3.
A BOY CAME TO THE STAND TODAY.
Change comes slowly in most lives, but sometimes there is one decisive moment. One can point and say, “There. My life changed there.”
Mustafa’s life changed dramatically in the autumn of 1894, when Nabiha’s brother, who was childless, gave him two acres on the northeast corner of the village. The bulk of the land was distributed on two sides of a steep hill filled with scrub brush and trees. There was no ready source of water for irrigation. The sole advantage was that the land faced south and west.
Mustafa began clearing as large a portion as possible through the beastly September heat. From dawn to dusk, he uprooted shrubs, chopped down trees, and overturned earth. The peculiar powdery effect of lime rock and the countless stones showing on the surface looked hopeless. To make use of the slopes, Mustafa cut shelves out of the hills and saved the stones to create a ledge that would protect the terraces. He began to sleep at the site and once each day Miriam arrived with a packet of food. “Well, let’s see how far along you are today.” She regularly communicated with him in hand language, but still they were partial to the old methods of drawing and pantomime because Mustafa had come to enjoy it. She seldom saw much change in the land from day to day but she made an effort to show surprise for his accomplishments.
Through the ordeal Mustafa ignored the lack of water much as he had ignored Jamilla’s anger in the first year of their marriage. Often, especially when she was upset, his wife spoke to him as if he could hear perfectly. “My uncle has given you a gift of nothing,” she would say and to illustrate would point her empty palms upward. It was therapeutic for her to vent her feelings and he always appeared to be listening. She also had adopted some of his physical maneuvers. She would visit the site of his garden and mimic the act of digging and shoveling and wiping sweat off her brow and becoming bent over from the strenuous labor. She would walk around in circles, holding her back and looking dazed as if the sun had scrambled her wits. Then she would shrug and throw her hands up as if to say, “For what?” At such times Mustafa would take his hand and erase the creases from her brow. He would point to his head, close to his eyes, and smile, implying he had a vision of good.
He rented a horse and coaxed Daud, who was a fearless rider, to help him uproot the most stubborn stumps. Remembering the dark, loamy soil he had seen in Sarona, he collected his neighbors’ ashes, refuse, and animal droppings and spread the mixture over his future garden. He borrowed a team and plowed with one ox on one level and the other below, for the terraces were narrow. During this maneuver, the stick caught and wouldn’t budge. Mustafa dug out not a rock as expected, but a masonry leader that was connected to a solid masonry pool. These ancient ruined pools, originally built to catch the overflow from the springs, were often used for threshing floors. The largest of them, the Pools of Solomon, south of Bethlehem, when full, could float a battleship. The pool Mustafa found was close to Ayn Fara, a copious perennial spring that didn’t diminish in summer. After several rainstorms, the pool began to fill and Mustafa knew he had a source of livelihood for himself and his family.
He put in early crops—cabbage, parsley, peas, onions—and as the weather warmed, added okra, eggplant, cucumbers, squash, and cauliflower. He experimented with tomatoes, which were new to the country but much sought after by the European colonies in Jerusalem. Every two weeks, he added side dressings of the fertilizer he concocted from his cache of refuse. By May he was able to bring his early crop to the Jaffa Gate and sell it alongside those of the other village farmers.
The plaza outside Jaffa Gate was the busiest spot in all Jerusalem, for here ended the well-traveled road from the ancient port city of Jaffa. Here, diligences—carriages bringing imported necessities and luxuries—discharged their passengers and goods.
Mustafa fashioned a two-tiered cart with long handles to hold his produce and he and Miriam pushed it the ten miles from Tamleh every Wednesday. The spot they chose was at the foot of Suleiman Street in front of the French Hospital of St. Louis.
It was the thriving hub of the city. Jaffa Road, though still unpaved, had sidewalks. In just one small stretch, across from the Russian compound, there was a branch of Barclay’s Bank, the Hughes Hotel, a specialty cobbler, and several elegant shops and cafés. The Greek consulate occupied spacious offices atop one building that housed a branch of the Russian post office below.
