Read Online Three Daughters: A Novel by Consuelo Saah Baehr - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Consuelo Saah Baehr
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pound. The rest of the crop sold as table grapes and was transported to Jaffa in panniers by donkey.
Nadeem and Miriam worked continuously through August and into September. All three were browned from the sun and Khalil’s fine baby hair was bleached at the ends. It was an adjustment to go back to their house. There was still no word from France and Nadeem’s spirits were less buoyant. He had to make a decision whether to take another mason’s job, working on a new Franciscan building in Bethel, where he would earn a dollar a day, or to stick with his plan to find a more open-ended way to earn a living.
One evening, Nadeem asked his father-in-law for the use of the wagon. He spent several days amassing merchandise from village farmers and artisans. Before dawn on the third day, he packed the wagon carefully with a dozen crates of figs and raisins and some of the clay makilas that Jirius sold in his shop, packing them with straw so they wouldn’t knock together. He included some shoes in various sizes from the shoemaker, some mats and rugs from the weavers on El Megnuneh Street, and several jars of freshly pressed olive oil. Without asking questions, Miriam rose and made him coffee. When she realized he wouldn’t volunteer where he was going, she packed some food for him—olives, cheese, bread, a few sweets, and fruit. He left without a word and she watched him clatter down the path that led to the carriage road until he was out of sight.
He returned three days later and the wagon was empty. His face was ashen with fatigue and his eyes red and vacant.
“Are you ill?” She wanted to ask a dozen questions. But his manner kept her silent.
“I’m not ill,” he answered with unnatural curtness. “I’m just tremendously tired. If you could just make me a cup of tea.” When she brought the tea, he was already asleep.
He had fallen into bed as he was and he slept for fourteen hours. The next day he repeated the process of gathering goods, packing the wagon, leaving before dawn only to return several days later with an empty wagon. Miriam had no idea where he went or where he slept. From the look of him—he always returned filthy and pale—she surmised that he walked, pulling the donkey along and slept out of doors, if at all, guarding his merchandise. When Umm Jameel found out her son was peddling from village to village, she was very agitated.
“A mugahbeen ,” she wailed. Mugahbeen , the word for “danger,” was the name given to those who traveled through dangerous defiles between mountains. His mother had a right to be frightened. The next time he left with his wagon, he was robbed.
When Miriam saw him approaching still several yards away, she was certain it was a stranger bent on harming her. He was caked with mud and it had obliterated any color or design in the fabric of his clothes. His hair was also matted with mud and the perspiration streaks crisscrossing his face made him look sinister. “ Ya Allah! ” Miriam put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming and then, when she realized it was Nadeem, she froze in place.
“Don’t touch me.” He held out a hand to stop her from approaching. “I have to bathe.”
“I’ll heat some water,” she whispered and turned away, but not before she saw a look in his eyes that made her heart lurch and her eyes fill. It was a look she had never seen on his face before. He looked frightened as a child and also defeated.
When he had bathed and drunk three cups of hot tea, he told her to throw away the clothes he had taken off. “I don’t want them,” he said vehemently. “Burn them. I struggled in those clothes against . . . against fate. Against injustice!” His face reddened with emotion.
“Against fate?” she asked mystified.
“The ones who took my money and the goods, they weren’t stealing from Nadeem Mishwe. They had no grudge against me. I was just an opportunity to them, a faceless source of easy wealth. This was gratuitous,
Nadeem and Miriam worked continuously through August and into September. All three were browned from the sun and Khalil’s fine baby hair was bleached at the ends. It was an adjustment to go back to their house. There was still no word from France and Nadeem’s spirits were less buoyant. He had to make a decision whether to take another mason’s job, working on a new Franciscan building in Bethel, where he would earn a dollar a day, or to stick with his plan to find a more open-ended way to earn a living.
One evening, Nadeem asked his father-in-law for the use of the wagon. He spent several days amassing merchandise from village farmers and artisans. Before dawn on the third day, he packed the wagon carefully with a dozen crates of figs and raisins and some of the clay makilas that Jirius sold in his shop, packing them with straw so they wouldn’t knock together. He included some shoes in various sizes from the shoemaker, some mats and rugs from the weavers on El Megnuneh Street, and several jars of freshly pressed olive oil. Without asking questions, Miriam rose and made him coffee. When she realized he wouldn’t volunteer where he was going, she packed some food for him—olives, cheese, bread, a few sweets, and fruit. He left without a word and she watched him clatter down the path that led to the carriage road until he was out of sight.
He returned three days later and the wagon was empty. His face was ashen with fatigue and his eyes red and vacant.
“Are you ill?” She wanted to ask a dozen questions. But his manner kept her silent.
“I’m not ill,” he answered with unnatural curtness. “I’m just tremendously tired. If you could just make me a cup of tea.” When she brought the tea, he was already asleep.
He had fallen into bed as he was and he slept for fourteen hours. The next day he repeated the process of gathering goods, packing the wagon, leaving before dawn only to return several days later with an empty wagon. Miriam had no idea where he went or where he slept. From the look of him—he always returned filthy and pale—she surmised that he walked, pulling the donkey along and slept out of doors, if at all, guarding his merchandise. When Umm Jameel found out her son was peddling from village to village, she was very agitated.
“A mugahbeen ,” she wailed. Mugahbeen , the word for “danger,” was the name given to those who traveled through dangerous defiles between mountains. His mother had a right to be frightened. The next time he left with his wagon, he was robbed.
When Miriam saw him approaching still several yards away, she was certain it was a stranger bent on harming her. He was caked with mud and it had obliterated any color or design in the fabric of his clothes. His hair was also matted with mud and the perspiration streaks crisscrossing his face made him look sinister. “ Ya Allah! ” Miriam put her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming and then, when she realized it was Nadeem, she froze in place.
“Don’t touch me.” He held out a hand to stop her from approaching. “I have to bathe.”
“I’ll heat some water,” she whispered and turned away, but not before she saw a look in his eyes that made her heart lurch and her eyes fill. It was a look she had never seen on his face before. He looked frightened as a child and also defeated.
When he had bathed and drunk three cups of hot tea, he told her to throw away the clothes he had taken off. “I don’t want them,” he said vehemently. “Burn them. I struggled in those clothes against . . . against fate. Against injustice!” His face reddened with emotion.
“Against fate?” she asked mystified.
“The ones who took my money and the goods, they weren’t stealing from Nadeem Mishwe. They had no grudge against me. I was just an opportunity to them, a faceless source of easy wealth. This was gratuitous,
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