When her father rushed in, she ran to him, too excited to hold back. “Papa, Papa, Paul Halaby was here.”
“I know, I know. What a shame. My watch stopped. Was he annoyed?” Her father’s anxious look made her sober.
“No. It was all right. He wasn’t annoyed.”
She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The elated smile was replaced with a frown of despair. If only her eyes weren’t so small and so close together, she might be able to do something to make herself stand out. She examined her face, running her hand down to her throat . . . a nice neck, nicely textured hair. Her features were all crowded in the center of her face, giving her the pinched appearance of someone who was afraid, or worse, suspicious, or still worse, emotionally miserly. Oh, no! She had grand passions.
She sighed and forced a gleeful smile at her image. Tonight I have Paul. She scowled. He likes me. I know he does. I could feel it.
“I want to wait for him outside, please!”
“For heaven’s sake, Delal, let us just greet him,” said her mother.
“We’ll say hello, shake hands, and that’s it,” said her father.
“You don’t have to shake his hand or say hello. Don’t make anything of it. Just let me slip out the door and go to the films with him. You’re making too much of it. He really just wants to be distracted. It’s not as if he’s really interested in me. It’s not as if he’s a serious suitor. Papa, please. Don’t make anything of it. I don’t want you to be disappointed if it doesn’t work out.”
“Disappointed? What nonsense! How could I be disappointed when I have the cleverest girl in Jerusalem? We won’t shake his hand. If you feel anxious about it, slip out the door and we’ll be quiet as church mice.”
Tangled dreams wrenched themselves from tangled webs and burst forth into bright fields of flowers. The world was no longer a hostile place. She had learned to be clever. She had learned to gauge each man’s capacity and play to his vulnerability. Sometimes she beguiled them enough to have a glorious day or week or even a month. They were comfortable with Delal and had fun. She could discuss anything—the government, political gossip, the new films, music, art. She dragged them along to her interesting assignments and they had a good time. She knew the best restaurants, the best barber, the best tailor, the best place to buy almost anything. She made them forget that she wasn’t a beauty. A young man would call repeatedly, and she enjoyed long lazy conversations while curled up on her bed. Over the phone, there was no one more scintillating. She would hang up feeling exhilarated, certain that they loved her. But in the end, all of them, even the ones who were fools, stopped calling.
But now she felt as she imagined a beautiful woman might feel—shiny and clean.
For the next few weeks she and Paul spent many days together. He picked her up at the paper and sometimes accompanied her to cover a cultural story. When they walked side by side in the streets, she flaunted their hand-holding, which was still considered unladylike. With him, it was a show of ownership. She was his girl. And he was hers, too. Someone who deserved her. Accomplished and handsome, intelligent and mannerly, suave and sexual—a man of the world.
Her mind was so taken up that when the first letter arrived from Edinburgh, she had no idea whom it was from. The masculine script was straight up and down with high, peaked capitals. This wasn’t the tissue-thin paper that usually came from overseas, but a creamy thick envelope. Mlle. Delal George, it said, with the D so large and extravagant that it caught her interest. Inside was another sealed envelope and a single sheet addressed to her. Delal: I’ll show up on your doorstep one day with a bouquet to express my thanks.
The note had a queer effect on her. Already overstimulated from the success with Paul, she felt the conqueror’s greed to triumph again. She fantasized enticing James and juggling both men in torrid love affairs. Images of her own power jostled one another, mixed and intertwined in that complicated personality.
The letter was in her pocket to give to Nijmeh during a gathering of the clan at Miriam’s. She wanted a chance to get Nijmeh alone and was searching for her around the back of the house. She passed a pretty trellised porch when she heard—through the crisscross of wood and wisteria—the compelling sound of her own name.
“Money isn’t everything,” said a feminine voice—Diana’s. “If it was, Peter would have had an offer for Delal.”
An embarrassed giggle followed. “Oh, that’s cruel.”
“The cruel thing is to put her next to Nijmeh. God might strike me, but I’d say he’s the cruel one.”
It was a stunning blow. She felt cheap and pathetic. People must see through her. Repeating waves of heat lapped at her until she was burning with shame. She touched the forgotten letter in her pocket and sucked in her breath with surprise. Here was her weapon to fight this war. She’d never give Nijmeh the letter. Let her know how it felt to suffer rejection.
The next day the envelope was put far back in her office desk drawer under a ceramic dish for moistening stamps, where it was soon joined by two more letters from Edinburgh. When Nijmeh finally asked if mail had arrived, Delal looked wistful and shook her head. Nijmeh, looking forlorn, invited an opinion.
“Well, let’s see,” said Delal with exaggerated concern. “What could have happened?” She stretched her mouth to signify her opinion of men’s promises. “His plane could have crashed. His hand could be broken. He could have amnesia. Or he could be a faithless skunk. Take your pick.”
Nijmeh smiled weakly and shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that.” A dull protective anxiety insulated her from daily life and the need to plan a future. James was her future if she could hold on to his reality. Approaching twenty, she was overeducated and biding her time to receive her baccalaureate. Please, James, she whispered into her pillow, don’t slip away.
