On the Hills of God (20 page)

Both Yousif and his mother laughed. “You did not,” he said.

“The Prophet be my witness,” Fatima said, raising her right hand.

Yousif thought Fatima was wickedly funny. He ate one more spoonful and handed her the half-full dish. “When I marry her I’m going to buy you the prettiest dress in town,” he said.

“Now you’re talking,” Fatima grinned. “Embroidered at the hem and at the sleeves . . . and bodice . . .”

“You bet,” Yousif told her, rushing out.

“Finish your food,” his mother called after him.

“Let him go,” Fatima said.

Putting on his jacket, he could hear the two women laughing. He opened the door, ready to face the wind.

Yousif walked through the
souk,
past Salman’s ‘apothecary’, past Moshe Sha’lan’s shop, past the bus terminal, and started up the incline toward the new district. By the time he got to the Rowda Hotel, Salwa’s green coat flashed through the fog before him that had covered Ardallah like a gray shroud.

Yousif doubled his speed and began to whistle a tune just to let her know he was behind her. Luckily the fog was enveloping them in waves: one second he could see the two girls clearly and the next he couldn’t. At one of those splendid moments when the fog lifted, Yousif saw Salwa turn to look behind her and . . . she saw him!

The two girls turned left and Yousif followed suit, about fifty yards behind them. Then Salwa and Huda parted. Salwa continued on a secluded short cut that Yousif had seen her take many a time, especially whenever she wanted to exchange a few words with him.

He caught up with her on a dirt road that ran through a sparsely populated area.

“I hope nobody sees us,” Salwa muttered, slowing down.

“When I saw you at the door—I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Yousif confessed, his breathing heavy. “I looked for you all afternoon.”

“We ought to be careful,” Salwa said, without looking at him.

They walked in silence.

“Salwa . . .” Yousif said.

“Yes.”

“You knew your mother wasn’t at our house, didn’t you?”

“What do you think?” she replied. Even in the dark Yousif could tell she was blushing.

“I thought so,” Yousif said, happy.

“I try to see you whenever I can. But it’s not always easy.”

He reached for her hand but she pulled it away.

“I missed you, Salwa,” he said.

Yellow headlights suddenly appeared, penetrating the fog. As if by reflex, the two split and walked on opposite sides of the street. They remained apart until the car crawled by and was gone. Then Yousif crossed the street to rejoin her.

She walked beside him. “I’m worried,” she said, gently swinging her purse.

“About what?” Yousif asked.

“The war.”

“We all are,” he told her. “Father says if we lose the war we might even be kicked out. That means you and I might get separated. I’d go crazy.”

The thud of their heels on the dirt road was the only sound he could hear.

“If all of us do our share,” she said, looking ahead, “there’s no reason to lose. We’ll win.” Then she turned around and looked at him. “But I don’t see how we can be separated.”

“Suppose they drive us out and you end up in Lebanon and I end up in Syria . . . or Jordan . . . What then?”

“You must be joking,” she answered. “They can’t do that.”

“They can if they have the power. We know they want the land without the people.”

She did not seem convinced. “Well, if all of you men fight—no such thing will happen.”

Yousif was not persuaded. “Suppose your parents ,” he said, “decide to take a long vacation and wait out the war in Lebanon. Suppose the Jews win and don’t let you come back.”

“Not likely,” she told him. “One, my parents can’t afford such a trip. Two, we’re going to win. You really have a fertile imagination.”

“I’m always thinking . . .”

“Don’t worry. If we get separated you’ll find me. But if you haven’t fought, don’t even try.”

Yousif was silent for a long time.

“Don’t get upset,” she told him. “Just do your share in the fighting and everything will be okay.”

He stopped walking. “Doing one’s share and fighting are not the same thing,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I know we need to protect ourselves. But picking up the gun could be our undoing. We are too small, too unprepared. And we can’t depend on outside help. I still think we ought to negotiate a settlement.”

“It’s much too late for that,” she said.

“That’s what everybody says. And yet I keep hoping . . .”

“Action, Yousif, not hope. Hope alone is useless.”

They were approaching the end of the side street. The right turn would bring them out of seclusion. He stopped in the shadow of a new building, for he knew she would not speak to him once they reached the five-point
Saha
.

“What are you going to do during the holiday?” he asked.

She looked at him. For the first time she seemed to soften. A moment passed before she replied.

“I’ll be thinking about you,” she finally admitted.

He was pleased. “Will you be going shopping?”

“I will if you want me to.”

“You know I do. That’s the only way I can see you. Unless Zuhair and Akram need more tutoring.”

She smiled. “I’d better go now.”

He leaned forward to kiss her. But she stepped back.

“Please don’t embarrass me,” she said.

“I love you,” he argued.

“I know. But not here. Not now. Please.”

As she began to walk away, he wanted to follow her. But he knew he mustn’t. Should anyone see them walking behind each other in the fog, rumors would fly all over town. Their reputations would be tarnished, especially hers. Why must Arab society be so hard on lovers? he wondered again.

In a moment he saw Salwa’s lovely figure turn the corner and disappear.

Monday afternoon, Yousif and his two friends stopped at Arif’s bookstore for a look at the magazine rack. The place was crowded with Christmas shoppers buying toys that Arif had begun to import.

“Hey, Yousif,” bald-headed Arif said, raising his voice above the hubbub. “Let me see you before you leave.”

“Sure,” Yousif said, waving his hand.

Five minutes later, between customers, Arif drew Yousif to a corner.

