Three Daughters: A Novel (43 page)

“Yes, ma’am.” This was Julia’s no-nonsense tone. “She’s your cousin. You’re practically sisters.”

“Are you kidding? We’re from opposite continents. We don’t look alike. We don’t think alike. If you and Half Uncle Samir weren’t half-related, I’d never talk to her. She’s not my type.”

“Please, Delal, don’t start that now. Just take her to your room and visit. Remember, you want to learn to drive, and I have the car and the key to the car.”

“Mmm. If you’re going to put it that way . . . I’ll give her some fashion tips.” She rolled her eyes. “Haven’t they heard of underwear? She still doesn’t wear a bra. Why can’t she get a haircut? She might as well stick a knife in her belt. The jungle girl.”

Delal sighed and went to her room. Her refuge. She liked to say that unlike Nijmeh she was an indoor girl. She also enjoyed giving advice for unsolvable problems relating to boys. She had several advice manuals—all from France and the United States—on how to have a successful conversation with boys. “Talk about animals,” she advised. “Men love animals. Say, ‘Oh, my dog has fleas. What should I do?’ Never ask questions that he can answer with a yes or no.”

The Armed Forces Radio had a lot to do with the Americanization of Palestine during the war and the effects remained after it was over. Young men about town listened to Frank Sinatra, Glenn Miller, and the Andrews Sisters over the radio at the Christian Men’s Club, where they played French billiards. Delal, with her own radio and a phonograph, was as familiar with the
Hit Parade
tunes as any American teenager. American movies were plentiful, too—
Casablanca
,
How Green Was My Valley
,
Wuthering Heights
, and
Flash Gordon
.

While the warlike conditions raged all around her, she was learning the words to “Chattanooga Choo Choo” and “Rum and Coca-Cola” for the simple reason that it had to do with adventure and sex. Delal was itching to have sex. She had grown taller than her mother to the decent height of five foot four. She had a good figure and nice skin whose sallowness could be obscured with light Pan-Cake makeup. Her hips were a bit wide, but unless she was wearing a sheath skirt it wasn’t noticeable. She had excellent posture and when everything was in place appeared almost attractive.

Nijmeh, at eighteen, was approaching five foot seven, within an inch of her final height. Her face had broadened and lost some of its compactness and the cleft in her chin had deepened. Her eyes had become darker, a velvety green with flecks of brown, and were deeply set, giving her a startlingly clean and dramatic look. Nijmeh was gentle, cheerful, quick to smile. She had no cohesive wardrobe and never looked put together. It hardly mattered.

When the families were together and talked of the girls’ future, they discussed a career for Delal and marriage for Nijmeh. Peter wanted Delal to go to law school, but she just shook her head with chagrin. “You know what the men would do to me if I became a lawyer?” She gave a short rueful laugh. “Let’s just say I’d spend all my time proving a woman could be a good lawyer. I’d rather go into a profession that no one considers important. Journalism maybe, or broadcasting.” She looked to see how Peter was reacting. “News announcers have a lot of influence but no one thinks much about it. They have the power of the airwaves . . . ta-ta!” She gave a trumpet flourish. “Yes. I could do something very interesting being a news announcer.”

“Read the news? You can’t be serious. You should study law. With your mouth and gift for persuasion, you’d make a brilliant lawyer.”

“If you send me to England or America to study law, I might like it there and not come back. You stand the chance of losing me to some faraway place.” She winked at her father. “If Nijmeh said that, her father would go into shock, but you don’t seem to mind at all.”

“I mind,” said Peter. He did mind, but not for the same reason as Samir. He loved Delal as an only child, but more for the person she was. He liked her forcefulness and her impatience. Her daring and her independence. It would have been a terrible blow if she moved away from him.

“So . . .” It was a
so
meant to sum up the past quickly. Delal, who was never at a loss, was at a loss.

Her room was festooned—around the dressing table and on the walls—with memorabilia. Framing the mirror was a picture of Elizabeth Taylor getting out of a limousine in her sweetheart-necked wedding dress on the day she married Nicky Hilton. Another photo was of Vivien Leigh in the cloak she wore to meet Lord Nelson in
That Hamilton Woman
. The third picture was of Charlie Chaplin as Monsieur Verdoux.

“Isn’t she great?” Delal indicated the radiant Liz. “She has violet eyes.”

“Who is she?” asked Nijmeh.

“You don’t know who Elizabeth Taylor is? Didn’t you see
Ivanhoe
? Didn’t you see
A Place in the Sun
?” Then, as if looking forward to being shocked again, she pointed to the picture of Vivien Leigh. “Do you know who this is?”

