On the Hills of God (50 page)

Yasmin looked at her son, disappointed. “You ought to be thinking of your father, whose body was laid in the middle of this floor only ten days ago.”

Yousif swallowed hard. “Wherever he is, he’ll understand . . .” he said, biting his lower lip.

“For your sake, I hope so,” Yasmin said, looking weary.

For the next half-hour the three went round and round. Yousif mentioned that he had seen Anton Taweel clutch his own chest in front of the church. What if he died before Yousif and Salwa got married? Wouldn’t that complicate matters? Might not Salwa become guilt ridden? Might she not even change her mind about Yousif altogether? Uncle Boulus agreed that anything was possible. Yasmin was in a dither. She rubbed her own temples. She just couldn’t see how they could sing and dance and have wedding ceremonies while they were still in mourning. Wouldn’t they be criticized? Wasn’t Dr. Safi worthy of respect in death? Was she to be denied the opportunity to attend her only son’s wedding—wearing bright colors and smiling?

Yousif’s heart ached. He patted his mother’s hand, trying to comfort her.

“Give to each his due,” her brother counseled. “You gave Jamil all his rights when he died, now you give the living their rights.”

Brother and sister traded looks that were full of despair and understanding. With a hand gesture, born out of resignation if not frustration, Uncle Boulus seemed to tell Yasmin, “Let him go.”

There was a long pause.

“We’re forgetting,” Uncle Boulus said, his voice lowered, “that we’re in the midst of war. Let’s get this whole thing behind us and think about tomorrow. Bigger troubles are still ahead. Come to think of it, the wedding might not be a bad idea after all. If Anton Taweel is having chest pains, he might die. At least he’ll have Yousif to look after his family. If you die, Yasmin—”

“God forbid,” Yousif said.

“Well, these things happen,” Uncle Boulus said, clicking his
masbaha
and waxing philosophical. “Especially in war. I might die, you might die . . . who knows. Well, if Yasmin dies, Salwa will look after you.”

Yasmin sighed sharply. “All right, you can get married,” she told her son, looking him straight in the eye. “But promise me one thing, let’s keep it simple and dignified. No fanfare. No hoopla. You hear me, Yousif? Dignified.”

“Sure, Mother,” Yousif said, a prey of tangled emotions. “Whatever you wish.”

At that moment, Fatima walked in the front door, a basket of groceries on her head. She had to stoop a little to enter. Then she unloaded herself, placing the basket next to the door. Her face was flushed.

“No one is talking about politics anymore,” Fatima said, like a bubbling brook. “The whole town is talking about you, Yousif.”

Yousif was curious. “What are they saying?”

“That you are another Majnoon Laila,” Fatima answered, wiping her face.

Yousif knew what that meant. They were referring to the seventh-century poet who had gone mad for having loved and lost. Mad or not, Yousif was glad he had stopped the wedding.

“Majnoon Salwa,” Yousif corrected her, smiling. “And proud of it.”

“Don’t you worry,” Fatima said, sitting down on the edge of a chair and taking a deep breath. “I gave them a piece of my mind.”

“Who’s them?” Yousif asked.

“Everybody. At the butcher’s shop. At the baker’s. Throughout the
souk.”

“What did you tell them?” Yousif prodded.

“I told them when the dust settles down Anton Taweel is going to be glad the way things turned out. He ought to be on his hands and knees, thanking God for what you did.”

“You told them all that?” Yousif asked, amused.

“Sure did,” Fatima boasted, the gap between her front teeth looking wide.

Then Yasmin told Fatima that they had decided to go ahead with the wedding. Fatima jumped to her feet, both her hands cupping her mouth as though she were ready to start ululating.

“No singing,” Yasmin begged.

“No singing?” Fatima asked, crestfallen. “The doctor,
Allah yirhamu,
wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Not now, please,” Yasmin said, her eyes misty.

To change the mood, Yousif smiled at Fatima. “I may not be able to keep my promise,” he teased her, “and buy you that embroidered dress so soon.”

