
To those who congratulated her, Fatima modestly answered, “Wait until tomorrow, when you’ll eat the real feast.”
For dessert, there were dates, nuts and the honey-moist baklava. The dates, according to tradition, were symbols for happiness and for a fruitful life.
One by one the guests left saying again, “Mavrook Wa-barak Allah Fecum,” the usual blessings and good wishes offered to a young couple. Only Mahmood remained. According to tradition he had to sleep in the bride’s home and share one of her brother’s bedrooms.
Musa, who would have loved to linger in the kitchen to watch the preparations for the next day’s banquet, and mostly, to be close to Suha, had to host Mahmood, who, with the perennial toothpick in his mouth, grinned with satisfaction,
“If your sister knows how to cook the dishes we ate today, our marriage will start off on the right foot.” Musa refrained from telling Mahmood that his sisters were never allowed in the kitchen.
Mahmood stretched out on the bed, opened his belt and after a big belch, he groaned, “I need to rest. The wine from those devilish monks has gone to my head. Tomorrow will be another long day.” He yawned, “A good night’s sleep will help to lead the Debka.”
Musa was happy to leave him. He went into the courtyard where he found Amina and Suha hanging garlands of flowers between the lanterns. When Amina saw him, she whispered, “Be quiet; Na’ima and our mother are asleep. Inshallah, everything has gone as planned. We couldn’t have wished for anything better.”
“Can I help you?” Musa offered.
“You can help Suha,” Amina answered with a smile. “Since she’s shorter than me, it’s harder for her to reach so high.” Musa looked at Suha, whose face glowed in the lanterns’ lights. Silently she passed the garlands to him. The two girls had woven cyclamen, tulips, irises and narcissus, and their perfume intoxicated Musa. He took hold of Suha’s hands and for a moment they felt their rapid heartbeats pulsating in their wrists.
Musa could not refrain any longer. “By this time next year, Inshallah, you’ll be my bride. I promise.” His eyes burned. He’d never been so direct, but he needed to say it. He would be going back to Jerusalem to work at Abdullah’s bank and there should be a clear understanding between them. He saw Suha’s eyes suddenly brimming with tears. The garlands fell from her hands and she ran into the house.
Mahmood woke up in the middle of the night. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He was completely dressed. Still half-asleep, he started to undress. These were the clothes he was going to wear the next day and they had to look fresh. As he moved, he heard a sigh. It was Musa, who slept peacefully at his side, a smile on his lips.
Mahmood yawned. He had eaten and drank too much, but it had been a long time since he had such a meal. He still felt his head spinning. Yes, he was getting married again, and at that thought, he felt that he was getting an erection. Na’ima will be all right. Of course she’s not as pretty as her sister Amina, but who needs beauty?
His first wife had been beautiful, but did that help him? She was so skinny she couldn’t even work in the yard, much less take care of the olive trees. She moaned during her pregnancy, and begged him to take her to a doctor because she passed blood when she urinated, but he knew that all she wanted was to be spoiled. She wanted attention. As for making love, at the beginning of their marriage he had to beg her, until one night he beat her to make her understand he was the boss.
After she became pregnant, she mostly stayed in bed and told him that if he wanted a boy, he should not touch her until the baby was born. She died giving birth. Mahmood was sure that she put a curse on him.
But now—now, he was sure that his star was on the rise again. Na’ima had strong arms, good for work, good to embrace. Plump like a fattened goose farmers sell in the souk in Jerusalem. And her breasts! Even through the loose jelebia, he could see how firm they stood, those two little melons. Oh, he felt his desire mount. If only he could find her room! He’d go right now, open her fat thighs with his knowledgeable hands and enter her with all his might. When he laid his strong body on top of her, his semen would spill into her as from an open tap. He felt feverish, excited. Yes, he’d go right now and surprise Na’ima.
Wearing only his long shirt, Mahmood climbed carefully over Musa’s body but as soon as he was at the door, he heard Musa’s sleepy voice, “Where are you going?”
This stopped Mahmood in his tracks.
“I’m going to pee,” he answered sheepishly.
“I’m coming with you,” Musa said, getting up. “It’s dark in the house and you don’t know the way. You could make a mistake and wake somebody up.”
