“Dear Guests, Tafadaloo Tasharafna Fecum, thank you for honoring us with your presence,” bowing slightly, Fatima said to the well-wishers. Besides neighbors and family, she had invited Faud’s former friends and partners, as well as her own business contacts. She introduced her children, “My eldest son, Musa, may Allah grant him long life, who’s going to be a banker, and this is Amina, Benti Al-Azeeza, my dear daughter, who studies nursing in Cairo.” There was unabashed pride in her voice. Like raindrops, the congratulatory Mavrooks fell on the three of them.
Everybody eyed Amina, whose see-through hijab was constantly sliding, showing her modern hairdo.
“Look, look at her,” the women guests elbowed one another. The first to talk was the mukhtar’s wife, whose daughter was at her side.
“Salaam Aleikum, Amina,” she said, honey dripping from her mouth, “We are so glad to have you home. I hope you are here to stay.” The group of women around her, members of the Arab Women’s League, became quiet, their eyes riveted on Amina.
“I’m glad to see you,” Amina answered gracefully, “but I’m sorry to have to disappoint you. The day after tomorrow I will return to my classes. I have to study two nore years before obtaining my nursing license.”
“Your mother will miss you very much, now with Na’ima married and living far from her,” the mukhtar’s wife continued in a vinegary voice, “Weren’t you taught that a daughter’s first duty is toward her mother?” The other ladies nodded their heads in approval.
As Amina looked at her mother for help, Cousin Abdullah, who was just passing by and heard the last sentence, saved her.
“Cousin Amina,” he called joyfully, “you are more beautiful than ever. Cousin Aiisha from Cairo is so proud of you and your accomplishments.”
Then he turned toward the mukhtar’s wife. “I’m sure you know that Amina was accepted to study at Kasr El-Aini, which is the best hospital in the Middle East.”
Another group of guests arrived, including Mr. Nathan. “Salaam Aleikum, Musa,” he said shaking Musa’s hand vigorously. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Where’s the boy I knew? You are now a full-fledged young man, and your mother tells me a lot of good things about you.”
“Salaam Aleikum, Mr. Nathan, you are too kind,” Musa smiled at his mother’s friend. “I don’t deserve your compliments.”
“Don’t be so modest, my friend,” Mr. Nathan answered.
He moved along with the guests in line waiting to congratulate the newlyweds. Na’ima wore the thobe, a red wedding dress, whose sleeves were embroidered, like her mother’s, with thick threads of silver and gold. Standing tall, next to her, Mahmood was dressed in a white shirt, white pants, white kafia and black boots. He was surrounded by his friends who, like him, seemed anxious to show their prowess dancing Debka.
The young children respectfully directed the older guests to places of honor at the heads of tables, either in the house, where it was cooler, or outside under the shade of the palm trees. Nur and Rama, after being pinched, kissed and spat upon by the old ladies to ward off the evil eye, arranged the pillows on the low chairs behind them. While the ladies, their faces hidden behind their fans, commented on everything and everybody, the old gentlemen smoked the nargilea and discussed politics.
One by one, the dishes were brought to the tables. Melouchia, a goulash, kube, the Arab moussaka, a concoction of rice and lentils, and Shifra’s fattoush disappeared as quickly as they were brought in. The piquant spices made the arak and the wine flow like rivulets. The cheerful assembly, after raising their glasses numerous times, first in honor of the newlyweds, then in Fatima’s honor, and that of the mukhtar, Abdullah, and other dignitaries, clapped their hands, demanding the Debka, the dance the youngsters waited for with impatience.
The young men started lining up for Debka, the Middle East national dance where men show off their strength. Mahmood, the groom, stood proudly, his arms high in the air, the chosen leader, powerful as an oak tree. Debka in Arabic means “stomping feet.” Twirling a handkerchief in his raised hand, Mahmood’s continuous shouts urged the dancers to keep the rhythm and the energy of their stomping.
