Yousif smiled at the notion. “She’d probably think I was crazy and laugh it off.”
“Why?” Isaac asked.
“That’s her way of putting off serious matters until she has time to think them through,” Yousif answered.
“Later,” Amin pressed, “would she consider the idea of marriage silly?”
Yousif pondered the question. “I don’t know,” he finally said.
Even if Salwa consented, Yousif himself would not be allowed to propose. Elders would carry out the ritual after the negotiations had been completed between the two families and the marriage had already been arranged. But now he wondered if he could circumvent the system.
A minute later he rang the first bell. Many of the students, especially those around the vendor, grumbled and started to head back to class. A few of them passed Yousif and his two friends, looking at them in a strange way. How odd! Yousif thought. Were they objecting to Isaac, the only Jewish boy in their midst? Surely not. In any event, Yousif had more important things on his mind.
That afternoon Yousif’s mother was in the kitchen making finely chopped salad. From the looks of it he knew they would be having mujaddarah for supper. He put his hands around her small waist and gave her a peck. She seemed startled.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she said, kissing him back.
“Don’t forget to brown lots of onions, please,” he said, lifting the lid of the pot on the primus. The sight of rice and lentil and the smell of cumin made him hungry. He opened a drawer, took out a tablespoon, and sampled one of his favorite meals.
“Put some in a dish,” his mother chided.
“I love to eat out of the pot.”
Yousif put the spoon down and went inside to remove his jacket. On his way back to the kitchen he heard the doorbell ring. He looked out the window and saw Salwa and her short, tomboyish friend, Huda, standing on the balcony. His heart skipped. Astonishment, pleasure and surprise filled him as he quickly turned on the lights and swung the door wide open.
“Hello,” he said, smiling and stepping aside.
“Hello,” Salwa said. “Is my mother here?”
“Your mother?” Yousif asked, surprised. “Is she supposed to be?”
“I thought so,” Salwa said, her wind-kissed cheeks turning rosier.
Still unable to contain himself, Yousif motioned for them to come in.
The two girls looked at each other, uncertain.
“Thank you but we’d better not,” Huda said, ready to leave.
“What’s the matter,” Yousif said, anxious. “Come on in.”
Salwa thought for a second. “I’d like to say hello to Aunt Yasmin,” Salwa explained to Huda. Then turning to Yousif, she added, “She’s here, isn’t she?”
“Of course,” Yousif replied, letting them both in and shutting the door.
By that time his mother had joined them in the foyer, wiping her hand with a towel flung over her shoulder. She kissed the two girls and made them feel welcome. She wanted them to stay and visit for a while, but Huda complained that it was getting dark and they ought to be getting home. Nevertheless, they lingered on. Bubbly as usual, Salwa explained that she and Huda had been to a Christmas play at their school. Since they were so close by, they took a chance and dropped in to see if her mother were there attending the ladies’ meeting.
“That’s tomorrow, dear,” Yousif’s mother said, trying to lead them toward the living room.
“How silly of me,” Salwa said, blushing. “I should’ve remembered.”
Yousif studied Salwa’s face, delighted in his assumption that she had really come to see him. She knew that the ladies had always met on Saturday afternoon. But he loved her excuse and accepted it as the best Christmas gift she could give him. All the while he agonized that she might be leaving soon. So he questioned Huda about the play they had seen: who was in it, was it in English or Arabic, was it good, was it well attended, would the performance be repeated? Anything just to keep looking at Salwa, who was talking to his mother. He loved the warm way the two behaved toward each other. If his mother had a daughter, she would’ve wanted her to be like Salwa. Well, he thought, if she couldn’t have her as a daughter, one day she will have her as a daughter-in-law.
“We really need to go,” Huda said, sidling toward the door.
“Stay until Father comes,” he suggested, looking Salwa in the eye, “then I’ll drive you both home.”
Huda shook her head. “I don’t mind walking.”