Peter George waited two weeks before interfering in his daughter’s love life. He called Paul Halaby into his study. Delal, who had been detained at work, would have screamed with horror over what he was about to do.
The room was pleasantly furnished with a leather sofa, bookshelves, a soft-colored Persian rug, and richly paneled walls. Peter had turned off all the lamps and allowed the irresistible golden light of dusk to transform the pleasant room into an entrancing, sensual delight, where leather and wood and colored wool were bathed in a flattering glow.
Paul was impressed. “What a fabulous room. This is what I would like my office to look like.”
Peter grunted. He was in a hurry. “Your purpose on this visit was to find a wife, no?”
Paul looked at him quickly, then recovered. “If it happened, yes. I wasn’t going to force it.”
“I understand. In these modern times, I’m sure a man like you wants to feel he is marrying because he wants to, not because his parents have arranged a match. I know this is the modern way.” He left no doubt that he didn’t think much of the modern way. “The young ones want to choose for themselves, although we didn’t do so badly with the old ways. Divorce is not uncommon in America and perhaps that comes from marrying for passion.” He spat the word out. “That’s what the current generation mistakes for love—lust. I happen to believe one chooses a wife for other reasons and love follows. It happened so in my life and in many lives I know.”
Paul listened. He wasn’t there to agree or disagree, but he liked and admired Peter George. “Those thoughts were on my mind when I made this trip . . . but also I was anxious to see the country again, even if a wife didn’t materialize.”
“Has Delal convinced you differently?”
He laughed. “She’s a very interesting woman. I enjoy her company.”
“No more than that? I can see that you have some feelings for Delal,” he said tentatively. “Am I wrong?”
“No.” Paul looked ill at ease. “You’re not wrong.”
Peter didn’t like what he was about to do
. He knew his wife would disapprove and his daughter would be wild, but he did it anyway. What was the harm in sweetening a deal that was already eighty percent accomplished? He sat back in his oversized cushioned chair and twirled to face the windows. “Paul, I’m an indecently wealthy man”—he sounded almost morose—“and because I no longer care much about making money, everything I touch returns a healthy profit.” He twirled back to face his desk. “There’s a bittersweet side, however . . . you see, I’m a generous man. It would be my pleasure to have ten daughters and give each one a dowry and a wedding fit for the queen of England. But what am I to do? I have one child. One.” He held up one finger. “Delal is a wealthy woman. She is almost wealthier than I, because I’ve invested her holdings more conservatively. She has land, a trust fund. She knows nothing about it. Nothing. At age twenty-five she’ll come into half a million dollars.”
“But Peter, I . . .”
“No, no.” He held up a hand. “I know this is the farthest thing from your mind. It is I who wish to bring it up, because it’s been weighing on me. Delal could do well for herself without me. She’s capable of earning a living at any number of professions. But”—he threw up his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“I love her with all my heart and it’s my pleasure to make her rich.”
Paul laughed nervously. “That makes it nice for Delal.”
“In the old days, you know, the suitor and the father struck a bargain before a betrothal.” Peter George, who could negotiate six-figure deals with a London banker while perusing a luncheon menu and eyeing the waitress’s derriere, had his heart in his mouth, awaiting the next words from the young man before him. He paused and fondled a gold paperweight. “Have you any inclination to do such a thing?”
Paul laughed again. Peter didn’t like that. Laughter at this point was a sign of indecision. “I feel it’s between Delal and myself for now. But I can tell you that she’s a delightful girl. Delightful.”
Peter George sighed and stood. He hadn’t accomplished anything. Delightful? Delightful meant nothing. After being offered a healthy sum of money, all he could come up with was delightful? It didn’t look good, damn it. “I understand. And Paul, as far as Delal is concerned, this little talk never took place. She would feel humiliated if she suspected I spoke to you with such frankness.”
“It never took place,” said Paul gallantly. Both men walked innocently out into the living room at the precise moment Delal walked in.
“Have you two been talking about me?” She looked at her father accusingly.
“Of course not.” He winked broadly.
She knew what that wink meant. Paul must have said something to him. Perhaps he had asked for her hand. She felt such a thrill of happiness it was difficult to make sense.
That night, after a concert of baroque music at the YMCA, they climbed into her MG that Paul was driving, but he didn’t start it right away. The air was velvety, with just enough warmth to comfort the skin. They had begun the evening with dinner out of doors on the terrace of the King David Hotel. Delal was wearing a black silk crepe dress she had purchased that afternoon. It was cut on the bias and flowed over her body in one provocative line. She felt beautiful. She had her hand on the side of her seat because the car was small. It was very close to his thigh. He looked down and placed his hand over hers and then removed it and rested it casually on his lap. Unconsciously or not, he seemed to be directing her to touch him. She knew enough about that. Men needed physical release and maybe he was trying to tell her. But suppose he wasn’t saying that at all and he found her actions repulsive? She searched his face for a reading and saw that he had a strange smile.
“I don’t want to be a tease,” she said, trying to forestall any misunderstanding. “Tell me what you’d like me to do. Does this do anything?”
