PROFIT FOR YOU STOP LETTER OF CREDIT TO COME STOP.
Nadeem went to the Crédit Lyonnaise and the Deutsche Palestina Bank, but no letter of credit had come through in his name. There was nothing from France at the Austrian post office either. He had spent his funds on his house. Ten gross of soap together with the shipping charges would come to at least one hundred dollars. He would have to believe that after he sent the soap and expended the money, M. Freneau would honor the debt and add a profit. He stopped at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to think, sitting by himself in one of the side chapels. He remembered that M. Freneau prayed like a child with his hands together pointing up. He slept on his back, his arms and legs spread out, as if inviting only kindness from the world. He had told Nadeem that he sold lingerie and fine linens in a shop on a wide boulevard in the heart of Paris.
That night Nadeem asked Miriam for the money she had received for their wedding. “It’s temporary. I’ll return it to you.” She went to the chest where she kept her belongings—her special clothes and jewelry—and pulled out a small kerchief knotted tightly to hold twenty gold lira. To spend money for pleasure was considered foolish, so what else was there to do with the money? She gave it to her husband.
The roofing bee for their new house took place just twenty-three days after they had begun, and ten days later they were able to sleep under it. How different were her feelings in this pleasant room where everything was hers. She knew each slight indentation in the flat stones that Nadeem had fit so expertly to make a charming floor. The room was large and airy with the daring addition of a mezzanine that allowed extra space for sleeping. The walls were smooth and whitewashed and there were four windows for a cross breeze. The nooks and shelves he built ingeniously into the walls held bedding and cooking pots, and she kept busy rearranging their belongings. She picked flowers, swept the floors, polished and puffed. She put the chairs against one wall and later against another. She washed and scoured and then viewed the results with an interest that never jaded.
When Nadeem arrived in the evenings, she could hardly wait to show him new curtains or a new arrangement in a corner of the room. As she waited to see him approaching up the old pilgrim road, she realized she was eager for him to arrive. It was very confusing. If she didn’t love him, why did she feel so satisfied when he ate the food she cooked? And if she did love him, why did she still have moments of intense longing and restlessness? These feelings seemed unnatural. Nothing more was waiting for her. How could her heart play such tricks on her?
One day Miriam walked to her mother-in-law’s at dawn to help prepare for a Sunday dinner. The families were constantly visiting and it was unthinkable not to remain for the midday meal. On this morning she and Umm Jameel had rolled out triangles of dough and filled them with diced lamb or wilted spinach and onions. Miriam took the filled dough to the taboon ,together with open round loaves spread with zatar spice and oil, and waited for them to bake.
Jameel and Zareefa came for the meal, as did Umm Jameel’s sister, her sons, and their families. Zareefa took Khalil on her lap and clapped his dimpled hands together. “Let’s see this big boy,” she said. To Miriam’s surprise he allowed himself to be kissed. “You’ve been cooking since dawn,” said Zareefa to Miriam. Miriam inclined her head toward her mother-in-law. She had become more tolerant of Umm Jameel, who in turn was not so quick to criticize the mother of one son with another possibly on the way. “First the wheat for the tabouleh was too soggy and had to be replaced. Then the dough for the pies didn’t rise enough.” Miriam yawned unexpectedly and felt light-headed.
“You’re pregnant again, I almost forgot. Me, too. Perhaps we’ll have them together.
Nadeem went to the Crédit Lyonnaise and the Deutsche Palestina Bank, but no letter of credit had come through in his name. There was nothing from France at the Austrian post office either. He had spent his funds on his house. Ten gross of soap together with the shipping charges would come to at least one hundred dollars. He would have to believe that after he sent the soap and expended the money, M. Freneau would honor the debt and add a profit. He stopped at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher to think, sitting by himself in one of the side chapels. He remembered that M. Freneau prayed like a child with his hands together pointing up. He slept on his back, his arms and legs spread out, as if inviting only kindness from the world. He had told Nadeem that he sold lingerie and fine linens in a shop on a wide boulevard in the heart of Paris.
That night Nadeem asked Miriam for the money she had received for their wedding. “It’s temporary. I’ll return it to you.” She went to the chest where she kept her belongings—her special clothes and jewelry—and pulled out a small kerchief knotted tightly to hold twenty gold lira. To spend money for pleasure was considered foolish, so what else was there to do with the money? She gave it to her husband.
The roofing bee for their new house took place just twenty-three days after they had begun, and ten days later they were able to sleep under it. How different were her feelings in this pleasant room where everything was hers. She knew each slight indentation in the flat stones that Nadeem had fit so expertly to make a charming floor. The room was large and airy with the daring addition of a mezzanine that allowed extra space for sleeping. The walls were smooth and whitewashed and there were four windows for a cross breeze. The nooks and shelves he built ingeniously into the walls held bedding and cooking pots, and she kept busy rearranging their belongings. She picked flowers, swept the floors, polished and puffed. She put the chairs against one wall and later against another. She washed and scoured and then viewed the results with an interest that never jaded.
When Nadeem arrived in the evenings, she could hardly wait to show him new curtains or a new arrangement in a corner of the room. As she waited to see him approaching up the old pilgrim road, she realized she was eager for him to arrive. It was very confusing. If she didn’t love him, why did she feel so satisfied when he ate the food she cooked? And if she did love him, why did she still have moments of intense longing and restlessness? These feelings seemed unnatural. Nothing more was waiting for her. How could her heart play such tricks on her?
One day Miriam walked to her mother-in-law’s at dawn to help prepare for a Sunday dinner. The families were constantly visiting and it was unthinkable not to remain for the midday meal. On this morning she and Umm Jameel had rolled out triangles of dough and filled them with diced lamb or wilted spinach and onions. Miriam took the filled dough to the taboon ,together with open round loaves spread with zatar spice and oil, and waited for them to bake.
Jameel and Zareefa came for the meal, as did Umm Jameel’s sister, her sons, and their families. Zareefa took Khalil on her lap and clapped his dimpled hands together. “Let’s see this big boy,” she said. To Miriam’s surprise he allowed himself to be kissed. “You’ve been cooking since dawn,” said Zareefa to Miriam. Miriam inclined her head toward her mother-in-law. She had become more tolerant of Umm Jameel, who in turn was not so quick to criticize the mother of one son with another possibly on the way. “First the wheat for the tabouleh was too soggy and had to be replaced. Then the dough for the pies didn’t rise enough.” Miriam yawned unexpectedly and felt light-headed.
“You’re pregnant again, I almost forgot. Me, too. Perhaps we’ll have them together.
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