Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  “Muffi, don’t go straight home. Stop in Jerusalem. You can use a coffee, I’m sure, and I have an errand.”

  When they approached Jaffa Gate, he became impatient with the car and asked to be let out. He walked to the Mandate government headquarters. “Miss Nadia Mishwe, please.”

  The girl at the desk reacted to the handsome young man in the beautifully cut suit by fluttering her eyes. “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Is she here?” He hadn’t expected to find her so easily.

  “On the second floor. In the back. Shall I call her down?”

  “No, thank you.” He took the steps methodically, one at a time, as if each step confirmed his good sense. He would have a talk with Nadia, and the sooner the better. Once he got home, there would be little time. But right now he could convince her of her folly. After all, he was of her own generation. She would listen to him. In the heat of his determination, it never occurred to him that he was acting presumptuously.

  “Samir!” She was shocked to see him. “I thought you were in London.”

  “I just landed today. I haven’t been home yet.” She was wearing a mauve voile dress with a white organdy collar. Her hair was loose, spread all around her face—a beautiful dark-copper cloud. She had penciled her brows—it was the fashion—to look older, no doubt, but it had the opposite effect and this evidence of her vulnerability evoked in him an overwhelming tenderness. She looked lovely and a phrase came to mind—the bloom of a girl in love.

  “And you stopped here? Why?”

  “Muffi, who helps my father, came to drive me home and he told me your news. Can you come out for a few minutes and have a coffee?” It was a small office and he scoured the walls, imagining scenes of intimacy.

  “I suppose.” She looked uncertain and searched his face for his true purpose. “Not too long, though. I have to transcribe these four pages for Victor by five.”

  Did she briefly caress the paper? There was a look about her, a new confidence, but also a softness that totally transformed her. Was it the fact that she loved someone else that made her so desirable? She exuded a womanliness that was palpable. He felt its potency in that close space. It was in her eyes and in the way she held her body and especially in her lovely mouth.

  He led her outside, conscious of his hand on her arm and happy to be out of that small room. They walked to Jaffa Road to the Hotel Fast. “Would you like lunch?” he asked when they were seated.

  She was trying to read his intentions and she had a wary look. “Just a coffee.” When he had given the order and they were alone, he leaned forward with his eyes focused on her. “How was London?” She smiled nervously.

  “You can’t be serious. You’re not going to marry Victor Madden.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes turned hostile. “So that’s what this is all about. Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me. I haven’t even been home yet. I couldn’t just stand by and let you do something so foolish.”

  Her face reddened with indignation. “You have decided it’s foolish? You don’t even know Victor.”

  “He’s a divorced man twice your age.”

  “Oh.” Her lips held the small round O shape. “I have never thought of it that way, but I’m not shocked. Those are just words and they don’t really portray him.” Now she looked at him with uneasy understanding. “You haven’t been home for months and you stopped here on the way from the boat to talk to me? You must think I’m a fool if you thought you could change my mind in a few minutes.” Her eyes became hard and cold. “And don’t pretend to be so shocked over the age difference. I’ve seen too many girls in our family sold off—yes, sold—to men twice their age . . . but with a big difference. They were strangers. I know Victor. And”—she lowered her eyes shyly—“he’s everything I want.”

  “I’m not judging him because of his age. But he’s from a different culture. He knows nothing of what you’re made of. What’s important to you. What you expect from marriage.”

  She emitted a short stingy laugh. “And you know what’s important to me?”

  “Yes. Probably better than he.”

  “I have to go now,” she said, rising. Momentarily she put aside her anger. “I’m sorry you wasted your time. You must be tired and your father must be eager to see you. How was the university?”

  “The university was fine,” he said thoughtfully. His mind was not on the university. “I have to wait for the results of a paper on logic. Other than that I’m finished for the semester.”

  “Do you feel finished?” Her brow was furrowed, as if she really wanted his answer. “What I mean is, are you getting your fine classical education and are you a man of the world now?” Her tone was sarcastic. “Coming to discipline the country girl?”

  “I don’t know if I’m a man of the world. I feel quite helpless right now. You’re probably making a terrible mistake and I wish I could make you see it.”

  “I really must leave. I hope you’ll come to my wedding.” She walked out and left him there. After a few minutes, he sighed and went to meet Muffi, feeling more desolate than before.

  For two days he prowled about the household, fidgety and withdrawn. He had a lot of business papers to look through, but he found it difficult to concentrate. His father had become considerably weaker, but he still struggled every day to participate in his affairs.

  Samir was taking a walk through the village and came to the street where Nadia’s parents lived. It seemed quite natural to go and speak to them, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  He found his aunt Miriam in the garden, patiently cultivating the soil around the vegetables and murmuring to herself. At first he thought she might be praying and felt embarrassed. She had an air of mystery and, of all people, made him feel shy. Her beautiful eyes seemed to see right into his heart.

  “My father said vegetables grow better if you think well of them as you cultivate. I’m talking to them, but you mustn’t think I’ve lost my mind.”

  “Your father must have been a wonderful man,” he said with feeling. “My father talks about him often.”

