On the Hills of God (22 page)

Yousif crisscrossed the town looking for Jamal. He went to his room three times, but could not find him. He searched every coffeehouse to no avail. He stopped at the bus terminal and checked with the conductors, relieved no one told him Jamal had gone out of town. But by noon, Yousif became despondent. If he couldn’t find Jamal his meeting with Salwa could be jeopardized. Hiding in the arcade would be unbecoming. Just as he was about to despair, luck smiled on him. He happened to look inside a small eatery across from Cinema Firyal. At the far end of the narrow cafe was Jamal.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Yousif said, pulling up a chair.

Jamal nodded, holding a
falafel
sandwich with both hands. “Have something to eat, then tell me all about it,” he said. Then he cocked his head and raised his voice, calling out to the proprietor. “Fouad, bring him
falafel
.”

“No . . . no,” Yousif said. “No food for me. Listen, Jamal. I have a big favor to ask of you.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m in love.”

Jamal smiled and chewed lustily, a spot of
tahini
at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m serious,” Yousif continued, handing him a paper napkin. “Please, listen to me. I’m madly in love with a beautiful girl. And she loves me, too. Suddenly her family wants her to marry somebody else. Some kind of fever is sweeping people. They’re all scared. They all want to put their personal things in order before it’s too late.”

“Typical wartime attitude,” Jamal said, finishing eating and vigorously wiping his mouth and hands. “How can I help you?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

“All I want of you is a chance to meet her at your place. There’s nowhere else we can talk.”

Jamal nodded and then reached for his cane that hung on the back of his chair. Jamal paid a shilling to a proprietor with a gravel voice, and he and Yousif left. It was already drizzling.

At the one-room apartment, Yousif looked at his wristwatch constantly, wishing for three o’clock. In the meantime, he poured out his heart to Jamal, telling him again and again how much he loved Salwa. He paced the small low-ceilinged room. Jamal sat in a corner, weaving a basket and listening.

“Have you ever been in love, Jamal?” Yousif asked. “Don’t answer if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t mind,” Jamal answered, his deft fingers busy with long slivers of cane. “Yes, Yousif, I’ve been in love. As a matter of fact I still am. And always will be—even though she’s been married for twenty years and has three children. They say time heals all wounds. Maybe so. But this wound has never healed.”

Sadness hovered over them. But soon Jamal’s face brightened.

“I’ll tell you what you should do, Yousif.”

“What?” Yousif asked, surprised at the change of tone.

“Let cousin Salman prepare you a potion to stop the marriage.”

“I thought you were serious.”

“They say he’s good at it.”

The minutes crept by. Jamal lit the primus and put on a pot of Arabic coffee. Yousif watched in disbelief. How could a blind mind manage so well? Ten minutes later, they drank in silence.

“You haven’t told me the girl’s name,” Jamal remarked, resuming his weaving.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

“No, no. Perhaps it’s better this way.”

They heard footsteps and both perked their ears. The sound of high heels clicking stopped. Yousif rushed and opened the door. But Salwa was not there—only her friend, Huda. His heart sank. He motioned for her to come in, looking right and left to make sure they were not being watched.

“Where is she?” Yousif asked, his voice choked.

“She couldn’t come,” Huda answered, toying with the strap of her purse.

He stepped aside to let her in. The minute she saw Jamal’s back hunched over his basket, she backed away.

“Don’t worry,” Yousif said.

Reluctantly, Huda remained standing by the door.

“Where is she?” Yousif asked.

“I’m afraid I have bad news. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you, but she begged me.”

Yousif fixed his stare on her. “Go on,” he muttered.

“She’s getting engaged to Adel Farhat.”

“It’s not true.”

“Listen, Yousif. I’m sorry for both of you. Now let me out, please.”

“Where is she?”

“At home.”

“Can’t she come out? Can’t she see me?”

“The engagement is Sunday.”

“This coming Sunday?”

Huda nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said. She started to leave, then stopped and looked back at him. “One more thing,” she added. “She wants you to know that she still loves you.”

Dazed, Yousif hardly noticed Huda slip out of the room. He heard the door open and close but did not see her go out. He pressed his head against the wall and pounded his fist without stopping. He felt robbed, amputated. He kicked and cursed and began to sob. Jamal’s outstretched arms found him, and led him back to a seat. But Yousif could not remain in one place. He was inconsolable. He brushed his tears and left without saying a word.

To whom should he turn? Suddenly he was furious with his own parents. They had better come across and ask for her hand. His mind raced as he walked through the old dirty streets. What next? he asked himself over and over again. Salwa engaged to marry Adel Farhat? No . . . no. Never.

Yousif knew he had to find Salwa’s father and convince him that Salwa’s impending marriage was a serious mistake. Her father must be warned that his daughter’s happiness was at stake. He couldn’t force her to marry someone she did not want.

As Yousif left Jamal’s district and climbed his way to the upper part of town, arguments tumbled in his head. He would tell her father this and he would tell him that, and if the old bastard would not listen, he’d punch him in the nose. By God, he’d elope with her. But he quickly dismissed the thought. True, she was the one who suggested the counter proposal, yet she might oppose the idea of elopement. That was too radical a step—tantamount to a scandal. No, he couldn’t take her for granted on that score. She wouldn’t go along. Besides, he had no money. The only option left for him was to take a stand and try his best to put some sense into her father’s head.