“Yes, you can,” Fatima answered, bending down to pick up her basket. “I know a woman who has just the dress I want and she’d sell it to me in no time.”

All smiled—except Yasmin. But even she finally looked as though a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. And Yousif was pleased.

“Come on, Yousif,” Uncle Boulus said, rising and pocketing his
masbaha
. “Time is running short and we have a lot to do.”

During the day, Yousif and his uncle assembled relatives (such as Salman but not Basim, who could not be located) and a group of dignitaries (such as the mayor and Fouad Jubran and Dr. Fareed Afifi) to help them smoothe Anton Taweel’s ruffled feathers and to officially ask him for Salwa’s hand.

When they arrived at the Taweels’ house, about seven o’clock, awaiting them was a similarly large group of relatives and prominent people, including Father Samaan, who had won Yousif’s heart for having refused to be railroaded into marrying Salwa to Adel Farhat.

As the arriving party went around the large living room shaking hands with the men who had stood to greet them, Yousif’s heart fluttered. He was apprehensive about shaking Anton Taweel’s hand. Only yesterday, Yousif remembered, Anton had wanted to strangle him. Being the youngest of his group, Yousif was the last in line. As he shook other men’s hands, he kept his eyes on Salwa’s father, who looked like a man ready to receive condolences rather than the good wishes of those who wanted his daughter for one of their sons.

Before he knew it, Yousif had his hand in Anton Taweel’s hand. It was a lukewarm handshake. Their lips barely parted. Yousif was undecided whether to simply say hello or to apologize. Nor could he tell what Salwa’s father uttered when his lips moved. But Yousif didn’t care. He was only glad it was all over with and he was now moving on to shake another man’s hand.

For about five minutes the conversation centered on health, weather, and politics. They all agreed that the outcome of the war was anybody’s guess. Yousif sat, his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands folded in his lap. Then he heard his Uncle Boulus clear his throat. The whole gathering simmered down.

“I’m honored,” Uncle Boulus began, his voice raised so that everyone could hear, “to speak on behalf of my nephew and my sister and the whole Safi family—and to ask you, Anton Taweel, for your daughter Salwa’s hand in marriage to our nephew Yousif. We hope he will be worthy of your acceptance. We also hope that in time he’ll be a worthy addition to your family that you may regard him as your son. Nothing will gladden my heart and your heart more, I hope, than to see these two young innocent people, Salwa and Yousif, who seem fated for each other, and who come from two honorable families that have been bonded by friendship over the years—nothing will please us all, I must say, than to see them receive your blessings and all your good wishes.”

Silence echoed. Anton Taweel looked rigid, haughty. Yousif was impressed by his uncle’s impassioned plea on his behalf, although he regarded such flowery language and unabashed sentimentality a bit archaic. He couldn’t help but wonder if the words had been premeditated or whether they just gushed out of his uncle spontaneously.

Salwa’s father remained solemn, noncommittal—even though he was the one who had demanded an early wedding. Till the last second, Yousif thought, Anton was playing hard. But the mayor and the priest and other men were urging him to give his consent.

“Barek,”
a chorus of men said. “Go ahead. Give them your blessings.”

Finally, Anton Taweel, black pouches under his eyes, looked around.
“Mabrook,”
he said, without enthusiasm. “May their wedding be blessed.”

Men cheered. The word
mabrook
resounded around the room. Again before he knew it, Yousif was urged to get up and embrace his “new uncle” and kiss him on both cheeks and beg forgiveness. This Yousif did with exaggerated formality—glad that no one had asked him to kiss Salwa’s father’s hand out of respect and as an admission of having done him wrong. Yousif was determined to balk at such an obsequious gesture, should it be suggested, at the risk of alienating his future father-in-law one more time.

While other men recited platitudes such as “it will blow over” and “all’s well that ends well,” Yousif remained standing in the room, wanting to get Anton’s attention.