  “Yes, he was.” She straightened and started to walk toward the house. “I’m glad you came to see me. You’re a wonderful sight. Would you like a glass of lemonade?”

  “No, Amti, I’d like to talk outside.” He was surprised that she could be so calm considering what her daughter was about to do. “Are you pleased about this marriage?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “I could accept anyone she chose if I thought it would bring her happiness.”

  “And you think Victor Madden can bring her happiness?”

  “No.” She looked at him shrewdly. “Nadia’s always been headstrong. She’ll go through with this and it will ruin her life.” Her expression changed and she became agitated. “We can’t lock her up. She’s threatened to leave with him for England.” Her eyes were filled with frustration. “Why couldn’t it have happened some other way? If you and she . . . you had a great deal in common.” She ran her hands down her skirt. “You were the two special children.”

  He had the queerest feeling, an intense desire to admit to his aunt and to himself. “I do love her,” he said quietly. “I love Nadia.”

  She looked stunned. “Why didn’t you say something? This is such a tragedy. Have you told her you love her? Maybe that would make a difference.”

  “I can’t tell her.” Now the pain was in his eyes. “I can’t in good conscience marry my second cousin. There’s too much potential for physical problems and mental ones, too. I know it is done, but I can’t do it.”

  Miriam turned her back on him and walked a few yards to a small copse of trees, where it was cooler. He waited a few minutes and followed her. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve only just become aware of how much I care for her. It’s my misfortune, too, you know.”

  When Miriam t
urned around, she appeared slightly dazed. “Nadia isn’t your blood relative,” she said in an echoing whisper. “Your uncle isn’t her father. If that’s what’s holding you back, don’t consider it a barrier. Please, you mustn’t tell anyone. It would hurt too many people. I’m telling you now because I don’t want Nadia to ruin her life.”

  He was deeply embarrassed, as if her revelation was too intimate. But after a moment, he felt elated.

  She looked at the near hills dotted with the yellow heads of the wheat almost ready for harvest. “Her father’s dead now. He was a German doctor who practiced in Jerusalem before and after the war. He was a dedicated surgeon, vigorous, the son of a doctor. He loved Nadia, although I never told him outright that she was his. I’m sure he guessed. He sent her the horses.”

  Samir shook his head. “That’s where the obsession with horses comes from. And the coloring. And the stubbornness.” He grimaced. “You and Uncle Nadeem seem so devoted.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” she said tersely. The set of her shoulders and her voice told him that, despite her revelation, she was still his aunt and in no way subject to his judgment. She put her hands on her hips. “What are we going to do?”

  The basic facts had not changed. “Nadia loves him, not me. What can we do?”

  Her eyes became hard. Her jaw was set with determination and she stared at him, offering a challenge. “I lost a child—a beautiful boy—during the war. It was one of those devastating things. He was well one day and dead a few days later.” She blinked rapidly, but two tears escaped down her cheeks. “I can’t bear losing another child. If Nadia marries this man, I’ll lose her. He’ll take her away and later—probably quite soon—he’ll tire of the responsibility of marriage and make her miserable. However, Nadia will stick by him forever and suffer silently. He’s a weak individual without a sense of duty or honor. Samir, you must help me.”

  “How can I help you?” He looked perplexed.

  “There is one way,” she said fiercely. “We can still win one way.”

  Victor Madden had a suite of rooms on the third floor of the large house off the Street of the Chain, behind the Khalidi Library. A pair of French doors allowed him a spectacular view to the east to the Temple Mount.

  They were charming quarters and Samir’s thought was, The man has taste and finesse. For the first time he felt trepidation over what he was attempting.

  He took a deep breath, climbed the steps that ran along the outside of the house, and, raising the heavy brass knocker, allowed it to fall forcefully against the lion’s lips.

  Victor Madden was at least three inches taller than Samir. He smiled before he spoke and before Samir introduced himself. “Are you looking for me?” he asked politely.

  “Yes, I’m Nadia’s cousin, Samir Saleh.” He held out his hand. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” He lifted one eyebrow and smiled ruefully. “I’m sure Nadia will be pulling out new relatives for years to come, but I must say you don’t resemble the rest. Your accent is different. Please sit down. Would you like a brandy or something? You must live abroad.”

  Samir remained standing. Everything he had been prepared to say sounded pompous and overblown in the presence of this convivial, sophisticated man. Finally, while Madden fiddled with a bottle and glasses, he got it out. “I’m here to persuade you not to marry my cousin.”

  To his surprise, Victor Madden neither turned around nor stopped what he was doing. “Here we are.” He set down a crystal decanter and two glasses. “Please sit down. Over there, that’s the most comfortable chair.”

  “She’s not prepared to cope with your way of life. Not that she isn’t strong-minded and capable, but Nadia’s strength comes from rebellion. She needs to prove something.”

  Victor took a long sip of his drink. “You think she’s marrying me to prove something?”

  “Exactly. I don’t doubt that she’s infatuated, but deep down, it’s your total difference that really makes you so attractive to her.”

  “Well, now, that doesn’t say much for me, does it? Or for her. It makes us out a couple of misguided fools.” His tone was more amused than bitter.

