Miral (21 page)

Hind left after tea, and the other three fell to chattering as they had always done. Somehow, Hind's serenity had infected them. They even joked about Rania's new shoes, whose color was so garish that it went with none of her dresses.

 

The following day, as agreed, Miral went to Hind's office. “You see, Miral,” the headmistress began at once, barely giving the student time to sit down, “contrary to what you think, Rania's not just indulging some whim.”

Miral looked at Hind questioningly. The girl was hoping, in fact, to change her sister's mind, precisely because she, Miral, was convinced that Rania's plan was a passing fancy, a bizarre idea that had come to her one day and that she had decided to act upon only because she didn't like studying.

“Rania has a psychological block that's very common in certain cases,” Hind went on. “If we try to remove it by force, the result will be a definitive break. Right now nothing exists for her except helping your father. If she didn't do that, if she didn't dedicate all her time to it, she would feel that she hadn't done enough, and ultimately she would always feel guilty about your father's death.”

At the word “death,” Miral gave a start, and the tears that had been welling up in her eyes without her realizing it slowly began to fall. Before she could stop herself, her weeping became disconsolate. Hind let it go on for a few moments, then rose and went to her. She put her arms around Miral, and the two of them stayed that way a long time, until at last Miral stopped sobbing. Only with Hind could she let herself go to such an extent, and she was not ashamed of having dropped the mask of the self-assured young woman that she had felt obliged to wear in front of her father during the past few months. “I'm not saying it's easy,” Hind added, holding Miral by the shoulders and looking her in the eyes. “But if we insist that Rania change her mind, there's not only the risk that she'll never go back to school; there's also a good chance that she'll consider us, and you in particular, enemies who want to prevent her from helping your father.”

T
oward the end of May, Miral, too, decided to sleep at home with her father and sister, but Jamal's condition worsened, and he was taken to a hospital. Despite his disease, he continued to give advice to his daughters and hold long conversations with them. He would try to recall as many episodes as possible from their childhood and the time when their mother was alive. He wanted to transmit his memory to them. He pressed Miral to continue her studies—he wanted her to become a university professor—and at the same time he insisted that she should apply herself to becoming less impulsive.

Jamal's serenity of mind in those days contrasted with the suffering in his limbs. The doctors said the only possibility of saving him was a bone marrow transplant. The two sisters, who were considered the most desirable donors, discussed the possibility with their father. But Jamal became worried and refused to undergo the operation. “At least let us get tested first, to see if we're compatible,” Miral said.

“No no, really. It will be as God wills,” he replied. He was smiling even as he gave that response, which was like a death warrant without possibility of appeal, but Miral could see that he was anxious. She didn't understand why such a reasonable man as her father would suddenly become so obstinate.

“Look, it's not even a very difficult operation, and it works. The doctor showed us its success rates. They're excellent,” Jamal's daughters insisted.

“Yes, girls, I know; he showed them to me, too. But it's too late for that now. I want to spend my remaining time like this, with you near me, and not in some operating room.”

Not at all convinced, Miral and Rania went to be tested the following day. A few days later, the two sisters went to see the doctor again. He smiled pleasantly and showed them into his office. Sitting behind his desk, he briefly scrutinized some papers; the girls watched his face darken. He addressed Rania first, telling her that she had a degree of compatibility with her father, and that in the event he should consent to the operation, the chances of success were remote. Then he cleared his throat and gently asked her to have a seat in the waiting room, because he wanted to have a word with her sister. He and Rania would discuss details later.

“But why does she have to leave?” Miral asked in surprise.

“Well, because I want to talk to you in private first. Then, if you think it appropriate, your sister can come back in.”

Miral didn't understand; the doctor seemed positively embarrassed. “I have no secrets from my sister. Tell me what you have to tell me.” Her heart was beating fast. She was afraid she had some sort of disease or some other grave condition. Rania took her hand and squeezed it hard.

“In that case, I'll come straight to the point. The tests show that your compatibility with your father is nonexistent.”

“So I can't donate the bone marrow? But Rania's compatible, right? Therefore—”

“That's not the only issue here. The DNA examination shows that Jamal is not your biological father.”

The blow made her lose consciousness. When she opened her eyes again, she saw Rania weeping and the doctor offering each of them a glass of water. The two sisters embraced in tears, unable to comprehend how such a thing was possible. Neither of them believed it, but all attempts to request another analysis were in vain. “Miral, this is a very precise test, and we did all the appropriate verifications. Believe me, there's no possibility of an error,” the doctor answered, visibly mortified. “I'm sorry.”

