On the Hills of God (51 page)

On Tuesday, Yousif had his father’s bank accounts transferred to his name. On Wednesday morning, Adel Farhat came to Fouad Jubran’s office bearing an invoice in his pocket. It was long and detailed. But one glance at the bottom line and Yousif knew that he would never pay it—even if he could.

The man must be crazy. Five hundred and eighty pounds!!! Yousif passed the sheet of paper to Uncle Boulus, who was sitting next to him. His uncle studied it carefully, but not one muscle in his face moved. Yousif waited for someone to speak. If it took till the end of eternity, he was not about to break the icy silence.

Big hulking Fouad Jubran, his jacket draped on the back of his chair, cleared his throat. “Figures can be adjusted,” he said, opening a new pack of cigarettes. “A fair settlement can always be reached if the two parties want to settle their dispute. But what’s at stake here is more important than money. I’d like for us to enter the negotiations in good faith and leave the room shaking hands. Ardallah is a small town. We’re destined to live together for a long time—if this damn war lets us. I consider all of us one family.”

“Life is too short to carry a grudge,” Uncle Boulus said, taking out his
masbaha
.

“Absolutely,” the attorney said, offering them cigarettes and ringing his bell for some coffee.

Yousif watched Adel Farhat’s face. It looked like a slab of granite. The attorney might as well have been addressing people in another room.

“But it seems to me,” Uncle Boulus said, “that this list here is a bit excessive, don’t you think?”

“I can document every item,” Adel Farhat protested, one leg tucked under the chair and the other one extended. “But I don’t think I have to. My integrity should not be questioned.”

“Of course not,” the attorney hastened.

“No one is questioning your integrity,” Uncle Boulus said. “I’m sure it cost you this much.”

“Why is it excessive then?” Adel asked. “If you agree that it must have cost me this much, pay me and let me go.”

“I meant excessive,” Uncle Boulus explained, “in the sense that you expect Yousif to pay for the whole affair.”

“He ruined the whole affair, didn’t he?” Adel said, mocking.

There was another awkward silence. Yousif watched the other three, giving them a chance to air their views. They could argue all they wanted but he would pay what he thought was fair and not one piaster more. At the same time, deep in his heart he felt sorry for Adel. The man’s humiliation was etched over his face like a scar across the firmament.

“Yousif, what do you think?” Fouad Jubran asked.

“First I want to apologize to Adel,” Yousif said, his tone oozing with confidence.

“Tell him apologies not accepted,” Adel said, his face turning red.

“I meant you no harm. It could’ve been anyone—”

“Tell him to get to the point,” Adel demanded, his anger rising.

Yousif wanted to look in the man’s eyes and tell him that it was nothing personal, that Adel just happened to be in his and Salwa’s way. But, withdrawn and hostile, Adel Farhat never once looked at him. Finally, Fouad Jubran and Uncle Boulus told Yousif with looks and gestures to forget about the apologies and go on with the negotiations.

“From what I hear,” Yousif said, “no wedding in this town ever cost this much. A few cost around five hundred pounds, the rest cost a whole lot less.”

“See?” Adel Farhat said, with a pious smirk. “He’s questioning my integrity.”

“No, I’m not,” Yousif said, anxious to get Adel’s attention. “What I was trying to tell you is that I don’t think I should pay for the gold watch, the bracelets, the crosses, the diamond ring . . .”

“What’s he paying for then?” Adel said, looking at the attorney. “The wedding invitations and postage? Ridiculous.”

“I didn’t say that either,” Yousif defended himself. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“It seems to me you both have a point,” the attorney said, like a true peacemaker, Yousif thought. “But the way I see it, the expenses can be divided into two columns: perishables and non-perishables. Used or not used.”

Yousif jumped up and snatched the invoice off the desk. “He wants five hundred and eighty pounds,” he said, ready to do some mental calculating. “Let’s see now. Three hundred and forty of it went for a diamond ring and jewelry. It sounds like a lot, but that’s OK. Another hundred and ten for topcoat, dresses, shoes, perfumes, underwear, etc. If we add all this together, we come up with four hundred and fifty pounds. And if we subract it from the total he’s asking for, we end up with a hundred and thirty pounds. I don’t know exactly for what, but I’m willing to pay it and forget about the whole mess.”

“During the engagement period, she used some of it,” Adel protested, rising to his feet. “Then there were the engagement and wedding expenses.”

“That’s why I’m willing to pay the hundred and thirty pounds. But that’s all.”

It was the first concrete offer and Yousif got the impression that the ball was now rolling.

“It’s a good start,” Fouad Jubran said, reaching for a pencil and a pad.

“It’s not a start at all,” Yousif corrected him. “It’s all I’m willing to pay.”

Adel rose in a huff. “Then I’ll meet him in court,” he threatened.