Inside the walls, the Holy City was vastly improved in health and respectability as the century drew to a close. Mayor Salim Husseini had laid cobblestones over the winding narrow lanes and instituted regular sweepings, installed lanterns, and hired night watchmen. Camels and donkeys were no longer allowed inside the walls. There was a man hired just to clean the corners where “people laid their waters.” Jaffa Gate was closed at night for safety and those wishing to leave before dawn had to be lowered over the wall by ropes. The fields behind the New Grand Hotel, which previously had been a casual burial ground for countless animal carcasses that putrefied in the sun, were cleared. The mounds of dung and garbage that had threatened health and welfare were diminished. No longer was it necessary to encourage the hyenas to enter at night to eat away at the debris.
Miriam loved the noise, the confusion, and the color. She watched with interest as Turkish strongmen in sashed pantaloons jockeyed huge pallets laden with bales of cotton and other raw materials through the narrow lanes. Monks and sisters of every sect—Copts, Muslims, Orthodox, Latins, Jews, and Dervishes—crisscrossed the square in and out of the Holy City in a variety of clerical dress. The ever-present hordes of Russian pilgrims in dark penitential clothes swarmed in and out of the Russian compound. Villagers looking to alleviate minor ailments and give themselves a thorough washing visited the baths.
Overriding everything were the intermittent clouds of dust created by the carriages and animals, for the road outside the walls was still unpaved. With water collected in a cistern from the roofs of the Citadel buildings, municipal workers dampened the ground several times a day.
Miriam and Mustafa took pleasure in arranging the produce. Crisp okra spikes were laid out like a regiment of sturdy soldiers. Bouquets of parsley were presented in paper cones. Turnips were upended with their rosy points showing over the lip of several large clay bowls. Green beans and peas were kept in the lower tray out of the wilting sun. Cucumbers, midnight green and shimmering with droplets of dew, were laid out in a row along the back. Scallions and young yellow squash, the blossoms still clinging, filled out the colorful assortment. Eggplants were added as they matured, but the jewels of the collection were the tomatoes. Some, weighing almost a pound, formed the base of small pyramids and were quickly grabbed by Europeans who were homesick for this food.
The first few weeks Mustafa sold out his supply before the morning was over and took the opportunity to inspect the competition, whose puny, ill-formed merchandise sold for the same price as his. He began to have repeat customers and some offered advice. Sister Charlotte, a Kaiserswerth deaconess and revered head of the German orphanage, told him to double his prices immediately, for the quality of his goods warranted it. Father Alphonse, head of the Ethiopian monastery, put in a weekly order and added a bonus for delivery to the compound on Ethiopia Street. The doctors and nurses of the St. Louis Hospital scooped up pounds of the haricots verts, which were long and tender. The Italian consulate, also on Ethiopia Street, sniffing the glorious basket being delivered to Father Alphonse, demanded the same with a double order of tomatoes.
By the time the second crop of beans and peas came in, both Mustafa and Miriam were spending as much time delivering orders as selling at their stand. Sister Charlotte urged Mustafa to experiment with a new vegetable unknown in Palestine, assuring him she would be responsible for the entire crop. “When the Emperor Frederick visited the orphanage and asked what we most wanted him to send us from Germany,” said the sister, “we asked for two barrels of potatoes. All the Europeans feel th
e same. It’s a wonderful staple, very easy to grow.” So Mustafa added potatoes to the following year’s crop and had an even more successful business the second summer. He enlarged his clientele to include the consulates of France and England and the Grand Hotel that had opened on the corner of Latin Patriarchate Road.
Two German hotels, the Hughes and the Feil, asked for Mustafa’s wares, but he refused. The debris being excavated for the ghastly German compound at the Muristan was filling the moat around the Citadel of David, infuriating the locals as well as other Europeans. Mustafa’s best customers were still the Ethiopians and he often stopped to sit in the gardens outside their beautiful church. Father Alphonse offered to house and educate his sons, but Mustafa demurred. The twins were barely ten.
