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Sunday! The day Salwa was supposed to marry someone else. The day the earth would stop spinning around the dimming sun.
The night before, Yousif had not slept—thinking, brooding, worrying. He counted the hours, the minutes. He had not given a hint to anyone of the plan that was hatching in his mind, not even Amin. Instead, he had visited Jamal and talked only about his sense of loss. And he had met classmates who teased him about Salwa’s wedding. Everywhere he went he heard people mention her name, as if to taunt him. He took it all in stride, until the coil within him became so tight it was ready to snap.
Long before dawn, he woke with a heavy heart.
For days Yousif had been imagining a crazy plan to confront Salwa’s father in the church. He would leap up in the middle of the ceremony and tell the priest that Salwa was being forced into marriage. He would put everybody on the spot—including Salwa—and take his chances.
But what if his plan didn’t work? Salwa would be gone, lost. Tonight she would be kissed and undressed. Tonight she would sleep in someone else’s arms. Tonight she would be intimate with someone she did not love. The mere thought of this abomination outraged him.
He wondered what Salwa was thinking. He wondered if she had last-minute regrets. Had she forgotten him? Had she resigned herself to fate?
He pictured her house filling up early in the morning. There would be cleaning and cooking and crying; there would be a rush to heat the water tank for her shower; to spread on her bed all the fineries she would wear; to have a heart-to-heart talk with her mother. By eleven o’clock she would be chauffeured to a beauty salon, accompanied by a relative or two. She would skip lunch because she would be nervous, and because many of her girlfriends would surround her for last-minute endearments.
Yousif envisioned a woman’s hands applying the bride’s make-up. He pictured Salwa in her wedding dress, tears streaming down her cheeks and everybody fussing about her mascara. He saw her relatives around her, hugging, kissing, and wishing her well. All day long her two brothers, Akram and Zuhair, would be inconsolable.
Yousif also imagined what Adel Farhat would be going through. In keeping with tradition, the barber would come to the house to cut the groom’s hair. Men and women would form a circle around the groom while he was being primed. Adel would be shaved, powdered, and doused with cologne to meet his beautiful bride. Lying in bed, Yousif heard the songs, saw the dances.
Relatives and guests would arrive at both houses. The groom and his party would form a procession to the church, then the party would split. A small group would stay with Adel outside the church. But a number of his relatives and guests of honor would go to Salwa’s house to bring her out for him. There would be a touching, tearful moment as the bride kissed and bade her family farewell.
The image was too stirring for Yousif to remain lying down. He sat up in bed, choking with emotion. Sunlight filled the room. He heard his mother and Fatima going about their morning work. The town was waking. He could hear cars speeding by and pastry peddlers in the streets selling their tamari. Even the birds in their cage down the hall were still chirping. Life went on, oblivious to his fears. He wanted to freeze the morning. If a warrior could make the sun stand still—why couldn’t a lover stop a wedding?
The Sunday morning routine must remain intact, Yousif told himself. Nothing must attract his mother’s suspicion. He took a long hot bath, put on a white shirt and blue trousers—not a suit which he normally would wear to go to church. He ate his mother’s special omelet and retired to the living room to hear the news.
There was one more item Yousif wished to discuss with his mother. How could he embark on matrimony or enter the world of adults if he remained in the dark? What he had in mind today related to inheritance in general and the money in the bank in particular. Whose was it now that his father was dead? His? Hers? Theirs? Could he transfer the money to his name? Specifically, could he draw on it to pay Adel Farhat? He knew that the Arab society was patriarchal. Every boy a treasure. Every man a prince. But how did that translate in financial life?
When his mother crossed the hallway, a dish towel in her hands, he asked her to join him.
“Anything wrong?” she asked, dressed in black.
“Sit down, will you?” he said. “I was just wondering—”
“About what?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the sofa.
“The money in the bank,” he began, weighing his words.
She seemed disquieted. “Yes?”
“It’s still in father’s name. Shouldn’t it be transferred?”
“Of course. Put it in your name. Next time you see Fouad Jubran, let him handle the paper work. He’s our attorney, I suppose.”
Yousif was quiet.
“Speak up,” his mother said. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was just thinking,” Yousif said. “Legally—is it not yours?”
“No,” she told him. “Legally it’s yours—most of it anyway.”
“Under which law?” Yousif asked. “Civil or religious?”
His mother had a confounded look. “I really don’t know,” she admitted. “Ask Fouad Jubran about that. He’ll tell you.”
“I will,” Yousif said, determined to know everything.
“All I know is,” his mother continued, “it’s a man’s world. I may be entitled to one-eighth or one-fourth, but what’s the difference? What’s mine is yours. I know you’re not going to throw me out. You’ll take care of me.”
“Throw you out? Take care of you? My God! You’re my mother.”
“The Muslim inheritance law is even harder on females. If a man has only daughters, his nephews—mind you, not even his daughters—will inherit everything.”
“No wonder Abul Banat has such a short temper.”
“The baker? If anything happens to him, his nephews will inherit everything?”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s what people say.”
“Incredible! I thought the Qur’an provides security to the woman.”
“Don’t take my word. I’m just a lay person. Besides, it doesn’t apply to us anyway.”
“Interesting, though. But tell me, now that Father is gone—”
“Allah yirhamu.”
“—this house, the two bank accounts, the cinema stock—”
“—and the old house and the clinic,” his mother added. “They’re all yours. And that’s the way I’d want it, too. You’re the man of the house now.”
Yousif was still not satisfied. “What if I turned out to be unworthy? What if I married a girl with a mean streak? What then? You’d be at her mercy.”
