On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  “Not enough, Mister,” the shoeshine boy was saying, his palm open.

  “Fuck off,” growled the lanky, blond, drunk soldier.

  “Shoes, two piasters. Boots, three piasters. Please, Mister, one more piaster. Please, Mister, one more piaster.”

  “Fuck off,” repeated the soldier gruffly, kicking the boy’s bottom.

  Rassass rose from his chair, throwing back George’s arm, which had been stretched out to restrain him. He staggered toward the soldier.

  “Give that boy his piaster,” Rassass demanded, “and quit telling him to fuck off.”

  “Fuck off yourself,” the soldier said, his eyes half shut.

  “Stop saying that word, you bastard, or I’ll kill you,” Rassass threatened.

  George stood between the two, sober like a judge. “Don’t get hot,” he told his pal.

  “George, leave us alone,” Rassass replied.

  “Do it for me, please,” George entreated. “Don’t start anything.”

  “Then tell him to stop saying that word, and make him pay the piaster.”

  “I’ll pay the piaster,” George said, digging in his pocket.

  “No, he’s going to,” Rassass insisted.

  George leaned forward and tried to get the soldier to pay the piaster, but was told to fuck off. He tried again and got the same answer. He lost his patience and slapped his fellow soldier, then watched him rub his burning cheek and grin stupidly.

  Nicola Zahrawi, the enormous, slightly deaf owner of the cafe, came to the scene and tried to cool things off with smiles and pats on the shoulder. But Rassass shoved him aside and told him he was going to handle this.

  “You want to do what?” Zahrawi asked again, cupping his ear.

  “I said I’m going to handle this,” Rassass shouted.

  The doctor circled the tube around his nergileh, hooked it in place, stepped forward and tried to mediate. But Rassass would not listen. He wouldn’t sit down, he said, unless the soldier paid the piaster. It wasn’t the piaster, he explained; it was the principle.

  “You can see he’s drunk,” the doctor said.

  “If he can ask for a shoeshine, he can pay for it.”

  Yousif took out a shilling and gave it to the boy. “Run along now,” he told him.

  The boy took the money quickly. He bowed several times, lifted the shoeshine box off the floor, and strapped it to his shoulder.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Rassass told Yousif, glaring at him.

  “That’s all right,” Yousif said.

  “It’s not all right.”

  “That soldier doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Yousif answered. “There’s no sense keeping a ten-year-old waiting.”

  The crowd pushed, each one trying to disperse the other.

  But Rassass resisted. “If the boy is too young to get what’s his, I’ll get it for him,” he muttered. He grabbed the soldier’s collar, pulling at it. “Give me that piaster, you lousy cheat,” he said, his teeth clenched.

  The drunk soldier nonchalantly pushed his hand away. He finished drinking his beer, banged his glass on the table, and stood up to meet the challenge. He was shaky and could barely stand.

  “I guess I’ll have to lock you up for speaking like this to a British soldier in His Majesty’s Army,” he said, grinning broadly and trying to smooth his wrinkled khaki shirt.

  Someone must have alerted the military police, for at that moment two came rushing into the bar. Their dramatic entrance created more excitement and caused a crowd to grow.

  “Push off before I get mad,” the drunk soldier demanded.

  “You’re drunk,” said the first M.P.

  “You’re disturbing the peace,” said the second.

  The drunk soldier shook his head and curled his lower lip. “And he insulted me—a British soldier—and threatened my life,” he said, now less afraid.

  “Well, I beg your pardon, your honor,” said Rassass, bowing and mimicking the soldier’s accent and pomposity, then slugging him in the stomach.

  The M.P.s rushed and hand-cuffed Rassass.

  “Why don’t you arrest him?” someone in the crowd shouted, pointing at the drunk. “He’s guilty too.”

  “None of your business,” an M.P. told him.

  “You’re damn right it’s our business,” answered another Arab.

