On the Hills of God (5 page)

While his parents and friends were chatting and ordering drinks, Yousif scanned the garden for Salwa. She was nowhere in sight, and he felt disappointed. Restless, he rose and walked around looking for her. Isaac was across the terrace with his parents, who seemed to be enjoying themselves with their neighbors for the summer, the Haddad family from Haifa. Isaac, wearing a sports jacket but no tie, rose from his chair, glad to see his friend. But before the two boys could talk, Isaac’s father drew their attention.

“What’s this I hear about Amin?” Moshe said, smoking a
nergileh.

“He broke his arm,” Yousif said.

“I know,” Moshe said, pain registering on his long dark face. “You boys need to be more careful.”

Isaac’s mother and the other guests showed the same concern.

“Pull up a chair and sit down, Yousif,” Moshe said. “Have something to drink.”

“No, thank you,” Yousif said. “I should be getting back to our table.”

Moshe would have none of it. “Isaac, call up that waiter,” he said.

Yousif loved the whole Sha’lan family, not just Isaac. He had known them all his life. In looks and manners and customs they blended so well in Ardallah that no one thought about whether they were Jewish. In his late forties, Moshe was so tall and strong of build that he could pass for a brother or a cousin of the Arab near him; three or four years younger than he, his wife was short and chubby. She looked like all the middle-aged Arab women who abandoned all pretense at youth and became plump from rice, bread, and potatoes. At home, Yousif remembered, the Sha’lans ate like Arabs and sang like Arabs. They were so different from the blond, blue-eyed Zionists from that afternoon.

From Basim Yousif had learned about the difference among the Orthodox Jews and Reformed Jews and Ashkenazi Jews and Sephardic Jews. Although this might be the wrong time to ask, he wanted to know who among the Jews leaned toward Zionism and who didn’t? And why? He had heard that some of the Jews who clamored the most “to return home” were only converts and not real Jews. Was that true?

“What do you call the Jews from south Russia?” Yousif whispered. “Khazars?”

“I’ve heard of them,” Isaac answered, surprised. “But what are you getting at?”

“Some say they aren’t even Jews.”

Isaac shook his head. “Tell me something. Are you still thinking about the tourists we followed this afternoon?”

“They weren’t tourists,” Yousif insisted, careful not to use the word spies.

“Whatever. What do they have to do with the Jews from south Russia?”

“I’m just curious. Would Jews who aren’t originally from here—would they be claiming Palestine is theirs and not ours?”

Isaac paused. “If they’re Zionists they would,” he answered.

A couple wanted to pass behind Yousif and he had to pull up his chair to let them squeeze by. “Do you know what I think?” he asked, under his breath.

“What?” Isaac said, humoring him.

“Zionists are bad news for all of us.”

“My parents are afraid of them,” Isaac agreed.

“Do they say why?”

“They think they’d bring nothing but trouble to all of us who live here.”

“I agree.”

“Fine. But let’s have fun tonight, will you? Amin’s accident was sad enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

A waiter stopped by and they ordered two beers. The band had stopped playing. The garden looked overcrowded.

“Have you seen Salwa?” Yousif whispered.

“Sure,” Isaac answered.

“She’s here?”

“She made a double take when she saw me. I guess she expected you to be around.”

Yousif looked for her. “Where’s she sitting?”

“On the other side,” Isaac motioned with his head.

Suddenly Yousif heard a roll of drums. Those standing began to clear the aisles so those sitting could get a better view. The floor show was about to begin, and Yousif returned to his table. A man and a woman dressed in white costumes covered with sequins were walking briskly down the aisle, closely followed by a boy, who looked no more than ten years old, and five musicians. As soon as they reached the dance floor and took their places, the hotel’s assistant manager, Adel Farhat, a young man about thirty years old with his hand at his waist as if his side were hurting him, tapped the microphone for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Al-Andalus Hotel takes pleasure to present the best act this town has ever seen. The trio you are about to enjoy has performed not only in Palestine, but in Cairo, Beirut, and Baghdad. Here they are, the famous father and mother and son, the singing and dancing Saad, Saada, and Masoud.”

Yousif laughed at the funny names, for they were variations on “happy” and “lucky.”

The band began to play, and the entertainers stepped forward. The bright lights made their costumes dazzle. Husband and wife looked more like brother and sister. Their round faces, ruddy complexions, and blue eyes disproved the theory that opposites attract. The husband reached for an accordion, his wife for a tambourine. In a moment, they joined the band in playing, their eyes fixed on the trees, not on the crowd. They seemed exhilarated, but in a dream world of their own.

Their son reminded Yousif of little Shirley Temple. To the women at Yousif’s table, he was embraceable. His parents had dressed him up as a circus ringmaster, except for the red hat with a rubber band under the chin, which looked like a bellboy’s cap. But a midget ringmaster he was, complete with a crackling whip. He began to sing:

If I could only have a wishing ring

And rule over the ladies for one day.

The tune was light and catchy. The lyrics poked fun at modern marriages. The women, the boy sang, were mistreating their men and getting out of hand. They needed to be put back in place. And if they did not know what was good for them, then the men had better straighten them out with the whip. To demonstrate, Little Masoud pranced around the floor, rendered the song with gusto, and cracked the whip on the floor—both left and right. The sound of the lashes and the energy with which he cracked the whip made the women in the audience howl with laughter.

“How cute!” Jihan Afifi said.

“Adorable!” Yousif’s mother concurred. “He ought to be in films.”

“Cairo should snap him up. That boy is going places.”

Yousif could not wait for the song to be over. He wanted to dance with Salwa and tell her about Amin, about the spies.

