“What else? We don’t know these people. We’ve never visited them before nor have they visited us. We see their son at the hotel, but that’s all.”
Yousif remembered how Adel Farhat had tried to cut in on him while dancing with Salwa. He remembered the champagne bottle Adel Farhat had sent to her parents’ table that same night. Now the pieces were beginning to fall in place.
“You should’ve seen how his mother looked me over. She made me feel uncomfortable.”
“Well don’t go.”
“Go where?”
“To their house. They’d get the message.”
“These visits are prearranged. My father would be very upset with me if I make him break his promise. “
“Has he checked with you to see if you’re interested?”
“He hasn’t. But mother keeps talking about how nice they are. Adel is an only child. Worked ten years for the Passport Department in Jerusalem, then switched to hotel management because he has a rich uncle in America who wants to buy him a hotel. Father says Adel is negotiating to buy Al-Andalus Hotel itself. His three aunts own a lot of property, which he’ll inherit because none of them is married. Even his wealthy uncle in America is childless.”
“Did your mother tell you if you married him you’d be sleeping in a bed made of gold?” he sneered.
“Be serious. Mother knows about you and me. But she says you won’t be ready for years.”
“Pray tell,” Yousif said, his head crackling with anxiety, “why is Ardallah’s most eligible bachelor getting married at this time?”
“It seems he wants to join the fighting any way he can. But his family wants him to get married instead. They think a bride would make him change his mind. They don’t realize they’re choosing the wrong girl for that.”
The fact that Salwa had allowed the discussion with Adel Farhat’s family to get this far made Yousif extremely uneasy.
“I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” she hesitated.
Her words woke him up. “Yes . . .”
“I was just thinking . . .”
“Go on.”
“If you’d intervene . . . make a counter proposal . . .”
Yousif stared at her in the dark. “You mean ask for your hand?”
“I’m afraid it may be the only way to stop this marriage.”
Sheer joy engulfed Yousif. He squeezed her hand, his heart thumping. He couldn’t believe his ears. His dream girl was actually telling him to ask for her hand—that she was willing to marry him. Wow! He felt flattered, proud, thrilled, inspired, determined, ecstatic that she wanted him to do this.
“If Adel Farhat asks for my hand we are undone,” she warned. “My parents are impressed with him. Mother keeps saying good opportunities don’t knock on a girl’s door everyday.”
He felt his happiness ooze away. Her parents could ruin their future.
“I thought your mother liked me,” he complained.
“She still does. But she also says you’re too young, not ready for marriage. He’s about twelve years older than you. Your mother keeps talking about your wanting to go to America and study at Columbia University like your father. That could be several years. Do you think my family would want me to wait that long? Also, we’re facing war. Fathers are worried about what might happen to their daughters. My father keeps saying it’s better for a girl to be with a husband at a time like this.”
For a second Yousif did not realize what she was talking about. Then it dawned on him that her father was worried that she might get raped during the war. To an Arab, Yousif remembered, there could be no greater shame.
He kicked the back of the seat in front of him. “I don’t understand . . .”
“What?”
“One minute you’re telling me to ask for your hand,” he told her, “and the next minute you’re making a case for Adel Farhat.”
“Making a case!!! Is that what you think?” She bit her lip and began to cry.
He hated himself for being so tactless. He turned around and found Huda staring at them. When she stopped looking, he took Salwa in his arms and kissed her eyelids.
“Listen,” he said. “If they ask you to marry him simply say no.”
She pushed him away, her face congested. “And if they don’t?”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“Throw a tantrum. Rebel. Revolt. Kick and fight. Simply don’t accept.”
She shook her head. “It won’t work.”
“Why not?”
“It might be too late. Father might’ve already given his word.”
“Warn him not to.”
“He might not listen. You know how Arab fathers are.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s your decision. It’s your life.”
“Oh, Yousif. I wish it were that easy.”
“Why isn’t it?”
“Because that’s not the way marriages are conducted around here. Wake up. You’re in the Middle East, remember? Girls are rarely asked.”
“Be that rarity. You’re Salwa. Someone special. Put your foot down.”
“And if I don’t succeed? Don’t blame me . . .”
Yousif considered what she just said. Damn it, she was right. Things might not be left up to her. He had better think of something else. Fast.
“Let’s think together for a minute,” he said. “I guess the thing for me to do is to inform my parents of our plan and let them officially ask your parents for your hand.”
Salwa opened her purse to get out a handkerchief. “What if your parents think you’re too young?” she asked, dabbing her eyes.
“I’ll raise all kinds of hell until they see it my way,” he answered. “Meanwhile fight them off as long as you can. And let me know what’s going on. Send me a word. Do you know the blind man Jamal, the basket weaver?”
“The one who plays the violin?”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No, but I can find out.”
“He’s a good friend of mine. Pretend you want to buy a basket or a tray or something. If things begin to move fast, meet me there. It’ll be safe. And Salwa . . .”
“Yes?”
“Remember that I love you.”
“You think I’d be here if I didn’t know that?”
“Do you love me?”
“You know I do.”
He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed her tight. She whispered that she was afraid, and he reassured her with a tender kiss.
