On the Hills of God (23 page)

“Salwa and I wish to have your approval . . . your blessing.”

The father’s eyes bulged as he tilted his head menacingly. “Don’t you dare mention her name,” he said, lighting a cigarette. He crushed and threw the empty pack on the ground—without taking his eyes off Yousif.

They heard a voice calling them from the main building. It was Adel Farhat standing on the balcony. “Anything wrong?” he shouted.

“No,” the father answered, waving his hand and feigning a smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.” Then he turned to Yousif, threatening. “Go away, boy. Go on.”

“I hope none of us will live to regret this day,” Yousif said. “I came to you full of respect and good intentions. I thought it was the honorable thing to—”

“The only honorable thing for you to do,” the father commanded, “is to forget that you and Salwa have ever met.”

The two men glared at each other, then the father walked away. Yousif stood still, his head high. He watched the spoiler of his dreams turn the corner of the dance floor, and felt the afternoon darken.

Full of consternation, Yousif approached his parents one more time, begging for intervention. He even dared to turn off the radio a few minutes before the 6:00 o’clock evening news. The whole world could burn; he must have Salwa.

His mother took a deep breath. “Maybe they’ll accept a ring for now,” she said.

Yousif was delighted. Even this mild consent was enough to lift his spirits. But the doctor shot his wife a look that told her she was insane like her son.

“I’d rather Yousif wait a few more years,” she added, “but they’ve rushed him. So why not—if they’d let us put a ring on her finger for now? After the war we’d plan things together, rationally. Right now we’re all so edgy, so tense.”

His mother went on wondering, her hand touching her chin. “Maybe they’d settle for a private engagement,” she said. “Jamil, what do you think?”

The doctor puffed on his pipe without saying a word. Even his silence was a form of consent; Yousif was thrilled.

“Really, Jamil,” his wife said. “We’ve both seen young men get married.”

“Not at seventeen,” the doctor objected, spires of aromatic smoke billowing around him.

“I’m almost eighteen,” Yousif retorted. “Besides, I didn’t say I want to get married tomorrow. I just don’t want to lose Salwa. That’s all.”

Yasmin looked at her son, gently biting her lower lip. She seemed to want him to leave the persuading to her.

“We can’t find a girl like Salwa every day,” she said, her voice not more than a whisper. “I’d love to have her for a daughter. What do you think, Jamil? Say something.”

“You already know what I think,” her husband told her, striking another match.

“We could use something to dispel the gloom around this place,” she insisted. “If they’d settle for a ring now and a wedding a little later, I’m all for it.”

Yousif’s hopes soared. He wondered if Fatima’s encouragement a few days earlier were ringing in his mother’s ears. He wondered if the undeniable appeal of little bare feet running around the house was the clincher. No matter, he thought. Wasn’t his father’s silence a prelude to consent? Yet, the doctor would not commit himself one way or the other.

Hours later, Yousif went to sleep, convinced that no nightmare could match the horror of reality.

In the morning, the doctor seemed less rigid. They were at the breakfast table, and Yousif could sense that the mood had changed. He wondered what his parents had said to each other in bed. He would not ask. He would just let them tell him.

“For your sake,” the doctor said, addressing his wife, “and for the sake of your stubborn son I guess I’ll have a talk with Anton.”

“Don’t talk to him . . . convince him,” Yousif pleaded, his voice catching.

His father cracked a hard-boiled egg on the edge of his plate. “I don’t think it’ll do any good. Not after the damage you’ve done.”

Yousif swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But do your best, Father. Please.”

The doctor promised, and began shelling the egg.

“I’ll try, too,” the mother said, her features slackening. “Around ten o’clock I’ll drop by their house for a cup of coffee and see what her mother thinks.”

They ate in grave silence that the chirping of the birds next door could not improve.

That evening both parents gave Yousif a report that was so definite, so final—it was devastating. Salwa would be engaged to Adel Farhat. The wedding would not be till June or July—after she graduated from secondary school. This was a promise her father had already made to Adel and his family—a hammerlock promise accompanied by a handshake.

Yousif sat glassy-eyed, dizzy, drained, his mind blank. They might as well have read him the rejection of his last reprieve. He did not raise a single objection. The floor under his feet seemed to shift like quicksand, and he felt he was sinking . . . sinking. He stuck out his lower lip and brooded, feeling dejected, betrayed. But when he realized that they were waiting for him to react, he licked his wounds, jutted his chin, and braved a smile.