“Of course.” There was an embarrassed pause. “Something is happening right now.”
“Oh.” She jumped and lifted her hand.
“Don’t be frightened. I won’t do anything you don’t want.” His voice was serious and breathy. “Give me your hand back.”
She didn’t want to do it, but there was no graceful way to refuse. He placed it back over his crotch and this time she didn’t need him to tell her what was happening. She felt as if she were suffocating in that small space, as if her head was swelling, too. She looked straight ahead. His arm had gone around her waist and his hand was on her outer leg. “I love your backside,” he said huskily. “I’ve been waiting to do this for so long.” He moved his hand over her buttocks and under her seat and at the same time he kept eating at her skirt with his fingers so that he could get to some part of her skin. His questing fingers pulled at her outer buttock, gathering the skin the same way he had gathered her skirt. It forced her vagina apart and when his persistent fingers reached their destination, she was very wet. She was also terrified that she was ruining her chances with him. “Paul, please. No.”
“Shh, it’s all right.” His voice was impersonal and she was already sorry that it had progressed this far. She began to take her hand away, but something told her she couldn’t stop now. That would really anger him. Somewhere she had read that once a man was aroused he had to complete the act. Almost as if affirming her thought, he clamped her hand down on him and moved it up and down. “Like that,” he urged and again there was that impersonal tone. “A little faster.” With each instruction she became more upset. She didn’t want to do it. She wanted it to be over. She wanted the evening to end and the carefree promising relationship they had before to come back. She was also afraid to make him angry, so she moved her hand up and down and finally he grabbed at her buttock in a painful squeeze and held down her hand hard against him, making a noise like a long slow whistle.
“Now I’ve done it,” he said, regaining his composure. “Ruined a perfectly good pair of pants.”
“Was it all right?”
“Well, I would have preferred it to be more intimate, but that’s not possible right now. Your father would skin me alive, wouldn’t he?” His voice was teasing again. “Anyway, I wouldn’t do that to you. This was the best we could manage, but you have to let me do the same for you.”
“It’s not necessary. I don’t expect . . .”
“I don’t want you to feel ashamed. I can do to you what you did to me without violating your virginity.”
She wanted to die. As bold and sophisticated as she felt, she had no frame of reference for discussing such intimate things. “It isn’t necessary. Really, it isn’t.”
“Of course it is. Don’t you desire me? Don’t you have physical longings?”
“Yes.” Pause. “I do.” Right now she didn’t. Nothing.
“That’s good, because if you didn’t I’d think we were wasting our time. You’ve got a terrific body, Delal, don’t shut it away.”
A terrific body? Oh, maybe it was going to be all right. She felt her hopefulness return. “I promise. I won’t.”
As she prepared for bed, she rehashed it all again. He didn’t seem any different afterward. He had even been eager to help her do the same. Maybe her anxiety was for nothing. Still, she lay awake for a long time. She couldn’t shake off the sound of his voice while he was being stroked. He was so cold and impersonal. Like this. Up and down. A little harder. It didn’t sound as if he were talking to someone he cared about. Maybe he was just using her while he looked elsewhere for someone to marry.
Why did that thought lead to thoughts of Nijmeh? No one had ever forced her to do what Delal had done. No one would ever tell her she had a terrific body, as if she were just a piece of meat without a soul or feelings. Maybe he had no intention of marrying at all. He hadn’t taken her in his arms and called her darling or told her he loved her.
The next afternoon she called him. They hadn’t made plans and she wanted to find out if he would come by.
“Tonight I’ve got to be a good boy and visit my
mother’s family—cousins of cousins—the Mishwes. Do you know them?”
“Of course. One of them married my mother’s brother.” Right there she had a premonition that made her feel a thud in her stomach. She wanted to get off the phone. “If you get away early, call,” she said quickly.
“Let’s hope.”
Miriam reminded them that Umm Jameel was a distant cousin of the Halabys through her mother and therefore the logical person to invite Paul to dinner. Nadia asked for a sit-down dinner, but Samir convinced her that the guests should help themselves from a buffet table and sit where it was comfortable. The day before they came to look around Umm Jameel’s house and each privately despaired that it was small and dowdy. What could they do? It was too late to change the locale. Everyone had his special idea of the irredeemable feature that would offend the guest. Nadia thought the furnishings were too old-fashioned. “The house needs painting,” said Miriam, as if reading her mind. “Your father used to come and putty around the windows and shore up the cement, but now it’s neglected.”
This prompted Samir to let his hair down. “It’s dark. And small.” He thought the lack of books and art would make the family look uneducated and shallow.
“The house is dark because of the tiny windows. It’s not so small,” said Miriam. “Three families lived here when I first got married.”
“Do you think he’ll get a bad impression?” asked Nadia.
“I think if you intended to impress him it won’t be here,” said her mother, who had fixated on the shabbiness of the curtains.
“We should have had it at home.” Nadia pushed back her hair off her temples as if it were too heavy. “We’re expecting a lot to happen. Suppose Paul simply has something else in mind?”
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