On the Hills of God (4 page)

“Aren’t you Dr. Safi’s son?”

“Well, yes.”

“I even mended
his
bones when he was knee-high.”

“Medicine has changed.”

The old man shook his head and, under his breath, cursed the new generation. But the exchange soon ended, for when Aunt Tamam came up with the ingredients and utensils, the old man rolled up his sleeves and went to work. He cracked a dozen eggs in a large wooden bowl and began to whip them with a large wooden spoon. Then he reached for a dish covered with white hair from a horse’s tail, took out a bunch, and placed them over the whipped eggs. Over this he sprinkled a cup of pulverized fenugreek they called
hilbeh
. Then he proceeded to mix and batter everything with the same spoon.

Yousif was fascinated. “What’s that for?” He looked at Isaac and Amin; both shrugged their shoulders.

“That’s how we make our plaster cast,” the old man grunted, without looking up. “It will soon get hard as a piece of wood.”

Within minutes everything was ready for the old man to begin. He removed Amin’s shirt and untied the bloodied handkerchief over the broken skin. The mother tore a bed sheet and handed rectangular pieces to Abu Khalil. The old man spread the pieces of cloth on the floor, covered them with a thick layer of horse and black sheep hair, then poured on it the mix of eggs and fenugreek. Then he applied the plaster to the arm.

In his own primitive way the old man was an expert, Yousif begrudgingly admitted. He worked deftly and without wasted motion. His bony and yellowed fingertips were sensitive to the slightest imperfection. He massaged the arm and pulled at it from the wrist and tried to set the shattered bones in place—one at a time.

“Aaaah . . .” Amin screamed, closing his eyes and gnashing his teeth.

The scream jolted Yousif and made him turn his head away. Isaac looked about to faint. But the old man and Amin’s mother took the agony in stride. The old man broke an empty sugar box into long narrow pieces and made a splint out of them. He wrapped more cloth and mix around the supportive wood, then put the mended arm through a sling he had tied around Amin’s neck.

At the end of the operation, which had taken no more than fifteen minutes, Amin’s mother brought a pot of Turkish coffee for the old man. Abu Khalil seemed satisfied with a job well done and was now rolling another cigarette. He chuckled at the sight of Amin’s mother holding the coffee tray and looked around the room as if to tell the young boys, “she must be crazy.” Everyone laughed, even Amin, whose pain seemed to be easing. Yousif liked the old man’s sense of humor, his long white beard, and his impish blue eyes.

“If I had known that’s all I was going to get for my effort,” the old man chided the mother, “I would’ve stayed at the coffeehouse.”

“What on earth do you mean, Abu Khalil?” the mother asked, setting the coffee tray on a small straw chair before him. “It’s good fresh coffee. Let it rest a minute before you pour it.”

“Mama,” Amin said, impatient. “He wants a drink. A glass of
arak,
not a cup of coffee.”

“I see,” she said, catching on and smiling. “A drink, here? In a Muslim home?”

No one answered. Yousif knew that some Muslims drank and sneaked bottles of liquor to their homes as much as the Christians did, if not more. Abu Khalil himself was a Muslim, and he had been known to polish off many a glass.

Finally, she turned to the old man and shook her head. “You drink too much,” she reproached him. “It’s not good for you.”

“You
talk
too much,” Abu Khalil told her, his small eyes twinkling. “It’s not good for
you.”

They all laughed and the old man’s chuckle was the loudest.

Four days later Amin’s arm had to be amputated.

It was getting fairly dark when Yousif and Isaac left Amin’s home on the day of the accident. Yousif couldn’t wait to get home and tell his parents what had happened. After parting from Isaac at the wheat presser, Yousif ran the last two blocks home. At the wrought-iron gate, he paused and took a deep breath. The scent of the roses in the garden permeated the air. He was glad to see his father’s green Chrysler parked in the driveway.

Yousif sprang up the steps two at a time. While still on the balcony he could hear the radio blaring an Abd al-Wahhab song, “Ya Jarat al-Wadi”, one of his favorites. But the first thing he did when he burst into the house was head for the living room on his left and turn the radio off.

He found his mother in the kitchen getting supper ready. Fatima was with her. The noisy primus, a portable one-eyed stove, was flaming red, and the tiny kitchen was so hot that he could see sweat running down his mother’s neck. But she seemed happy enough—even in her faded, blue, short-sleeved dress. With the sleeves of her black ankle-length dress rolled up and pot holders in both hands, Fatima was about to produce one of his favorite dishes,
makloubeh
.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened,” he began, breathless.

Fatima got too close to the primus and jerked away from the heat.

“Mother . . .” he said.

“Step back, son,” his mother cautioned, concentrating on what she was doing. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

He flattened himself against the wall to make room for their maneuvering between the sink and the cooking counter.

“Amin broke his arm,” he blurted, kicking himself for his poor timing. He didn’t want his mother and Fatima to drop the pot between them or to get scorched. But they did not seem to have heard him.