“Did you say the wedding will be in June or July?” he asked, clutching the armrests with both hands.

His mother nodded, visibly holding her tears. “They want to wait till after she finishes school.”

It didn’t make sense to Yousif. “The war might be over by then,” he said. “I thought Adel’s family wanted him to get married right away, so he won’t want to fight.”

Both parents looked equally puzzled. “You’re right,” the mother said. “It does seem strange. Jamil, what do you think?”

The doctor exhaled. “Who knows,” he said. “It’s probably a compromise.”

There was a long, awkward pause. The doctor wiped his misty glasses, a jet of smoke billowing from his pipe.

“July is a long way off,” Yousif said, his voice thickening. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

The doctor frowned, put his glasses back on, and took the pipe out of his mouth. “I trust you’ll not do anything foolish. Wish them luck and get her out of your mind. The world is full of wonderful girls.”

“But there’s only one Salwa,” Yousif answered, his head throbbing with anger and despair. What pressure were they exerting on her?

He staggered out of the room. Then a glimmer of hope—an electric charge—seemed to revive his soul. Could it be, he thought, that Salwa was only stalling? Could she have agreed to an immediate engagement, provided they won’t rush her into marriage? Surely Adel’s family didn’t like the idea of waiting.

Sitting on the edge of his bed and staring at the wall before him, Yousif breathed easier. His imagination sprouted; his chest heaved. All might not be lost. Oh, Salwa! The heavens must have listened to his silent prayers. He hoped against hope that what he was feeling now was true—that his girl was resisting. Just as quickly, though, doubt possessed him. He felt weak-kneed. Could she ultimately stand up to her tyrannical father? Could she make him go back on his ironclad promise? Yousif didn’t think so—unless he could help her. Which he must do.

Deep in his heart he vowed that Salwa’s wedding to Adel Farhat would never—never—happen. He would stop it, so help him God.

Salwa’s engagement landed Yousif in a dark pit. He did not think he would ever get his wind back. Salwa mattered to him, and she seemed now like a fragrant rose that had turned suddenly into a prickly cactus.

But other disturbing events interceded. A few days after that fateful Sunday when Salwa’s engagement was announced, the town woke up to discover that its Jewish residents had disappeared. Isaac’s family were among those who had vanished. At first, rumor had it that they’d met their fate at the hands of some extremists. But later the same day it was learned they’d followed the course adopted by other Arabs and Jews all over Palestine. Those who lived in towns and districts highly populated by the enemy left to seek refuge among their own. They quit their jobs, closed their shops, moved to safer areas, and waited for the storm to blow over. Some left even before they could turn off the lights in their homes or lock the front doors.

In some quarters, the news of the sudden disappearance was met with satisfaction. Several Arab women remembered Raheel, the Jewess who had been married to an Arab for more than eight years. Now she had left him and their three children to join her people. How any mother could forsake her children they could not understand. Were the Jews her people, while her own offspring, her own flesh and blood, were not? Some said good riddance. Those who felt differently were afraid to speak.

For Yousif and Amin, Isaac’s disappearance was not only sad, but bewildering. They had never thought he would leave town without telling them, his best friends, goodbye. Yet, they had faith in his friendship.

A week after the Jews had left, Yousif received a letter from Isaac.

Dear Yousif,

I can’t blame you if you felt my behavior was strange and unfriendly. I do hope, however, that you’ll give me a chance to explain. The decision to leave came as a complete surprise. Even my parents didn’t plan for it. That night a “nice” group of men told all of us Jews in Ardallah that we either leave town before midnight or risk our lives. Father wanted to consult with your father and the mayor but they wouldn’t let him. He even asked for permission to let him come by and leave the keys to the house and store with your parents, but again they said no.

Just before midnight a taxi stopped in front of our house. Father and I carried the few suitcases while my mother carried Leah and then went back to get Alex. Yousif, you should have seen Mother trying to be cheerful, telling Leah we were going on a trip . . . a lovely, lovely trip. Tears were glistening in her eyes.

So now we are in Tel Aviv. Barbed wires and sandbags are everywhere. Young men and women are being drafted into the Jewish underground. Families are storing food for the days ahead. People are jittery, and don’t know what to expect. Everybody is certain that war will break out, and that it’s going to be nothing short of hell.