He looked for her father at several coffeehouses, to no avail. Finally he went to Zahrawi’s cafe, a big hall built on a slope with two terraced gardens in front. The place was jammed with customers amusing themselves by playing cards and dominoes or simply smoking, drinking, and trying to solve the problems of the world. There he ran into a bookkeeper with liver-spotted hands whom he had often seen with Salwa’s father. The middle-aged, nattily-dressed bookkeeper, with a cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth, seemed jovial, playing cards.

“Do you know where I can find Mr. Taweel?” Yousif asked.

The bookkeeper looked up and took a drag. “Probably with his future son-in-law,” he said, resting the cigarette in an ashtray full of butts.

“Where else would he be?” another player added, slapping a card on the table.

“As the proverb says,” the bookkeeper continued, pulling a card from the deck, “being an in-law is better than being a relative.” With that he put down a winning hand.

Some of the men laughed at the old joke; others cursed their own luck. Yousif felt his cheeks redden.

He found Salwa’s father, Anton Taweel, at the bar inside Al-Andalus Hotel, where Adel Farhat was the assistant manager. Anton was sitting on a bar stool in a small, dark, smoke-filled room with four or five men. Yousif had never seen him in such a happy mood. From the number of glasses and half-empty dishes and bottles of Keo and Barbaross cognac on the counter, and particularly from the loudness of the men’s voices, Yousif could tell that the party had been going on for a while. I bet they’re celebrating, Yousif thought, as he approached the room and stood stiffly at the door. A moment passed as he surveyed the scene. He knew the others only by name. Adel Farhat, the groom-to-be, was sitting at the counter, his back to the door.

“Ah, Yousif,” the father said, recognizing him. “Come and have a drink.”

His tone was happy and friendly, but Yousif looked and did not move.

“Come on,” the father continued. “What will it be, my boy? Tell me.”

Yousif walked up to him. “I’d like to talk to you,” he said.

“Sure you would,” the father said, motioning to the bartender for a drink. “We’re all friends, are we not? Your father is a fine man, let me tell you. And my wife thinks the world of your mother.”

“I’d like to talk to you—alone,” Yousif repeated, his voice low and his arms hanging by his side.

“Talk, talk, my boy. But first have a drink. Do you know all these gentlemen?” Then turning to the other men he said, “This is Yousif, the son of Dr. Jamil Safi.”

One by one, the men quieted and turned to look at Yousif. Adel Farhat’s big grin disappeared as he saw Yousif standing behind him.

The father handed Yousif a shot of cognac but Yousif refused to accept it. The father would have none of it, and pushed it in his hand. Yousif finally gave in and held it, with no intention of drinking.

“Salwa and Adel here are getting engaged,” the father said. “You two know each other.”

Yousif nodded, trying to ignore Adel’s extended hand. Because many men were looking at him, he finally shook it, the finger tips barely touching. Then one of the men raised a toast to the two getting engaged.

All except Yousif held up their glasses.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Adel asked, his voice level and his eyes focused on Yousif.

“I don’t drink,” Yousif said, returning his stare.

“Not even to congratulate me?”

“I never touch it,” Yousif lied.

The two stared at each other like enemies.

“I’d like to talk to you,” Yousif said again to Salwa’s father.

The older man seemed not to have heard him. “It’s going to be a small party,” he said, “just the two immediate families. You know what I mean. Otherwise my wife and I would love to invite all of you.”

“But right now there are more important things to talk about,” Yousif said, his lips twitching.

The father gazed hard at Yousif and saw for the first time the serious look on his face. He took another sip from his glass, brushed his mustache thoughtfully, and followed Yousif out.

They stood on the balcony. The trees looked naked, for all their leaves had fallen on the terraced garden.

“I don’t know how to say this,” Yousif said, “but Salwa and I are in love. We wish you had taken our feelings into consideration before—”

The father’s face turned ashen. “What did you say?” he asked.

This was the real man, Yousif thought, watching the father’s pleasantness vanish.

“We wish you had considered your daughter’s happiness.”

“Don’t talk so fast, boy, let me hear you right.”

Apparently concerned about being overheard, the father glanced at the hotel’s door and windows, then grasped Yousif by the elbow, leading him down the steps. The two walked down the tree-lined pathway and around the dance floor, which divided the garden.

“What were you saying, boy?” the father asked, stopping about fifty yards away from the hotel balcony.

“Salwa and I hoped to get married someday. And now—”

“You and my daughter hoped to do
what?”

“Get married.”

The father stared at him. “How did you meet? Where did you discuss this?”

“Never mind.”

“Don’t tell
me
never mind,” the father glowered, his hazel eyes enlarged. “Have you been jeopardizing my daughter’s reputation by telling her about your puppy love?”

“It’s not puppy love.”

“Have you dared to touch her? Say it, boy. Have you?”

“It’s pure, honest, decent love. Don’t make it sound dirty.”

“It doesn’t exist.”

“It does.”

“Don’t you dare mention it.”

“What if I do?”

“I’d break your neck. If my daughter was naive enough to give you a second look, that doesn’t mean you have a right to upset her life.”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Listen to me, boy, and know what’s good for you. Clear out of her life, now and forever. She has a chance to marry a good man, and I will not allow you to interfere. It’s none of your damn business. She’s my daughter and I know what’s best for her better than you’ll ever know.”

“But we love each other.”

“Keep going, boy, and don’t ever associate that word with my daughter. You hear? A silly remark could mark her for life.”

Yousif stood erect, his hands clasped behind his back, the skin of his face and the back of his neck tightened. “I don’t want us to be enemies,” he said. “I’m here to ask you for your daughter’s hand. You will honor me if you’d accept.”

The father eyed him as though he were looking at something ridiculous. “Don’t make me laugh,” he said, pulling a pack of Players out of his pocket.