Second in line was Musa, as befitted the brother of the bride. While he danced, his eyes searched feverishly, until they found her, his Suha. Their eyes locked and sparkled. Every time he turned, Musa fixed his gaze on her. And in her eyes he read the response he hoped for.
There was someone else who watched Musa. It was Mr. Nathan. He followed Musa’s gaze. Surprised, he looked at the girl. Who was she? He had never seen her before. With her light complexion and her azure eyes she didn’t look like any of the Masri family. Who could she be? He would ask Fatima.
Meanwhile the nationalistic spirits provoked by the dance soared.
“Palestine to Palestinians,” an old man screamed. He was followed by others, shouting, “Soon we’ll get rid of the Brits.”
“The Brits and their cohorts, the Jews, too!” yelled one of Mahmood’s friends.
“Yes, yes, right you are, we should throw them all in the sea,” the first man said. Sensing the danger in the air, Fatima discreetly approached the music band and ordered them to stop playing.
“The young musicians are getting tired and it’s time to serve dessert,” she said. But spirits didn’t quiet down so quickly. A few men continued to shout at the top of their lungs.
At Fatima’s signal, the women started singing and dancing. A proud Fatima took Na’ima and Amina’s hands and asked Mahmood’s mother to join them. The women danced with small steps, slowly swinging their bodies to the rhythm of the music.
All of a sudden, Amina took off the scarf that held her hair, kicked away her high-heeled shoes and asked the musicians for a fast dance.
“Women can dance the Debka too,” she said provocatively. The women laughed, surprised.
“We are as good at dancing as men,” Amina insisted. “Let’s prove it!”
The young girls cheered. With her beaded necklace in her raised hand, the leader’ sign, Amina urged the women to join her.
Rama took Shifra’s hand. “Dance with me,” she said.
“I don’t know how,” Shifra answered, embarrassed.
“I’ll show you,” Rama said. Amina heard her younger sister, “Come, come, you too,” she said, but Shifra declined and went to sit by Samira.
Earlier, she had heard the men’s shouts. Though Musa wasn’t one of them, Mahmood was. She had quivered at the sound of hatred in his voice.
A tired and perspiring Fatima dropped on the seat next to them.
“Wonderful party, Sit Fatima, Mavrook again, may God grant you a long life,” Mr. Nathan wished his friend.
“Thank you for coming,” Fatima said. Then she added. “I hope you didn’t pay attention to the youngsters. They got carried away. They were drunk.”
“I know, I know,” Mr. Nathan answered, a thin smile on his lips. He was about to leave, when he changed his mind, “I meant to ask you, who is this beautiful girl?” He pointed to Shifra, “A relative of yours?”
For a minute Fatima looked blankly at him, but Samira was quicker. “She’s an orphan, Mr. Nathan. Her parents were killed in an accident. She escaped, but the shock made her lose her voice, poor girl. Her father had been a good friend of our master, Faud Effendi, now resting in Allah’s Paradise. Sit Fatima, in her kindness, has taken her in.”
Musa, who heard Samira’s last sentence, saw his mother nod. Mr. Nathan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. He bowed to them and left. Other guests started leaving, too. It was growing dark. The party was over and Mahmood was anxious to return to his home, though not before collecting all the money purses, gifts from generous guests.
Abdullah, who had arrived at the wedding in the bank’s chauffeured limousine, offered to take the newlyweds to Deir Yassin, which was on his way to Jerusalem. There were tears and embraces and tears and hugs again.
“I’ll send all your gifts tomorrow in one of our trucks,” Fatima said.
�
�Promise you’ll come soon to visit us, Eumi,” Na’ima said, kissing her mother’s hand.
“When are you coming back?” Abdullah asked Musa, “There’s a lot of work waiting for you at the bank.”
“As soon as I finish helping my mother get the house in order and after I take Amina to the airport.”
The four sisters were still clasping their arms together.
“Enough,” said an impatient Mahmood, seizing Na’ima’s arm. “It’s time to go.”
Amina raise a quizzical eyebrow when she saw his gesture.
“I’ll write to you,” a wet-eyed Na’ima said, tearing herself from her sister.