“How will I know you’ll be at Jamal’s when I need to see you?” she asked.
“When you go out wear something that will give me a signal,” he answered. “A yellow blouse, or a blue dress. Or put your hair up.”
“What about a red scarf?”
“That’ll be fine.”
“What if Jamal isn’t there when I get there?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll meet in the arcade, under the steps. It’s dark and secluded enough.”
“That’s it then. The red scarf.”
“The red scarf.”
She squeezed his hand and he didn’t want to let go of her. But she begged him with her eyes, then got up and left. He remained in his seat, mystified. Nothing on the screen interested him. Soon the images began to blur.
What if it really happened? What if she married Adel Farhat? She was not eighteen yet—too young to stand up to a domineering father. He himself was only a month older—too young to propose himself. But Salwa had asked him and he couldn’t let her down. Most likely her father would be more receptive if the formality were carried out according to tradition. The problem was, he, Yousif, hadn’t told his parents yet about this turn of events. He needed time to hone all the arguments he would marshall to win their approval.
At a time like this? they would surely ask. Let them ask all they wanted. Imbued with Salwa’s love and desire to marry him, he felt nothing could stand in his way. He would rise to the occasion and answer her challenge for an act of intervention.
He thought of the gold-toothed suitor. Prior to returning to Ardallah two summers ago, Adel Farhat had worked in Jerusalem. Yousif knew of him, particularly for being a splendid soccer player on Jerusalem’s YMCA team. He was almost as good as Rassass, who played on the Greek Orthodox team in Jaffa. These two teams were the finest in Palestine, and Adel was mentioned after every match. Before joining the Al-Andalus Hotel, Adel used to hang around Arif’s bookstore and sometimes at a pool hall playing billiards. A thoroughbred athlete, he attracted many admirers, including Yousif. Sinewy and poised, Adel made the billiards zing in place with the same skill that had made him famous on the football field.
This same Adel was now Yousif’s opponent. But marrying Salwa was not a soccer game. A lifetime of happiness would depend on the outcome. At seventeen, Yousif did not want to be a loser.
13
On his way home, Yousif felt deep apprehension. Salwa had asked him to intervene and he mustn’t fail her. He had better act fast.
But marriages were arranged by families, not by individuals. He would have to speak to his parents. They might think the whole idea absurd and refuse to help. Then what? Basim was out of the question: either he couldn’t be reached or he would be angry at the timing. We are at war, Basim would say, and pound the table. But to Yousif, the two fights went hand in hand: each was about protecting one’s own. He would fight for Salwa as he would for Palestine. The idea of losing either one outraged him.
That night his parents were jolted by his announcement. They listened to him in the living room like two judges presiding at a murder trial.
“I knew you cared for Salwa,” his father said, loosening his belt and unbuttoning the top button of his pants, “but I had no idea you were that serious. You’re only seventeen.”
“I’ll be eighteen in April.”
“That’s too young for marriage. Especially for a man.”
Yasmin pursed her lips and rested her cheek on her hand. She seemed anxious.
“Under different circumstances Salwa would be ideal,” she said, thinking.
Yousif re-crossed his legs to stop them from jerking. “Time is running out.”
The doctor poked his pipe with his tamper and emptied the ashes. “I think,” he said, “the sooner you get her out of your mind the better.”
Yousif stomped his foot. “Never.”
His parents stared at him, incredulous.
“All I’m asking you to do is talk to her father,” Yousif pleaded.
“And tell him what?” his father asked, dejected.
“That I want to marry his daughter,” Yousif said.
“I don’t relish getting turned down?” the doctor said, puffing on his pipe. “I know exactly what he would say. And he’s right.”
“Right about what?”
“Your age.”
“Is age everything in a marriage? What about my other assets? I come from a good family. A comfortable . . . decent family with whom they’ve been friends for years. Also, I’m a good student with a bright future—even if I have to say so myself. Above all, Salwa and I are in love.”
His father raised his eyebrows. “That love bit could be a liability.”
Yousif ignored the remark. “Don’t all these qualities count?”
Fatima walked in with a tray of coffee and rice pudding covered with cinnamon and ground nuts. She pushed aside a large onyx ashtray on an end table to make room for what she was carrying. The doctor reached for a small bowl and a teaspoon and began to eat.
“You’re still too young,” the doctor said, enjoying the pudding.
“Salwa doesn’t think so. She told me that herself.”
His mother looked surprised, then reached for the brass coffee pot. “She did?”
“Yes. Only three hours ago.”
“Where did she tell you that?” his mother inquired.
Up till now Yousif had not told them the whole story. He only said that he had heard that Adel Farhat was getting ready to ask for Salwa’s hand, without mentioning the source. But now, with his two parents grilling him with their eyes, he had no choice but to tell them all he knew.
The doctor looked at his wife. “What do you make of a girl—especially one about to get married—who meets a boy behind her father’s back?” he asked.
Yousif resented the insinuation and said so. But the doctor kept his eyes on his wife.
“Any other girl might be doubted,” she said. “Not Salwa. She’s a wonderful girl.”
The doctor finished eating, placed the bowl on the tray, leaned back, and unbuttoned one more button in his pants.