“Of course. It’s Vivien Leigh.”

“And who is Vivien Leigh?”

“She’s an English actress.”

“Very good.” She grunted, mollified, then sprawled on the bed, propped her head on a bent arm, and stared at her cousin. Her small bright eyes darted around the room, then returned to Nijmeh. “It bothers me . . . you don’t do anything with yourself. I can’t figure it out. I have to really try to look good, but you take fantastic raw material and squander it. You could be like them.” She pointed to the photographs. She turned onto her stomach and looked away. “God, if I had your face, I’d be queen of England! Well, no. I guess you have to be born into that.”

Nijmeh looked uncomfortable. She walked around the room. “That’s what most people talk about with me. It’s as if I don’t exist as a person. Just a face. If I go into a store in town no one just says, ‘Hello, Nijmeh.’ They talk about me as if I’m not there. ‘Look at that face,’ they say. Then they either make a peculiar noise, like ‘ay, ay, ay,’ as if I’m adding a burden to their lives, or they make some terrible prediction. ‘Samir has his work cut out for him.’ ” This speech, together with the awkward imitation of the village women, surprised Delal and made her laugh.

“Hey, I like that. But don’t lump me in with them. I think you have your work cut out for you with your father. Does he make you dress like that?”

“What do you mean?” Nijmeh smoothed her skirt.

“You don’t mind my saying this, do you? According to my mother, we’re practically sisters and that gives me the right to tell the truth, no?”

“I don’t think you’re trying to be cruel, if that’s what you mean.” Nijmeh shrugged, but her face remained guarded.

“Of course I’m not trying to be cruel. It’s time to stop wearing an undershirt. You should definitely be wearing a brassiere.”

Nijmeh’s face turned so red that Delal jumped up from the bed. “Hey, don’t be upset. I’m going to show you something.” She opened a dresser drawer. “Try on one of mine and see what a difference it makes. Instead of looking flat and squashed, they’ll stand out.” Nijmeh fondled the small lace garment. “Take off your blouse and try it on. Come on, I’ve seen boobs before.”

Nijmeh undid the buttons of her blouse and slipped the knit camisole over her head. “Oh!” Delal was dumbfounded. “Your nipples are pale pink! Mine are brown. All the ones I’ve seen are brown.” Nijmeh put on the bra and inspected her profile in the mirror. “See,” said Delal, “no more embarrassing jiggles.”

“Let’s see how it looks with the blouse,” said Nijmeh, obviously pleased.

“Don’t let your mother buy the heavy cotton ones. These are silk. Want to try on my dungarees?”

“Your what?”

“They’re pants. All the girls our age wear them in America. We ordered them from a catalog but I can’t wear them in the street. I’d be stoned. You know what else I have that’s contraband?
Tropic of Cancer
, the Henry Miller book. He describes everything. Every other page someone is fornicating. If a woman is giving a music lesson, you can bet the student will put a hand up her skirt. And the woman is always grateful. His books are so filthy they’re banned in America. Speaking of which, this summer my father might take me to New York. I know for sure we’re going to Paris and London with a stop in Scotland to visit the University of Edinburgh and the University of London, too, not that they’re likely to take me. I’m not sure they’re ready for Delal George.” She took a breath. “And what are you going to do?”

Nijmeh, who had been transfixed by this deluge of information, looked down at her hands. “I’m ashamed to tell you. You’ll think it’s queer.”

“I can take it.” Delal was enjoying herself. “What are you going to do? Wait . . .” She held up a palm. “I know. You’re going to wrestle a lion in the desert and bring him to his senses. No? You’re going to ride a gazelle bareback and then cut out his heart and eat it raw. No? OK, tell me. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to spend three weeks alone in the wilderness. I’ll be tending a flock of sheep and taking care of myself. My father did it when he was a boy. It made him strong.” She spoke matter-of-factly, but also with a certain resignation.

“I have news for you,” said Delal bitterly, “you can be strong for life doing a hundred other things. You don’t have to go out in the desert and be mauled by wild animals and get heatstroke. Or raped.”

“Raped?”

“That’s right. Raped.” She waited for this to sink in. “You want my advice? Have a tantrum. Just say to your father, ‘I don’t want to go to the desert and you can’t make me.’ ” She squeezed her eyes shut as if preparing for a blow. “ ‘You can lock me in my room or beat me or not let me eat, but you can’t make me tend sheep. You can’t! You can’t!’ You should rebel. I don’t want to insult your father, but he hasn’t heard about the twentieth century. Nobody has clued him in.”

