Bitter Almonds (5 page)

Omar thumbed his chest. ‘Me? Why? What do I know about these things? Mama Subhia should talk to her.'

‘We love Fatimah like she was our own.' Uncle Mustafa lifted his gaze to the star-dotted skies, as if speaking to God. ‘But I don't want her to feel pressured in any way.'

‘Pressured?'

Rising to his feet, Uncle Mustafa draped his arms on the balcony railing. The muscles in his bony jaw pumped.

Omar narrowed his eyes. The man was stalling. He pushed his chair back and stood next to him. ‘What's on your mind?'

‘I don't want her to think we . . . want to get rid of her.' Uncle Mustafa leaned his face closer to Omar's. ‘You're the only one who should talk to Fatimah about this. Find out if she's willing to give the man a chance. She'll be honest with you.'

‘And if she says yes?'

‘We'll ask about him. If he proves to be the good man we think he is, she will have our blessings.'

‘What if she refuses him?'

‘Then I'll know she made the decision on her own. You have to be very careful when you talk to her, Omar. Make sure she understands Subhia and I would love to keep her with us as long as she wants.' He placed a warm hand on Omar's arm. ‘Both of you, son.'

Words stuck in Omar's throat. Uncle Mustafa was saying one thing, but his tired eyes portrayed a different message. He couldn't quite read it. ‘I'll talk to Fatimah.'

Uncle Mustafa returned to his chair. The muscles around his mouth relaxed, his lips sagging in a sad smile. ‘Good. I told Waleed they could visit this Thursday at seven, after
maghreb
prayers. Make sure you're ready for him.' Reaching over to the teapot, he refilled their glasses. ‘Now let us pray a woman goes into labor that evening so Huda won't grace us with her charm.'

 

7

On their way home from Um Waleed's place the following evening, Omar took Fatimah through side streets, telling her he needed to pick up something from a friend's house when she objected to the detour. He wished he could treat her to a cup of tea at a nice café, but he had no money.

They walked down narrow alleys paved with old bricks from the Ottoman era. If he ignored the sagging electricity cables haphazardly hanging over his head, he could swear they leapt back in time. Everything around them looked and smelled ancient.

The small arched wooden doors that protected entry to big houses retained the metal hand-shaped knockers in their centers. Marwan lived in one of those houses; a mansion was a better word to describe it. Omar had no idea huge traditional Damascene homes lay hidden behind such small doors, complete with inner courtyards with hexagon-shaped fountains at their centers and marble-lined walls. Whenever he visited Marwan, he had to hunch his shoulders and lower his head as he entered the low door, a physical reminder to be humble to the hosts.

They turned a corner. Omar had to step in front of Fatimah to maneuver around a couple of people drinking from a wall-mounted faucet. The small fountain, surrounded by white ceramic tiles decorated with verses from the Qur'an, invited passers-by to pray for a deceased loved one each time they drank.

Slightly above eye level, wooden window shutters with intricate designs protruded about half a meter from the walls. The
mashrabiat
concealed the inhabitants inside from curious eyes while letting sunlight and sounds of everyday life drift through. How would it feel to be part of a multi-generational family like the ones residing in those houses? He didn't even know his parents. Fatimah was his single connection to his
real
family. It was his duty to make sure she was happy. He better not mess up.

They came upon a small public square with patches of grass. He had to contend with the limited privacy of a bench under a street lamp.

‘What's on your mind?' Fatimah asked as soon as she sat down. ‘We're obviously not heading to a friend's house. Are you in trouble?'

‘I'm not going to dance around the subject.' Omar sat next to her. ‘Tell me about Waleed.'

Fatimah's face paled, her eyebrows knotted, and her smile turned into a frown. ‘I don't like your tone, brother. What are you implying? I work for his mother and sometimes I run into him when he comes home on my way out. That's all. If any of the neighbors said anything different, they lied.'

‘I'm not implying anything,' Omar backtracked, realizing he must have touched a nerve. What did he know about an opening to this delicate issue? He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘No one dares say anything bad about you, Fatimah. That's not what I was trying to get at.'

‘What then?'

