On the Hills of God (48 page)

“This is a first for me,” her husband answered.

“Is this really happening or am I dreaming?” asked Shafiq’s father.

“It’s happening, all right,” his skinny wife told him.

“Man ya’ish yara,”
a rosy-cheeked old relative said, shaking his head. “He who lives long enough will see everything.”

Yousif heard every word and watched every pair of eyes that bore into him. The commotion intensified. The priest was trying hard to keep it down. The groom’s old parents were so upset they rattled their disgust in plain Arabic.

“Don’t listen to that boy,” Salwa’s father shouted at the priest. “Throw him out and let’s get on with the ceremony. Throw him out.” Anton Taweel gazed at Yousif, his eyes full of hate. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said ominously.

The groom, Adel Farhat, stepped off the dais before the altar and tried to calm Salwa’s father. Meanwhile the priest held up both hands: one clutching the Bible, the other trying to quiet the uproar. Yousif saw the bridesmaid, Huda, put her arm around Salwa’s waist in support. He only wished he were in her place.

“Quiet, quiet,” the priest pleaded, pacing right and left. “This can’t go on. We must have it settled. We’re in the House of God. You must show respect.”

Finally, the shocked congregation quieted down and listened. But there was tension in the air. Most were astonished. A few seemed amused. Some stared at Yousif the way they had stared at Isaac just before killing him. For a moment Yousif was afraid.

“Don’t listen to that boy,” Anton Taweel again told the priest, stepping into the aisle. His wife tried to restrain him, but he shoved her aside with his elbow.

“Anton,” pleaded the agitated priest, “please give me a chance to find out what’s going on. I beg of you.” Then he turned to Salwa and addressed her in a louder voice so that everyone could hear. “Is what Yousif said true?”

Salwa seemed mortified and dumbstruck, staring at the priest. Even at a distance Yousif could tell her coloring was changing.

“It’s essential that we know,” the priest patiently explained. “There’s nothing I can do until you give me your answer.”

Hope shot through Yousif like an electric shock. He could feel the blood tingling in his veins. He was gratified that the priest had not dismissed his claim out of hand. The next minute would determine his whole future. The happiness of a lifetime rested on her tongue. He held the pew before him, closed his eyes and prayed.
Please, God, make it work. Please, please, God, grant me this wish.

“Tell him it’s not true,” her father told her.

To Yousif it sounded more of a threat than advice. He held his breath and waited. What if the pressure were too much for Salwa? What if she stumbled, gave the wrong answer?

“Let her speak of her own free will,” the priest told the irate father. “If there’s any kind of pressure, I will not—”

“Good for you,” Yousif shouted.

Anton Taweel flared up again. “I am
not
pressuring her,” he protested. “I’m only telling her not to listen to that bastard.”

“No, no, no,” the priest said. “You mustn’t use such language.”

“Yes, you are pressuring her,” Yousif shouted. “I told you how we felt about each other but you didn’t listen.”

Yousif was surrounded now by many people, including Fouad Jubran and his pregnant wife, who were trying to silence him.

“Quiet, quiet!” the priest demanded, scurrying in the aisle. “I’ll do the talking. We must have the bride’s answer.”

Hushed silence followed. The eyes of the whole crowd focused on Salwa.

“Again I must ask you,” the priest told Salwa, his voice shaking. “Is what Yousif said true? Are you being forced into this marriage? Are you and Yousif in love, and do you wish to marry each other?”

Yousif saw Salwa staring at him. She began to sob. His heart sank to his feet. She buried her head in her hands. Huda’s arms held her steady. Salwa looked up at her parents, her tears glistening “I’m sorry, Father. I’m sorry, Mother. It is true.”

“NO!” her father exploded, flailing his arms and moving toward her. “No daughter of mine is in love.”

“Is it better that I lie to you?” Salwa pleaded.

Yousif wished he had wings. He wanted to fly and hug her and kiss her for the whole world to see. “Bless you, Salwa! Bless you!” he cried.

Once again, the crowd turned around and looked at him. Some of the tension was breaking out in smiles and giggles.

