Three Daughters: A Novel (12 page)

She held him until there was no more light in the room and the first few stars became visible through the window. He was sleeping with his face buried in her breasts. She could feel his breath exploding against her skin. Nothing in life had prepared her to hold such joy. To think of life as happening from moment to moment with no past or future.

She had been reared to expect hardship and when it came to accept it gracefully. The women of the clan sang through their chores; they danced and clapped their hands and chattered on the way to the grueling work of the harvest. Affection was no more of a sensation than her father’s huge hand draped companionably across her shoulders. Indulgent love was reserved for children. Physical love was a duty to be performed willingly because it satisfied the husband and brought sons. She had never heard any woman speak of bodily pleasure. Even those who were thrilled with the match their parents had made for them did not hint that it brought them physical happiness. At the age of twenty-nine, with her body still firm and vibrant, she had assumed that there were no more sensations to be had. And now . . . this! She felt they were conspirators in this thrilling physical novelty.

Max stirred against her. “We have to wait until the first of the month,” he said into her shoulder.

“To meet again?” She was surprised.

“For the house I’ve rented. According to the clerk, I may not legally move until the first of the month. But it’s according to the Muslim calendar so I’m not sure which day.”

“Oh.” She was preoccupied. “In any case, I must go home and see Hanna.”

“Bring him here. I’ll book a hotel room for you both. You can bring the baby, too. You can be together in a pleasant suite with your children. Will that please you?”

“I’d like it very much.” They exchanged a look of understanding and delight. All shyness was gone.

“I’ll arrange it tomorrow.”

10.

I WISH VERY MUCH TO EAT.

A
h . . . the poverty of progress.” As he made this pronouncement, the tall, angular man brought the pickax down with unexpected force, catching a full half foot of the dusty, pulverized ground.

Nadeem brought down his pickax a moment later but hardly disturbed the surface. “All right,” he said with good humor, “I’ll play the dolt for you. What are you saying, George?”

“The advent of the railroad has allowed the War Office to pick the mountains clean of young men. Our once healthy peasantry is now polluted. They’ve lost their optimism and their innocence. Except you, my friend.” The grimy, sunburned face was made fiercer by oversized features, but there was affection in the sunken eyes. “You still trust the devil himself.”

“You’re saying I’m a fool, then?” Nadeem smiled at the Kurd who knew him better than his own brother. They had dug trenches side by side for two months on their march to the Dardanelles. Following Italy’s lead, insurrections had begun to break out throughout the empire as the European provinces demanded their political independence. The marching had continued day and night and George’s feet had become badly swollen. Nadeem had cut open his boots to relieve him and for many miles they had hobbled together, the short, slight Arab supporting the tall Kurd.

“Aha, you see”—George gave the ax another healthy swing—“you’re infected with my cynicism. May God forgive me. You’ve saved my sanity and I’ve repaid you by corrupting your spirit.”

“Not you,” said Nadeem seriously. “Those strutting Germans. Look, he’s coming now to reprimand us.” A barrel-chested man with coarse, straight hair bleached white by the sun approached. The government had become so thick with Berlin that it had requested a German general to be responsible for the army’s uniform and reformation.

“Never mind, what worse thing can they do to us? Let him come.”

George resented what he called the Teutonic varnish that had been imposed on the gutsy peasantry—a stiff ridiculous walk and a staccato manner of speaking.

“It’s one hour to the midday meal,” said the foreman jeeringly. “But only for those who advance the work, not retard it.”

“Perhaps you would like to terminate us,” offered George. For the last four weeks, they had been creating a proper bed to receive the tracks that would advance the railroad that was being extended from Konya to Aleppo and would soon cross the Euphrates. The German dream was to link Berlin to Baghdad.

“What better thing would you do with your life? Don’t you believe in progress? The railroad now links three major areas and advances your country out of the dark ages. You should be proud to have a hand in it.”

“This is not my country.” George spat on the ground and Nadeem became apprehensive. “I was abducted illegally. I have no wish to further the Ottoman cause.”

“Perhaps you have no wish to eat either,” said the German, ruffled to find an articulate opponent.