‘I already know you think he's a nice man, but do you see yourself . . . living in his home?'

She sprang to her feet. ‘What are you talking about?'

Omar held her hand before she moved away. ‘Waleed asked permission from Uncle Mustafa to approach you about marriage. I'm trying to find out if you're open to the idea.'

Fatimah pulled her hand out of his. ‘Oh, I see.' Sitting back on the bench, she tucked her hands under her thighs. ‘Tell him he's wasting his time.'

‘Why?'

‘We are not home, Omar. I will only settle in Palestine. I dream of us living under one roof in our father's house.'

He smiled. ‘I have that dream too. With your ten children crowding the place in my version.'

She rocked back and forth in her seat, keeping her head bowed. ‘I'm serious.'

He searched for a way to lift her mood. ‘Let's make a deal.' He touched her shoulder to entice her to look at him. ‘I will do everything I can to get us back to our home in Palestine, and you work on having those ten children in the meantime.'

Fatimah's face contorted to cover a smile pushing through against her will. ‘I'm not thinking of getting married.'

‘To Waleed in particular?'

She shook her head. ‘To any man.' She lifted a hand to ruffle his hair. ‘I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you.'

Omar let her have her way and didn't try to duck. ‘I'm not a boy anymore.'

‘When did that happen?' she teased. ‘It makes me feel old.'

‘Old enough to be pursued.' He leaned sideways and nudged her with his shoulder. ‘You like Waleed, don't you?'

Fatimah raised her eyebrows.

‘Want me to tell you how I know?' He tried to keep his tone light. ‘You think he's smart, educated, kind-hearted and respectful. Oh, and I remember you telling me something about his looks. What was it?' He scratched his head. ‘He's a combination of me and Shareef. My height and Shareef's eyes or something like that.'

‘What?' Fatimah hid a smile behind her hand.

‘No? Wait a minute. It'll come to me.' He lifted his head, pretending to wait for inspiration. ‘My hair and Shareef's hunched shoulders. No that isn't it. My feet and Shareef's pointed chin.'

Fatimah punched him in the arm. ‘Stop that,' she giggled.

He snapped his fingers. ‘I remember now, you think Waleed looks like that heartthrob actor, Omar Sharif.'

She burst out with a healthy laugh. ‘That's it!'

Omar clasped his hands under his chin. ‘Give him a chance?'

Fatimah's laugh died down, her voice became serious. ‘There are more important things to think about.'

‘Like what?'

Tucking her hands under her thighs again, Fatimah lowered her head and studied her feet, remaining silent.

‘Don't you want your own family?' Omar pressed, trying to understand.

‘Someday, maybe. When the time is right.'

‘And when would that be?'

‘When you have your university degree and your future is secure.' She lifted her head. Her big hazel eyes enveloped him with her warmth. ‘I saved enough money for the registration, I think. I will keep adding new clients from other neighborhoods to cover more. But you have to get an evening job.'

He studied his sister's kind face. It wasn't Huda who was stopping her from moving ahead. It was him. He was the dead weight anchoring her down. Fatimah's obsessive concern for his future prevented her from thinking of her own. He heaved a heavy sigh. In the back of his mind, he must have known that. It felt good to blame Huda, anyway.

‘I was planning to tell everyone soon, once the papers were signed.' He tried to put a buoyant spring in his voice. ‘I already found a job. It would pay for my education. You don't have to worry about that anymore.'

Her skepticism was hard to miss. She straightened her back and narrowed her eyes. ‘Where? What kind of job?'

Omar rose to his feet. ‘I'll tell you about it once everything is confirmed.' He extended his hand. ‘Come, let's go.'

They snaked their way back home. He managed to draw out Fatimah's impression of Waleed, finding it somewhat favorable. He kept steering the conversation away from his potential job every time she tried to ask, bringing up anything he could think of that might pertain to a man's character, letting her reserved excitement of being pursued by Waleed come to the surface.

By the time they joined the rest of the family, Fatimah had agreed to let Waleed court her for a time before she made a decision, given the approval of Uncle Mustafa and Mama Subhia.