“With pleasure,” Yousif said, unblinking. “Ten attorneys won’t cost me as much as he wants me to pay. I’ll show him how to tie up his money.”

But after two rounds of coffee, three ashtrays full of cigarette butts, two huddles between Yousif and his uncle, and a room clouded with smoke, Fouad Jubran and Uncle Boulus ironed out an agreement whereby Adel Farhat would turn over every item on his list and Yousif would pay the entire bill. Adel Farhat was apparently glad to unload everything he had bought for Salwa. Such items, he must have rationalized, were jinxed and he wasn’t interested in keeping any. Which was God-sent for Yousif. After all, a bride required a diamond ring, jewelry, and a trousseau from the groom. The deal they had just concluded was bound to save Yousif time.

Yousif whipped out a checkbook from his hip pocket and wrote a check for that amount. It was the first check he had ever written in his life and he signed it with a flourish. He was buying not only Salwa’s freedom—but their wedding bliss.

“You bring the goods to Mr. Jubran,” Yousif told Adel, “and he’ll give you your money.” Then he handed the check to the attorney.

Adel Farhat agreed and rose to leave. But he seemed to have something on his mind.

“What is it?” Yousif asked.

Adel ignored him. “I’ll bring the items I have. Not the items already in Salwa’s possession.”

Yousif understood. Because Salwa had aborted the wedding to Adel Farhat, she was supposed to return to him everything he had given her. And because he had settled up with Yousif, he was in turn supposed to deliver everything to him. It would be a tangled affair.

“Oh, sure,” the attorney agreed. “No need to bother with too many exchanges. Yousif and Salwa are going to be married to each other, you know.”

Adel Farhat’s coloring, which already had an unhealthy cast, turned bluish. Yousif knew that Adel was aware that they were getting married. Yet hearing the news again must have upset him. It tugged at Yousif’s heart that his rival was so unhappy. But, then, no one ever said losing Salwa was easy. It would crush anybody.

Saturday night—before the wedding—the house’s sparkling lights belied the drama within its walls. Yousif stood on the balcony all alone. His eyes roamed over Ardallah’s mountains, but his heart was full of pains and joys. Men were guarding the city against a possible Jewish attack, and look what he was doing! The need to do two different things and to be in two different places at the same time bothered him, as so many things had done lately. This was the night he had always hoped for—why did his pleasures have to be so dimmed? Tomorrow he would be wedded to Salwa—why should his celebration be tempered? Why did his happiness have to be so incomplete? Oh, how he missed his father. If only he had been living! And his mother inside—how pitiful she looked in her crosscurrents of loyalties! Women of her generation mourned for extended periods; some never left the house for six months, even a year. Some didn’t put on lipstick or powder their noses. Some didn’t make sweets or serve any to their guests. And here was his mother cutting her grief short—all on his account.

As Yousif held the railing, his mind traveled a few months back. He remembered other weddings—the kind his would have been like under different circumstances. Normally, hundreds of people would be at his house. Lights would be strung from tree to tree. Tables would be placed all over the garden. Inside the house a small Arabic band would be playing. Women would be singing and dancing. Every five or ten minutes there would be an ear-piercing ululation. The part Yousif had usually enjoyed most, was when twelve or fifteen men danced the
dabkeh
with one man in the middle—waving a cane or a sword or crouching or going down on his knees and bending backward until his head touched the floor. Then the dancer would spring up, leap to his feet, and begin to swirl. How much Yousif had enjoyed the
mal’ab,
when thirty or forty men lined up, often in the street in front of the house, and chanted and clapped and swayed, their voices robust and their movements rhythmic. What a spectacle! What a thrill for the dancers and singers as well as the crowd watching! Those were the days, Yousif thought, when Palestine was at peace and his father was still living. There was none of this excitement tonight, Yousif regretted, as he ambled in.

The house was crowded. There was his mother sitting on the sofa under one of the two half-moon-shaped windows. She was decked in black, trying, the poor woman, to put on a front. But deep in her heart, Yousif knew, she was crying. Aunts and uncles and cousins were around her, plus a few friends and neighbors, even though no one had been invited. Those came, he was sure, to be happy for him and to commiserate with his bereaved mother. Dr. Fareed Afifi was there with his beautiful wife, Jihan. Fouad Jubran was there with his wife, who looked as though she might have triplets. Amin and his parents were there, bringing to Yousif’s mind the memories of the months his parents had spent building the little villa. Jamal was there, reminding him of Isaac and his
‘oud
playing. Abla and Maha and Aunt Hilaneh were, the last he had seen them, busy in the kitchen preparing
maza
. Fatima and Hiyam were attending to the ladies. Amin and Izzat were looking after the men.