“No,” said George, abandoning his bitter tone, “I wish very much to eat.” Nadeem gave the ground several blows with the ax. It unnerved him to see George humiliated. They never had enough to eat.

The German grunted knowingly. “Uh-huh. The stomach is more loyal than the head.” He continued to hover.

George did not speak again and Nadeem knew that he was embarrassed to have capitulated in front of the German. He knew, too, that George’s mighty swings of the ax were ninety percent will. Having lost the Tripoli campaign, the army unit had been marched back to Konya. The pathetic tents in the camp were ragged and painted to be less visible. “From whom are we hiding?” George would ask, his voice full of irony. The uniforms were tattered, too, making the pompous, stiff-legged marching style all the more ridiculous.

Nadeem was plagued by dizziness and nausea. George assured him bitterly they were the signs of slow starvation. Many days he couldn’t remember what Miriam looked like. His mind played tricks on him and he felt detached from any life. He was a mass of bones and thought. Some days only George’s voice gave him reality.

Even more ludicrous was the fact that not far from their camp, a group of Oxford-educated dandies were excavating an archaeological find—the ancient city of Carchemish. The head of the expedition was the prominent archaeologist David Hogarth, and there was some animosity between him and the railroad men, who wanted his excavated earth for fill.

As Nadeem and George were being confronted by the German foreman, an apparition approached that stopped the conversation. The young man, slight but wiry, wore a blazer of French gray trimmed with pink, white shorts held up by a gaudy Arab belt with swinging tassels (denoting his bachelor status), gray stockings, red Arab slippers, and no hat.

“What seems to be the problem?” Nadeem was surprised to hear him speak fluent Arabic in a cultured voice.

“The German believes we aren’t earning our lunch,” answered George bitterly. “He resents the fact that we talk to each other. I have difficulty knowing who my enemy is in this army. I had no stomach for killing Italians. I feel the enemy is close at hand.”

Nadeem was relieved that the German didn’t understand Arabic.

“And who is his superior?” asked the Englishman as if he had a right to know. “Another German?”

“Who knows? If not another German, a Turk who is mesmerized by Germans.”

“They cannot starve you and expect hard manual labor. Have you no grievance committee? You look ill, both of you. I can bring it to the attention of the Red Cross. This is inhuman.”

George, for once, remained silent, using the time to look the Englishman over. “What is your position here?” he asked, none too politely.

The agile young man ignored the question. “I like the Arabs,” he said simply. “That’s why I’ve taken the trouble to learn your language. I think your government was foolish to break with Great Britain in favor of Germany. They don’t understand your temperament.” He rubbed his smooth chin and paced a few steps. He seemed to find it difficult to stand still. “Why do they put an army unit to work on the German railroad?”

“This is our reward for the Tripoli campaign,” Nadeem answered. “Those who survived were promised safety.”

“You won’t be here long,” said the young man soberly. “The Balkans are following Italy’s example. Greece had declared war over Salonica.”

“How do you know such things?” persisted George. “Who are you?”

“I’m with the archaeological expedition half a mile from here. My name is Thomas Edward Lawrence.”

Two weeks later a representative of the International Red Cross came to inspect the camp and there was an influx of food that was said to have come from America. The quantity of the rations increased, although the food was not always recognizable. They saw a lot of the dashing young man in weeks to come. He often rode by with a companion, wearing a pith helmet and boots. The two seemed full of spirit, rough and ready to take on anything. About a month after the conversation with George and Nadeem, the Englishman’s prediction came to pass: the Balkans decided to fight for their independence and Nadeem’s unit was once again prepared to march toward the coast.

On the night before they left, Nadeem wrote his wife a letter, not knowing when or if he would have the opportunity to write again.

My dearest Miriam,

It is difficult for me to remember, at times, what you look like or more precisely, your entire face, for I can always summon up the depth and clarity of your beautiful eyes. I see them and hear your voice and picture Esa’s charming alert face and the innocent goodness always evident in Hanna and yes, the perplexed frown on Khalil—I would give a lot to see his frown—although perhaps he’s grown out of it now.

We march tomorrow and it may be some time before I write again. My wish is to keep you from worrying over my welfare. We are fed and clothed and treated fairly. I dream of my orderly days running the shop, which next to you and the children, brings me great happiness. Your courage and resolve to keep the business open sustain me in moments of doubt over the future. Can you imagine my gratitude? My love and thoughts are with you, my dearest. Keep well.