“Salwa has been here five times already,” Arif confided, leaning toward the counter and his eyes all over the place. “The first time was about eleven o’clock. She asked if I had seen you today. I said no. And every time she came since then she’d stick her head through the door, look around, and then look at me for a yes or no. I’d shake my head and she’d go on her way.”

Yousif became worried. “It’s not like her to be so open.”

“I think you ought to try and find her.”

“When was the last time she was here?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” Yousif said, elbowing through the crowd.

With his two friends at heel, Yousif walked out of Arif’s bookstore forgetting to pay for the
al-Musawwar
magazine he was now rolling and unrolling. They walked through Kilani’s Novelty Shop, but she wasn’t there. They peeped inside Bata shoe store and inside Carmen’s beauty salon, but no luck. Ten minutes later, Yousif found her sitting with Huda at Nashwan’s eating ice cream. The two exchanged glances as he spotted a marble-topped table near hers. A group of school girls joined her unexpectedly and she looked at Yousif, disappointed. She seemed restless and distracted. Her smile was forced.

Within ten minutes Yousif followed her back to Arif’s bookstore. In the corner by the magazine stand, looking nervous, she slipped him a note. He moved to another corner before opening it. Scribbled, it read: “Meet me at the cinema. Left balcony. Four o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes till four.

Precisely at four, he went to the cinema with Amin and Isaac. The two friends sat down in the third row to their right, but Yousif walked around looking for Salwa. The maroon curtain was still hiding the silver screen and the sound system was blaring an Esmahan song. In a slow haunting voice, the female singer was describing a lovesick woman’s visit to a rose garden. She had gone there to console herself—to smell the roses and hear the birds singing. She saw two nightingales perched on a tree branch and imagined them in love. In their fancied romance the male was vowing his devotion, calling his paramour an angel and begging her never to leave him. After a long moment of happiness, the uncaring paramour fluttered her wings and flew away—leaving him, his heart melted. It was one of Yousif’s favorite songs. But today it stung him.

He found Salwa rubbing her temples, Huda at her side. When they saw him approaching, Huda got up and moved several seats away. Luckily the theater was almost empty and they were able to sit in relative seclusion.

Nothing had prepared him for Salwa’s tense mood. He looked at her keenly and reached for her hand. Surprisingly, she clutched his fingertips.

He stiffened. “What is it?”

“Adel Farhat is planning to ask for my hand,” she whispered, her eyes steady.

Yousif flinched. “What?” he said.

“You heard me,” she answered, uncoiling her hand out of his.

“Adel Farhat?”

“The assistant manager at Al-Andalus Hotel,” she said, nodding. “He and his parents visited us twice already. Tonight we’re supposed to return the visit.”

Yousif had to swallow hard. “Are you sure that’s what they have in mind?”

“What else? We don’t know these people. We’ve never visited them before nor have they visited us. We see their son at the hotel, but that’s all.”

Yousif remembered how Adel Farhat had tried to cut in on him while dancing with Salwa. He remembered the champagne bottle Adel Farhat had sent to her parents’ table that same night. Now the pieces were beginning to fall in place.

“You should’ve seen how his mother looked me over. She made me feel uncomfortable.”

“Well don’t go.”

“Go where?”

“To their house. They’d get the message.”

“These visits are prearranged. My father would be very upset with me if I make him break his promise. “

“Has he checked with you to see if you’re interested?”

“He hasn’t. But mother keeps talking about how nice they are. Adel is an only child. Worked ten years for the Passport Department in Jerusalem, then switched to hotel management because he has a rich uncle in America who wants to buy him a hotel. Father says Adel is negotiating to buy Al-Andalus Hotel itself. His three aunts own a lot of property, which he’ll inherit because none of them is married. Even his wealthy uncle in America is childless.”

“Did your mother tell you if you married him you’d be sleeping in a bed made of gold?” he sneered.

“Be serious. Mother knows about you and me. But she says you won’t be ready for years.”

“Pray tell,” Yousif said, his head crackling with anxiety, “why is Ardallah’s most eligible bachelor getting married at this time?”

“It seems he wants to join the fighting any way he can. But his family wants him to get married instead. They think a bride would make him change his mind. They don’t realize they’re choosing the wrong girl for that.”

The fact that Salwa had allowed the discussion with Adel Farhat’s family to get this far made Yousif extremely uneasy.

“I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” she hesitated.

Her words woke him up. “Yes . . .”

“I was just thinking . . .”

“Go on.”

“If you’d intervene . . . make a counter proposal . . .”

Yousif stared at her in the dark. “You mean ask for your hand?”

“I’m afraid it may be the only way to stop this marriage.”

Sheer joy engulfed Yousif. He squeezed her hand, his heart thumping. He couldn’t believe his ears. His dream girl was actually telling him to ask for her hand—that she was willing to marry him. Wow! He felt flattered, proud, thrilled, inspired, determined, ecstatic that she wanted him to do this.

“If Adel Farhat asks for my hand we are undone,” she warned. “My parents are impressed with him. Mother keeps saying good opportunities don’t knock on a girl’s door everyday.”

He felt his happiness ooze away. Her parents could ruin their future.

“I thought your mother liked me,” he complained.

“She still does. But she also says you’re too young, not ready for marriage. He’s about twelve years older than you. Your mother keeps talking about your wanting to go to America and study at Columbia University like your father. That could be several years. Do you think my family would want me to wait that long? Also, we’re facing war. Fathers are worried about what might happen to their daughters. My father keeps saying it’s better for a girl to be with a husband at a time like this.”

For a second Yousif did not realize what she was talking about. Then it dawned on him that her father was worried that she might get raped during the war. To an Arab, Yousif remembered, there could be no greater shame.