“Excuse me,” Yousif said, nervous, “may I have your permission to see Salwa . . . now that we’re going to get married.”

Men all around him guffawed. They said it was about time he saw her. They said the poor fellow had waited long enough. They said he couldn’t believe his dream was coming true. Eventually, the good cheer infected the guarded Anton. On his face flickered a faint smile.

“I guess you may,” Anton said, sitting down.

Yousif dashed out of the room as Father Samaan began telling a story about the man in Genesis who plowed his uncle’s fields for seven years in order to win his daughter’s hand—only to lose her to someone else and to start another seven years of hard labor.

Salwa was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, her arms folded. Her mother was there too, tending two large brass pots of coffee. They seemed to have been expecting him.

“Welcome to the family,” Imm Akram said, breaking into smiles and extending both arms.

“The honor is mine,” Yousif said, embracing her and kissing her on both cheeks.

“Your persistence has certainly paid off.
Mabrook
.”

“Thanks,” Yousif said, then turned to Salwa.

There was a nervous pause. Salwa was blushing. Then the mother slipped out of the room.

For a moment Yousif and Salwa continued to stare at each other. Then he rushed to sweep her off her feet. There was a fraction of hesitation on her part, then she fell into his arms. Every cell in his body rejoiced. Salwa was a willing partner, letting him mould her to his body, smell and feel her hair, luxuriate in her warmth. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head away.

“After all we’ve been through,” he whispered, “you deny me a kiss?”

“Not yet,” she demurred. “Not here . . .”

“I’ve risked my life for this moment.”

“Don’t tempt your fate,” she murmured, looking in his eyes.

“For you I’ll tempt the gods,” he muttered, their cheeks touching.

Suddenly Salwa succumbed and their lips brushed like feathers. He became intoxicated; she melted in his arms as the kiss deepened and continued. Their bodies fit so well, her mouth tasted so good, he wanted the moment to last. Never in his life had he felt any better. Or happier. Or more alive.

After they had disengaged, they just held hands. Heat waves were still ripping through Yousif’s body.

“I love you,” he said, looking at her eyes.

“Ih cha na,”
she answered, smiling.

Suddenly they both burst out laughing. Salwa had quoted from the story of a nitwit who was madly in love. When he met the object of his desires he poured his heart to her in the most “poetic” clichés he could muster. He compared her to the moon, to the sun. He called her dewy-eyed, lithe-limbed like a gazelle, tall and elegant like a palm tree. Her skin was like marble, her kisses sweet like honey. He was a harp and she was the finger which plucked and caressed the strings to make music. He loved her, he adored her, he worshiped her, he’d crawl to hell for her. To which the simple country girl answered:
ih cha na
—me too.

Yousif couldn’t believe his luck. The most beautiful girl in the world was his. She was there laughing with him and holding his hand. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.

“I’m in a daze,” Yousif said.

“You were so brave at the church,” she told him. “When I heard your voice and turned around and saw you, I
knew
you were the one for me.”

Yousif feigned disappointment. “Only then you knew?”

“I just hope I’ll love you for the rest of my life as much as I loved you at that moment.”

“You’ll love me more. But just imagine! Now you’re mine, mine.”

“And you’re my hero.”

“Do you blame me for being in a daze?” he said, hugging her again.

“What I can’t believe is my father’s reversal,” she confessed.

“Me, too,” Yousif agreed. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

Her large eyes focused on him. “I’m glad you’re so happy,” she said.

“Tell me, where would you like to go on the honeymoon?”

“Honeymoon! Can you believe we’re even discussing it? Right now I’m supposed to be on honeymoon with—”

“Sshhhh,” he said, touching her lips. “Don’t mention his name. He never existed.”

“I promise. And I don’t care where we go. I just want to be with you.”

Again they fell into each other’s arms. The coffee on the fire boiled over and hissed. But they didn’t care. There was no shyness now. It was a kiss that resonated in the depth of their souls.