Your devoted husband.

11.

YOU LOOK DIFFERENT.

E
arly Saturday morning Miriam brought baby Esa to wait under the vaulted arch of the Damascus Gate, where the carriage passengers from Tamleh disembarked. She had sent a note with a man from the village and was expecting to see only Hanna, but Zareefa was first to step out. “You?” Miriam blurted out excitedly. “How did you get away?”

Zareefa smiled. “I brought Rheema”—she nodded to her eldest daughter, who hung back with Hanna—“and sent the other two to Umm Jameel.”

The women embraced and Miriam reached for Hanna. The look of uncertainty on his small pale face touched her. He was short for his age and his unruly hair hung across his forehead in innocent spikes.

Zareefa was cuddling little Esa but stopped to scrutinize her sister-in-law. “You look different.”

“It’s my hair,” said Miriam offhandedly. “It has to fit under the nurse’s cap.”

“It’s more than your hair. You look all . . . aglow. I don’t know how to say it—beautiful. Yes, beautiful!”

“It’s the life here. So busy. And the cold weather.” Miriam took Hanna’s hand, closing off any more discussion of her looks. “Come, let’s go put your things in the hotel.”

“Hotel?”

“Yes. One of the doctors thinks I deserve to be with my children in a pleasant setting, away from the hospital. He booked a room for us.”

“They must think a great deal of you at the hospital,” said Zareefa thoughtfully. “A hotel. I’ve never slept in a hotel.”

“Neither have I,” said Miriam. “And we must have dinner out, too. That was the other instruction.”

“Oh.” Zareefa suddenly relaxed. “Isn’t it wonderful? Can we look at the shops on Jaffa Road and Suq Aftimos? And the baths? Can we go to the baths first?”

“Of course. We’ll all have a nice hot bath.”

“
Il hamman, il hammam
.
” Little Esa began to clap his hands excitedly. “I like to take a bath,” he said, clipping each word. “I like it!” They weren’t used to hearing him speak in full sentences and everyone began to laugh.

“Do you hear from Nadeem?” Zareefa whispered the question, fearful that the subject would dampen the gaiety of the day, but it still surprised Miriam. They could have been discussing someone she barely knew. “Two letters,” she managed to answer, struggling to remember what news they had contained. Fortunately Zareefa’s attention was caught by the passersby. The children, exhausted from the long bath and several hours of walking, had been satisfied to make their dinner out of the abundant snacks from the street peddlers and were in bed. Esa had been returned to the orphanage.

For a few moments before going into the hotel dining room for dinner, the two women had stood side by side in the growing dusk watching as the wealthy families of Jerusalem threaded their way through the narrow streets. A convoy spearheaded by several manservants holding lanterns lit the way.

“Look.” Zareefa pointed to several well-dressed matrons following in the wake of their husbands. “We would be ready to sleep and they are just starting the evening. There are so many ways to live,” she said with longing, “but perhaps they have problems we don’t see.”

“Perhaps it’s just that we’re afraid of progress,” Miriam said harshly and then softened her tone. “They have servants to do the work. You and I have responsibilities.”

Zareefa nodded. “What do you do in the evenings? Do you have friends at the hospital? Perhaps you’re too exhausted to care about anything except sleep.”

“I have to study arithmetic at night,” said Miriam quickly.
What if I were to tell you that I lie in bed with a man who is not my husband? He kisses me everywhere and makes me forget who I am. Zareefa, I’m not the person you think. I’m no longer anyone you would recognize.
“Father Alphonse put me in the orphanage school. Otherwise I would have ruined the business and Nadeem would have come back to nothing.” Her voice sounded hollow and insincere but Zareefa was too interested in her surroundings to notice. “What do you hear from Jameel?”

“You know Jameel.” Zareefa spoke with mock weariness. “He has managed to find himself the most comfortable situation possible. He’s in Damascus. In the purveyor’s office. You can be sure he’ll return with more weight than before.”

