Three Daughters: A Novel

by Consuelo Saah Baehr

  “Aren’t you tired?” he asked.

  “No. Yes. A little.”

  “The bed is big enough for both of us.”

  “Is it?”

  He pointed to the other room. “I sleep in there.” She let him lead her into a small bedroom with the same odd angles. The bed was for two and she wondered if the size was an accident or if he had expected her to come to him all along. She walked as far away from him as the room allowed.

  “Are you frightened?”

  “Should I be?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  He thought a moment. “No one’s ever died of it.”

  She smiled. “That’s good.”

  “I won’t rush you.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.” She didn’t sound convinced and her eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a way to escape.

  “I’ll put the light out,” he said gallantly.

  “It’s all right.” She sat down on the bed, facing a wall with a washstand. She heard him undressing in the dark. His shoes. He stood up. His trousers and shirt. Everything. She felt the bed move and heard the springs creak. He was waiting for her. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t disappoint you.” She still didn’t move. That moment, if she could have received a wish, it would have been to be beautiful. Then she could accept his passion gracefully. She wanted him to be awed by her beauty and to desire her to madness. She wanted to ask him if he loved her, but she said, “Here we are,” as if summing up an exhausting journey.

  He moved across the bed and she felt his breath on her neck and his hands on the buttons of her sweater. He undressed her with deliberateness—as if now that she was in his care, he would do everything for her—and placed her in the center of his bed. He found her lean, taut body staggeringly sensual. Long legs and hard smooth thighs, beautiful broad sculpted shoulders, and such a flat, wide midriff that her breasts rose up as a sumptuous surprise. “Look at you . . . so beautiful.”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as beautiful.”

  “You are to me.” First he lay alongside her and then he raised himself up and kissed her.

  “I was just wishing I were more beautiful.” She spoke into his lips.

  “Shh.”

  He traced the outline of her body and began again, more seriously, from shoulders to breasts to the center of her belly. She kept absolutely still until he smoothed back her thighs in an effort to widen the space between her legs. Then she tried to sit up. “Shh. Don’t worry.” He held her down with kisses. “It might hurt,” he said as he eased himself inside. At this point, a sound escaped his lips that made her totally alert. He said something like “ooh,” or “ah,” a moan that at first she mistook for disappointment and then realized was an irrepressible sigh of pleasure, which meant that he was thrilled to be in this incredibly awkward position. She was embarrassed to be listening, but the sounds had a curious effect on her own nervous system. Little electric currents ran through her body each time he moaned and she found herself raising her hips to meet him. For the first time, she believed he might really love her.

  Then, as if a warning light had gone on in his head, he stopped all sound and movement. Right away she knew what had stopped him. He was wondering if she were a virgin. She held her breath, waiting for him to continue, but the drama of what might have been kept raking through her mind. What if Victor hadn’t held back? What if Samir found that another man had been there first? Would he get up and leave her there and never return? Suppose something was wrong that wasn’t even her fault? She heard him sigh when he broke through but this time the sigh made her wary. Was it passion or relief? He went deeper and deeper inside her. Oh! She could feel him and she wanted to squeeze herself around him, holding him inside her until . . . “Samir . . . stay still . . . for God’s sake. Stay!” Good God, she had been pushed into talking about it.

  “It took a lot,” he said to the air. He spoke and exhaled at the same time. It sounded as if he were just out of a crisis. She knew what he meant. It had taken a lot to bring them to this bed. It remained to be seen if he would find it worthwhile.

  She fell deeply in love—that old knocking behind the ribs and breathless surprise—after she began living with Samir. He was tolerant and thoughtful, traits she hadn’t expected from a man who had been the center of attention all of his life.

  The miracle was they were uncannily alike. Both preferred to be out of doors, even in bad weather, over anything else. They still read difficult classics like students preparing for placement exams. He liked to tease her over the way she held the book up to her nose and sat favoring one haunch, as if still sentenced to the cramped prison of the Friends’ middle school desks. “Too vain to get glasses?”

  “My eyes are perfect.”

  She teased him about his wardrobe—actually, she was awed by the quality and quantity of his clothes, which far outnumbered hers. She was stunned by the revelation that his mother had had a dressmaker’s dummy made to his adult measurements and it was stored at a London haberdashery where they could make up anything from underwear to three-piece suits and have them fit perfectly.

  Her cooking was awful, but he considered that amusing and hired Mary Thomas’s daughter to prepare the main meal. “You’ll be doing her a favor,” he told Nadia. “She wants to repay me because her mother lives in one of the farm cottages rent-free.”

  “What will I do?”

  “Miss Smythe told me the girls’ tennis team needs a coach. And they can always use an extra pair of hands in the science laboratory.”

  There was a more visceral side to their relationship. Nadia was so tempted by sex that, often, it took over her will. Some days, whatever touched her body—her underpants, her brassiere, the edge of a table innocently meeting her crotch—aroused her. Riding a horse made her so wildly excited she rubbed herself against the animal until she came. During lovemaking she wasn’t above maneuvering her body or grabbing him to satisfy a greedy throbbing spot. She would have died if Samir commented on her style, because when she wasn’t aroused, she was chagrined. She would catch him smiling down at her as if he were amused by a charming weakness. He never said, “Wow. I didn’t expect you to be so hungry.” Yet that’s what it felt like. Hunger.