At dusk, when deliveries and errands were finished, father and daughter stopped to hear the Turkish military band that played twice weekly in the Baladiyya, a lovely public garden that was another of Mayor Husseini’s innovations.
Miriam often noticed the young nurses coming out of St. Louis Hospital, their breasts jutting out from crisp bib aprons, their caps firmly anchored on their carefully styled hair. They laughed and chattered together and often a doctor would join them. The nurses were charmed beings blessed by the universe to live a life of gaiety and satisfaction. The doctors were celestial. She whiled away the hours dreaming, irrationally, of being part of such a life.
It was the end of September of their fourth year at the stand. The potatoes had been harvested, also the cabbage. A few tomatoes were still ripening. Mustafa closed for five months—November through March—while he tilled, repaired, fertilized, and overturned his garden. This year he planned to build a home for his family. Nabiha’s house, with Nabile’s growing family, was too crowded.
Miriam, at sixteen, was almost as tall as her father, with a slim hard body developed by years of strenuous walking. In contrast, her heavily lashed blue eyes were soft and wistful.
One late afternoon she was tapping her foot to the music coming from the barracks of the Turkish police, where the orchestra practiced. She knew the day was coming to an end when she heard the squeaks and shrieks of the horns (few of the musicians were trained). She had opened the Palestine Post and was reading and tapping and wasn’t immediately aware of the young man standing there.
“Are you from the Mishwe family? Dâr Mishwe?” She felt foolish to be caught tapping her foot but also he’d taken her by surprise. She didn’t think of herself as coming from the Mishwe family, although she was connected through Nabiha. “You’re from the Mishwe family,” he said more forcefully. “I’m your cousin.” He wanted some confirmation.
“Perhaps.” If he was so certain, she had no need to confirm it.
“Not perhaps. It’s true.”
She didn’t like his insistent tone and refused to look up.
“You come here every week?”
“No,” she lied. He might come back next week. He might come back every week. “Did you want some beans?” she asked quickly. “That’s all that’s left.” Too late she realized there was also a head of cabbage and sat in a state of numb embarrassment.
“How about the cabbage? Is it reserved?”
Ya Allah. “No. But it has worms.” Go away.
“Let’s see how many worms it has,” he said playfully, and her shyness turned to stubbornness.
“One worm or ten,” she said, looking straight at his chest, “we don’t sell bad vegetables.”
“Very well, I’ll take the beans.” He pulled out some coins and dropped them on the cart. “I’ll take all of them and next week I’ll come back and tell you how they tasted.”
She thought he had turned to leave and looked up. But it was too soon. She caught his profile—short brown hair ending in curly innocence at the nape of his neck, an ordinary ear and chin, healthy coloring. His teasing voice, however, was threatening. He had spoken to her as if he had a right to expect a friendly response. She didn’t want to give a friendly response to him or to any young man. She liked her life the way it was.
That night she said to her mother, “A boy came to the stand today and said he was my cousin. He asked me if I was from the Mishwe family.”
“A boy?” said Jamilla. “How old a boy?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at him. Maybe more than a boy.”
“A man?” asked Jamilla, astonished. “How did he look?”
“I don’t know.”
“You spoke to a man and you don’t know how he looked?”
Diana, who was pregnant with her third child, strolled in and picked up a meat-filled hand pie from a tray. “What man?” she asked casually. “A man wants Miriam?”
Jamilla, who had not yet dared to form the thought, was annoyed that Diana had said it first. “Don’t be foolish. Someone just asked if she was from the Mishwe family. He said he was our cousin.”
“Ah . . . well. Who is it?”
“I don’t know.” Miriam wished she hadn’t mentioned anything.
“Didn’t you ask his name?” asked Diana, overly incredulous. She exaggerated every response to make herself important.
“No,” said Miriam. “I sold him string beans.”
“I wonder who it is,” said Jamilla. She mentioned several names with brief descriptions, but all were eliminated.