  The M.P.s whistled; one man hurled a bottle at them, hitting one between the shoulder blades; men gasped; waiters dropped trays on the floor; an old man stood on a chair and hit the drunk soldier with his cane. George Pinkley argued with his fellow soldiers and they handcuffed him, too. The drunk was now fully awake. He hurled a chair from the middle of the room. Yousif ducked as it flew by his head. He couldn’t see where it landed, but he could hear a window crashing.

  “This is crazy,” Yousif shouted.

  Abu Hamed was now without his headdress, swinging the black iqal as a whip. The doctor was trying to restrain him, but Abu Hamed was like the rest—beside himself.

  As the police poured in, Yousif stood on a table, waving his hand for everyone to quiet down. “Stop it . . . stop it,” he begged.

  But one of the arrivals must have misunderstood his motive and clubbed him on the legs, knocking him to his knees. His father reached out for him but was squashed by the pressing crowd.

  “Blood . . . blood,” cried one Arab, pointing at the drunk soldier who had caused the outbreak. Yousif saw the soldier dropping to the floor.

  “They stabbed him,” cried an M.P.

  “The dogs!”

  “The bloody bastards.”

  The word “blood” frightened many inside the cafe. Some began to run for the door. His legs still in pain, Yousif could see the entrance was now jammed with the police trying to get in and customers trying to get out. His father’s glasses had been knocked off his face. He had picked them up and was looking now at the crushed lenses.

  “Lock all doors,” one M.P. commanded, pushing the people away from the fallen soldier.

  A large circle of the military was instantly formed. Crouching on the table, Yousif could see the drunken soldier lying on the floor in the middle, bleeding profusely. But who did it? No matter, the man was dying and people were fleeing. The stampede at the entrance became worse. One man busted the rest of the glass out of the window pane and made an exit through the jagged edges. Others rushed behind him.

  “Make way for the doctor,” Yousif shouted, motioning toward his father.

  The crowd parted and his father was allowed to pass through. Yousif watched him kneel and inspect the victim. He turned him on his back, and more blood oozed out of him. Yousif was surprised to see so much blood come out of one human being.

  The cafe grew quiet. The doctor took the man’s pulse and then reached for the stethoscope in his pocket. Yousif could tell his father was alarmed.

  The doctor slowly rose to his feet, looking strange without his glasses. The crowd waited for his opinion.

  “Allah yirhamu,” the doctor said, his hands smeared with blood. “May God have mercy on his soul.”

  The crowd was aghast. Then the stillness was broken. People began to move. The soldiers began to swing at everyone in the room. Yousif jumped off the table and hovered around his father. Abu Hamed picked up an empty bottle and vowed to break it over a soldier’s head. The senior M.P. blew his whistle again.

  “Block all exits,” the M.P. ordered his troops.

  Soldiers made their way to the door and the broken window. Both Rassass and George Pinkley looked angry, their arms handcuffed behind their backs.

  Gun in hand, a policeman stood by the corpse. “No one leaves until we identify the killer,” he shouted, his blue eyes clear as crystal. “Anyone who has a weapon must step forward and drop it in front of me. Everyone must be searched. We will fire at anyone who makes the slightest disturbance.”

  The customers began to whisper and to exchange glances. When a secondary school teacher tried to move, an M.P. fired a warning shot. The bullet ric
ocheted off the whitewashed ceiling and nicked someone’s head. Everyone froze in place. But no one came forth with any weapons.

  “O.K.” the M.P. said. “Everyone must be frisked. Raise your hands above your heads. We’ll start with you.”

  The doctor was shocked. “With me? You think I killed that man?”

  “It makes no difference. Everyone must be frisked. You’re no exception.”

  Reluctantly, the doctor stepped forward.

  “Hands above the head,” the M.P. commanded.

  Yousif jumped off the table. Instantly he knew he had made a mistake. By reflex a nervous soldier fired another bullet blasting another window pane. Shattered glass flew everywhere. Men raised their arms for protection. Yousif stood still, his mouth gaping.

