The bearded man reappeared with a young man. It was Mohammed, tall and well-dressed, youthful and charismatic. It was no wonder Nadia wanted him. He sat, then spoke, and they all listened. His tone was confident and firm, his gestures insistent. Several times he stressed the word wallahi, which Margaret understood as I really mean it. The bearded man fingered his prayer beads and nodded in agreement.
Mohammed stood, said something further, and left the salon. When he reappeared, his mother Anysa was next to him. She assumed the same expression as her sister: face frowning and chin jutted upward.
Margaret looked over at Ahmed, who was comforting his mother. He talked to her like he was the parent and she the child. It appeared that a similar exchange was occurring between Mohammed and Anysa.
Finally, they spoke directly to each other, the two women, so clearly sisters with their identical expressions and gestures. After just a few words, they were yelling, fighting for the upper hand. Margaret was instantly roused. The mother stood and pointed her finger at her sister. Aunt Anysa, the larger and rounder of the two, also stood. She shouted back, her hands on her hips and beads of sweat popping out on her brow. The family listened with stunned expressions as remarks flew between the sisters, accusations and insults.
Then all at once, they stopped and stared at each other. Silence settled on the room, and Margaret held her breath.
At last, the mother started talking, her voice strained. Aunt Anysa replied, her tone softened. The next moment, the two women were embracing. Everyone smiled and looked relieved. “Alhamdulillah,” the room murmured.
“What happened?” Margaret asked Ahmed.
“You can drink your juice.” He smiled. “The engagement’s back on.”
“Thank God.” Margaret stood up to stretch her legs.
“Where are you going?” Ahmed asked.
“Aren’t we leaving now?”
“No, now we’re going to visit.”
They pulled away from the iron gate, and Ahmed told Margaret they would stop at a few hotels on the way back to Fatma’s. What a relief he hadn’t forgotten about this matter amidst the family drama. As he drove, he recounted the highlights of the scene in the salon: how his mother said she was sorry for kicking her sister out of the house, how Aunt Anysa apologized for saying her son was too good for Nadia, how Mohammed swore on the soul of his dead father that he would divorce his first wife.
Ahmed said, “Whatever makes my mother happy.”
“What about Nadia?”
“This is what she wanted.”
Ahmed reached the hotel, and they left the car with the valet. Inside, the lobby was large but modest, with a simple café. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll see if they have any rooms.”
The place was busy; guests were coming and going. Was it possible they could find two rooms during tourist season? As Margaret waited, she glanced over at Ahmed, who was handing his credit card to the clerk. He smiled at Margaret and gave her a thumbs-up.
She told herself to stop being so impatient with him. He really was trying. Granted, he wanted to make his mother and sister happy, but he wanted to please her, too.
He walked toward her. “We have two adjoining rooms, one for us and one for the kids.”
“How’d we get so lucky?”
“Someone canceled.” He clicked his tongue. “See, honey? Sometimes it pays to wait until the last minute.”
Margaret didn’t argue but followed him to the elevator. Their room was basic but more than adequate. She admired the real toilet and touched the fresh white towels.
“Let’s go to that lobby café,” Ahmed said. “It could be our last chance to be alone.”
The café was well-lit and filled with European families and Arab businessmen. Gigantic brass cooking spoons decorated the walls. The waiter, wearing a vest and a red fez, appeared with their drinks: tea for Ahmed and for Margaret, fresh mint lemonade.
“We’ll eat breakfast here every day,” Ahmed said.
She nodded just as the waiter delivered a large platter of mixed fatayer. They ate a few of the savory pastries filled with cheese and spinach.
Ahmed began arranging and rearranging the parsley garnish, then said finally, “I need to tell you something.”
Oh no. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Why else would he have brought her to a restaurant, just the two of them, when all the family was back at Fatma’s eating green mulukhiyya over rice?
“Do you remember that job in the UAE?”
Margaret covered her face with her hands, then let them drop in her lap and gazed sadly at her husband. Why had she been so foolish to think this problem would go away?
Ahmed looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to reply. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“What do you want me to say?” She was surprised by her own calm.
“I have an interview the day after Nadia’s party. I’ll be gone two days, three at the most.”
“When did you make these plans?” This was not the question she wanted to ask.
“I’d almost given up, but they called me today.”
Ah, yes, his phone call that morning. “What about me and the children?” Margaret asked.
“You and the kids will stay at the hotel.”
She looked away, her eyes restlessly roving the walls. The gigantic brass utensils looked absurd and gave the impression of a bogus Arab-themed décor. She turned back to Ahmed and brought his face into focus. She spoke softly. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Abu Ra’id can pick you up each morning and bring you to Fatma’s.”
“So everyone knows?”
“Only you. You’re the first to know.”
Then her question arrived, her tone flat. “Why are you determined to ruin our lives?”
Ahmed leaned across the table. “Just let me see what happens. This is my chance.”
“Yes. Your chance.”
“It’s a chance for all of us.”
“Don’t pretend like you know what you’re asking of me.” Her calm gave way to a breathlessness that filled her chest. She had more to say but could not find her voice.