Half an hour later, she appeared from behind the bandstand like a star making her first entrance. Yousif was transfixed. Tall, erect, dressed in white, followed by a girlfriend who came to her shoulder, Salwa strode through the garden. All eyes were on her, but her own eyes seemed to be searching. Yousif knew that she was looking for him, and he was thrilled. The instant their eyes met, she headed in his direction, they stood facing each other quietly, and then began to dance.

“What would you do if you had a wishing ring?” Salwa asked him, as they stepped to the rhythmic music amidst the big crowd.

Yousif hesitated. Salwa was the best-looking woman in the whole garden; of this he had no doubt. He loved her height, her big almond-shaped eyes, her curved eyelashes, her long neck. He loved her auburn, shoulder-length hair, and the expensive perfume she was wearing. He loved her smile. Her full red lips tantalized him and made his blood rush. Even her teeth were perfect.

“I’m still waiting,” she told him, swaying in his arms.

“What would I do if I had a wishing ring?” he repeated, enraptured by the warmth of her body. “I’d wish you to be my wife.”

She laughed and tilted her head backward.

“Can’t you be serious?” she flirted.

“I am serious,” he told her.

“Well, what’s your second wish?” she asked, smiling.

His eyes scanned the garden. “I’d wish to have the heads of all the men around here examined.”

“Why?”

He told her about the afternoon adventure, about the trip through the woods, about Amin’s accident, and especially about the Zionist spies.

“You think they were spies?”

“I’m sure of it. They walked as if they were on a mission. And all that gear they were carrying.”

“How can you prove it?”

“They might come back. When and if they do, I’m going to track them no matter who falls and breaks his arm.” He turned around and surveyed the scene before him. “Look at all these men drinking scotch and soda, even champagne, as if the world is safe for them. Look at that table . . . and that . . .”

At one table were young men known to be playboys. They hardly worked, but dressed well, gambled, and chased women. How could these grown men live off their parents? Yousif could not understand. Where was their pride? He would never be like them. He himself was only seventeen, still in high school, and still living at home. Yet he felt bad, even guilty, every time his parents handed him his weekly allowance from their hard-earned money. He couldn’t wait to finish school and be on his own.

One day he would take care of his parents and repay them for all the good things they had done for him. That any man as old as these playboys—who had to be in their late twenties or early thirties—would want to be in their position was incomprehensible. Looking at them, one would think they were movie stars or gangsters in American films. If the truth were known, he thought to himself, they probably had to borrow money to buy the tickets for this show.

“Would you trust the future of Palestine to such idlers?” Yousif asked.

Salwa looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she inquired.

“They look so carefree,” Yousif whispered. “They don’t know what’s happening in their own backyards. They don’t know that these hills are being mapped by the enemy.”

They moved their feet, but they did not dance. Tension lingered between them in spite of the gaiety around them.

The assistant manager, Adel Farhat, was dancing next to them. But to the apparent distress of the young woman in his arms, he was staring at Salwa.

“May I have the rest of this dance?” Farhat asked, ready to dump his partner.

Yousif looked at him unkindly. “No way,” he said, swinging Salwa away from him.

Salwa grew pensive, though the intrusion didn’t seem to bother her.

“Guess what I would wish for if I had a wishing ring?” she asked.

“Let me guess. You’d wish for a whip to crack on these men’s backs.”

She shook her head. “Worse than that. I’d wish for a well to dump them all in.”

The lively music stopped and Yousif looked at Salwa.

“Are you coming tomorrow to tutor my brothers?” she asked as they walked on the gravel between the crowded tables.

“I only come on Thursdays.”

“I wish you could come tomorrow, too,” she admitted, blushing.

This unexpected remark was enough to lift Yousif’s spirits. He walked her back to the table to pay his respects to her parents. Her father was like his own father in many ways: reserved, bespectacled, well-dressed. In other ways they were different. His father was of medium height, his mustache about an inch wide like Charlie Chaplin’s. Her father was tall, his mustache pencil-thin like Ronald Coleman’s. Yousif did not know her father well. The man was humorless, icy, often grave. His mouth was almost always drawn at the corners. It was her cheery mother who charmed Yousif. A tall, buxom woman, she was always in good spirits, always laughing. Her dark red hair contrasted well with her green satin dress and milky complexion. Yousif liked her and had a feeling that she liked him.

At the table with them were men and women who were strangers to Yousif. The two youngest men earned his instant suspicion. One was about twenty-five years old, with a short haircut, a striped bow tie, and a high thin voice. The other was a couple of years older, had a big nose, and wore a tie with so many flowers on it that Yousif thought he ought to stick it in a vase. Both men seemed unattached and this bothered Yousif. Who were they? What did they want?

Salwa was bubbling with conversation. Yousif could tell that she did not mean to ignore him but was waiting for a pause to introduce him to everyone at the table. He looked around for a chair. He would not leave until he had an opportunity to watch the young men’s glances and determine the drift of their intentions. Salwa’s mother noticed that he was still there and told her two young boys, Akram and Zuhair, to get up and give him one of their chairs. At that point Salwa’s father stopped talking long enough to introduce him.

“Oh, Yousif, I’d like you to meet a couple of my friends,” he began. “We work together at the office. This is Ahmad Jum‘a and this is Jowdat Muhyiddin.”

A relieved smile crossed Yousif’s face and he shook their hands. From their names he could tell they were both Muslims. There was no longer any reason for him to be worried. Salwa would never marry outside her Christian faith.

Then a bottle of champagne arrived—compliments of Adel Farhat. Yousif didn’t know what to think. Was the assistant manager a friend of the family? Did he have designs on Salwa? Yousif hated himself for being so suspicious. The poor guy might already be married. He might have been dancing with his wife when he’d tried to cut in. While Salwa chatted with her mother, Yousif watched her father turn and wave to Farhat, who was standing on top of the stairs. Adel waved back—grinning. Yousif felt a strange, sinking feeling.