Write soon, please, and let me know how you are. Give my best regards to Amin and tell him I’ll write. Good luck to both of you—and I mean it with all my heart.

Sincerely,

Isaac

The letter was heartening. It made clear that the poisonous atmosphere had not begun to touch the goodness of Isaac’s love. On the same day, Yousif sat down and answered:

Dear Isaac,

What a relief it was to hear from you, and to know that you’re still alive. Being alive these days isn’t to be taken for granted, for the ‘incidents’ are turning into guerrilla war, and one never knows who’ll be the next victim.

I hope all is well with you and your family. Every time I pass your house or your store I stop and wonder whatever happened to you. What I know now saddens me. Please give our best regards to your parents and hug Leah for me. And may you all return to us in good health—soon.

Meanwhile, Isaac, I’m losing my mind. Salwa is engaged to be married to Adel Farhat. Can you believe it? It happened so suddenly, I’m still reeling from the shock. They say the wedding is going to be next June or July—but I pray she’ll come to her senses and break it off before then. I don’t know what I’m going to do to win her back. But I can tell you this much: a bride to Adel Farhat she will never be.

Sometimes I sit with my parents on our balcony at night and listen to the bombing and shelling in Jerusalem and Jaffa. We lapse into these tight silences . . . and I see on my parents’ faces shadows of pity and distress. There’s so much hate, so much pain around us.

Jamal asked about you the other day. He has been wondering, poor fellow, why you haven’t been to your music lessons. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him about your letter.

Write soon and tell us more about life in Tel Aviv. Somehow I expected you to write from Jerusalem. Will you remain in Tel Aviv until after the war? How do you spend your time? Have you enrolled in school? Tell us everything. In the meantime, be assured that Amin and I miss you.

Your friend, always.

Yousif

Two days later, Yousif decided to go to the clinic after school and then return home with his father. Before he could leave the school ground, it began to thunder and rain. The shopkeepers came out to roll down their canopies. All the domino players on the sidewalks folded up their games and rushed inside with their chairs in their hands. By the time Yousif reached the clinic he was drenched. The floor of offices that his father shared with a dentist and an accountant was dark and empty, as if everybody had taken the day off.

Nurse Laila was dusting up for the day. Her hair parted in the middle, she told Yousif that his father had gone next door to Zahrawi’s cafe for his afternoon
nergileh.
It was almost five o’clock but they had been very busy, she said, and he couldn’t take his break any earlier. She gave him a towel to dry himself as he waited a few minutes for the rain to stop. When it didn’t, he went out anyway.

Zahrawi’s cafe was packed. Entering it was like entering a new world. The happy sounds were deafening. The customers seemed shielded from troubles. Were these people real? Yousif thought. Why were they so happy, so boisterous, when they were about to be wolfed up by the enemy?

His father was sitting near a huge window overlooking the main street, smoking
nergileh
and playing backgammon with Abu Hamed, the
fellah
whose faded, traditional, ankle-length outfit contrasted sharply with his father’s fine gray suit and red striped tie.

Abu Hamed was the man who had planted all of the trees around their house and who had mended stone walls for them for years.

“I came to see about pain in my chest,” the beady-eyed Abu Hamed explained to Yousif, “and the good doctor insisted on bringing me to this fancy place.”

“Why not?” Yousif said, smiling and laying his hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder.

“He even refused to let me pay,” Abu Hamed complained. “Why should he be so nice to me when I have been overcharging him for years? I ought to be ashamed of myself.”

The doctor rolled the dice and snapped his fingers, gloating. “You’re going to be really ashamed of yourself when you lose this game. Keep talking and I’ll beat you for sure.”

A waiter arrived with a few pieces of charcoal for their
nergilehs
. Yousif asked for a glass of minted hot tea.

Just then two of Palestine’s most famous athletes walked in, unruffled by the rain. Yousif, a soccer fan, recognized them at once. They were an Arab and an Irishman: two of the country’s best soccer players and also good friends, although they played on opposing teams. Suhail Shammas was a short bouncy little fellow who had been nicknamed “Rassass” as a tribute to his solid physique, quick movement, and bullet-like deliveries. He played on the Greek Orthodox team in Jaffa. George Pinkley was at least five inches taller. He was the left wing on the Army’s team and a marvel to watch for all soccer fans. Whenever George got hold of the ball, his team felt relieved, and the other team surrounded him to no avail. He would hold the ball under his foot for a second and then shoot right between his opponents or zip through them as if they were not there.

