last time.
“A young man was interested in one of the necklaces for his wife—an anniversary present—but he said it looked too … how did he put it, traditional, too heavy, for his wife’s taste.”
Maisoon just nodded, uncertain where this was leading.
“I think I will give you a chance. Like I said, the pieces are too unusual for my taste, but we’ll try for another month. You can have that big window over there. Two shelves.”
Maisoon looked disbelievingly in the direction of the window; it was still in the farthest corner. A narrow one, but it was a window. All to herself.
“This is yours. 70 percent.” She handed Maisoon an envelope.
“But this is 500 shekels, Amalia …”
“Well, you can’t expect me to sell this kind of jewellery for the ridiculous price of 380!” her smile broadened.
Maisoon leaned forward to hug Amalia but stopped herself. Instead, she reached out and closed her hand on Amalia’s fragile fingers. “Thank you so much, Amalia. You’re wonderful!”
She felt Amalia’s hand jerk back for a fraction of a second before loosening up. That pulling back was almost enough to give Maisoon doubts, to keep a wall between their worlds.
But Amalia said softly, “Even though it’s not my personal taste, I do have to admit you’re an amazingly talented artist.” It was the first time anyone had used the word artist in relation to Maisoon.
Waiting for the underground Carmelit to reach the Carmel mountain, she called Ziyad. “One bottle of wine, one big rock, a piece of the sea and the sky of night please.”
“On my eye and on my head, ya hayati.”
Over the next month, almost half of Maisoon’s jewellery sold. After two months, she was given one of the three large showcases inside the boutique. It was also then that Amalia asked her if she could come twice a week to replace her in the afternoons, “for a modest salary,” was how she put it.
Ziyad would dangle this news in front of his friends like a trophy he’d won. Except it wasn’t a trophy. And it wasn’t his. Maisoon felt that under those boisterous grand words lay a wounded pride about his own impotence. He was still working shifts, earphones on, calming down furious clients, giving away free air-time in response to their threats to move to the competitor’s cell-phone company.
Layla is ecstatic about her daughter’s small steps in the real world. Majid stays quiet, he is still upset at Maisoon for abandoning medical school but he has no power over this or her choice of a partner. Maisoon asks them to drop by the boutique, hoping that he will see that she hasn’t thrown away her future. But her father doesn’t join her mother as she enters the shop. Instead he waits in the car while Layla unleashes her exultation in unreserved mashallahs and ya salams, much to the alarm of the one client who quickly disappears.
Majid looks through the car window as Layla links arms with their daughter and is led around the shop. Maisoon working for this Yahudiyya … she could have done much better. He fumbles in the console for his cigarettes and lighter. His lungs pull the smoke deep inside, he holds it before forcing it out. As it hits the glass he thinks about his own career, if he can call it that.
He ended up a clerk in a bank, working overtime most days, correcting the mistakes of others, mentoring all the new clerks. In the first few years, he trusted his abilities, strongly believing that he would get promoted—every year he’d tell the family “Next year for sure.” But—next year never came. He watched as those same clerks he welcomed and taught climbed up the ladder, becoming heads of departments, one even becoming his own boss. Oh, but he did get compliments. All the time. How professional he was, how responsible; a pat on the back every now and then, a bonus twice a year. But nothing more. Because he didn’t belong. Because his name was Majid.
And he accepted it, for he was of the generation today called the subservient. Those who never dared raise their heads. Those who grew up under military rule; fear becoming an inseparable part of their very essence.
Maisoon had never known her father in any other way. To her, he had always been the meek, obedient citizen, making an effort to be as inconspicuous as he could be with his choice of clothes, behaviour, the radio stations he listened to in the car. Or the way he lowered his voice when pronouncing his name. Very rarely, when he felt extra brave, he’d put on Fairouz but he would turn it off when they neared a public space with security guards.
Mother and daughter embraced in the doorway. When Layla had inhaled enough of her daughter’s fresh smell, she led her by the hand towards the kitchen, “I just made myself some good kahwa; strong just the way you like it. Lots of sugar too.”
“So, habibti, there must be something that brought you here, you wouldn’t come and visit just like that, with you so busy lately,” Layla poured kahwa into Maisoon’s favourite cup, the cracked one she refused to take with her but didn’t allow her mother to throw away.
“I’m stuck with this design I’ve been working on, and needed to get away from it, so I thought I’d drop by and pick up some of my stuff.”
Layla lifted her cup and inhaled. “Now for the kahwa to come out just right, you have to boil it seven times. Each time it starts rising furiously, you take it off the flames, let it calm down, and then again bring it to a raging boil … seven times, not six, not eight …”
Maisoon giggled as she listened to the words her mother had told her countless times when she was a child.
“And still my kahwa is the best in Haifa,” Layla added with a mischievous smile.
They sat at the kitchen table for a while, Maisoon told Layla about bits of her life, avoiding anything that involved Ziyad, military checkpoints and special permits. “And Baba is still angry with Tayseer? Hasn’t forgiven him yet?”
Sadness snuck into Layla’s eyes, “He will habibti. He’ll forgive him … Right after he forgives himself.” Her face was locked into that same blank expression she wore lately whenever they discussed Majid. Maisoon sensed that her parents were growing apart and that she was partly to blame.
“Now Mais, you go ahead and get the stuff you need. I’m going out to visit Um Talal. You have the house key with you, right?” Layla didn’t wait for an answer, she pushed herself up and headed to her bedroom to change.
Alone