Ahmed stared down and studied his empty tea glass as if it foretold their future. As they sat in silence, Margaret looked at their situation as though from far away, seeing their impasse from a great distance. She knew Ahmed wasn’t going to acknowledge any more of what she had said. He opted to ignore her words, just as he ignored the true issue at hand.
After twenty years of marriage, they were moving in opposite directions. And neither one cared to get back on the same path.
Chapter 16
“You don’t think your family will mind?” Alison asked.
She and Khalid were sitting in Fatma’s courtyard under the shade of the trees. He had just confirmed her solo trip to the West Bank; she would return home on a later flight, without him.
“My family?” he asked. “It’s not their decision where you travel.” His tone was reassuring and calmed her. Then he added, “It’s my decision. Not theirs.”
Alison looked at him but stopped herself from pointing out how backward his comment was. At least he didn’t mention she was four months pregnant. Actually, four and a half.
Instead, she said, “I wish you could come with me.”
“I’ve been away from my job too long already. Plus, it’s risky.”
“I know, babe.” Alison had heard from Margaret that Khalid could be detained at the border. It all depended on the political climate and the mood of the soldiers.
“You love me, don’t you?” she asked.
“You know I do.” His expression was so earnest that she couldn’t help feeling moved. “Thanks for agreeing to travel back with my mother,” he said.
“It doesn’t make sense for her to fly back to Seattle alone.”
For a week of sightseeing in Jerusalem and Bethlehem, Alison was prepared to do almost anything. The trip with Khalid had started out so wrong—the extra gifts the
y had to lug along, the ugly fight the night before, his mother attached to them like an appendage. Then there were those first dismal days at Fatma’s. And crying in front of Margaret. How had Alison lost control like that?
As for the engagement party, the women’s gathering, held in a tent on someone’s roof, intrigued Alison in the beginning. It was her first time seeing many of the women out of hijab, wearing makeup and strappy gowns. But the event—loud, crowded, and frenzied—dragged on hour after hour into the early morning. When the women rushed in unison to slip on their hijabs and jilbabs, Alison assumed with relief that the event was over. But no. The groom and his entourage were arriving for a photo shoot; the party and dancing went on for another two hours.
Going to the West Bank was the one thing turning out in her favor. Baby or no baby, Alison vowed that she would apply for graduate school as soon as she got home. Otherwise, all this experience would go to waste.
On Khalid’s last day in Jordan, Alison spent the day at his side. When they finally had a moment alone together in the salon, he explained the plan. Fatma and her husband Abu Ra’id would drive Alison to the Jordanian border. She would then travel over the bridge by bus to the Israeli side.
“You won’t have any problems,” Khalid said. “You’re an American.”
“I’d like to stay in the youth hostel where I stayed last time.” Details of the place came to Alison’s mind: the Persian carpet, the Arab clerk, the backpackers lingering in the lobby.
“You’ll stay at my sister’s. Why pay for a place to sleep?”
“You’re right.” Alison had to admit that it would be a rare opportunity, staying in a refugee camp.
“Then you’ll take a taxi to Jerusalem,” Khalid said. “From there, find another one to the Bethlehem checkpoint. Aida Camp is close by. It may take time getting through.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Things have changed since you were there last time.” A look of anguish flitted across his face. “My cousin Belal will be waiting on the other side. He speaks English.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“Don’t worry. He’ll find you.” Khalid pulled out a small piece of paper. “Here are the numbers for Belal, Uncle Waleed, Huda, and Yasmine.” He handed it to her. “Hide it.”
Alison shoved the paper in the pocket of her jeans and made a confession. “I’m a little worried about the Israeli border. What if they figure out my background?”
“You’re kidding, right?” He stared at her. “You’re an American tourist.” He brushed away her concerns with a flip of his hand. “Just pretend you don’t know any Palestinians.”
“What should I say if they ask?”
“Lie.”
The next day Khalid left for Seattle. The family, wiping tears from their eyes, lined up at the gate to say good-bye. The following day, they did the same for Alison—minus the tears.
During the dusty car ride to the bridge, she sat in the backseat with Fatma while Abu Ra’id drove. Fatma talked about how she missed Bethlehem, the city of her childhood. She gave Alison letters for her sisters, which Alison slipped into her backpack next to the wallets she planned to give Huda and Yasmine.
At the border, they said their salaams, and Alison walked away and into the hot, oppressive air. She was on her own now—at least until she met Belal.
On the Jordanian side of the border, as she sat on the bus watching it fill with families, Alison remembered she was pregnant. How strange it was she still had trouble remembering this fact. Her morning sickness was nearly over, and in loose-fitting clothing, she barely showed.
The bus filled up at last, then began its short journey, inching over the modest bridge and stopping at a large, single-story white building with an Israeli flag flapping in the wind. Alison exited with the others, and Israeli soldiers directed them forward. She moved along, averting her eyes from their guns. Inside, the travelers fell into two lines. Ahead was a pretty female soldier with long ringlets in her hair. She smiled broadly. “Shalom. Welcome to Israel.”