Yousif knew that George’s popularity among the Arabs was due to more than his athletic prowess. An Irishman with a grudge of his own against the British, George was on the Arabs’ side. Rumors had it that he had engaged in fist fights over his government’s policy in Palestine. It was no secret that he had often disobeyed his superiors’ orders not to mix with the natives. From the smiles and handshakes he saw, Yousif could tell how greatly the people in the cafe admired George. Many offered to buy him and Rassass a drink. George declined, but a bottle of
arak
was placed on his table, compliments of someone at the other end of the room. Giver and receiver waved their hands and smiled.

“I wish it would stop raining,” the doctor said, glancing at his watch. “It’s almost five-thirty, Yousif. You’d better call up your mother and tell her where we are, don’t you think?”

Yousif went up to the cafe’s proprietor, Nicola Zahrawi, and asked him to use the house phone. His mother was glad for the delay, she said, and they could take their time coming home. She hadn’t had time to prepare supper on account of some unexpected afternoon visitors. That suited Yousif just fine. He hung up and went to the restroom.

Returning to his seat, Yousif was astonished by how much liquor the two soccer players had already consumed.
Arak
was potent.

“I want you to know,” he heard George saying to his friend, his glass held in front of his pinkish face, “you’re just about the best camel rider I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen more of you people than I care to admit.”

Yousif smiled. Then he looked around, hoping that no one else had heard it. Some people, he feared, had no sense of humor.

“You’re not bad yourself,” Rassass retorted, pouring more
arak
in George’s glass.

“Well, here’s ‘Down with the Arabs,’” George toasted, his tongue heavy.

“And here’s ‘To hell with the British,’” Rassass responded, holding his glass and touching his friend’s glass.

George and Rassass laughed as two drunks, two friends. Yousif was happy for them. He wished all Arabs and Englishmen were as friendly as these two. Here were two men who were basically alike, he said to himself, regardless of their background or the color of their hair. He sat in his chair and continued to watch with interest.

“And I also want you to know,” George continued, “that even though we gave away your country to the Jews, and expect a damn lot of you to be killed before it’s all over, I hope when you get shot you’d find enough goodness in your heart to think of me as your friend.”

Rassass grinned. “And when we chase Britain out of the whole Arab world, and by God we will,” he said, raising a toast, “I pray you may think of me as your bosom pal.”

They laughed again and clanked their glasses. All the while, the cafe was filling up with civilians and soldiers. The doctor and Abu Hamed finished the game, shut the game-box, and puffed on their
nergilehs
.

“We’ll leave as soon as I finish this smoke,” the doctor said to Yousif.

The soccer players began singing an Irish song with which Yousif was familiar and which of late had become popular among some Arabs. They sang:

The British came and tried to teach us their ways,

And mocked us just for being what we are.

But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams

Or light a penny candle from a star.

Then Rassass stopped singing, an angry look in his eyes. Yousif noticed the abrupt change in his facial expression. Sitting on the other side of the two soccer players was a British soldier, also drunk. In front of him stood a little frail Arab shoeshine boy, clothed in torn rags. Apparently the boy was shivering for reasons other than lack of heat inside the cafe.

“Not enough, Mister,” the shoeshine boy was saying, his palm open.

“Fuck off,” growled the lanky, blond, drunk soldier.

“Shoes, two piasters. Boots, three piasters. Please, Mister, one more piaster. Please, Mister, one more piaster.”

“Fuck off,” repeated the soldier gruffly, kicking the boy’s bottom.

Rassass rose from his chair, throwing back George’s arm, which had been stretched out to restrain him. He staggered toward the soldier.

“Give that boy his piaster,” Rassass demanded, “and quit telling him to fuck off.”

“Fuck off yourself,” the soldier said, his eyes half shut.

“Stop saying that word, you bastard, or I’ll kill you,” Rassass threatened.

George stood between the two, sober like a judge. “Don’t get hot,” he told his pal.

“George, leave us alone,” Rassass replied.

“Do it for me, please,” George entreated. “Don’t start anything.”

“Then tell him to stop saying that word, and make him pay the piaster.”