“Perhaps,” said Miriam seriously. “But he might want to paint a rosier picture than exists so he won’t worry you. I think Nadeem is not telling me the whole story.” Now she remembered that Nadeem had written about the men he had met and very little about himself. He had written a full page about a Kurd who was his work companion. “Zareefa”—her voice grew somber—“the talk everywhere is fearful. No one knows what to expect next.”

“If something happened to Jameel, I don’t know what would become of me,” said Zareefa. Her normally relaxed features were scrunched in anxiety. “I would have to marry someone else. And who would want a widow with three girls? Perhaps they would think I can bear only girls.”

“You would have to get used to another man in your bed, too,” said Miriam vehemently. “That would be the hardest part.” She surprised herself. With all their intimacy, she and Zareefa had never mentioned this subject. “I guess the same possibilities are waiting for me.”

“Not you. You have a certain confidence that I lack. Whatever happens, you will find a way to deal with it. Look what you’ve done already. And I see how you’ve changed. You can take your part in all of this”—she threw her arms wide to encompass Jerusalem and all its urbane sophistication—“without fear. I could never have managed it.”

“We’ll see how it turns out,” said Miriam, avoiding Zareefa’s eyes. Her sister-in-law had brought back her immediate past and it had the effect of making Max seem unreal. She felt as if she were in a no-man’s-land, between both worlds, waiting for the stronger pull to take her.

The first few months of 1912 were bitterly cold. There was a shortage of coal in Jerusalem and any young man whom the army had not taken could make a good living bringing up fuel from the port of Jaffa.

There were many cases of influenza and pneumonia and all the hospitals seemed full and were cooperating with each other to prevent an epidemic.

In March, as the weather improved, it was the political climate that became bitter. There were three public executions of well-born Arabs accused of treason against the government; accusations that were probably true since an infant nationalist movement had begun to take hold.

Khalil, much improved, had been attending morning classes in the old Schnellers Orphanage and helping to cane chairs after his leg therapy in the afternoon. His mother’s new job and uniform—the fact that she was capable in a way he hadn’t expected—had a sobering effect on him. He was more self-sufficient and eager to help himself improve his walk.

Max had found a small narrow house on St. James Road, barely fourteen feet wide, squeezed between a bakery and the convent that housed an order of English nuns. A high buff-colored wall, pierced by an ornate gate so small one had to duck to enter, shielded it from the street. The house was built high and from the top floor, which contained the bedrooms, one could see beyond the surrounding roofs and the wall of the city to the somber hills of Moab.

The neighboring bakery closed at five and the good sisters were usually at vespers when Miriam came to the house after finishing at the hospital. Some days they had one or two hours together, which seemed luxurious. Other days, an emergency would keep Max past the time when it was safe for Miriam to stay and she would lock up and leave again, feeling bereft. It was unthinkable not to come even if she saw him for only ten minutes. Max defined her life, defined the woman she had become. He made her heart beat and her blood flow. Inevitably, their first embrace would end in the wide brass bed with its eiderdown pillows and quilts. The street noises would drift up from below, making her feel protected and at the same time a vital part of life.

In the past her face had always appeared either stern or distracted—not unusual for a mother of three who might have to meet a crisis at any time. Now her features were relaxed, her eyes overly bright. Her lips, bruised by tempestuous lovemaking, were a healthy pink. She felt voluptuous—plumped and filled with love fluids. In the waning light of dusk, Max often patted her rump and pulled her down on his lap, saying, “You have the most beautiful backside—and I see many, you know. How have you managed it with all those pregnancies?”

How had she managed it? This was the reward of a strenuous life. All those years of walking.

While she waited for Max in the tiny wood-paneled parlor, she often did her schoolwork—for she was still learning—but always stuffed it in her satchel before he could see it. She felt ignorant and unschooled and was especially sensitive to her obtuseness in mathematics. One day Max came in quietly and was standing behind her before she heard him.

“What have we here?” He had become interested only because of her efforts to shove the papers out of sight.

“Please don’t look,” she pleaded, imagining how her ill-formed numbers would appear to him. Her writing was childish looking and she was deeply embarrassed by it.

“Miriam.” He held her hand and patted it reassuringly. “You mustn’t be ashamed of any effort to improve.”