  Samir was silent. After a moment he said softly, “I’ve no doubt that you love her but I’m not sure you’d love what she’d become if you took her away from here. She’d become dependent and insecure. She’s only a young girl. Deep inside she’s been shaped by our values. That peculiar English brittleness toward everything sentimental would confuse her. She would make the fatal mistake of loving you too well while you would love her superficially.”

  This time Victor was silent and at a loss. “Touché,” he whispered. “Touché.”

  She left the Hotel Fast fighting back tears and almost running to her office. Samir had thought she was a spineless idiot to be easily persuaded. With each step another more incriminating aspect of his behavior hit her, and by the time she reached her office, hot angry tears were streaming down her cheeks. She regretted having gone with him at all, but—and for this she had only herself to blame—she had been so happy to see him. She had been waiting to share her news with him and seek his special approval.

  When he had appeared at her desk, her heart had leaped. He was such a magnificent sight and—this knowledge hurt most of all—she was not immune to the most powerful man of the clan. Now she felt like such a fool. He hadn’t come out of friendship or because he had missed her. He had come out of arrogance and conceit. He was going to single-handedly bring her to her senses. It was so humiliating. It implied her needs and desires were of no consequence. Only his will mattered. Only he had the power to decide her fate. Oh, God, she couldn’t stop crying. She would never change her mind. Never! Finally, her tears diminished and she turned back to the pages on her desk that needed to be transcribed. In two weeks this would all be over. She would be beyond Samir and his power to hurt her.

  A few days later she told her mother she had changed her mind—she wanted the smallest wedding possible. There had been no proper betrothal because of the circumstances; Victor had simply asked Nadeem for her hand and when it was granted, he had opened a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for all present. It was civilized but simple, with none of the excess of feasting and elaborate sword dancing and suggestive songs. No troupe of triumphant relatives carried her trousseau up the Jerusalem Road. She and Victor had together picked out a few pieces of jewelry, including a wide gold band. Nadeem had written to his old friend M. Freneau for a trousseau and it had arrived through the mail. There was no showy red-striped Bethlehem wedding gown and gay jacket. A local seamstress made a dress from a design Nadia picked from a magazine. It was high-necked silk taffeta, buttoning down the back and ending in a bell skirt that came to her ankles. The headdress was a simple tiara with a short net veil. It was only at the last minute that her mother asked her for some small token of tradition.

  “Please, Nadia,” she pleaded, after her daughter was dressed, “wear my veil. The tiara and net are so different from anything we’re used to. My face was covered entirely. No one saw me and I saw no one until after the ceremony. I haven’t asked much of you, but it won’t hurt to have this small bit of tradition.”

  Nadia felt such a pang of conscience. She had not allowed her mother any of the usual satisfactions connected with a wedding. “Of course, Mama,” she said in a soft voice.

  She asked Aunt Zareefa’s older girl, Rheema, who was happily married, to be her matron of honor, and Victor was bringing a colleague from the office. There was a moment that morning when she felt that all the details were getting away from her and she had felt peculiar, as if she didn’t quite believe that she and Victor would be together that very night.

  At the last moment, her father brought Gala to take her to the church. The horse was so old that he walked slowly. “You don’t have to do it.” He shrugged and looked sheepish. Her dress was not meant for sitting atop a h
orse, but he had seen it done this way all his life.

  “You’ll have to lift me up to him,” she said, smiling down at her father, “and lead him very slowly.”

  So in the end, she began her marriage in the age-old tradition—atop a horse, a sword in her hand. When she entered the Roman Catholic Church of the Holy Family, the oldest church in the village, where once the donkeys had roamed at will during the ceremonies, she wore a heavily embroidered veil that covered her face entirely—as a favor to her mother.

  At the entrance to the church, she felt her bridegroom take her by the elbow and lead her to the altar. From beneath the veil, the smells of jasmine and oleander drifted up, and she took a deep breath and relaxed. She fell a thrill of adventure and squeezed the hand that held hers and felt the reassuring pressure returned. She was so glad it would all end now and she could begin her life. She heard the priests entering the church and smelled the contents of the censer swung by the altar boy who preceded them. The ritual began.

  Scripture was read, partly in Latin and partly in Arabic. And finally there came that moment when rings that had been touched to the head and lips of the groom and slipped momentarily beneath Nadia’s veil were placed on their hands and then changed about. Flower wreaths were placed on their heads. The Bible was brought down between them, dividing their joined fingers. Then priests led the bridal party in a march around the church with all the guests following. There was nothing left but for the priest to make the final pronouncement: “You are wedded until death do you part in the yes of God and this Church and man. Those whom God has joined together let no man pull asunder. Go and may God be with you.”

  A gun was fired outside the church and Nadia, startled at this unexpected report, threw back her veil in alarm. The church was totally still. The first face she saw was that of the man in whose fingers her hand was entwined. It was Samir. She cried out, “You! Where’s Victor?” She ran toward the door, stopping before her mother and father. “What have you done with Victor? Oh, no. No, no, no!” She finally understood and began to shake. “Mama, you did this to me? Where is Victor? Mama!”