She sighed and relaxed after her performance. “God, you’ve got great boobs. You can keep the bra—a present from Cousin Delal. I’d like to be a fly on the wall when the first guy gets a load of your pink nipples.”

“You’ve figured out a lot of things.” Nijmeh spoke softly.

Delal couldn’t tell if she was upset or not. She herself felt mixed emotions. How could you hate a girl who was so removed from opportunity? It was pathetic. She got up and straddled a chair.

“You know what’s weird?” she said thoughtfully. “You don’t look like your mother or your father. You have that cleft chin. There’s an actor with a chin like yours. His name’s Kirk Douglas. Maybe by some trick of fate you’re related.”

Delal’s words were unexpectedly threatening. Countless times the thought had come:
I don’t have one feature of either parent.
Rheema had her father’s eyes and his heavy eyebrows, and Aunt Zareefa’s nose and mouth. Delal was unmistakably her parents’ daughter. Aunt Diana’s children were a testimony to the prettiness buried under mounds of fat. As a child, Nijmeh often closed her eyes and moved a hand across her parents’ faces. She had had plenty of time to memorize their features by look and feel and she knew that no part of her matched any part of them in the same undeniable way.

31.

I’VE NEVER SLEPT WITH A STRANGE WOMAN BEFORE.

M
ama, it’s not so bad. It makes me feel as if I’ve accomplished something.”

“But aren’t you frightened?”

“No. Nothing’s going to happen. And I have the gun . . .”

Nadia sighed and rubbed her temples. “But suppose someone does come?”

Nijmeh shifted around so she could put her arm around Nadia. They were sitting side by side on her bed and the springs dipped to bring them close. Nijmeh was aware of the beautiful smell that always surrounded her mother. She could see close up how her mother’s face was made. Every feature seemed laboriously chiseled. Her mother was the most unfrivolous person she knew. And the most private. She was like a tantalizing mystery that her father wanted to solve. Her mother could appear so wistful. She wanted to say,
What is it that you don’t have but wish you did?

Now Nadia’s lovely mouth was pursed with worry. This was the second summer of her “field trip,” but her mother was nervous as before. “I have the dogs to warn me, then I can prepare to defend myself. No one’s going to kill me.”

“This is the way your father plans to build up your self-confidence, but who knows what could really happen? Tell him you don’t want to go. You’ve gone once.”

“I can’t. He’s planned it very carefully. How could I tell him I won’t go?”

“I wonder why he isn’t afraid for you.”

“Part of it is my doing. I like the challenge and he knows it. He’s right. If I had nothing on my mind except clothes and parties, I wouldn’t feel like a strong person.”

Nijmeh never let on that she was desperately afraid. No amount of rehearsal would take away the ghastly fear of being out alone on that vast plain. Even in the heat of noon, fear kept her cold. After the third day without human contact, she would become so dispirited that anything would make her weep.

She imagined a hundred different deaths—all of them violent. She imagined the sheep stampeding over her. The dogs tearing her apart from hunger or anger or madness. A few times in her life she had seen dogs go mad from rabies. At night she would lie rigid next to the campfire and try not to listen to the animals’ grunts. They sounded so alarmingly human that she was certain a man was within inches of her, poised with a dagger and ready to cut out her heart. Some desert marauder who had no value for human life would kill her over a piece of cheese. She would lie rigid, eyes closed, feeling that to open them would be to confront a thief and die.

Fear, she had been told often enough, was part and parcel of life. Fear, her father had said—and she had not understood—is an old friend. She had rehearsed so many scenes of confrontation with an unexpected visitor that on the evening one came, it seemed inevitable. Except that it wasn’t danger that approached. It was James.

The dogs started barking before anything was visible. Still, she got out her gun, checked to see that it was loaded, and cocked it. She didn’t want to be unprepared. On the other hand, a prime rule was not to fire unless your life was in danger, because the sheep would scatter.

She saw the rider and her heart began to pound. He came all the way up to her fire and she got a good look. He was a young, stylish man, seated expertly, wearing good leather boots that some servant had polished and—on the hand gripping the reins—a ring that testified graduation from a secondary school. His hair was windblown. It was brown with lighter streaks made by the summer sun.

He looked at her and at the gun and said calmly, “You don’t have to shoot me, you know. I’m not dangerous. I’m just lost. I could have sworn I was going south, but evidently I was going east. Where am I, anyway?”