“You say that because you’re not aware of how little I know. I sit in a class with twelve-year-old boys who learn things so quickly. I do fine at the reading, but the mathematics comes very hard.”

He pulled her up and took her in his arms. “You are very wise . . . and courageous. One of the things that draws me to you is your determination. These shoulders”—he put a hand on each of them—“how often have I seen them square back with spirit and . . . acceptance. Miriam, you have the gift of acceptance, but also the will to take the difficult road. How many women in your village can read and write?” She shrugged. She didn’t feel wise at all. And as for determination—she had betrayed her husband, her family, everything without even a struggle. “No, no,” he persisted. “Tell me how many.”

“None that I know. Only those who teach at the Friends Girls’ School and they are not from the village. Boys are taught, but women learn other things.”

“There, you see? Yet despite that attitude, you’ve made something of yourself. If you had been born in a less repressive culture, you would have become a teacher or . . . more.”

“Max . . .” Just as he spoke, it occurred to her that he was thinking of another woman. Someone who had meant a great deal to him. She rose and went to the window so she would have the courage to ask the question. “Why do I have the feeling right now that you are thinking of someone who became a teacher or . . . more? There is a photograph in your room at the hospital of a beautiful woman. Is she someone you loved?”

When she turned around, he looked exhausted. He sank into an easy chair and beckoned her to him. They sat together, her head on his chest, his fingers idly massaging her neck, tracing her chin and jaw. “There was someone that I admired a great deal. My parents would have been very happy if I married her. She was the daughter of my father’s best friend and colleague. I wanted to make them happy—they had been wonderful parents to me . . .” He stopped in midsentence, as if the information was pointless.

Miriam raised her head and arched her back to look at him. “Was she beautiful?”

“Women always want to know that—as if it’s the most important thing. I don’t know. Are you beautiful?”

“Oh, Max. You certainly know if she was beautiful or not.”

“Well, she probably was. She was one of the nicest human beings. Loyal and sensitive. Giving.”

“But why didn’t you marry her?”

“I’m not sure I have the answer.” He was mildly exasperated. “It’s a poor assumption . . . if the woman is beautiful, it doesn’t always follow that one has to marry her.”

“No, of course not.” She felt ashamed. “I’m sorry for prying.”

“Never mind. The problem was I didn’t love her. It was as simple as that. I admired her. I liked her. I felt extremely affectionate toward her . . . but there was no . . . passion.”

She wanted to ask,
Do you admire me? Do you like me?
“Did she marry someone else?” she asked instead.

“No.” He looked troubled, almost annoyed. “I think she didn’t want to admit failure. She thought I had to get this—coming here, halfway across the world—out of my system and then I’d go home to her.”

“Perhaps you will.” Miriam felt the power of the other woman. She herself had drawn Max to her with fierce wanting. She began to fidget with her hands as she always did when she was nervous. “Perhaps she’s wiser than you think.”

“You’re both wrong.” He got up and went to the bed to take his shoes off. His movements were so slow and weary that Miriam went to help him. He sighed deeply. “I’m not here to get anything out of my system.” He emphasized certain words with each tug at the boots. “I became a doctor because my father was a doctor. I came here to help the poor because my mother, unable to bear more than one child, devoted herself to the poor. Isn’t that understandable?”

“No.” Her mouth pursed in disdain. “Your work saves lives and brings people out of misery and pain. You shouldn’t dismiss it by saying you’re simply imitating your mother and father.”

“That’s not such a bad rationale for one’s choices in life. That’s what your tradition is all about.”

“It’s a totally different situation. To go against the clan’s traditions would have caused my parents and myself a great deal of anguish. And what would I have gained?”

“What about here now? With me? Is it causing you a great deal of anguish?”

“With you I have no choice.” She had been walking around the room but went to kneel before him, returning his gaze with such an open look of love that the blue of her eyes became liquid. “Nothing is worse than the pain of not seeing you.” The last few words were a whisper and had a great effect on him. It was a simple statement of her feelings and asked nothing in return. He took her upturned face in his hands and kissed her forehead, her eyes, and then her mouth. “Now”—she disengaged herself with a righteous sigh, stood, placed his shoes neatly by the side of the bed, and straightened her skirts—“I must leave.”