  The search continued for over an hour. But no trace of the knife could be found. Frantic, the soldiers threatened to haul everyone off in their wagons.

  “Send these bloody two to jail,” the M.P. with the angry blue eyes told his colleagues, pointing to Rassass and George. “The rest will be kept here until one of them produces the murder weapon.”

  Quickly, the handcuffed prisoners were hustled out. Several hours after the dead soldier had been removed on a stretcher, everyone else was still there. No food or drinks were allowed. No one could smoke or sit down. No one could call his family or lawyer. Yousif looked at his father and wished they would at least let him go home. But there was no sense asking. Even his wish to be near his father was summarily denied. The prohibition of smoking, however, was what frayed the nerves of most detainees.

  “I’ve got to have a cigarette,” hollered a middle-aged man with a bulging stomach. He looked ready to kill.

  A billy club fell on the man’s shoulder, and he screamed.

  A soldier interrogated them one by one in the proprietor’s small office till about midnight, demanding that the killer be identified. As the interrogation dragged on, it was obvious to Yousif that the police were getting no satisfaction. It pleased him to see the solidarity of his people. If they were to succeed against the outsider, he thought, they had better stay united.

  He was next in line. He waited impatiently, for he was exhausted and at the same time anxious to know what went on behind the closed door.

  Moments later he was in. The interrogating officer had a long face and long teeth. He was about ten years older than Yousif and Yousif could see meanness in his eyes. He had always heard that people with close eyes were either dim-witted or mean. This man filled the bill on both counts.

  Two or three minutes passed before the soldier gave him permission to sit down.

  “Haven’t you ever seen a damn chair before?” the officer barked when he finally looked up. “Or are you stupid like the rest of them.”

  “I was afraid you might object . . .” Yousif muttered.

  “The only thing I object to is living on the same planet with trash like you.”

  “This is uncalled for.”

  “Shut your mouth and—”

  “I tried to stop the fight.”

  “Answer the questions and don’t waste my time. What’s your name?”

  “Yousif Safi.”

  “What kind of a name is that?”

  The man’s incivility hardened Yousif’s resolve.

  “Yousif is a biblical name,” he explained, feigning humility. “In your language you call him Joseph. He’s the one sold by his seven brothers.”

  The officer stopped writing and looked at him, his eyebrows raised. “How funny!”

  “And Safi is an Arabic word which means pure.”

  “Pure as shit no doubt. How in hell do you spell it?”

  “S-H-I-T.”

  “I meant your bloody name.”

  Yousif spelled it out for him. Over the next five minutes Yousif told him who his parents were, where he lived, where he went to school, who were his friends, why he came to this cafe, how often did he come, and with whom.

  “Who killed the officer?”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea,” Yousif answered.

  “You’re a liar. Tell us now and spare yourself a lot of agony.”

  “I’m telling you the truth, I don’t know.”

  “If you knew, would you tell us?”

  “Oh, sure,” Yousif lied.

  The officer lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Yousif’s face. “You know that I know that you’re a lying bastard.”

  Yousif crossed his legs and remained silent.

  “Who do you think might have done it? Or let me put it this way: of all the people, who was the most likely to pull out a knife and use it?”

  “What do you mean ‘use it’?”

  “Stab with it. Kill with it. As one of you bastards did this afternoon.”

  “There were a lot of people I didn’t know. People I’ve never heard of or seen before.”

  Again, the soldier pulled on his cigarette. Again he blew the smoke in Yousif’s face. “Of the ones you’ve known or heard of or seen, which one has the killer’s instinct.”

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Yousif said, pretending to be serious. “You see, Officer, I’ve known and I’ve heard of and I’ve seen a lot of people in my life. I’d have to go over a long list and check them all out, one by one.”

  The man jumped to his feet and grabbed Yousif by the collar. “I meant of all the people who were here this fucking afternoon—at this fucking cafe.”

  “I’m sorry, I misunderstood you. I thought you meant . . .”