Alison’s heart beat nervously, and she wished Khalid was by her side. When it was her turn, she approached the window and presented her passport.
The female soldier studied Alison’s face. “What’s the purpose of your visit to Israel?”
“I’m a tourist.”
“Do you know anyone in Israel?”
“No.”
“Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes.”
The soldier drilled her eyes into Alison. “You’re traveling alone, and you don’t know anyone in Israel?
“Yes. I mean no.”
“Go wait over there.” The soldier pointed to a row of chairs.
Alison sat and fidgeted until a tall male soldier gestured for her to follow him. Inside a bare room with only a table and chair, he pointed to her backpack. “Your bag.”
She placed it on the table. Another soldier appeared, holding Alison’s passport. He asked the same questions as before. As Alison answered, perspiration spread under her blouse. Meanwhile, the tall soldier unzipped her backpack. His clumsy hands ran across her belongings until he reached something of interest: her address book. He flipped through it, said something in Hebrew, and left the room, taking the book with him. The remaining soldier spilled out the contents of her backpack and rummaged through it. She bit her lip as she remembered the letters.
The tall soldier reappeared with her address book. “Who is Waleed?”
Her face grew warm. How could she have been so stupid to write the names there? She recalled Khalid’s instructions—but any lie refused to rise up.
“Waleed is my husband’s uncle,” she answered.
“Your husband’s Palestinian?”
“Yes.”
“You said you didn’t know anyone in Israel.” He stared at her.
“I’ve never met him before.”
“Is this your first time in Israel?”
“I came in 2000 with a study group.” The trip flashed through her mind. The students, the youth hostel, the carefree mood.
“Wait outside.” He pointed to the door. The other soldier scooped up her backpack and took it away. Alison took a seat outside. By then, nearly all the other travelers had left. Only a few sad-looking individuals remained. They sat together in the row of chairs, but each was alone.
Young Israeli soldiers strode about the open space with their guns and walkie-talkies. The female soldier with the ringlet hair was smoking now and no longer smiling. Alison reached for her backpack that wasn’t there. She worried about the letters and wondered what the soldiers were doing with her things. She envied the tourists who had already made it through.
Eventually a new soldier appeared and called her back into the room. “Your husband’s Palestinian?” This began a new battery of questions, mostly repeats from before. He then asked her about her plans for staying in Israel. How long would she stay? Where would she sleep?
“I’m staying at the Oasis Youth Hostel in East Jerusalem.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue. She believed it when she said it. She wished it were true.
It was midafternoon when Alison finally squeezed into the back of a shared taxi filled with passengers. During the drive to Jerusalem, her hands trembled as she clutched her backpack and repeatedly fingered the letters inside. The soldiers had said nothing about them. Instead, they repeated the same questions over and over until they finally let her go. “Their game,” Khalid had said.
The highway cut through the West Bank, past groves of olive trees and Palestinian villages on rocky hillsides. The taxi reached the edge of Jerusalem, and Alison gazed at the old stone villas, arched windows, and iron gates. They rounded a bend, and the ancient stone ramparts of the Old City came into view, just as she remembered—actually more breathtaking than before. A panorama of the Old City emerged, magnificent with the sun reflecting off the gold on the Dome of the Rock. Alison sucked in a breath. Everyone in the car, even the driver, paused to take in
the view.
They reached a parking lot full of taxis where Alison found a minivan heading to the Bethlehem checkpoint. As the van drove off, Alison told herself to relax.
The checkpoint into the West Bank looked more like a border with its high wall and watchtower. Long lines of people wound into a concrete building, and Israeli soldiers swarmed all around. She didn’t remember this scene from her student trip to Bethlehem. Khalid’s words came back: Things have changed since you were there.
Up ahead, a soldier questioned a man in line in front of her. When it was Alison’s turn, her stomach quivered, she held up her passport, and the soldier waved her through. She was herded down a metal corridor, and through the infamous security wall, formidable and unnerving. She followed the others, all walking solemnly single-file.
With the wall behind her, Alison continued forward into the bright sun. She shielded her eyes and passed a long row of taxis, their drivers calling out to her. Alison gripped her backpack, which dug into her shoulder. She searched the nearby faces for one that could be Khalid’s cousin.
From behind her someone called, “Alison?” The voice had a heavy accent. She turned and locked eyes with a man puffing on a cigarette, dark circles under his eyes. He left the cigarette in his mouth and extended his hand. “I am Belal.”
As they shook hands, she avoided staring at his gaunt, unshaven face, not at all how she had imagined him.
Belal’s gaze shifted from her face to something behind her. “Yalla, let’s go.”
She followed, hoping he would offer to carry her bag.
He looked nervously over his shoulder. “I have to stay away from the checkpoint,” he said in English. “If the soldiers ask to see my ID …” He clicked his tongue.
“This is the wall.” He gestured with his head.
Alison picked up her pace to hear what he was saying.
Against the blue sky, the concrete wall stood shockingly tall and ugly, more appalling than Alison had imagined. Covered in a bizarre range of angry graffiti, it prompted Alison to stop and stare. Then she had to jog to catch up.
Where Jasmine Blooms Page 15