“I’m not required to answer.” She was relieved but not ready to trust him. “I have to protect myself and my flock. I don’t have to shoot you, but don’t think I’m not capable of it.” Having said this she immediately wished she hadn’t put it so harshly.

“May I get down?” he asked reasonably. “I want you to look at me. Look at my hands. A desperado’s hands would be callused and cut. The fingernails would be broken and caked with dirt. These are a student’s hands.” He seemed pleased with the logic and clamped his lips smugly. She wasn’t moving. “See my belt? It’s from Harrods in England. My mother bought it for me. Where would a robber get clothes like these?” She remained silent and the gun stayed where it was. “Well, yes, he could have robbed some poor student, but then still, his hands wouldn’t be well kept.”

She gave a contemptuous grunt. “My hands are callused, my fingernails are chipped and dirty, and I’m not a thief. I go to a fine private school.” She sounded silly.

“Oh? That’s odd. Maybe I should be afraid of you.” The gun went down to her side. “That’s better.” He dismounted. “I feel a lot more cheerful without that gun pointed at my face.” He tied the horse to one of the poles holding the tent. Then he went to the fire and rubbed his hands briskly. “It was warm when I started out, but I’m chilled through.”

This confession of vulnerability surprised her. She moved closer and he got the first good look at her. “Oh, my.” She tried to remain stern faced but had to smile. “I don’t know what to say.” He looked to his right and at the sky, perplexed. “I get lost, I find myself in the middle of the desert with night coming. Miraculously, I reach a campfire. A woman greets me and threatens my life and then when I see her face in the firelight . . . I’m not going to pretend I’m not surprised.” He looked around and smiled sheepishly, as if he yearned for a third party to share this event.

“Excuse me,” she said, “I’ve got to leave you on your honor. I hope you won’t try anything.”

“Don’t leave! Where are you going?”

“I’m going to choose one of the lambs and slaughter it.”

His expression changed to one of alarm. “Slaughter? Are you serious? Why? Are you expecting someone?”

“In my culture when you shelter a stranger, you’re responsible for his welfare. It’s a duty to get the best that you have and prepare it for him. I’ll roast a nice baby lamb.”

He held up his hand. “I can tell you with every assurance that isn’t necessary.”

“It may not be necessary, but I must do it. That’s part of the reason I’m here. To do what has to be done.”

“No, no, no. Wait a minute. Suppose you got the lamb. And suppose I could bear watching you hack up the poor animal. How on earth are you going to cook it?”

“I would truss it and build a spit and roast it over this fire.”

“Wouldn’t that take hours?”

“Possibly. I’ve never done it before. I mean the roasting part. I’ve done the killing many times.”

He stepped back and shook his head, deciding how to handle a woman who had killed many times. “I won’t be here long enough to wait for such an ambitious meal. I’d like—if you allow it—to have a few hours of sleep and then be off at dawn. And there’s another thing—”

“What’s that?”

“How could the two of us consume an entire lamb? It would be so wasteful. Just offer me something warm—a cup of coffee—and I’ll feel well taken care of.”

She had lost the advantage. What he said was absolutely true. “Well, if you’re certain you can’t wait . . . it would be wasteful.”

“I can’t wait. And it would be wasteful. You have my word.”

He sounded relieved and she thought about how she must appear to him. Impractical and silly. He was probably an Englishman who privately considered them all savages. She began to feel a dull resentment. “Are you English?”

“Half and half. My mother’s English. My father’s Arab. We live in Jerusalem half the year. I’ve been at Cambridge for several years, so I sound English. I try not to pick up the accent but it creeps up on you. I probably resemble my mother. And you . . . ?”

“Oh . . . I’ve been told I resemble my great-grandmother, but I can’t be sure. She’s dead.” She wanted to ask more questions, but saw the fatigue on his face and remembered that he wanted to sleep. “I’ll make the coffee.”

She sat, legs crossed, near the fire and waited for the little pot to bubble over several times, handed him the filled cup and watched until he took the first sip. Then she arranged the long skirt around her legs and became very busy tracing on the ground with a stick. There was no wind and the light had turned an opulent purple. Breathing became pleasurable as humidity seeped into the air.

He sat on the ground, his long legs bent—he was quite tall—gripping the tin cup and looking out at the scene with narrowed eyes. He had a large head even though his hair lay flat, and a broad forehead. There was a noticeable bump right below the bridge of his nose. He might have been described as rugged except for his long eyelashes and remarkable silky hair.

“I don’t suppose you’d tell me anything about yourself.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

He threw his head back and grunted. She saw that when he moved his head quickly his hair moved back all in one piece. “Well, without knowing anything, I can tell you you’re wrong. You could start by revealing why you’re here doing something so”—he was choosing his words carefully so as not to insult her—“different.”