“In the name of the Cross,” his mother prayed, as she always did at the start of anything remotely serious. She covered the deep pot Fatima was holding with a large aluminum baking tray. Then both women entangled four arms to turn the whole thing upside down. They were both relieved that it didn’t spill. His mother tapped the bottom and the sides of the pot and waited for a few seconds before lifting it slowly. To their satisfaction and Yousif’s utter amazement, all the contents of the pot, to the last grain of rice, were now on the tray. Standing about a foot and a half high, with a circumference of about thirty inches, the
makloubeh
looked delicious. Yousif loved the aroma of its rice, cubed lamb meat, potatoes, cauliflower, and an assortment of spices. The pungent steam that arose filled his nostrils and made him ravenous.

“Now, what were you saying?” his mother asked, turning the faucet on and washing her hands. “I couldn’t hear a word you said.”

He waited for her to turn the water off and look at him.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Amin broke his arm,” he told her.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, her fingers touching her lips.

“Haraam,”
Fatima said. “What a pity!”

“Where’s father?”

“In the bathroom,” his mother answered, her crimson face turning pale.

He left them stunned and went to look for his father. The bathroom door was open and the doctor was shaving. He was wearing a purplish robe and his thin, receding hair was wet. He had just taken a shower.

“Father, Amin had a terrible accident,” Yousif told him.

His father, whose old-fashioned razor was poised to slide down his lathered chin, stopped and stared. “What kind of accident?”

“He broke his arm. I tried to get them to let you set it, but they called old man Abu Khalil instead.”

“Hmmmm!” the doctor said, pouting. “Was the skin broken? Did he bleed at all?”

“See,” Yousif answered, pointing to a spot of blood on his shirt.

“That’s no good,” the doctor said, stirring his stubby brush in a fancy cup of scented shaving soap.

“And that old fool Abu Khalil kept blowing his nose and working on Amin’s arm without washing his hands.”

“I’ll have to stop by and give him a shot,” the doctor said, lathering his face.

Five minutes later the three-member family sat in the small dining room for dinner. The gloom was palpable.

“How did Amin break his arm?” his father finally asked, wiping his glasses with a linen napkin.

“A stone wall collapsed under him.”

“Where were you?” his mother wanted to know.

“In the woods. By the Roman arch.”

Both parents looked at each other and then at Yousif.

“What were you doing there?” his father inquired.

“Following some tourists. At first they looked like lovers. Amin, Isaac, and I thought it would be fun to see what they were up to.”

His mother looked flabbergasted. “It would be fun?” she asked.

“We thought we might catch them kissing or—” he admitted.

His father eyed him sternly. “I’m dismayed. Didn’t it occur to you that you might’ve been intruding?”

Yousif felt embarrassed, but he was too excited to let them reprimand him.

“But wait,” he said. “What these tourists were really up to was espionage.”

Again his parents looked at him in amazement. “You certainly are full of news today,” his mother told him, passing a small basket of bread.

“I’m convinced they were Zionist spies,” Yousif insisted. “Why did they need cameras and binoculars and tripods and duffle bags if they were just on a romantic outing?”

“What did you think they needed them for?” his father asked, chewing.

“I thought they were surveying these hills for military purposes,” Yousif said. “But Amin fell and we lost them. I wish to God he hadn’t.”

Throughout the meal Yousif told them about the compass and where he had found it. To him, it was conclusive evidence that those who dropped it were more than just ordinary Jewish tourists.

His mother shook her head at his seemingly incredible theories. “You need to take a shower and get dressed quickly. It’s a quarter to seven already.”

“Dressed for what?” Yousif asked, glancing at his wrist watch.

“The special show at Al-Andalus Hotel. Have you forgotten?”

“It totally slipped my mind,” Yousif said. “Isaac mentioned it this morning.”

He had meant to go back and be with Amin, but the thought of joining his parents at the hotel garden seemed irresistible. Besides, there was a good chance Salwa might be there. He would be able to tell her about Amin and his afternoon adventure. He might even get a chance to dance with her. For the last two weeks he had been tutoring her ten- and twelve-year old brothers, Akram and Zuhair. Every time he went to their house, he had been able to see her. But seeing her was nothing compared to their dancing together.

Yousif finished showering and dressing long before his parents. He sat in the living room worrying about Amin, trying to listen to the news, and wondering where the spies had gone.

Why had they come to survey hills and valleys so close to his home? Certainly there was no big Jewish community in Ardallah that warranted protection. He had never thought of his hometown in military terms. Now that his imagination was ignited, he began to find all kinds of reasons why Ardallah would be considered a natural target for the enemy. It overlooked many towns and villages. It was only ten or twelve miles to the airport in Lydda. It was close to the Sarafand Military Camp. Above all, it towered over the highway connecting Jaffa and Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. The more he thought about it the more convinced he was that sooner or later his hometown would be in imminent danger. Ardallah was not only strategic—it was essential to whoever wanted to dominate the region.

He saw Fatima clearing up the dishes in the dining room. He heard his father fussing about a silk tie he wanted to wear.