But Basim, of course, Yousif mused, was never around. What would happen tomorrow at the church? Basim had promised to be his best man. Who could count on it? Good thing Salman was willing to substitute, just in case Basim didn’t show up. Yousif had wanted Amin, his best friend, to be his best man. But Amin was a Muslim.

About eight o’clock Salwa’s parents and young brothers arrived, accompanied by three or four couples from their side of the family. Such a visit was traditional. Everyone in the room stood up, glad to see them. Yousif and Uncle Boulus and Salman hastened to receive them at the door and to offer them the best seats. Yousif went out of his way to speak to Anton Taweel, who, for a change, seemed relaxed and in good spirits.

“Ahlan wa sahlan,”
Yousif told them. “You are most welcome.”

“Thank you,” Anton said, smiling and patting him on the back.

As usual, Salwa’s mother was vivacious. She and her daughter looked just alike, people commented. Yousif agreed to a point. No one, in his opinion, could compare to Salwa. To his dismay, but not surprise, Salwa herself was not with them. Tradition also dictated that the bride and groom must not see each other so close to the wedding. Next time they met it would be at the church.

No sooner had the guests arrived than, suddenly, Abla pulled out a flute she must’ve been carrying and handed it to Salman, her husband. Salman looked startled. He refused to touch his own instrument, cutting a quick glance at Yasmin for fear of criticism.

“Listen, Auntie,” Abla said to Yasmin, “Yousif is not a widower. He’s a young man and he’s getting married only once. He deserves to have some celebration the night before his wedding.”

The whole house seemed to tense. But Abla was not daunted.

“Some of you may think I’m talking out of line,” Abla continued, “but I don’t think so. The dead are dead and may God rest their souls. But life is for the living. Yousif deserves a song or two, a dance or two. Oh, my God, a stranger passing by would think this is a wake—not a
sahra.”

All eyes shifted to Yasmin. She seemed to be thrown in a new dither.

“You think I want the wedding of my only son to be like this?” Yasmin lamented, gently pounding her chest with her fist. “But it can’t be helped. It’s his fate.”

“I don’t think so,” Abla objected, like a fiery prosecutor. “Those who are our friends will understand. Those who are not our friends will talk. But who cares about them? Let them drink the ocean.” She spun around, asking those in the room for moral support. “Tell me if I’m wrong. Please tell me if I’m being disrespectful to my uncle’s memory,
Allah yirhamu.”

“If you think I’m going to play the flute,” Salman said, “you’re crazy. Who told you you could bring it, anyway?”

“I brought it on my own,” his wife told him, “because I knew you’d refuse. But I’m being practical. The best way to put misery behind is to bury it.
Haraam
Yousif,” she added, her face full of pity. “What has he done to be denied some kind of celebration? Not a big one—but at least enough to make his wedding not look like a funeral. Abu Akram, what do you think?”

There was stony silence. She had addressed her remark to Anton Taweel, Salwa’s father, who did not seem to think it was his place to take sides.

“I’m sorry . . .” he faltered, his eyebrows arching.

“I’m sorry too,” Abla told him. “I don’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just I respect your opinion. Perhaps—”

“I understand,” Anton said, “but please leave me out of it. The doctor,
Allah yirhamu,
is yours; the groom is yours; the wedding is yours.”

“Yours too,” Abla reminded him.

“Oh, yes, of course,” he told her, “but in your house we are guests. Whatever you do will be fine with us.”

Everyone in the room seemed to agree. Many praised and even thanked Anton Taweel for his tact. Yousif was beginning to appreciate a side of Anton he had never suspected. But Abla pressed on.

“Please, Auntie,” Abla said, cornering Yasmin. “Nobody is going to lift a finger or open his mouth unless you give your permission. Let us have some fun for Yousif’s sake.”

Yousif crossed the room and squeezed himself next to his mother. “It’s not necessary,” he said, putting his arm around his mother’s shoulders. “I don’t feel right about having a
sahra
.” Ringing in his ears were his mother’s words. “No fanfare, no hoopla,” she had said. Any changes must come from her.

Abla’s face contorted. “See there?” she pleaded with Yasmin. “See how sad he sounds? He needs a cheerful send-off. Uncle in his grave would insist on it.”

Yasmin took a deep sigh and nodded her head. “Play, Salman, play. And may God forgive us.”

Abla seized the moment, pushing for more concessions. “So we don’t have to go through this again,” she said to her aunt, “you won’t mind brightening up the mood a bit more, would you? Everybody has such a long face.”

Yasmin shook her head and dismissed Abla affectionately with the back of her hand. “Do what you want,” she said, seemingly relieved not to be depriving her only son of what was his due.