“The next time he comes, I’ll find out,” said Miriam.
Both Diana and Jamilla turned in astonishment. “He’s coming back?” they asked in unison.
“He said he would let me know how the string beans tasted.”
4.
YOU MUST MARRY SOMEONE.
I hear you can read and write,” said one of the visitors. They had come purposefully up the hill, three figures in fine clothes.
Miriam looked at her mother, but Jamilla was twisting her rings. “Very little.” The visit was like waiting for honey to drip on a cold day. Slow and stiff.
“Don’t be modest,” said Jamilla quickly. “Miriam can read or write anything.” This was not true. Her mother was sitting on the edge of her chair. The visitors were her aunts, vaguely related through Nabiha. But there was an air about them—they were wealthy. They were dressed in crepe de chine, and their arms jangled with at least a dozen bracelets.
“And you went to the school for rich Muslims? The school for the Darawayis and Faidys?”
“I had little to do with the girls. They went home when my lessons began.” Umm Jameel—as was the custom, she was called by her first son’s name, mother of Jameel—who seemed to be the important one, ironed out her fat fingers. “How is it that rich Muslims go to denominational schools?” she asked, as if this oversight were Miriam’s fault.
“I’ve no idea,” said Miriam. “Perhaps it’s for their good. Or for their ill,” she added fatalistically.
“Did they teach you sewing?” Umm Jameel persisted. “Do you embroider?”
“They taught the girls cross-stitch, which my mother had already taught me.”
Umm Jameel took a bite of a cookie. “And did you bake these delicious cookies?”
“She helped,” offered Nabiha quickly. “Miriam is often away with her father. She interprets for him in his business.”
“And from whom do you get those blue eyes?” This came from another aunt who had been quietly inspecting the room.
Jamilla looked troubled. “No doubt from my husband’s family.”
After what seemed an interminable pause, the three women rose, exchanged kisses with their hostesses, and left.
“It’s wonderful,” said Nabiha, clapping her hands above her head.
Jamilla looked after the departing Umm Jameel and muttered, “Kalb hamil khurj mal.” A dog carrying a saddlebag of wealth. However, she, too, was smiling.
“Why did they want to know so much about me?” asked Miriam.
“And why not?” said
Jamilla with indignation. “That’s what they came for. To look us over. They want you for Nadeem.”
“Who is Nadeem?”
“Nadeem Mishwe. He’s the second son of Umm Jameel. The family’s very good.” Jamilla’s voice became serious. “Her sister, the thin one, is married to a man who owns orange groves in Jaffa. One uncle went to Argentina and sends back gold lira. Nadeem’s family has just one vineyard and the grapes are inferior, but he’s a first-class mason. He’s working on a church in Madaba.” Jamilla looked at her daughter appraisingly. She had heard rumors while waiting in line at the taboon to bake her bread, but had been afraid it was in jest. Even now, her heart fluttered with apprehension that she had misinterpreted. “He wants you for his wife ” she told her daughter.
For Miriam it was all too clear. This was the prelude—the visit to make a match. The fat woman was the mother of the eligible boy. She summoned up the weddings and funerals where these three faces had passed and struggled to attach them to a son. Was it the short, pudgy idiot who tied three dogs together so that they tore each other to bits? Was it the tall, thin boy with boils on his cheeks? Was it the balding man who had already lost a wife?
“Baba, do I have to marry? Suppose I don’t want to?” Happily no one could interpret what she and her father signed to each other.
Mustafa looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t you want to?”
“I like my life as it is. I don’t want to leave you and Mama. I like working with you at the stand.” The idea of marriage frightened her, but she was too embarrassed to tell him.
“We can delay it,” Mustafa signed. “But he’s a fine man. It’s an advantageous marriage.” Having gained respectability late in life, Mustafa, too, was caught up in the idea of a good match.
She went to her mother. “Until now,” she reasoned, “I didn’t know about them and they didn’t know about me.”
Three Daughters: A Novel Page 3