On the Hills of God (47 page)

“What can you do?” Yousif asked. “You might as well forget it.”

“I’m thinking of going back just in case the money is still there. God knows we all need it, especially now.”

“What makes you think they’d let you in?” Yousif’s mother asked, looking very pale without make-up.

“You’d find Jaffa ringed with soldiers,” said an old man disconsolately.

Maria’s audience fell silent. They all seemed frightened. Helpless. The seamstress said she and her husband were seriously thinking of going to Amman. Aunt Hilaneh said that it had crossed their mind. Uncle Boulus squirmed. His sharp nose looked pinched and yellow at the same time.

As though to get them off the quarrelsome track, Yasmin said, “If you do decide to go to Amman, Yousif and I will go with you.”

Yousif was shocked. “What makes you think I’d go?” he asked his mother. Without waiting for her to answer, he turned to the others, adding, “This kind of talk is irresponsible. What if we all left? Do we want the Zionists to walk right in? We might as well send them an invitation. I can’t believe my ears. I thought you wanted the hospital money to buy arms and fight. Now I see that you’re a bunch of quitters.”

The fear of another Deir Yasin dominated the heated debate. All of them, except Yousif, were scared and did not mind admitting it. The Zionists were winning, they argued, and they would not put it past them to repeat the massacre wherever they went. What Yousif feared most, however, was losing Salwa. That was his biggest worry.

By English period the next day, Tuesday, when they were supposed to discuss Charles Dickens’s
Tale of Two Cities,
Yousif’s mind was in turmoil. He was thinking of what to do about Salwa, when the principal, ustaz Saadeh, announced that school would close a month earlier.

“That means,” he added, “the graduation ceremony will be on April 29, not on May 25 as it was originally scheduled.”

Like most students, Yousif began to count in his head. “You mean this coming Friday?” he asked. That was only two days before Salwa’s wedding day.

“I mean five days from now,” the principal informed them. “It will be held at Cinema Firyal, three o’clock in the afternoon. There’s no time to print announcements, but each of you can invite ten people.”

“Ten?” Nadeem objected. “There are eight in my immediate family. And I know I need a dozen more for my aunts and uncles.”

“I do, too,” Radwan concurred.

“This is only high school,” the principal explained. “Not the university. Wait until you come back as doctors and lawyers and engineers. Then you can throw a big party and invite the whole town if you like.”

“But that could be ages from now,” Husam protested.

“Okay, okay,” the principal said, waving his hand to calm them down. “I’ll see what I can do. What we need to do now is decide on a valedictorian. According to school tradition, it’s simply a matter of grades. The first in class is automatically chosen—unless there’s a grave charge against him. I suspect there’s no grave charge against Yousif.”

There was a burst of applause. Yousif smiled and thanked the principal and his classmates for the honor.

Then Adnan raised his hand. “If Yousif had continued to behave the way he did after Isaac’s death—”

“Or during the debate about the hospital money,” Mousa interrupted, presumably reading Adnan’s mind.

“—many of us would’ve opposed his selection. But he’s okay now.”

Caught by surprise, for his mind was on Salwa, Yousif bit his lip and nodded. “Let bygones be bygones.”

Now Yousif had two things to worry about: his speech and Salwa’s wedding. Both lay heavy on his shoulders. He knew he could scribble something to please the crowd—but what about the wedding? His future with Salwa was slipping away from him. This turned his mind away from his graduation.

He tore up every draft he wrote. One approach was to attack Britain, Truman, and the Zionists. Another was to call for revenge against the murderers of Deir Yasin and the invaders of Haifa and Jaffa. The principal, ustaz Saadeh, found the draft Yousif finally showed him still unacceptable and asked him to go home and rewrite it.

“It’s the same old platitudes and slogans we’ve been hearing for years,” the principal told him, sitting behind his desk. “People are literally suffocating from all this rhetoric. It would be a nice change if someone would tell them the truth.”

“And be ostracized like my father?” Yousif asked.

“That’s the challenge,” ustaz Saadeh said, “to please and offend at the same time—without getting killed.”

Back in his room, Yousif discovered that the challenge was greater than he had realized. He could do it if his mind weren’t so preoccupied with Salwa. But she consumed every minute of every wakeful hour, and sometimes invaded his dreams. How could he think straight when he was about to lose her forever? By the same token, what would he tell a people who had already lost half of their country before the war even began? What hope could he give them? How could he stir them up to action when thousands had become homeless while the rest were unarmed and on the verge of being stampeded? Where would his pitiable generation fit in such a leaderless, defeated society? How long, he asked himself, would it take them to pick up the pieces and face the uncertain future?

In these hours of desperation and loneliness, Yousif missed his father intensely.

