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bridegroom. She felt thin and empty. The new dress was stiff and ballooned awkwardly above the waist every time she moved. What was the priest saying? He had placed someone next to her but she didn’t dare steal a glance. If she looked she would have to accept what she saw.
    The priest was finished. Her father kissed her forehead. Now she had to turn. She saw an ear, red at the tip. He was nearly shoulder to shoulder with her. There was something vaguely familiar about him. It was the young man at the vegetable stand! Then she remembered that several times, in moments of weakness, for lack of anyone else, she had plucked him from that spot near Jaffa Gate and put him in her daydreams. This was her punishment. It had come true.
    “You are tall,” he said. “Almost to my eyes.” He had taken her outside.
    She looked at him contemptuously. She was as tall as he. “Is that why you chose me?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “It’s a poor reason.”
    “And what would be a better one?” he asked teasingly.
    “Strength,” she said. Any answer would do.
    “Well, now,” he said playfully, “are you strong?” He extended her arm to inspect it, but she didn’t feel playful. “You aren’t pleased by this match?” he asked kindly.
    “My parents have chosen for me and I will do as they say,” she answered quietly.
    “That’s wise. And honest,” he said, making a virtue of her joylessness. “It’s better to start a marriage without mistaken ideas. Then there are no disappointments but, instead, pleasant surprises.”
    “What sort of pleasant surprises?” she asked suspiciously. She was surprised that she could challenge him so easily. Her peevishness didn’t seem to bother him at all.
    “Many. The joys of creating a pleasant home and a . . .” He had been about to add family , but thought better of it. He blushed.
    “You’re right,” she agreed, reassured by his nervousness. They walked in silence and she looked him over. He was slight, with a long face like his father, but with very large, lively eyes and excellent even teeth that were visible when he smiled. He had a ruddy complexion, not that awful yellow of men who smoked the narghilla so much. His hair was thick, a medium brown. He was tanned from the sun, which made his light eyes look lighter. She had seen her cousins married to men who weren’t half as acceptable as he. Yet she felt nothing.
    “Every girl feels exactly the same way. Ex-act-ly,” said Diana, who, since the birth of her son, felt entitled to an opinion on everything. “But that’s no reason to refuse such a decent man.” She surveyed Miriam insolently, head to foot. “ Labis el-’ud yajud . ” Clothe a stick of wood and it will do well. Miriam had a lovely lithe body, while Diana grew fatter every year.
    The evening before the ceremony, the Mishwe women prepared a henna mixture that they daubed on Miriam’s hands arms and legs. Then they wound them in cloth.
    Jamilla had never been more maternal than on the morning of Miriam’s wedding day. Gently, she removed the cloth from her daughter’s legs and arms. She shooed away George and Salim, who were fascinated by their sister’s flaming limbs and had begun to wrap each other in the stained muslin. Miriam sat quietly while her mother sponged her face, neck, and back but then, quite suddenly, tears slipped down her cheeks and she took the rag away from Jamilla. “Mama, I’m frightened. I don’t want to go and live with the Mishwes. Umm Jameel doesn’t like me.” She had a hundred protests but this seemed the easiest to say.
    “Of course she likes you. She chose you for her son. They act high-handed because of the money, but don’t worry. Once you have a son, you’ll have some power, too.”
    “It isn’t only Umm Jameel.” She was crying harder, despairing that her mother didn’t understand. “I don’t want to be married. Mama, I can’t help it. I know Nadeem is a fine man but I don’t want him. I don’t know him at all.