Yousif clasped both hands between his knees. “You don’t think love is a crime, do you?”
His father shook his head, biting on the stem of his pipe. “In my day a girl wouldn’t dare . . .”
His wife poured the coffee, seemingly vexed by her husband. “What’s the matter with you? You know better than to malign Salwa. My God, Jamil. Times have changed. This is 1948.”
“I know,” her husband lamented, reaching for the demitasse cup she was handing him. “The year of the disaster.”
“Not on our account,” Yousif bristled, refusing the rice pudding and the coffee his mother was offering him. “If you’re talking about Palestine and her troubles, you certainly can’t say it’s our generation’s fault. If anyone is to blame . . . well, it’s not us.”
Yousif couldn’t figure his father out. The doctor seemed indifferent, sarcastic, cantankerous. The kindest of all men, normally he would never criticize anyone. Nor would he cast a shadow of doubt on the character of someone who was beyond reproach like Salwa. Why was he being so old-fashioned, so unresponsive? It was certainly the wrong night to talk to him about marriage, Yousif thought. But what other option was there? Hadn’t Adel Farhat fallen in their midst out of the blue? Hadn’t Salwa asked him to make a counter proposal? He would move heaven and earth to prevent losing her.
“How did you two get married?” Yousif asked, his fingertips touching. “Were you in love? Was there a go-between?”
Yousif could tell that the wheels in his parents’ heads were turning. There was a shine in their eyes.
“When your father started visiting us in Jerusalem,” Yasmin remembered, smiling, “he was always accompanied by my brother Boulus—who was already living in Ardallah.”
“Why?” Yousif asked. “Couldn’t he have come alone?”
“I could’ve,” the doctor said, “but I needed moral support. I had already ingratiated myself to Boulus—so why not take him along?”
Yasmin’s expression grew soft. “I’ll never forget how my girlfriends called him Dr. Pipe,” she said, folding her hands in her lap. “Every time they saw him he’d have a pipe in his mouth. Every time I saw him or smelled his aromatic tobacco, I’d run and hide.”
“Don’t listen to her,” the doctor said, pulling smugly on his pipe. “She was smitten from the first day.”
Yousif was curious. “When and where was that?”
The doctor eyed his son suspiciously. “You’ve heard it a hundred—”
“In bits and pieces,” Yousif agreed. “But not from start to finish.” He wanted to hear the whole story one more time, hoping to unearth anything that might strengthen his bid for Salwa.
The doctor looked at his wife, who shrugged her shoulder. He then turned the radio off, sipped on his coffee, pulled out his tobacco pouch, and began refilling his pipe.
“That was back in 1925,” the doctor recalled, leaning on his elbow. “I happened to be standing on the balcony of my brand new clinic. Suddenly I saw a gorgeous girl crossing the street below. I felt a rush in my blood—even though I had never seen her before. So I ran inside and told the nurse to follow her and find out who she was. Ten minutes later I knew her name and that she was from Jerusalem visiting her brother—a grain merchant down the street from me.”
“That was all he needed to know,” Yasmin said, amused.
“From then on,” the doctor continu
ed, “I made it a point to befriend her brother—Uncle Boulus. It was easy. He was about my age and luckily we hit it off. A few of his friends would come to his store to play backgammon. On sunny days they’d sit on the sidewalk just outside the door. So I learned the game and joined the group whenever I could. It was a lot of fun. Sometimes we’d have a dozen spectators hovering over us—some of whom were taking bets. Little by little Boulus and I became close. But all the while, mind you, I didn’t lose sight of my mission: to give a good impression of myself and to learn all I could about his sister. A couple of times she came to see him, and that was a big bonus.”
Yasmin smiled and looked younger, prettier. “Don’t let his reserved ways fool you,” she told her son. “In his youth your father was a romantic schemer. When he found out that I worked in my father’s souvenir shop in old Jerusalem, he started coming every week.”
“Why not?” the doctor asked, lighting his pipe, “especially when I heard you weren’t engaged or spoken for?”
Yasmin touched her son’s knee, her eyes twinkling. “He bought enough mother-of-pearl crosses and Last Supper pieces to make one think he was holy.”
Yousif chewed on his lower lip. “How old were you?”
“I was nineteen and he was thirty-one,” his mother told him.
The parallel between them and Salwa and Adel Farhat was disturbing.
“Why weren’t you engaged?” Yousif probed. “You were beautiful. And old enough.”
“Not for a lack of suitors, let me assure you,” she boasted. “But no one was good enough for me or my parents.”
“I suppose,” Yousif said, his smile twisted, “you were holding out for the highest bidder.”
His mother’s eyes widened. “If you mean in terms of family, education, money, looks—yes.”
“But not love?” Yousif accused.
“Love he says,” Yasmin retorted. “It was taboo. Still is. No, I didn’t love him. Not at first. But within a few months after marriage I gave him the kind of love he gave me: the kind built on trust and respect and admiration. The kind that grows and deepens and matures with the years.”
Yousif was still sifting, weighing, trying to gauge his own chances.
“If you weren’t interested in him,” he went on, “what changed your mind?”
On the Hills of God Page 20