The graduating class of twenty-two students sat on one side of the stage. The faculty on the other. There were no caps and gowns: only blue suits, white shirts, and red ties. Some of the clothes were new. Because of the hard times and short notice, most, however, were faded. Some were even borrowed. In the middle sat the principal and the main speaker, Raja Ballout, the famed journalist from Jaffa, and Father Mikhail representing the Catholic Church. The main auditorium was nearly full, which surprised Yousif. It was the same theater where Salwa had told him of Adel Farhat’s intentions. Unconsciously winding the watch he had inherited from his father, he spotted the seats where they had had that heart-wrenching conversation. Too bad she was not there now. How he ached to see her. But none of her relatives or friends were graduating, and he could not have invited her.

His thoughts of Salwa were suddenly interrupted. The principal had just introduced him. Yousif walked to the rostrum and faced the audience. The nervousness he had felt at his father’s graveside did not plague him now. His opening sentence was shocking, and he could not wait to deliver it.

“I’m looking for someone to arrest me,” Yousif began.

Hushed silence descended on the audience.

“I’m looking for someone to handcuff me,” he resumed, “and to throw me in jail—should I let my country down. Where is my jailer? Nay, where is my leader who beckoned and I refused to follow, who exhausted himself in search for peace and I opposed his quest? Where is my jailer, and the jailer of every graduating senior in Palestine who can look us in the eye and say we did not do our duty, that we have failed our motherland? Is there no leader to inspire and lead men to the trenches, to the roofs, and to the gates of the enemy? Is there no leader who, with wisdom and diplomacy and tenacity, is trying to clear our adversary’s vision, to compel him to negotiate and compromise? Is there no leader who can charge us for having failed to commit ourselves and execute his master plan? No, there is no leader, no jailer, no charge—and no master plan.”

The audience was deep in thought. Yousif’s tirade, which he delivered without stridency, lasted only ten minutes. He complimented his people on their steadfastness in the face of tremendous odds, and berated them for having sat on their haunches for all those years.

“My generation and future generations
will
charge and
will
convict,” he thundered in conclusion. “Woe to him who will be found to have trespassed against us. Woe to him, for the day of judgment is as inevitable to come as for the snow to thaw, as for the sun to rise from the depth of darkness.”

The audience broke out in applause. They stood up, cheering. The lanky, pale commencement speaker, Raja Ballout, rose impulsively and shook Yousif’s hand warmly. Yousif himself didn’t think much of his own rhetoric. He thought even less of those who were so easily satisfied with words.

There was nothing he could do to change the outcome of the war. But there was something he could do to stop Salwa from slipping out of his hands. The loss of Salwa would be much more than either his heart or mind could bear. As he stood on the stage bowing in gratitude for the warm response he was getting, his mind was already on the personal battle ahead.

Sunday! The day Salwa was supposed to marry someone else. The day the earth would stop spinning around the dimming sun.

The night before, Yousif had not slept—thinking, brooding, worrying. He counted the hours, the minutes. He had not given a hint to anyone of the plan that was hatching in his mind, not even Amin. Instead, he had visited Jamal and talked only about his sense of loss. And he had met classmates who teased him about Salwa’s wedding. Everywhere he went he heard people mention her name, as if to taunt him. He took it all in stride, until the coil within him became so tight it was ready to snap.

Long before dawn, he woke with a heavy heart.

For days Yousif had been imagining a crazy plan to confront Salwa’s father in the church. He would leap up in the middle of the ceremony and tell the priest that Salwa was being forced into marriage. He would put everybody on the spot—including Salwa—and take his chances.

But what if his plan didn’t work? Salwa would be gone, lost. Tonight she would be kissed and undressed. Tonight she would sleep in someone else’s arms. Tonight she would be intimate with someone she did not love. The mere thought of this abomination outraged him.

He wondered what Salwa was thinking. He wondered if she had last-minute regrets. Had she forgotten him? Had she resigned herself to fate?

He pictured her house filling up early in the morning. There would be cleaning and cooking and crying; there would be a rush to heat the water tank for her shower; to spread on her bed all the fineries she would wear; to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother. By eleven o’clock she would be chauffeured to a beauty salon, accompanied by a relative or two. She would skip lunch because she would be nervous, and because many of her girlfriends would surround her for last-minute endearments.

Yousif envisioned a woman’s hands applying the bride’s make-up. He pictured Salwa in her wedding dress, tears streaming down her cheeks and everybody fussing about her mascara. He saw her relatives around her, hugging, kissing, and wishing her well. All day long her two brothers, Akram and Zuhair, would be inconsolable.