With little coaxing, Salman took the flute and played. Men lit their cigarettes or put them out in anticipation. Silence prevailed as the old favorites seeped out of the flute like liquid gold. But Salman’s tunes seemed to put the audience in a melancholy mood. Abla fussed at him, telling him to play something cheerful. In the meantime, Maha thrust a maroon-covered
‘oud
in Jamal’s lap. Yousif gasped. The
‘oud
was Isaac’s. Jamal himself must have realized it. Yousif saw him recoil, putting his arms behind him. Everyone in the room clapped and pleaded with Jamal to oblige them. Watching and hearing Jamal play, they all said, was a privilege in itself.

“I’ve never played in public,” Jamal explained, his chin trembling.

“Well, it’s about time,” Abla prodded.

“Not tonight,” Jamal apologized.

All eyes turned to Yasmin. She was the only who could convince him.

“Go on, Jamal,” Yasmin said. “Your kind of music is good for the soul.”

“See,” Abla told Jamal, smiling. “Even Auntie agrees.”

Jamal hesitated. Then he surprised everybody, particularly Yousif. Jamal asked to sit on a high-backed chair and Abu Amin was only glad to give him his. The room stood still. Jamal crossed his legs and cradled the
‘oud
in his lap. The strumming of two or three notes reverberated throughout the house. Those who were not in the room seemed pulled in by magnet. The familiar songs, rendered expertly, cut deep in Yousif’s heart and unlocked some painful memories. He swallowed hard as he recalled Isaac playing the very same instrument.

Bent on enlivening the party, Abla asked someone to dance. She pleaded with and cajoled a few women, but everyone apologized and remained seated. Finally, she herself had to step in the middle of the room. She had a nice figure and she moved gracefully. Men and woman began to clap. Yousif squeezed his mother and looked at her eyes. They were growing misty. Abla’s cheeks were flushed but she seemed to be enjoying herself. Then she pulled up Amin and he danced with her, his stump showing from under his short sleeve.

“May we dance at your own wedding,
habibi
Amin,” Yasmin told him.

“Inshallah,”
Amin’s mother responded, clapping louder.

When Amin stopped, Abla reached for Jihan Afifi’s hand and gently pulled her to the middle of the floor. She didn’t know how, Jihan protested, but Abla would have none of it. The crowd got excited and wanted to see Jihan dance. Soon Jihan was unable to resist. Jamal’s music reached a new height. Jihan blushed and then got in step with the beat of music. Putting a hand on her waist and raising the other above her head, she swayed and twirled a lace handkerchief. All eyes were on her. Abla let her dance solo, and joined the others clapping. Yousif was fascinated by Jihan’s dancing. She seemed like the proverbial reed in motion. He wished Salwa were with him to watch.

“Get up and dance with me,” Jihan told her husband, pulling his hand while still dancing.

Dr. Afifi looked aghast. “You must be kidding,” he told her.

“No, I’m not,” Jihan said. “You dance better than I do.”

Pleased with the idea, men showered the doctor with encouragement. Soon Dr. Afifi found himself on the dance floor. Now Jihan was dancing with vigor. Suddenly Fatima hoisted a drum above the heads of the crowd for everyone to see. The crowd loosened up. Yasmin pushed a lock of hair in resignation. Fatima began to play: sometimes banging on the drum with her palms, sometimes with her fingers. Then she paused long enough to almost shake the room with a sudden burst of trilling. All the pent-up emotions seemed to have been rolled into one and were now pouring out of her lungs and throat.

Singing or dancing or clapping, everyone got involved. There seemed to be no stopping to the frenzy. The only two who did not join in the merriment were Anton Taweel and Yasmin. Anton was drinking; Yasmin was crying.

Half an hour later, everyone was exhausted. Those who had stood up from excitement, collapsed in their seats. Those who had come in late and couldn’t find a place to sit, ended up sitting on the floor. All the time Jamal hadn’t stopped playing as though all the sweetness and agonies of his unrequited love had surfaced.

Jamal could sense not only a need for a change of pace, but an insatiable hunger for ballads. The strings of his
‘oud
hummed tenderly. The crowd hushed. Yousif watched Jamal fondle the strings like a man caressing the earlobes of a woman. The tune he was now strumming called for singing, but no one would volunteer. The music never ceased, but continued to flow, to yearn, to plead for linkage with a human voice. Soon Aunt Hilaneh responded, her voice warm and slithering like summertime water seeping out of a dark cave. Yousif could almost hear the hearts around him soaking up the feeling like a parched desert strip. A spring breeze from Ardallah’s mountains seemed to drift into the room. Picturesque Ardallah flashed in Yousif’s mind, with all its vineyards and all its greenness. Yousif could almost smell and taste its fruits and vegetables, and could almost hear his birds chirping. Ardallah lived for him—so did the whole of Palestine—and he could almost see the treetops moving and the rains pouring. If only Salwa were with him to share this Palestinian moment, as if she needed someone to remind her of what they were fighting for.