“Go on with the wedding,” Anton Taweel demanded of the priest. “Don’t listen to this childishness.”

“I cannot,” Father Samaan said.

“What do you mean you cannot?” the other man cried, furious. “I’m her father. I say go ahead and marry them.”

“I cannot,” the priest repeated, shutting the book in his hand. “She has spoken loud and clear. And the Church respects her wishes.”

Yousif clapped his hands. But not all of the crowd seemed satisfied. Several urged the priest to go on with the questioning.

“All right then, one more question,” the priest told Salwa, acquiescing to the crowd’s demands. “Our dearest Salwa, please listen carefully. Do you or do you not want to go ahead with the wedding?”

Before Salwa could answer, someone in the crowd protested. The priest’s interrogation was too broad. He exhorted him to be precise.

The old priest became more flustered. Holding his right hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat and waved his arm for everyone to be quiet. Then he turned to Salwa and said, “I’ll repeat the question one more time. Our dearest Salwa, do you or do you not wish to take this man Adel Farhat as your lawful wedded husband? Think before you answer.”

Yousif could hear the groom’s mother cackling up front. Every now and then she would turn her head and swear at him. After a long and agonizing delay, Salwa said, “I do not.”

The priest pushed her further. “You do not
what?
Make yourself absolutely clear.”

The fire that Yousif knew was in Salwa returned to her eyes.

“Can’t you all hear me?” she asked, her pitch high and her neck raised like a swan. “Can’t you all understand? I do
not
wish to be married to the groom Adel Farhat who’s standing beside me right here at the altar.”

Sparks flew. Relatives on both sides were stunned, outraged. Some shook their heads, some frowned, some said what a shame, others began to leave.

“I’ll break both of their necks,” Anton Taweel threatened, rushing toward his daughter. He was stopped by the groom.

“No, you won’t,” Adel Farhat said, speaking up for the first time. Again people became quiet. They all seemed anxious to hear what the groom had to say.

“Any two people,” Adel continued, loud and clear, “who have the nerve to go through what these two have—
deserve
each other. And they have my blessing. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t realize it was this serious. I guess I should’ve looked into it more carefully. If that’s how she feels, it’s better to call it off right now than to live in misery.” He turned to Salwa, and added ironically, “I thank you for sparing me the agony of a lifetime.”

“Good for you!” Yousif shouted again.

Some people broke out in applause and praised Adel’s decency. Others still seemed stunned. Yousif’s heart fluttered with incredible joy. He felt like celebrating but knew it was the wrong time and wrong place. He looked at Salwa to see how she was savoring their victory. Their eyes met briefly. Then he saw her burst into tears and rush out, both hands lifting her long wedding dress. Her mother ran out after her. Huda, the bridesmaid, tried to catch up and pull up her train. And again Shafiq, Salwa’s angry cousin, threatened to demolish Yousif.

“As for you, boy,” Adel said, looking straight at Yousif, “I’m going to get you off the hook. My God, I could knock your teeth out and thrash you here and now—”

“Just try it!” Yousif warned.

“—but you’re not worth it. All I want you to do is pay all my expenses—every bracelet, every handkerchief, every bottle of
arak,
every kilo of meat, every ounce of coffee—and you can have your so-called love.”

“Her heart belongs to me,” Yousif screamed. “Not you.
Me.”

Yousif had not wanted to have such a hot exchange. He wished he had not lost his temper.

“They mustn’t be allowed to get away with it,” the butcher sneered. “Love is nonsense.”

The crowd began to leave.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” a young relative with a full head of curly hair told Yousif.

Many grumbled and gave him a nasty look.

“Disgusting.”

“Bad precedent.”

“The girl is worse than the boy. Can you imagine!”

The wife of a grocer who owned a shop next to Salman’s, looked Yousif straight in the eye and said, “Spoiler.”

Dalal Omran, a tall attractive woman had a frown on her face. Yousif feared her tongue. She approached him as if to lash at him, but in his ear she whispered, “Every woman in this town ought to give you a kiss.” She squeezed his hand.