  The officer glared at him. “Get your fucking ass out of here before I kill you,” he said, pointing his finger toward the door.

  Yousif stepped out of the room, relieved. But when he saw his father leaning against the wall, his knees buckling, he became angry again. Another group of soldiers arrived. One of them was a first lieutenant he had seen with Captain Malloy the day the roof on their house was raised. Yousif looked at his father, as if to say here’s hope. But the lieutenant looked grim and ignored everyone.

  “We’re going to let you go home,” he said, walking between the tables in the middle of the room.

  The crowd sighed in unison. Yousif saw his father straighten his aching back and take another breath. Abu Hamed, next to him, adjusted his headdress.

  “Thirty minutes from now,” the lieutenant continued, hitting his pants legs with his billy club, “strict curfew will be imposed all over Ardallah. Once you get inside your homes, stay there till tomorrow morning. At six o’clock, everyone in town will go to the nearest church or mosque or to Cinema Firyal. Every home and dwelling place must be vacated. There will be no exceptions.”

  It did not require a college degree, Yousif thought, to realize that they were going to turn Ardallah upside down in search of weapons, or that they were going to harass the citizenry until the killer was apprehended. But would they be able to put ten thousand people in one mosque, eight small churches, and a theater auditorium? Most of all, what would they do if the killer were never found?

  “You must be at one of the designated places not later than seven o’clock,” the lieutenant said.

  “Does that include women and children?” Yousif asked, mainly for the benefit of those who might not have understood him properly.

  “I said everyone—men, women and children,” the lieutenant reiterated, “including pregnant women and the sick who are on their death beds. Understand? And be sure to leave all doors unlocked. I repeat: leave all doors unlocked: closets, cupboards, drawers. Everything. Maybe that will teach you not to hide criminals.”

  They left the cafe like a herd of sheep, guns pointed at their heads. In the streets, military jeeps were circulating throughout the neighborhoods, booming on loudspeakers the lieutenant’s message.

  “Should you fail to unlock your doors,” a soldier’s voice warned in the dark, “you can be sure the lock will be busted. To avoid damage to your property, do as you’re told: leave everything open. Repeat: leave everything open.”

  Envelo
ped in darkness, walking home by his father’s side, Yousif had an inkling of the powerful troubles yet to come.

  15

  Early next morning, people headed toward the “prisons.” Mothers and fathers carried or dragged their sleepy children. British soldiers pushed and ordered them to move on. Yousif and his parents were no exception.

  “Get going,” a soldier said to Yousif’s mother.

  “You don’t have to push,” the doctor said to the officer. “We’re walking as fast as we can.”

  “Shut up and keep moving,” the soldier ordered, jabbing his ribs with the butt of his gun.

  “There are children,” the doctor complained. “They can’t walk faster. The parents’ arms are loaded, can’t you see? If you’re in such a hurry, why don’t you provide some transportation?”

  “That’s your problem. We didn’t tell you to have so many pigs.”

  Then the doctor became incensed. “Don’t call our children pigs,” he demanded.

  The soldier turned angry. He smashed down the butt of his gun on the doctor’s shoulders so brutally that Yousif was afraid he might have broken his bones. Had it not been for so many people jammed against each other, his father would have fallen to the ground. The doctor closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and leaned against his wife.

  Yousif clenched his fist. “How dare you!” he shouted at the soldier.

  Another soldier, sitting in a jeep barely crawling amidst thousands of marchers, slapped Yousif twice, once on each cheek. Yousif’s face turned red as he looked around for help.

  Some of the marchers exchanged furtive looks. Then, as if on cue, several husky men lifted up the jeep about a foot off the ground. Quickly, a dozen billy clubs fell on their heads and backs from all directions. One soldier fired a round of bullets in the air. The marchers panicked, and the men finally dropped the jeep to the ground.

  The officer in the jeep stood and faced the crowd. “Next time we won’t use billy clubs. We’ll bring tanks and crush you like bloody cockroaches. March on and keep your eyes to the ground.”