“And I’ll write back,” Amina called after her.
“The house seems so quiet,” dead tired, Fatima yawned. Then she asked,
“Amina, you had something you wanted to talk to me about.”
“It can wait until tomorrow,” Amina answered, “Let’s rest now.”
2 1
“Finally we have some time for ourselves. The last few days have passed like a whirlwind,” Fatima said the next morning. “I didn’t even welcome you as you deserve,” she continued, caressing Amina’s hand. “It’s been five long months since you left home. Everybody missed you, but I most of all.”
Fatima, Amina and Musa were seated at the kitchen table, drinking nana tea. No one touched the breakfast Samira had spread in front of them.
“I ate so much yesterday, I’m sure I can’t touch any food for the next two days,” Musa said.
“Me too,” echoed Amina. “Na’ima had a very beautiful wedding and you should be very proud, Eumi,” Amina addressed her mother.
Fatima smiled at her daughter. “What I plan to do for your wedding when the time comes, Inshallah, and I hope that time is not too far away, will exceed this one by far.”
Musa coughed. “I think I should go take down the lanterns and return the chairs and tables to the neighbors.”
Amina looked at him with reproach.
“But I’ll be back soon,” he said, reassuringly.
“Go, go, my son,” Fatima told him. “You’ll find us still here. We are going to take things leisurely today. Besides, Amina and I have a lot to talk about. Though, thank Allah, she wrote me every week; those letters were too short for the heart of a mother who aches to hear more, to know more. Cairo is so far away,” Fatima sighed.
“Not as far as you think,” Amina said. “It took only two hours by plane. Now that we live in modern times, the distances grow smaller every day. That’s what George says, too.”
Amina felt she made a faux pas. This was not the way she planned to tell her mother about George. She should have bitten her tongue before saying the last sentence. She saw her mother’s eyes grow bigger.
“You are right.” Musa, who hadn’t left yet, tried to come to his sister’s rescue. “Soon, there will be no frontiers between countries. I mean, when the war ends, and there is peace.”
“Also no more hatred between people,” Amina responded, happy at her brother’s intervention.
Fatima looked from one to the other, keeping her mouth shut. Only her eyes betrayed her feelings.
Samira started clearing the table. “Why don’t you go to the living room and let me clean the kitchen?” she asked. “Everything in here is still a mess.”
Fatima stood. “You are right. Come, Amina.”
There was harshness in her voice. Amina read the astonishment on Samira’s face. Walking behind her mother, she put a finger to her lips while the other hand cupped her ear, a signal Samira understood well.
“So, these are modern times, my daughter, and you seem to have become a modern girl. I saw the change the minute you arrived. The way you wear your hair and your clothes show nothing of the modesty the Prophet asked from Muslim women. I wonder what else you hide from me.”
No, thought Amina, it wasn’t going to be easy. It was going to be a fight. Oh, how she hated the idea. She stopped in front of the credenza and picked up the framed photograph taken on her parents’ wedding day. Her father stood proudly by his bride, but Amina could barely see her mother’s features underneath the voile covering her face.
“Were you in love with my father before you got married?” Amina asked, caressing the picture.
Fatima looked surprised “What kind of question is that? Your father was a good husband, a good father. I think I didn’t disappoint him, either.”
“But did you fall in love with him?” insisted Amina.
“I saw your father for the first time at our henna party. Our parents met first and in their wisdom decided that it would be a good match for both families. I didn’t need to meet him. I trusted my parents, the way Na’ima trusted me. Inshallah, I hope she’ll have as good a marriage as mine.”
Amina abstained from disclosing her doubts about Mahmood.
Fatima continued, “And you would be married already if not for your stubbornness. Since you were fifteen years old, the matchmakers filled our courtyard with proposals. Wealthy and powerful sheiks asked for your hand. But let bygones be bygones. I have no doubts that with Allah’s help I’ll still find a most successful match for you.”