Yousif was beginning to enjoy his triumph, when he felt a blow on his back. He turned around to see who had struck him, when another searing blow landed on his mouth. It was the groom’s cousin, Kareem, who seemed angrier than Shafiq. Kareem gnashed his teeth and called Yousif a dirty dog. Yousif tried to hit him back. But the aisle was too full. A freckled pharmacist separated the two, advising Yousif not to take any chances.

“Next time you want to do something like this,” the pharmacist told him, “you need to get your relatives with you. You can’t fight them all alone.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Yousif said.

“Go on,” the councilman with the wooden leg, Ayoub Salameh, told him. “You must’ve been born a troublemaker.”

Yousif bristled. “I beg your pardon.”

“After today marriages in this town will never be the same. Go on, before they kill you.”

Throughout the turmoil Yousif kept his eyes on the area of the altar. He could see Salwa’s parents arguing with each other. Then they were joined by the priest and other relatives, forming a knot. Yousif was dying to know what they were saying.

Soon Yousif found himself outside the church. Some congratulated him, slapping him on the shoulder, but most looked at him derisively. Yousif felt his upper lip swell. A few minutes later Salwa’s father appeared at the doorway, looking as tall as Lucifer. Yousif could see his long face, flushed and bluish. He seemed angry, tormented, bewildered, vulnerable.

“Hey, boy,” the father said in an anguished, loud voice that froze the pandemonium. Everyone turned and looked at him. “You’ve stopped the wedding. But here’s a promise I make before man and God: I swear on my honor and the honor of my mother and father that unless you marry my daughter by next Sunday you will never, never, never marry her.”

A new commotion broke out. Yousif didn’t know what to think.

“It’s better than going to the movies,” said a woman standing behind Yousif.

“Can you believe all this?” her female companion asked.

Yousif felt his own skull hammered. He had not meant to humiliate this man and cause him such pain—or to put himself in such a predicament. His head was spinning. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. His own father hadn’t been dead for more than ten days—and they were still in mourning. How could he marry Salwa by next Sunday?

“If it were mmmmme,” Ghanem Jadallah stuttered, “I’d make the son of bbbbbitch marry her hhhhhere and now.”

“Poor Yousif can’t do that,” his wife said. “He has his mother to worry about. She’s still in black.”

“Pppppoor my aaaaass,” Ghanem added, glaring at her. “That’s his probbbbblem.”

Others were less hostile. From the snatches of conversations Yousif could hear, he gathered that Salwa’s father really had no other option. Some considered the ultimatum a wise move. Who would marry Salwa after today? they all asked. His daughter was more or less marked. No one in his right mind would touch her or come near her. Anton Taweel might as well swallow his pride and let her marry the one she wanted. What else could the poor fellow do?

Yousif could follow their argument—even agree with it. But the irony did not escape him. First he had to battle her father and now he would have to battle his own mother. Would she agree to a wedding so soon after his father’s death? Yousif didn’t think so, considering that such things were taboo. On the other hand, would he risk losing Salwa forever? It seemed he had no choice but to get married next Sunday. He couldn’t humiliate her father twice in a week and make him delay the wedding date a few more months. People’s tongues were bound to wag until the tie was knotted. Malicious gossip was what Anton Taweel was trying to avoid. Yousif felt dizzy. Unless he married Salwa by next Sunday—it was hard to predict what her father would do. Some fathers were known to turn violent. What if he harmed Salwa?

Yousif became even more worried when he saw Salwa’s father clutch his own chest. What if the man had a sudden heart attack and died before next Sunday? What if he died angry at his daughter? Wouldn’t he, Yousif, feel guilty for life? Wouldn’t he be setting up a barrier between him and Salwa that might damage their happiness? In fact, was it not possible that Salwa might rebel against him now, to assuage her conscience? Stranger things had happened. What had he gained, Yousif asked himself, if he were to be denied Salwa forever? Arrows of desire and despair pierced his heart. What was he going to do now? Dizzily, he put his hand on his face. Both his mouth and nose were bleeding from the blows he had received inside. But what he dreaded most was what might be awaiting him at home.