To Yousif’s dismay the two girls took a step toward the door.
“Let me call a taxi for you then,” he offered, hoping to gain a few more minutes. “It’s cold and foggy outside.”
Salwa shrugged but Huda insisted that there was no need.
“I like this kind of weather,” Huda said, her eyes apologizing to Yousif.
When the two girls left, Yousif and his mother watched them through the open door. Yousif felt his heart walking away from him in Salwa’s green coat.
“You’d better snatch that girl,” Yousif heard a voice tell him.
Both he and his mother turned around. Fatima was standing behind them, holding a freshly made kanoon. The kindled charcoal was giving her clean face a natural glow.
“What did you say?” Yousif asked, shutting the door.
“You heard me,” Fatima answered, walking toward the living room.
Yousif watched her place the kanoon near the radio console, where they would all be sitting to hear the news.
“That girl is too beautiful to remain unmarried for long,” Fatima continued, wiping her ruddy face with her long sleeve. “Somebody is bound to come along and steal her from you. Then you’ll be sorry.”
Those were Yousif’s exact sentiments. That they were uttered by Fatima was uncanny. He smiled, but his mother was frowning.
“Yousif has a lot of schooling ahead of him,” his mother snapped. “Don’t you give him any ideas.”
Yousif wiped the steam off the window pane to take one more look. “Don’t worry, Mother,” he said. “I already know what I want.”
He could hear the two women walking away, chattering. His mother was reprimanding Fatima for making such a foolish suggestion.
“There’s more to life than marriage,” he could hear his mother saying. “First comes education . . . then career . . . and then . . .”
He followed them to the kitchen, filled a dish with mujaddarah, leaned against the wall, and started to eat.
“This house is too big for just the three of you,” Fatima went on, grinning and revealing the big gap between her two front teeth. “And the doctor is not getting any younger. He needs little bare feet running around to brighten his old age.”
“Your husband is old—not mine,” Yasmin said, turning off the primus.
“Psshhhh,” Fatima smirked, shrugging her shoulder and wiping the counter with a wet rag. “Last week when you sent me to pick up the lamb meat, I saw the butcher Abu Mazen drop his big sharp knife and swear under his breath. His eyes bulged and he kept staring at something in the street. The shop was crowded and everybody turned around to see what made him come so close to chopping off his own fingers. And what do you think he was looking at? Salwa of course. She was wearing a navy-blue outfit. One man standing by me said to his friend, ‘Look at the wind blowing her hair and loving her body. It’s wrapping the dress around her like on a piece of sculpture.’”
Yousif felt jealous. “Who was that man?” he wanted to know.
“He meant no harm,” Fatima said, her voice soft.
Yousif stopped eating. “It must’ve been embarrassing for her.”
There was a pause.
“She’s charming,” Yasmin admitted, folding her arms. “What’s more important, she’s good.”
“No girl in town is more suitable for Yousif than her,” Fatima said. “But listen to this. I turned around and saw two women whispering to each other. I just knew what they were thinking.”
“What?
” Yousif said, eager for details.
“I just knew they were trying to match her up with one of their sons or brothers,” Fatima said. “So as soon as I picked up the package from the butcher and paid my money, I stepped right between these women and I said, ‘Excuse me, ladies. But if I were you I wouldn’t waste my breath. That girl is already spoken for.’ And I walked out with my head high like I’d been insulted.”
Both Yousif and his mother laughed. “You did not,” he said.
“The Prophet be my witness,” Fatima said, raising her right hand.
Yousif thought Fatima was wickedly funny. He ate one more spoonful and handed her the half-full dish. “When I marry her I’m going to buy you the prettiest dress in town,” he said.
“Now you’re talking,” Fatima grinned. “Embroidered at the hem and at the sleeves . . . and bodice . . .”
“You bet,” Yousif told her, rushing out.
“Finish your food,” his mother called after him.
“Let him go,” Fatima said.