Yousif also imagined what Adel Farhat would be going through. In keeping with tradition, the barber would come to the house to cut the groom’s hair. Men and women would form a circle around the groom while he was being primed. Adel would be shaved, powdered, and doused with cologne to meet his beautiful bride. Lying in bed, Yousif heard the songs, saw the dances.

Relatives and guests would arrive at both houses. The groom and his party would form a procession to the church, then the party would split. A small group would stay with Adel outside the church. But a number of his relatives and guests of honor would go to Salwa’s house to bring her out for him. There would be a touching, tearful moment as the bride kissed and bade her family farewell.

The image was too stirring for Yousif to remain lying down. He sat up in bed, choking with emotion. Sunlight filled the room. He heard his mother and Fatima going about their morning work. The town was waking. He could hear cars speeding by and pastry peddlers in the streets selling their
tamari
. Even the birds in their cage down the hall were still chirping. Life went on, oblivious to his fears. He wanted to freeze the morning. If a warrior could make the sun stand still—why couldn’t a lover stop a wedding?

The Sunday morning routine must remain intact, Yousif told himself. Nothing must attract his mother’s suspicion. He took a long hot bath, put on a white shirt and blue trousers—not a suit which he normally would wear to go to church. He ate his mother’s special omelet and retired to the living room to hear the news.

There was one more item Yousif wished to discuss with his mother. How could he embark on matrimony or enter the world of adults if he remained in the dark? What he had in mind today related to inheritance in general and the money in the bank in particular. Whose was it now that his father was dead? His? Hers? Theirs? Could he transfer the money to his name? Specifically, could he draw on it to pay Adel Farhat? He knew that the Arab society was patriarchal. Every boy a treasure. Every man a prince. But how did that translate in financial life?

When his mother crossed the hallway, a dish towel in her hands, he asked her to join him.

“Anything wrong?” she asked, dressed in black.

“Sit down, will you?” he said. “I was just wondering—”

“About what?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the sofa.

“The money in the bank,” he began, weighing his words.

She seemed disquieted. “Yes?”

“It’s still in father’s name. Shouldn’t it be transferred?”

“Of course. Put it in your name. Next time you see Fouad Jubran, let him handle the paper work. He’s our attorney, I suppose.”

Yousif was quiet.

“Speak up,” his mother said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I was just thinking,” Yousif said. “Legally—is it not yours?”

“No,” she told him. “Legally it’s yours—most of it anyway.”

“Under which law?” Yousif asked. “Civil or religious?”

His mother had a confounded look. “I really don’t know,” she admitted. “Ask Fouad Jubran about that. He’ll tell you.”

“I will,” Yousif said, determined to know everything.

“All I know is,” his mother continued, “it’s a man’s world. I may be entitled to one-eighth or one-fourth, but what’s the difference? What’s mine is yours. I know you’re not going to throw me out. You’ll take care of me.”

“Throw you out? Take care of you? My God! You’re my mother.”

“The Muslim inheritance law is even harder on females. If a man has only daughters, his nephews—mind you, not even his daughters—will inherit everything.”

“No wonder Abul Banat has such a short temper.”

“The baker? If anything happens to him, his nephews will inherit everything?”

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what people say.”

“Incredible! I thought the Qur’an provides security to the woman.”

“Don’t take my word. I’m just a lay person. Besides, it doesn’t apply to us anyway.”

“Interesting, though. But tell me, now that Father is gone—”

“Allah yirhamu.”

“—this house, the two bank accounts, the cinema stock—”

“—and the old house and the clinic,” his mother added. “They’re all yours. And that’s the way I’d want it, too. You’re the man of the house now.”

Yousif was still not satisfied. “What if I turned out to be unworthy? What if I married a girl with a mean streak? What then? You’d be at her mercy.”

His mother nodded. “I’ll count on you to set her straight.
El faras hasab el faris
. A filly is as good as her rider. That’s why your father and I did our best to raise you knowing right from wrong. From now on it’s all up to you. But promise me one thing.”

“I’ll try.”

“Think twice before you do anything. And be fair. Your father always said you have a good head on your shoulders.”

“I promise. I hope I’ll never fail you.”

“Or your father. Remember, his spirit is still with us.”

Yousif rose, kissed the top of his mother’s head, and left—chagrined that he had struck such a promise. What would she think of him in the next few hours? Would she be understanding? Would she feel betrayed?

The wedding was at three o’clock that afternoon. Yousif roamed the town, passing the
souk,
Salwa’s school, and Cinema Firyal. For an hour he walked aimlessly around town. All he could think of was that Salwa would soon slip out of his hand like a ring off a soapy finger. The wholeness he felt with her would be lost forever; emptiness would become a way of life.

I’d be a fool to let it happen, Yousif thought. We’re losing Palestine because we’re not doing enough to save it. I’ll lose Salwa too if I don’t fight for her.