Amina could not wait any longer. “Eumi,” she knelt in front of her mother, “I’ve already found him and he is the most wonderful man. Look,” she showed her mother the sapphire ring, “I’m engaged to be married. Oh, Eumi, my most honored mother,” words stumbled from Amina’s mouth while she saw that anger and pain changed the color of her mother’s face from fiery red to pale white and back to red, “Please hear me. I am here to beg for your consent and blessing.”
Fatima rose from her chair.
“Is he a Muslim?” she asked, wringing her hands, her knuckles as white as ivory. “Is he also a modern man, and shameless, like you? Who could be the Muslim man who bypassed our tradition and forgot to send his parents to talk to me first? Answer me!”
“Eumi,” Amina whispered, her eyes close to tears, “he’s not Muslim. He’s not going to pay you a dowry, as my father’s parents did. George loves and respects me. He considers me his equal.”
When she heard his name, Fatima shuddered. Amina’s voice grew passionate.
“George is the British soldier I wrote to you about. Our love grew slowly and steadily. If not for him, I wouldn’t have chosen to study to become a professional nurse. Because of his love for me, he’s studying Arabic and the history of our people. His parents are now in Cairo waiting to meet me, but George felt that my duty was to be together with my family. He was the one who made it possible for me to attend the wedding.”
Amina stopped talking. She was out of breath. With her back to her daughter, Fatima picked up her wedding picture.
“Faud,” she cried, “Did you hear our daughter? Did you hear the insult? Oh, Faud, Faud, these are bad times when our daughter wants to marry the enemy! You left me with a great responsibility and I failed you.”
“That’s not true. You didn’t fail our father. Eumi, you had to fight for your place in a world full of men. A widow at thirty-four with six children and a business to run, you worked hard, much harder than a man. And you succeeded!”
“If you have come to ask for my consent, the answer is no. I’ll never give my blessing to such a union. It’s against everything I believe in. It’s against our faith.”
Fatima’s words hit Amina like stones; torn between her wish to marry George and her wish to obey her mother. After a long silence, she said softly, “With or without your blessing I’m going to marry George. My future is with him.”
Neither one of them was aware that Samira and Musa witnessed their fiery exchange.
“Mother,” Musa started, but an angry Fatima stopped him, “I’m sure the two of you plotted this. You knew what she was going to tell me. You are now the head of the family. Hasn’t she asked for your approval?”
“I know she’s in love,” Musa answered.
“Love, love, don’t talk to me about love. You are both too young to talk about i
t. Love comes slowly, with time. My mother taught me about it and she was right. Children benefit when they listen to the experience of their elders.”
“I’m going to marry George,” Amina said again. “Musa understands me. It’s my own life I’m going to live, not a repeat of my ancestors’ lives.”
Fatima’s hand went to her throat, for she found it hard to breathe.
“You both want to destroy the family your father built. You want to destroy our honor. Go live your lives! I will never give you my blessing. Never!”
Samira signaled to Amina and Musa to leave her alone with Fatima.
“Drink this cup of strong coffee,” Samira lured Fatima, “I made it the way you like it, boiling water, no sugar.”
Fatima covered her face with her palms.
“I don’t need anything. After what I just heard I feel devastated. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you; you who always knows everything happening in this household before I do!”
“Sit Fatima, please calm down. Think of yesterday’s gorgeous wedding. People are going to talk about it for a long time.”
“That was yesterday; today the sky is falling over my head.”
“Fatima, how many years have we been together? You were eight years old when I started working for your family. That would make…” and Samira counted on her fingers, “more than thirty years.”
Fatima waited. Anytime Samira started talking about the past she always had something in mind.
“I remember you as a young girl, how old, fourteen, fifteen, when you were so much in love with your cousin Abdullah. You had eyes only for him. I still remember how bitterly you cried when your mother said that first cousins can’t marry.”
“This has nothing to do with what’s happening today,” Fatima replied sharply. “My parents had the right to decide whom I was to marry. They were wise in choosing Faud for me.”
“But did you love him? The night before your henna party you cried in my arms and do you remember what you said to me? You, the daughter of a most honorable Jerusalem family, wanted to run away from home!”
Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction Page 13