Her stick was busy making tic-tac-toe grids in the ground. “I’m building character,” she said sarcastically. “I don’t want to be just another spoiled rich girl.”

“There’s no chance of that happening.”

“Why not?”

“A spoiled rich girl wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to kill and truss a lamb. A spoiled rich girl would have let me starve.”

He was laughing at her and momentarily, she hated him. “I’m going to sleep now,” she said. “There’s an extra cover.” She pointed to a corner of the shelter. “But you have to promise me that you won’t do anything to . . . I’m offering to share this tent, but you’re honor-bound to respect my hospitality.”

“I will, of course. I wouldn’t harm you. I’ll sleep over here.” He indicated a space at the foot of the fire, perpendicular to her space. Before she got up she undid her hair, which was held in a ponytail by a wide rubber band. It fell over her shoulders and she was aware that he was staring at her.

He finished his coffee quickly, dragged the sheepskin over, and stretched out. When he was settled, she lay down, too.

The night had turned quite cold, so they both inched closer to the fire. When everything was still, she became excruciatingly aware of him. It was the kind of intimacy that was so extraordinary she felt keyed up. She was lying on her stomach, arms folded under her cheek. He was stretched flat on his back, which seemed too trusting a position even in sleep. One arm was arched over his head with the fist grazing his forehead. His hair fell back, straight and soft like a child’s, but otherwise he looked big and substantial.

She could have reached out and held his hand, which was tempting. Suppose that entire arm were around her and she could sleep in the crook of it, her face nestled against his chest? The idea of being held—it had never occurred to her—was so enticing that she had to clench her hands into tight fists under her to keep from reaching for him. Finally, exhausted and overwrought, she drifted into a half sleep.

A little while later the dogs barked. He was up in an instant, and she heard the click of a gun and that made her jump, too. She hadn’t known that he had a gun. She went behind him and grabbed his wrist, holding his arm from the back. “No. You mustn’t shoot. Please. The flock will scatter.” For an instant she allowed herself to lean against his broad back. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but there was a feeling of giddiness and relief, as if she had accidentally stumbled on a beneficial secret. She let go of him.

“The dogs were barking.”

“Yes.”

“What’s out there?”

“I don’t know, but we can’t shoot yet.” There was another loud bark and a howl. She took hold of his arm again. He looked down at it and she let go.

“You’re trembling.” He put an arm around her shoulders but she shrugged him off. “Are you afraid?”

“What if I am? Who knows what’s out there. It could be a panther or a wolf. I’ve heard of panthers being in the desert.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be scared. I’m glad to hear you admit that it’s dangerous.” The barking stopped and the dogs came back and arranged themselves around the fire. He put his gun on the ground. “I couldn’t sleep very well,” he said softly. “I’ve never slept with a strange woman before.”

“I haven’t slept with a man.”

“I don’t dare bring up the question of why you’re really here. You’re an educated young woman. If you need a job, I can persuade my father to give you one. He has the Weber Electrics franchise. Do you know the building on Jaffa Road? There’s no reason for you to be out here in the wilderness. Suppose a real criminal found you?” He spoke quickly, as if he had been saving his objections.

“I’m here because I want to be. No one put me here.” His assumptions were irritating.

He rubbed a hand across his face, trying to understand. “Why do you want to be?”

“To prove that I can take care of myself.”

“I see.” He didn’t see.

His tone was so patronizing she went back to her spot and sat down, preparing to sleep again. He might as well have called her a liar. Or a fool. “Good night.”

He sighed. “Good night to you.”

Wasn’t he going to say anything else?

“Whose idea was it for you to do this?”

“I told you.”

“I know what you told me, but somebody has brainwashed you and given you gospel law and you’re petrified of deviating from it. If it were your own idea, you’d be more practical. The first thing on your mind wouldn’t be the finer points of hospitality. You’d be thinking more of your safety.” He sat up. “You’ve got to be a little more practical.”

“I didn’t hear myself ask for advice or sympathy. I’m doing fine.”

“Nobody said you weren’t doing fine. But I’m worried about you.”

“It was you who was lost. It was I who rescued you. You were going the wrong way, remember? You’d have been chilled into pneumonia or died of thirst or been mauled by an animal. Oh, I forgot . . . you did have a gun. Do you know how to use it?”

“I’ve shot game, but I’m sure you could shoot rings around me.”

“I’ve been shooting since I was seven.”