Putting on his jacket, he could hear the two women laughing. He opened the door, ready to face the wind.
Yousif walked through the souk, past Salman’s ‘apothecary’, past Moshe Sha’lan’s shop, past the bus terminal, and started up the incline toward the new district. By the time he got to the Rowda Hotel, Salwa’s green coat flashed through the fog before him that had covered Ardallah like a gray shroud.
Yousif doubled his speed and began to whistle a tune just to let her know he was behind her. Luckily the fog was enveloping them in waves: one second he could see the two girls clearly and the next he couldn’t. At one of those splendid moments when the fog lifted, Yousif saw Salwa turn to look behind her and . . . she saw him!
The two girls turned left and Yousif followed suit, about fifty yards behind them. Then Salwa and Huda parted. Salwa continued on a secluded short cut that Yousif had seen her take many a time, especially whenever she wanted to exchange a few words with him.
He caught up with her on a dirt road that ran through a sparsely populated area.
“I hope nobody sees us,” Salwa muttered, slowing down.
“When I saw you at the door—I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Yousif confessed, his breathing heavy. “I looked for you all afternoon.”
“We ought to be careful,” Salwa said, without looking at him.
They walked in silence.
“Salwa . . .” Yousif said.
“Yes.”
“You knew your mother wasn’t at our house, didn’t you?”
“What do you think?” she replied. Even in the dark Yousif could tell she was blushing.
“I thought so,” Yousif said, happy.
“I try to see you whenever I can. But it’s not always easy.”
He reached for her hand but she pulled it away.
“I missed you, Salwa,” he said.
Yellow headlights suddenly appeared, penetrating the fog. As if by reflex, the two split and walked on opposite sides of the street. They remained apart until the car crawled by and was gone. Then Yousif crossed the street to rejoin her.
She walked beside him. “I’m worried,” she said, gently swinging her purse.
“About what?” Yousif asked.
“The war.”
“We all are,” he told her. “Father says if we lose the war we might even be kicked out. That means you and I might get separated. I’d go crazy.”
The thud of their heels on the dirt road was the only sound he could hear.
“If all of us do our share,” she said, looking ahead, “there’s no reason to lose. We’ll win.” Then she turned around and looked at him. “But I don’t see how we can be separated.”
“Suppose they drive us out and you end up in Lebanon and I end up in Syria . . . or Jordan . . . What then?”
“You must be joking,” she answered. “They can’t do that.”
“They can if they have the power. We know they want the land without the people.”
She did not seem convinced. “Well, if all of you men fight—no such thing will happen.”
Yousif was not persuaded. “Suppose your parents ,” he said, “decide to take a long vacation and wait out the war in Lebanon. Suppose the Jews win and don’t let you come back.”
“Not likely,” she told him. “One, my parents can’t afford such a trip. Two, we’re going to win. You really have a fertile imagination.”
“I’m always thinking . . .”
“Don’t worry. If we get separated you’ll find me. But if you haven’t fought, don’t even try.”
Yousif was silent for a long time.
“Don’t get upset,” she told him. “Just do your share in the fighting and everything will be okay.”
He stopped walking. “Doing one’s share and fighting are not the same thing,” he said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I know we need to protect ourselves. But picking up the gun could be our undoing. We are too small, too unprepared. And we can’t depend on outside help. I still think we ought to negotiate a settlement.”
“It’s much too late for that,” she said.
“That’s what everybody says. And yet I keep hoping . . .”
“Action, Yousif, not hope. Hope alone is useless.”
They were approaching the end of the side street. The right turn would bring them out of seclusion. He stopped in the shadow of a new building, for he knew she would not speak to him once they reached the five-point Saha.
“What are you going to do during the holiday?” he asked.
She looked at him. For the first time she seemed to soften. A moment passed before she replied.
“I’ll be thinking about you,” she finally admitted.
He was pleased. “Will you be going shopping?”
“I will if you want me to.”