  After lovemaking they liked to relive their shared past while sprawled on their bed. “Remember the time . . .” he would begin, and then they vied to recall school day catastrophes. The day they had gone to Jerusalem with Mr. Knudsen to see Henry V and Hanna Taban had dropped his camera from the balcony, hitting a woman below and knocking her out. The spring Margaret mistook a can of potpourri for Darjeeling tea and served it to the British chief secretary who was judging the English speaking contests. The afternoon that Pudgy Watson had slipped on the slick soles of his new shoes, unwillingly skating into the headmaster’s wife from St. Luke’s School in Haifa, who was visiting. “She went down like a bird,” said Samir, laughing so hard it sounded like choking. He seemed so young to her, rolling helplessly in bed.

  “Did you really hate me all that time?” he asked.

  “You did everything right and that annoyed me. Everything about you was better than anyone else. You had a wristwatch that I coveted for two years. It had a round gold case and Roman numerals and a tan strap.”

  “I’ll give it to you now,” he offered sheepishly. “It’s around here somewhere.”

  She ignored him and waved her hand in the air. “It wasn’t the watch, but what the watch stood for. You were so poised. You had perfected a cold, disinterested stare that absolutely paralyzed me.”

  “No. It wasn’t cold. Cool, maybe. But never toward you.”

  “Perhaps. But fear that I might provoke that arctic blast kept me from wanting to get anywhere near you. I didn’t want to be one of the pack, hoping to get my ration of glances.
” Those remembered feelings were still very real. “I wanted you to be delirious over me alone.”

  “I was glancing at you all the time and got scowls in return. I didn’t know what to make of you, but it’s true what they say about playing hard to get. I was intrigued.”

  “And now that I’m yours? Are you still intrigued?” She wouldn’t have believed that she’d ask such a dumb question. Love had undermined her good sense.

  “I think so,” he teased and smiled, but when he saw concern in her eyes, he amended it. “Don’t worry. I’m delirious over you alone.”

  “Oh, Samir.”

  Each morning he met the egg woman and the fruit and milk sellers, squeezed and scrutinized each selection and brought it inside for his wife. He was proud to make the coffee. “I learned how to do it in England over a Sterno can. Now I’m an expert,” he would say, shaking the pot skillfully at the moment it threatened to boil over.

  If he had been practical, Samir would have had his office in Jerusalem along with the exporters who bought his figs, raisins, and olive oil. But his father had conducted business in the heart of the village, where almost every stone was familiar, greeting people he had known all his life. When he took his place as the newest member of the village council, it seemed that all the pieces for the life that was planned for him were in place.

  He went dutifully to the office on Hilo Road every morning—he would have preferred to scoot up to the farm in his Singer coupe and poke around the vineyards or watch the new foals race the gazelles to develop their hindquarters. Saturday mornings were reserved for a soccer game with old schoolmates. They called themselves the Lions and wore green-and-silver uniforms. When he returned home, his face bathed in dampness, his eyes bright, his legs boyishly innocent in the soccer shorts, Nadia’s heart would shift and knock furiously. How could she have known she would love him so?

  The Children’s Care Society was the most popular organization for young matrons with time on their hands. The goal was to fill empty little stomachs with a hot noonday meal and bundle underprivileged bodies in warm clothing before sending them back to the classroom. It was everything that made a woman’s heart tremble. It was edifying!

  Righteously fatigued, their skins glowing from the steam of dishwater, the women gossiped with earned satisfaction. Nadia Saleh’s new living arrangements created all sorts of puzzlements.

  Matron Number One: “Why? Why did he marry her? Why did he wait for her? Why is he so happy she’s finally deigned to live with him? Why does he treat her as if she’s done him a favor?”

  Matron Number Two: “Because. It’s obvious why he married her and why he’s decided to be a devoted husband. Why he coddles her and why she behaves as if she’s entitled.”

  “It’s not obvious to me. She’s interested not one but two sophisticated men. How? What does she have that’s so compelling?”

  “I’ve thought about it a long time and now it makes perfect sense. She and Samir had the same education, so they can talk to each other. That’s one thing. She’s one of the family but not too close, so that’s a plus. She knows how to eat with a knife and fork and serve tea and all that, so she won’t embarrass him. But the number-one overall prime motive is that he considers Nadia an excellent investment. Like his farm or the hotel or the groves.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Samir has invested in Nadia’s childbearing potential. He wants a baby factory for strong boys with fair skin, hazel eyes, and the height that the Saleh family lacks. That’s what makes that marriage make sense. If he wants to continue his line, Samir had to get himself a bonus breeder.”

  In 1931, while Samir and Nadia adjusted to married life, the village adjusted to being discovered as a summer refuge by tourists seeking to escape the paralyzing heat and humidity of the lowlands. Investors created a resort corporation that widened and repaired the remaining dark, narrow streets and opened new roads. Older mud houses were demolished and springs reactivated. Three hotels sprang up, a grand outdoor restaurant plus a row of boutiques selling such items as suede ankle-strap shoes from Italy and French bathing suits.

