Bitter Almonds Page 4

  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.’

  ‘And the father?’

  ‘The Bakrys were our neighbors in Jerusalem,’ Uncle Mustafa interjected. He glanced at Waleed and nodded, giving him the signal to change the subject.

  Waleed straightened in his chair, fixed his eyes on Omar and started what seemed like a well-rehearsed speech.

  ‘My mother and I have come this evening to respectfully ask your permission to pursue your honorable sister with the intention of marriage.’

  Omar held Waleed’s gaze, hiding his surprise at being the one addressed, rather than Uncle Mustafa, and at Waleed’s formal tone.

  ‘I’ve been your teacher for the past three years. I hope you’ve had a chance to know the kind of man I am.’ Waleed cleared his throat. ‘I can provide a decent living if Fatimah is willing to live with my mother . . . with your approval, of course.’ He gestured toward his mother. ‘My father passed away five years ago.’

  ‘Allah yirhamuh.’ Everyone mumbled the typical prayer asking for mercy on the deceased man’s soul.

  ‘Our family,’ Waleed continued, ‘the Najads’ are from Nablus.’

  Mama Subhia drew in an audible breath. Everyone’s eyes shifted to her. She coughed into her handkerchief. Omar could tell she forced it. What had the man said that surprised her? He looked back at Waleed.

  Um Waleed shifted in her seat. ‘I have come to know Fatimah well in the past three years. Allah has not blessed me with girls, but I love Fatimah like my own daughter. I will make sure she is happy with us.’

  Waleed ran an index finger sideways in his collar, swallowing several times. ‘I try my best to attend Friday prayers and I don’t have any debts. I deal with the butcher, Abu Nawaf, at the south corner on a regular basis. Most of the grocers on Mehyi Eldeen Street know me. They will give honest answers to your questions.’

  He produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and placed it on the coffee table. ‘You can also ask about me at this newspaper press. My eldest uncle works there.’

  Omar blinked. So that was how things went in situations like these? He hadn’t been to the cinema much, but the way they showed these instances in the films was less severe. His articulate teacher was a nervous wreck. His face gleamed with sweat, his leg pumped up and down at maddening speed.

  Was he supposed to say something now? Omar glanced at Uncle Mustafa for guidance. The man stared back at him. Omar shifted his eyes to Shareef. He had his head down and his hands clasped in his lap, apparently finding them captivating.

  ‘You are from Nablus, you said?’ Mama Subhia rescued him.

  ‘Both parents. My late husband’s family too.’ Um Waleed inflated her chest, pride clear in her voice.

  Tilting her head closer to Um Waleed, Mama Subhia said in what only could be understood as an apology, ‘I wish I had known that before.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Um Waleed patted Mama Subhia’s hand. ‘I’m sure it’s very good.’

  Omar didn’t know what to do next. What had happened? What kind of secret code were the women using? If Uncle Mustafa would say something, he could follow his lead. Was it time for Fatimah to come in with the coffee tray?

  ‘Omar, is there anything else you would like to know about?’ Waleed asked, looking a bit more controlled.

  If they deemed him the central figure in this play, then he would speak his mind and ask about what truly mattered. Rules be damned. ‘How do you feel about my sister?’

  Waleed blinked a couple of times. ‘I admire her manners.’

  Fatimah’s footsteps came from behind. Omar gave Waleed a firm nod to indicate his approval of his answer.

  Fatimah walked in, carrying a polished brass tray. Short coffee cups rattled on their saucers.

  Waleed stretched to his feet and buttoned his jacket.

  Uncle Mustafa spoke at last, making the official introduction of Fatimah’s suitor. ‘Waleed Najad, history teacher. You have met before.’

  Fatimah served coffee as directed, starting with Um Waleed, then Mama Subhia, Uncle Mustafa, the boys and ending with Waleed. She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat between Waleed and his mother, crossing her legs.

  Mama Subhia cleared her throat.

  Fatimah uncrossed her legs and put her feet together, shifting them slightly to Um Waleed’s side.

  Omar rolled his eyes. More secret codes between the women? God help him when his turn came to be in that spot. If it ever did.

  Waleed stiffened next to Fatimah. Holding the coffee cup and saucer in his hands, he turned to face her. ‘How are you this evening?’

  Before Fatimah could say anything, Huda entered the room.

  Waleed rose to his feet again.

  ‘This is my eldest daughter, Huda.’ Mama Subhia’s voice elevated higher than usual.

  Um Waleed placed her coffee cup back on the tray and stretched a hand to greet her.

  There was no room for Huda to sit anywhere. Omar was about to give up his chair, but Sharee
f beat him to it. Huda smoothed the back of her skirt with her hands before she sat down, smiling and connecting eyes with Omar.

  Something was wrong. Huda almost never smiled. Certainly not the way she was beaming this evening. Something sinister in the twist of her mouth puzzled Omar.

  9

  Nadia paced the narrow space between the beds, chatting with her younger sisters to keep them occupied. She stopped in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door and checked the front buttons of her yellow blouse. The top had made its way down to her from Huda, passing through Fatimah’s teenage years. The silk fabric had lasted longer than it should have. The girls knew how to extend the lifetime of an expensive item like that. Nadia hunched her shoulders forward to lessen the stretch of the front panels across her bosom, realizing she had developed more than the others in that area. She should ask Fatimah to let the seams out a couple of centimeters.

  ‘How much longer?’ Farah asked from her corner on one of the beds.

  ‘Soon.’ Nadia frowned. They should have called them in by now. What was taking so long? She turned and sat by the edge of the bed. ‘Now remember girls, we go in, we greet everyone and then we come back here.’ She adjusted the ribbon on Salma’s head. ‘If they ask questions, your answer should be brief. I don’t want us to take too much time.’

  ‘Why can’t we stay a little?’ Farah whined.

  ‘Because that’s not how things are done.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘There’s no room for us.’

  ‘I can sit on the rug,’ Salma chirped. ‘I always sit on the floor when I play.’

  Nadia leaned closer and whispered as if telling them a secret. ‘It’s not a time for children. The grownups need to get to know each other first.’