“You know I do. That’s the only way I can see you. Unless Zuhair and Akram need more tutoring.”
She smiled. “I’d better go now.”
He leaned forward to kiss her. But she stepped back.
“Please don’t embarrass me,” she said.
“I love you,” he argued.
“I know. But not here. Not now. Please.”
As she began to walk away, he wanted to follow her. But he knew he mustn’t. Should anyone see them walking behind each other in the fog, rumors would fly all over town. Their reputations would be tarnished, especially hers. Why must Arab society be so hard on lovers? he wondered again.
In a moment he saw Salwa’s lovely figure turn the corner and disappear.
Monday afternoon, Yousif and his two friends stopped at Arif’s bookstore for a look at the magazine rack. The place was crowded with Christmas shoppers buying toys that Arif had begun to import.
“Hey, Yousif,” bald-headed Arif said, raising his voice above the hubbub. “Let me see you before you leave.”
“Sure,” Yousif said, waving his hand.
Five minutes later, between customers, Arif drew Yousif to a corner.
“Salwa has been here five times already,” Arif confided, leaning toward the counter and his eyes all over the place. “The first time was about eleven o’clock. She asked if I had seen you today. I said no. And every time she came since then she’d stick her head through the door, look around, and then look at me for a yes or no. I’d shake my head and she’d go on her way.”
Yousif became worried. “It’s not like her to be so open.”
“I think you ought to try and find her.”
“When was the last time she was here?”
“About ten minutes ago.”
“Thanks,” Yousif said, elbowing through the crowd.
With his two friends at heel, Yousif walked out of Arif’s bookstore forgetting to pay for the al-Musawwar magazine he was now rolling and unrolling. They walked through Kilani’s Novelty Shop, but she wasn’t there. They peeped inside Bata shoe store and inside Carmen’s beauty salon, but no luck. Ten minutes later, Yousif
found her sitting with Huda at Nashwan’s eating ice cream. The two exchanged glances as he spotted a marble-topped table near hers. A group of school girls joined her unexpectedly and she looked at Yousif, disappointed. She seemed restless and distracted. Her smile was forced.
Within ten minutes Yousif followed her back to Arif’s bookstore. In the corner by the magazine stand, looking nervous, she slipped him a note. He moved to another corner before opening it. Scribbled, it read: “Meet me at the cinema. Left balcony. Four o’clock.” He glanced at his watch. It was twenty minutes till four.
Precisely at four, he went to the cinema with Amin and Isaac. The two friends sat down in the third row to their right, but Yousif walked around looking for Salwa. The maroon curtain was still hiding the silver screen and the sound system was blaring an Esmahan song. In a slow haunting voice, the female singer was describing a lovesick woman’s visit to a rose garden. She had gone there to console herself—to smell the roses and hear the birds singing. She saw two nightingales perched on a tree branch and imagined them in love. In their fancied romance the male was vowing his devotion, calling his paramour an angel and begging her never to leave him. After a long moment of happiness, the uncaring paramour fluttered her wings and flew away—leaving him, his heart melted. It was one of Yousif’s favorite songs. But today it stung him.
He found Salwa rubbing her temples, Huda at her side. When they saw him approaching, Huda got up and moved several seats away. Luckily the theater was almost empty and they were able to sit in relative seclusion.
Nothing had prepared him for Salwa’s tense mood. He looked at her keenly and reached for her hand. Surprisingly, she clutched his fingertips.
He stiffened. “What is it?”
“Adel Farhat is planning to ask for my hand,” she whispered, her eyes steady.
Yousif flinched. “What?” he said.
“You heard me,” she answered, uncoiling her hand out of his.
“Adel Farhat?”
“The assistant manager at Al-Andalus Hotel,” she said, nodding. “He and his parents visited us twice already. Tonight we’re supposed to return the visit.”
Yousif had to swallow hard. “Are you sure that’s what they have in mind?”
On the Hills of God Page 19