Rania hugged Miral as the girls left the doctor's office. “What should we do?” Miral asked her sister.

“I don't think we can tell Papa.”

“But that would mean—”

“Yes, Miral, I know. It means he won't have the operation. But what do you think would happen if he found out that we know the truth?”

“It would break his heart,” Miral said with a sigh.

“Right.”

When they were near the exit, Miral asked Rania to leave her alone for a while and advised her to go home and try to rest.

“And what are you going to do?”

“I don't know—I need to think. Don't worry about me.”

Many questions came crowding into the two sisters' minds. Who was Miral's real father? Did Jamal know? How could it have happened? And why hadn't anyone ever told them anything? Before they separated, they embraced again, promising to see each other later at home.

Miral started walking aimlessly through the streets. She wandered for hours without ever getting to the bottom of the revelation she had just received. She couldn't even weep, although she felt she needed to. Jamal must know; otherwise he wouldn't have been so adamantly opposed to her being tested. But how could she find the courage to ask him for explanations?

In the end, she decided to talk to the only person who could know the truth: Aunt Tamam.

 

The coffee cup fell to the floor and broke into a thousand pieces. Tamam couldn't believe that Miral had discovered the secret. So many years had passed that Tamam had stopped thinking about it. In her heart, she was truly convinced that Jamal was her niece's only father.

“Aunt Tamam, please, tell me the truth,” Miral begged. I need to know.”

There was no longer any reason for Tamam to keep the secret; Miral had found it out, and she had a right to know her mother's story. The whole story, uncensored.

And so Tamam told it from the beginning. She recounted the abuse she and her sister had suffered at the hands of their stepfather; Nadia's flight; her dissolute life, first in Jaffa and later in Tel Aviv; her time in prison with Aunt Fatima. And then Hilmi, whose sincere love Nadia hadn't trusted because the men before him had let her down. “But believe me, my girl, Jamal has been a real father to you. He knew everything, and still he loves you as though you were his own flesh and blood.”

Miral wept; she couldn't believe it was true. She couldn't believe that the mother Jamal had portrayed had never existed, had been but a shred of what Nadia was. For the first time, Miral thought she might understand the origin of the torment she sometimes felt. The pain of living had been what killed her mother.

I
t was a June day, and Rania and Miral were going to the hospital. Along the way, they stopped in the spice souk and bought some of their father's favorite incense. They had decided to make every effort to be cheerful and smiling in his presence that day.

Jamal was lying awake in his room. When he saw his daughters come in, he pronounced that they were really grown up, and that they were both very beautiful. As he watched them moving through the room, the pain racking his weak body seemed to him, for a moment, like nothing but a distant echo. Miral lit the incense, defying the nurses' prohibition. The girls' father followed them with his eyes until the delicate perfume reached his nostrils and he pressed his lids together for an instant. Then, gathering all his strength, he said, smiling as he spoke, “Seeing you two come through that door warms my heart. You've brought joy into my life since the day you were born.”

The girls lay down beside Jamal and put their arms around him. Miral could feel how cold his feet were. She tried to massage warmth into them, but it was useless; her father's circulation was shutting down.

 

That afternoon Jamal sank into a coma. It was as though he had waited for his daughters to come before he fell into an irreversible sleep. Rania telephoned Miral, who had in the meantime returned home. Sitting in the backseat of a taxi, Miral saw her father slipping away, his eyes closed, his breathing more and more labored, his hands colder and colder. When she got to the hospital, she found Rania weeping desperately in the arms of their aunt. Miral wanted to cry, too, but she held herself back. She knew that she couldn't collapse in front of her sister. However, she was very much afraid of being left alone, and the desire to give her feelings some release got the better of her. She ran to the bathroom, locked the door, and surrendered to a long, liberating fit of weeping, which went on until a nurse came to fetch her.

In a voice breaking a little with emotion, the nurse whispered that the moment had come for Miral to go to her father and say good-bye for the last time. Miral plucked up her courage, raised herself from the hospital's aqua green tiles, got to her feet, and glanced at the mirror; it required all her strength. But how much strength would she need from now on, she wondered, to survive her father's absence?

She squeezed Jamal's hand and fought back her tears. “We'll make it, Papa, don't worry,” she assured him. “You've given us a lot. You'll see. We'll be fine. I'll take care of Rania, and she'll take care of me.” About an hour later, Jamal breathed his last.