The following morning, Omar snuck out of the house earlier than usual, making sure to leave Shareef in bed, probably dreaming of dangerous Sameera. He had enough bus fare to take him half way to his destination. Walking the rest of the way, he checked the roll of documents under his arm a couple of times, worried he was missing something. He arrived a good half hour before the doors opened and used the time to meticulously read through each page. Given his circumstances, this was the best he could do to ensure his sister's freedom. As soon as a uniformed young man swung open the main gate, Omar marched into the recruiting office. Presenting his documents, he signed over his body and soul to the military academy.

 

8

A flurry of activity took over the two-bedroom apartment all day Thursday. The girls washed and scrubbed anything with fabric in its composition, from the sheer beige curtains to the well-worn rug and everything in between. The boys did the heavy lifting, moving furniture pieces while the girls swept tiled floors, dusted every flat surface and even ran wet cloths over the walls. Shareef was then sent out to buy one of the desserts served on such an occasion,
kanafeh
, a tray of melted sweet cheese topped with crispy shredded pastry. Mama Subhia had dug into her emergency stash to pay for it, refusing to let Fatimah cover the expense. She directed everyone with an efficient manner; the girls were dressed in their finest and ready for their evening guests in good time.

Nadia was set to watch her younger sisters in the bedroom. The three of them were not allowed to leave until they were called by their mother. Fatimah was to be stationed in the kitchen. When it was time to offer Um Waleed and her son the welcoming Turkish coffee, traditionally served five to ten minutes after their arrival, Fatimah would indicate her willingness to hear their proposal with her coffee service. Mama Subhia made sure to remind Fatimah, for what seemed the hundredth time, that she should start her service with the women, leaving her suitor to the end.

Two dining chairs were added to the living room. Mama Subhia would take one armchair and Uncle Mustafa the other, Omar to his right and Shareef to his left, leaving the sofa for the guests.

It seemed God had heard Uncle Mustafa's prayer, sending a neighboring lady into labor. Huda's services were called for around noon. She stormed out after subjecting everyone to her critical opinions of their hard work, finding fault in Fatimah's assigned chore in particular. Mama Subhia explained away Huda's behavior as being her normal stressed self, but everyone knew jealousy drove her crazy.

By the time Shareef returned with the
kanafeh
, the girls had already taken their stations and the adults sat stiffly in their designated chairs, waiting for the doorbell to ring.

Omar went into the kitchen to give Fatimah the dessert tray while Shareef dressed. She wore a pleated green skirt and a white blouse. Her wavy black hair rested on her shoulders.

He greeted her with a kiss to the cheek. ‘You look amazing.'

‘I'm so nervous.' She inserted the tray into the warm oven. ‘I can't believe you talked me into this.'

He waited for her to face him again and placed both hands on her shoulders. ‘Just be yourself. Waleed is no stranger. You know him. You have talked to him many times.'

‘Not like this.' She shook her head. ‘Not while Uncle Mustafa is watching.'

‘Don't worry. You probably won't have to say anything. Let him do all the talking.' Omar gave his sister a quick hug and left the kitchen. He walked into the living room just as the front door opened.

Huda walked in. ‘I made it back in time,' she told a stunned crowd. ‘I saw them up the street. They should be here any minute.'

Mama Subhia ushered Huda toward the kitchen. ‘Stay here. Help Fatimah.'

Waleed and his mother arrived.

Mama Subhia glared at Waleed, studying him from head to toe while he and Uncle Mustafa exchanged the usual greeting pleasantries. Omar winced, feeling sorry for the man under the microscope. Seeing his teacher dressed in a suit like that made him realize Waleed really did
resemble that actor, with his square face, dark eyes and thick black hair.

Omar glanced at his watch, counting the minutes down until Fatimah was allowed to join them. He wanted to go check on her, worried Huda might say something to make her more nervous. But he couldn't leave yet. It would be considered rude.

‘So you're Fatimah's blood brother?' Um Waleed asked.

‘I am.'

‘You don't look alike at all. Do you have the same mother
and
father?'

‘They do,' Mama Subhia answered before Omar could say anything. ‘Their mother was my dearest friend.'