His mother nodded. “I’ll count on you to set her straight. El faras hasab el faris. A filly is as good as her rider. That’s why your father and I did our best to raise you knowing right from wrong. From now on it’s all up to you. But promise me one thing.”
“I’ll try.”
“Think twice before you do anything. And be fair. Your father always said you have a good head on your shoulders.”
“I promise. I hope I’ll never fail you.”
“Or your father. Remember, his spirit is still with us.”
Yousif rose, kissed the top of his mother’s head, and left—chagrined that he had struck such a promise. What would she think of him in the next few hours? Would she be understanding? Would she feel betrayed?
The wedding was at three o’clock that afternoon. Yousif roamed the town, passing the souk, Salwa’s school, and Cinema Firyal. For an hour he walked aimlessly around town. All he could think of was that Salwa would soon slip out of his hand like a ring off a soapy finger. The wholeness he felt with her would be lost forever; emptiness would become a way of life.
I’d be a fool to let it happen, Yousif thought. We’re losing Palestine because we’re not doing enough to save it. I’ll lose Salwa too if I don’t fight for her.
He had to act. He looked at his watch. 1:40. There was still more than an hour befor
e the crowd arrived at the church. He felt hungry, and stopped at Abdeen’s for a shawirma sandwich. Instead, he drank two glasses of arak and ate only a bite. That was a mistake, he soon realized. His head felt light, as if his skull were being lifted by the vapor of the alcohol. No, no, he must be careful. Drunkenness would not help matters; it would only jeopardize his scheme. He must walk and let his head clear up. But he must avoid people lest he betray his intentions.
Striking out in a new direction, he passed the cemetery. He thought of visiting his father’s grave. But this was no time to be morbid or overly sentimental. He decided against it. Instead, he stomped on the sidewalk to shake the dust off his shoes, then propped his foot on a low stone wall and wiped each shoe with his neatly pressed handkerchief.
Yousif watched the church from a distance, careful not to be noticed. Single people and couples arrived and went through the gate. An elderly couple passed close by him. He retreated into a side street and pretended to be window shopping. Few would have believed him, for the window he was staring at was a laundry shop. Yousif saw his reflection in the clear glass. By reflex his hand went up to smooth his disheveled hair. He gazed at his own image, as if to find himself.
The wedding procession was coming up the hill. First he could hear it, then he could see it. Rolling slowly between the men and singing women was the black Mercedes which he knew carried Salwa and her parents. A lump the size of a walnut rose in his throat. He leaned against a wall and watched, kicking the sidewalk. The procession drove past the outer gate. A minute later, he followed.
Walking briskly, Yousif was as purposeful as a crusader on behalf of all the mismatched couples in Ardallah. All the bright, beautiful, young women who had had to marry their cousins—simply because they were cousins. The unhappy girls who had been forced to marry old men—simply because they were rich. The wives who suffered in silence—simply because they were incompatible with their husbands. He could think of Amal Shalhoub who loved to write poetry but was married to a brute—gluttonous, drunken, and foul-mouthed. He could think of Ghada Antar, forced to marry at the point of a gun someone thirty years her senior and to bear five children before she was twenty-five.
Yousif sneaked inside the half-empty Greek Orthodox church. The walls of the two-hundred year-old sanctuary were covered with icons. Reds and browns and golds were the dominant colors. The small electric lights, two shafts of sunlight, and many candles all failed to dispel the shadows.
Women in modern dress wore hats or lacy handkerchiefs on their heads in lieu of scarves. Other women in the traditional native costumes looked like monarch butterflies. Their multi-colored, flowered, silk shawls radiated under the windows. Men’s bald heads gleamed, as they stood with their hats and fezes in their hands.
Salwa was already at the altar, her tall, sculptured figure a vision of beauty. Yousif gasped and clutched the back of the seat before him. He was alone in his pew. No one had seen him. Even the elderly priest, Father Samaan, standing in the arched door to the altar and looking in his direction, did not seem to notice him.
Sitt Bahiyyeh had told him that the priest was Salwa’s father’s cousin, and that blood was thicker than one thought.
“Ordinarily,” Father Samaan began, “we would announce the wedding banns for three consecutive Sundays before the wedding date. But due to the war, we will dispense with tradition. Should anyone, however, have a reason to believe that this marriage should not take place, let him speak now or forever hold his peace.”
The short, plump, graying priest held the Bible in his two hands and waited. The congregation remained dead silent. A baby cried but his mother quickly cupped his mouth. Again, the priest scanned the audience. He was about to proceed with his ceremony when Yousif jumped to his feet.
“This wedding must be stopped,” Yousif blurted. His voice was much louder than he had intended. The audience spun around to see who it was. Yousif heard them gasp . . . groan. He saw Shafiq, Salwa’s cousin, begin to move suddenly in his direction. Yousif clenched his fists ready to fight, but there was no need. Three other men grabbed and held Shafiq in the aisle to restrain him.
“This is a very serious matter,” Father Samaan cautioned. “I hope and pray you know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” Yousif answered, sweating. His eyes focused on Salwa. She had also turned and was watching in disbelief, her right hand poised at her mouth. Their eyes met and held. Yousif had not warned her. He had no idea how she would react. But he had taken his chance. It was too late to stop now.
“Speak up, then,” the priest commanded. “What compels you to make such a grave charge?”
“A simple reason,” Yousif answered, now in better control of his nerves. “Salwa loves me and I love her. We want to marry each other. What she’s going through here is against her will. Against her wishes.”
Shafiq looked like a caged animal wanting to break loose. But the men held onto him and sat him down. Men and women traded glances and exchanged whispers. Others voiced their opinions for everyone to hear.
“Can you believe this?” asked the wife of the Lutheran minister.
“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 o
f 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.”
On the Hills of God Page 42