Miral felt profound grief. That night she and her sister and her aunt all slept nestled together in Jamal's bed; they wanted to preserve his smell and his love in their memories. Only when they awakened the next morning did they realize that he wasn't there anymore.

That same morning, Hind read in the daily
Al-Quds
the news of Jamal's death. Not long afterward, Miral arrived. They embraced for a long time, and then the girl begged Hind to help her persuade Rania not to go to Haifa. With all the delicacy at her command, Hind replied, “Miral, I understand your grief, but there's nothing unusual in your sister's behavior. She's crying out for help. It's understandable. It's human. You're very strong, Miral; you never let your feelings show. That may help you defend yourself, but at the same time it will condemn you to a lifetime of solitude. You mustn't be too hard on yourself.”

 

Before the funeral, the girls paid their last respects to Jamal. Rania stayed back, but Miral approached the coffin and kissed his cold forehead and his hollow cheeks. Miral pressed her father's hand, which in life had always been warm and soft, and felt its cold stiffness. His skin was pale, its color almost surreal, but his features were placid and relaxed; he had finally left earthly suffering behind.

When their cousins lifted the coffin, the girls uttered cries of grief. All the tension accumulated during those last, tragic hours seemed to be channeled into their lamentation.

Almost a thousand people attended Jamal's funeral. Only then did Miral realize how beloved her father was. After the services were over, a man came up to her and handed her a white envelope. “This is money your father loaned me,” the stranger said. “He was a good and honest man. I didn't repay him in time, but I felt it my duty to give what I owed him to his daughters. If there's anything I can do for you, you need only ask.” The envelope contained twelve hundred dollars.

Through this incident and other, similar stories, Miral discovered that her father had silently assisted almost everybody in his neighborhood. His generosity was like his character, humble and discreet.

 

In the days immediately following her father's death, Miral often lingered for a while in his favorite places, sitting on the stone bench that offered a view of the Dome of the Rock or on the wooden bench under the pomegranate tree in front of their house, where Jamal would read the Koran or watch the neighborhood kids playing soccer.

Now a neighbor was coming every day to water the plants. The jasmine had perfumed summer nights with its intense fragrance, and in the autumn the pomegranate provided the fruit with which Jamal had prepared the delicious tarts he distributed to the neighborhood children. Miral recalled a gentle afternoon when her father had told her that the jasmine was like her: beautiful, fragrant, and dignified, capable of adapting to circumstances and of overcoming the difficulties of life by climbing over everything to find new light. The pomegranate, on the other hand, was like her sister, Rania: more practical, more solidly rooted in the earth, repaying the care of tending it with its sweet fruit. Now they were two grown plants, Miral thought, frozen in a sea of cement.

It took Miral a long time before she could gather the courage to visit her father's grave. He lay in the Muslim cemetery on the slope of the Mount of Olives, which overlooked the Old City. The Jewish cemetery, with its white tombs reflecting the sunlight, was located a little farther down the slope. Paradoxically, Miral thought, Jews and Arabs, who in life had kept themselves as far away from each other as possible, in death found themselves just a few meters apart, separated only by a low wall.

Although her father's death had opened a void in her soul that nothing could fill, Rania managed to find a balance in Haifa that she had never been able to reach in her school. Soon after going back there to live, she became engaged to a neighbor. She was very young, but she felt a desperate need to build the family that she had lost early.

By contrast, Miral threw herself headlong into politics again. During those terrible days after the death of their father, the two sisters saw their lives inevitably taking two distinct paths, even though the affection that had always united them would never waver.

 

For Miral, her final high school examinations in May had meant the end not only of the scholastic cycle but also of her life at Dar El-Tifel. And although she continued to live on campus, leaving was only a matter of time. She would have to make a quick decision regarding her future, but she couldn't think of anything but Hani. Rania's hastily arranged wedding plans had caught her off guard. Miral had hoped that her sister would complete her studies before taking such an important step. They even had a sharp argument on the subject, but then Miral remembered Hind's words, her repeated admonitions to the effect that one could not force a person to do something she did not wish to do. Rania had suffered so much, first because of her mother's death and then because of her father's; surely she could not be blamed if her sole desire was to start a family of her own.

In the meantime, Hind was hoping Miral would be one of the recipients of a scholarship for study in Europe. Many of her classmates would go to the university in Ramallah, while others were set to begin working. For the first time in her life, Miral wallowed in uncertainty; finally nothing stood in the way of her deciding for herself what path she should take. She went out into the Old City to do some shopping in preparation for going to Haifa to visit Rania in her new home.