“Ask Yousif if he wore it last,” his mother was saying. “Or let him help you find it. I can’t be bothered now.”

Over strains of music drifting from the radio, Yousif heard his father sliding back the hangers in his closet. He knew from experience that his father would not settle until he found what he was looking for. Although generally easy-going and congenial, in some respects his father was a difficult man. He had a strong streak of vanity. Twelve years older than his wife, he was quite particular about the way he looked. And if he had a vice, it was his inordinate spending on clothes. He had dozens of suits, all tailored. He had dozens of shirts, all silk. He had dozens of ties, all imported. Every time a friend traveled abroad or to some Arab capital, especially Beirut or Cairo, the doctor would ask him to bring him the finest of ties or shirts. British wool was a fetish with him.

When they were ready to leave they looked to Yousif like a handsome family, elegantly scented and immaculately dressed. He himself wore a gray suit and a solid blue tie he had borrowed from his father’s collection. His father wore a blue suit with striped tie and a puffed-up white handkerchief in his small pocket. In his hand was his favorite pipe, a golden meerschaum he smoked on special occasions. His mother wore a knee-length, violet chiffon dress, a diamond watch, and a diamond necklace. Her slim body seemed to complement her husband’s slightly bulging stomach. Her pitch-black hair, fair complexion, large hazel eyes, delicate features, and sweet disposition made her one of the loveliest women ever to have left Jerusalem. Even her twin sister, Aunt Widad, did not begin to compare with her in looks or temperament. They were hardly identical.

“You look terrific,” Yousif complimented both parents. “But I wish,” he added with a glint in his eyes, “father would worry about his health as much as he does about his clothes.”

“What do you mean?” his father said in a huff. “There’s nothing wrong with my health.”

“I meant this,” Yousif laughed, tapping his father on the stomach.

The normally reserved doctor smiled. “It’s your mother’s cooking,” he said.

“They call it
kersh el-wajaha,”
his wife teased, stepping on the front balcony. “The bulge of the rich.”

“Only we’re not that rich,” Yousif said, waiting for his father to follow his mother.

“We have a lot to be thankful for,” she said, growing somber.

“Yes, indeed,” her husband concurred, joining her on the balcony.

Yousif shut the iron front door and locked it with a small key. Then he followed his parents to the Chrysler, which was parked in the driveway.

Instead of driving straight to the hotel garden, the doctor swung by the old district to give Amin a shot. But neither Amin nor his father was there. They had gone to Gaza to see about Uncle Hassan, whose condition they had learned was rapidly deteriorating.

“But why did Amin have to go?” the doctor asked the mother who had rushed out of the house to greet him. “A broken arm needs rest while it’s setting. I don’t like all that jarring on a bus.”

“Abu Khalil said it would be all right,” she replied anxiously.

“Abu Khalil, hell,” the doctor said. “Listen, the minute they return tell Amin to come and see me. I need to give him a shot.”

The moon was full, the night perfect for an outdoor event. And from what Yousif could observe, Al-Andalus Hotel was ready for it. Tables were covered with white cloths. The crystal glasses and silverware glistened. The entire garden, on both sides of the canopied dance floor, glittered with colored lights strung between the big, tall, hundred-year-old trees.

The crowd was already there by the hundreds and still coming in droves. Never had Yousif seen so much gaiety, so much splendor. The flat rooftops and the balconies of nearby homes crowded with those who wanted to be entertained without having to pay. Children had climbed pine trees outside the gate and in neighbors’ front yards, so they too wouldn’t miss the fun. Waiters in black pants, white jackets, and black bow ties were bringing out trays laden with food and drinks. The Greek band played with gusto.

A big round table had been reserved for Dr. Jamil Safi and his family, right by the dance floor.

“Is this whole table for us?” Yousif asked, as he held the chair for his mother.

“No,” she answered. “We’ve invited a few friends.”

Yousif did not have to wait long to see who they were, although he had a pretty good idea whom to expect. The two couples joining them were Dr. Fareed Afifi and Attorney Fouad Jubran and their wives. They were as smartly dressed as Yousif’s parents. In general, Yousif observed, men were just as vain as their wives, for they spared no money on their clothes.

Dr. Afifi was short and full of fire, positively radiating energy. His wife, Jihan, was lovely in a slender European sort of way, a brunette with hair that was always brushed to the back and tied in a bun. Her green eyes were beautiful to a fault—they were too distracting. But there was always about Jihan, despite her laughter, a tinge of sadness. She and her husband of twenty-two years were childless, and Yousif knew she yearned and ached for children more than anything else.

Attorney Fouad Jubran was tall and stout, with the deep, strong voice of an orator. His clothes were just as expensive as his two friends’, but somehow he never looked polished no matter what he wore. The touch of the peasant was in him, even though he was born and raised in the city. His wife was also hefty but in a most likable way. In fifteen years she had given her husband six sons and three daughters. No wonder, Yousif thought, the poor fellow’s skin was coarse and his eyes cunning. The man was exhausted.