  As always when he saw building activity, Nadeem became restless. “I’m going to renovate the property in Jerusalem,” he told his wife. “I can get two good-sized apartments in each wing, up and down, and while I’m at it, I’ll electrify and install indoor plumbing.” Miriam shrugged, which he chose to interpret as approval. “I’ll repave the courtyard. Might as well, so cars can drive in.” She gave him a sly look. “You think it’s a good idea?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Why the look?”

  “Because you won’t stop. You’ll find something else to do to those houses. And something else after that.”

  “No, no,” he said. “That’s it. But I’m also thinking we could open the linen shop again. Right here in town.” Mention of the shop brought back powerful images. It was like a rude punch to her chest to be reminded of those days so suddenly and her face must have shown it because Nadeem looked stricken. “You’re thinking of when I came back from the war,” he said softly. “My eye . . .” His hand went up to cover the right side of his face.

  She was thinking of Max. She sighed and shook her head. “Who’s going to buy such fine things?”

  “There are a lot of people walking around with money in their pockets and nothing to do all day but spend it.”

  “And you think they’ll want to spend it on bedsheets? You think Muslims from Jaffa can’t buy their French percales in Jaffa?”

  “They’re on vacation. They have the time to shop and the inclination to be lavish. Would you be willing to help me? Just during the busy hours, of course.”

  “What else do I have to do with my time?” she said and her voice was melancholy. “It isn’t as if I have a dozen grandchildren to fuss over.” The idea that none of her children had reproduced was a daily reproach. The fear nagged her that it was somehow her fault. “If you want to start again, I’ll help you.”

  While Nadeem renovated the apartments, Khalil wrote to announce he had married. He had settled in Sarasota, Florida, and made a good living assembling fine trousseaus for the wealthy winter residents. His wife was a relative of the Norths. They’re a prominent circus family. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Estelle, my wife, is a year older than I, but it makes little difference and we have a very pleasant life.

  Miriam was in shock. To have her son write so calmly that a woman loved him made her feel peculiar. Then she decided her new daughter-in-law was too old to have children. She envisioned a garish woman in tights who risked her life by walking on thin wires or being shot out of a cannon. Nadeem said that being related to the family didn’t mean she was a performer, but Miriam remained cranky and grumbled over all the other foolish things her firstborn had done, including running after carriages, which had almost cost him his leg. Khalil wrote again to say his wife was pregnant and Miriam was so overjoyed she went and told everyone personally.

  “Zareefa, I’m going to be a grandmother. Someone will call me Teta. Finally.”

  “Mabrook. Ya Allah!” Zareefa considered her five healthy grandchildren the greatest thing God had ever done for her but seldom mentioned them to Miriam, because it was like rubbing salt in a wound. The news was an enormous relief. “Nadia’s pregnant,” she said and clapped her hands together.

  “No. It’s Khalil.” She looked annoyed, as if Zareefa had made an avoidable mistake. “I’m glad he’s going to have a family around him. It’s important. Look at us. No one around.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Zareefa. “Now it’s Khalil, soon it’ll be Nadia.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Miriam, and unaccountably, Zareefa felt she had said something wrong.

  She had been married eight months. Two hundred and forty-two mornings of waking up happy. Even the weather had cooperated. The winter rains had come dow
n in isolated torrents and then were gone, leaving hard blue skies. February had been so mild that all the spring flowers shouldered their way out of the damp earth to feel the benefits of the early sun. There had never been a greener March than this.

  On the first day of the ninth month of her marriage, Nadia sat up in bed and stared at her husband’s bare back as he looked out the window. She noticed that despite his musculature, there were two vulnerable bones that extruded from each shoulder. He took a deep breath (was it a sigh?) and the delicate protrusions disappeared as his shoulders slumped.

  He turned around. “Maybe we should think about building a house now so you won’t have to deal with it when you’re pregnant.”

  Like the gossamer flapping of a moth’s wing, a thought wafted through, barely reaching consciousness. After so much lovemaking, why aren’t I pregnant? “You mean here? Build a house here?”

  “At the farm.”

  “But your father doesn’t want anything bigger than the cottage at the farm. He’d be upset, wouldn’t he?”

  “He’s the one that suggested it. He’s very forgetful. The other day he asked me, ‘Where are you staying?’ When I told him we were renting, he was surprised. He said he’d thought I’d want to build a house up at the farm for all my children.”

  Again the moth’s wing nudged at her consciousness. “Where would we start? I hadn’t thought about it at all.”

  “You could go to see Reinhold Spier. He’s the English architect. Some of his houses are behind the King David Hotel. Why don’t you go and look at them?”

  “I’ll ask Julia to go with me.”

  She never got around to calling Julia. The tennis team had two important games coming up. Then she caught a head cold and ran a slight fever. By that time another month had passed. Her period came and the idea of building a house for a population of children that she had not even begun to conceive made her feel uncomfortable. She liked the little rented house. Samir could walk to work. She could walk to town. And there weren’t any extra bedrooms to fill.