Damn you, cursed Mahmood. “There’s no need,” he answered, “I think I can hold it until the morning.”
Na’ima was awake, but lingered in bed. It was the day of her wedding party, and her mother had told her that she could stay in bed as long as she liked.
“You’ll have to be as fresh and beautiful as a flower,” Fatima said. Amina, who entered the room together with her mother, said, “I see you haven’t opened the gifts I brought you..”
“You’ve already showered me with gifts,” Na’ima answered, “every day last week the mailman brought gifts from you. For me, the biggest gift is that I have you here with me. I was so afraid you wouldn’t come,” and Nai’ma kissed her sister.
But her curiosity was aroused. She took one package from Amina’s hands and caressed the wrapping paper, “Let me guess,” she said, closing her eyes and playing their childhood game. Quickly, Amina opened the first gift.
“Oh, how beautiful,” gushed Na’ima at the sight of the exquisite Turkish coffee cups. The second gift was a set of tall tea glasses with silver holders. “Amina, you spoil me.”
“Not yet, look what I brought you, to wear tonight when the two of you will be alone.” In front of Na’ima’s wide-open eyes, Amina displayed a diaphanous see-through nightgown.
“And before you put it on,” Amina expertly continued, “oil your body with this perfumed oil. It’s a recipe from Queen Hatshepsut, King Tut’s wife. It will make your skin as soft as silk.”
Na’ima blushed. “Where did you learn all this, Amina? I’ll tell you a secret, I can barely wait to have Mahmood all to myself, yet somehow I feel scared, too.”
“Girls, girls,” an impatient Fatima called, knocking at the door, “do you want to wait until noon to get up? Did you forget what day it is?”
“We are coming in a minute,” Amina answered. While she spoke, she took from underneath a pillow where she had kept it hidden, the sapphire ring, George’s engagement gift, and showed it to Na’ima.
“I am engaged to a wonderful man. The gifts I brought you are from both of us.”
Na’ima was speechless.
“Who is he? Do we know him? Does Eumi know?” Na’ima fired the words rapidly when she regained her voice.
“Not yet,” whispered Amina, hugging Na’ima and dancing her around the room. “It’s a secret, but she’ll find out very soon.”
Shifra woke up early. She had promised Samira to prepare fattoush, the vegetable salad, mixed with big toasted pita pieces, which had to be served as fresh as possible. And all for at least a hundred people!
But it wasn’t that chore that
troubled her sleep. She dreamed of Musa saying to her again and again, “By this time next year, you’ll be my wife.” In her dream she heard his voice accompanied by a violin, little bells and angels’ voices. Her savior, her hero, how handsome he was, so much better looking than Mahmood!
Thinking of last night made her blush. Why had she run away from Musa? Why didn’t she answer him? What would Musa think of her now?
“Suha, what’s taking you so long?” Samira’s clear voice startled her. “The guests will arrive soon, and we are far from being ready.”
Dear Samira, always worried, the entire household resting on her shoulders. The meal they had after the wedding ceremony, was such a feast, Suha wondered how the guests would be able to eat again just twenty-four hours later. In all her life she had never seen such a rich meal, and, as her mother would say, “Such a waste of food!”
She remembered the kiddush following the weddings held at their little shul in Geula, where the men clanked the glasses filled with schnapps, screaming L’chaim, L’chaim, while the children ate the yellowish and already dried leikeh.
“There was nothing to eat but herring, boiled eggs and challah,” Shifra had heard her mother say sometimes, to which her father would answer, “Ureme kinder, poor youngsters, what did you expect, they couldn’t even pay the Rabbi.”
Samira burst into the room, “Suha, what’s happening to you today, of all days? The musicians are at the gate. The minute they start playing will be the signal for the guests to arrive. And you are still in your nightgown!”
It was true. By the time the violinist and the clarinetist finished tuning their instruments; the tabla player started drumming and the gate bell rang. Suha watched the guests from her window. Mahmood’s family and their friends arrived first. On the low tables, plates with sharbat and water glasses filled with nana leaves waited for the guests.
Fatima, flanked by Amina and Musa, welcomed the guests. She looked splendid in her rich attire, embroidered with gold and silver, and wearing her most expensive jewelry.
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 12