He had to act. He looked at his watch. 1:40. There was still more than an hour before the crowd arrived at the church. He felt hungry, and stopped at Abdeen’s for a
shawirma
sandwich. Instead, he drank two glasses of
arak
and ate only a bite. That was a mistake, he soon realized. His head felt light, as if his skull were being lifted by the vapor of the alcohol. No, no, he must be careful. Drunkenness would not help matters; it would only jeopardize his scheme. He must walk and let his head clear up. But he must avoid people lest he betray his intentions.

Striking out in a new direction, he passed the cemetery. He thought of visiting his father’s grave. But this was no time to be morbid or overly sentimental. He decided against it. Instead, he stomped on the sidewalk to shake the dust off his shoes, then propped his foot on a low stone wall and wiped each shoe with his neatly pressed handkerchief.

Yousif watched the church from a distance, careful not to be noticed. Single people and couples arrived and went through the gate. An elderly couple passed close by him. He retreated into a side street and pretended to be window shopping. Few would have believed him, for the window he was staring at was a laundry shop. Yousif saw his reflection in the clear glass. By reflex his hand went up to smooth his disheveled hair. He gazed at his own image, as if to find himself.

The wedding procession was coming up the hill. First he could hear it, then he could see it. Rolling slowly between the men and singing women was the black Mercedes which he knew carried Salwa and her parents. A lump the size of a walnut rose in his throat. He leaned against a wall and watched, kicking the sidewalk. The procession drove past the outer gate. A minute later, he followed.

Walking briskly, Yousif was as purposeful as a crusader on behalf of all the mismatched couples in Ardallah. All the bright, beautiful, young women who had had to marry their cousins—simply because they were cousins. The unhappy girls who had been forced to marry old men—simply because they were rich. The wives who suffered in silence—simply because they were incompatible with their husbands. He could think of Amal Shalhoub who loved to write poetry but was married to a brute—gluttonous, drunken, and foul-mouthed. He could think of Ghada Antar, forced to marry at the point of a gun someone thirty years her senior and to bear five children before she was twenty-five.

Yousif sneaked inside the half-empty Greek Orthodox church. The walls of the two-hundred year-old sanctuary were covered with icons. Reds and browns and golds were the dominant colors. The small electric lights, two shafts of sunlight, and many candles all failed to dispel the shadows.

Women in modern dress wore hats or lacy handkerchiefs on their heads in lieu of scarves. Other women in the traditional native costumes looked like monarch butterflies. Their multi-colored, flowered, silk shawls radiated under the windows. Men’s bald heads gleamed, as they stood with their hats and fezes in their hands.

Salwa was already at the altar, her tall, sculptured figure a vision of beauty. Yousif gasped and clutched the back of the seat before him. He was alone in his pew. No one had seen him. Even the elderly priest, Father Samaan, standing in the arched door to the altar and looking in his direction, did not seem to notice him.

Sitt Bahiyyeh had told him that the priest was Salwa’s father’s cousin, and that blood was thicker than one thought.

“Ordinarily,” Father Samaan began, “we would announce the wedding banns for three consecutive Sundays before the wedding date. But due to the war, we will dispense with tradition. Should anyone, however, have a reason to believe that this marriage should
not
take place, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”

The short, plump, graying priest held the Bible in his two hands and waited. The congregation remained dead silent. A baby cried but his mother quickly cupped his mouth. Again, the priest scanned the audience. He was about to proceed with his ceremony when Yousif jumped to his feet.

“This wedding must be stopped,” Yousif blurted. His voice was much louder than he had intended. The audience spun around to see who it was. Yousif heard them gasp . . . groan. He saw Shafiq, Salwa’s cousin, begin to move suddenly in his direction. Yousif clenched his fists ready to fight, but there was no need. Three other men grabbed and held Shafiq in the aisle to restrain him.

“This is a very serious matter,” Father Samaan cautioned. “I hope and pray you know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” Yousif answered, sweating. His eyes focused on Salwa. She had also turned and was watching in disbelief, her right hand poised at her mouth. Their eyes met and held. Yousif had not warned her. He had no idea how she would react. But he had taken his chance. It was too late to stop now.

“Speak up, then,” the priest commanded. “What compels you to make such a grave charge?”

“A simple reason,” Yousif answered, now in better control of his nerves. “Salwa loves me and I love her. We want to marry each other. What she’s going through here is against her will. Against her wishes.”

Shafiq looked like a caged animal wanting to break loose. But the men held onto him and sat him down. Men and women traded glances and exchanged whispers. Others voiced their opinions for everyone to hear.

“Can you believe this?” asked the wife of the Lutheran minister.