On the Hills of God

by Fawal, Ibrahim

  Yousif clapped his hands. But not all of the crowd seemed satisfied. Several urged the priest to go on with the questioning.

  “All right then, one more question,” the priest told Salwa, acquiescing to the crowd’s demands. “Our dearest Salwa, please listen carefully. Do you or do you not want to go ahead with the wedding?”

  Before Salwa could answer, someone in the crowd protested. The priest’s interrogation was too broad. He exhorted him to be precise.

  The old priest became more flustered. Holding his right hand to his mouth, he cleared his throat and waved his arm for everyone to be quiet. Then he turned to Salwa and said, “I’ll repeat the question one more time. Our dearest Salwa, do you or do you not wish to take this man Adel Farhat as your lawful wedded husband? Think before you answer.”

  Yousif could hear the groom’s mother cackling up front. Every now and then she would turn her head and swear at him. After a long and agonizing delay, Salwa said, “I do not.”

  The priest pushed her further. “You do not what? Make yourself absolutely clear.”

  The fire that Yousif knew was in Salwa returned to her eyes.

  “Can’t you all hear me?” she asked, her pitch high and her neck raised like a swan. “Can’t you all understand? I do not wish to be married to the groom Adel Farhat who’s standing beside me right here at the altar.”

  Sparks flew. Relatives on both sides were stunned, outraged. Some shook their heads, some frowned, some said what a shame, others began to leave.

  “I’ll break both of their necks,” Anton Taweel threatened, rushing toward his daughter. He was stopped by the groom.

  “No, you won’t,” Adel Farhat said, speaking up for the first time. Again people became quiet. They all seemed anxious to hear what the groom had to say.

  “Any two people,” Adel continued, loud and clear, “who have the nerve to go through what these two have—deserve each other. And they have my blessing. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t realize it was this serious. I guess I should’ve looked into it more carefully. If that’s how she feels, it’s better to call it off right now than to live in misery.” He turned to Salwa, and added ironically, “I thank you for sparing me the agony of a lifetime.”

  “Good for you!” Yousif shouted again.

  Some people broke out in applause and praised Adel’s decency. Others still seemed stunned. Yousif’s heart fluttered with incredible joy. He felt like celebrating but knew it was the wrong time and wrong place. He looked at Salwa to see how she was savoring their victory. Their eyes met briefly. Then he saw her burst into tears and rush out, both hands lifting her long wedding dress. Her mother ran out after her. Huda, the bridesmaid, tried to catch up and pull up her train. And again Shafiq, Salwa’s angry cousin, threatened to demolish Yousif.

  “As for you, boy,” Adel said, looking straight at Yousif, “I’m going to get you off the hook. My God, I could knock your teeth out and thrash you here and now—”

  “Just try it!” Yousif warned.

  “—but you’re not worth it. All I want you to do is pay all my expenses—every bracelet, every handkerchief, every bottle of arak, every kilo of meat, every ounce of coffee—and you can have your so-called love.”

  “Her heart belongs to me,” Yousif screamed. “Not you. Me.”

  Yousif had not wanted to have such a hot exchange. He wished he had not lost his temper.

  “They mustn’t be allowed to get away with it,” the butcher sneered. “Love is nonsense.”

  The crowd began to leave.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you,” a young relative with a full head of curly hair told Yousif.

  Many grumbled and gave him a nasty look.

  “Disgusting.”

  “Bad precedent.”

  “The girl is worse than the boy. Can you imagine!”

  The wife of a grocer who owned a shop next to Salman’s, looked Yousif straight in the eye and said, “Spoiler.”

  Dalal Omran, a tall attractive woman had a frown on her face. Yousif feared her tongue. She approached him as if to lash at him, but in his ear she whispered, “Every woman in this town ought to give you a kiss.” She squeezed his hand.

  Yousif was beginning to enjoy his triumph, when he felt a blow on his back. He turned around to see who had struck him, when another searing blow landed on his mouth. It was the groom’s cousin, Kareem, who seemed angrier than Shafiq. Kareem gnashed his teeth and called Yousif a dirty dog. Yousif tried to hit him back. But the aisle was too full. A freckled pharmacist separated the two, advising Yousif not to take any chances.

  “Next time you want to do something like this,” the pharmacist told him, “you need to get your relatives with you. You can’t fight them all alone.”

  “I don’t want to fight,” Yousif said.

  “Go on,” the councilman with the wooden leg, Ayoub Salameh, told him. “You must’ve been born a troublemaker.”

  Yousif bristled. “I beg your pardon.”

  “After today marriages in this town will never be the same. Go on, before they kill you.”

  Throughout the turmoil Yousif kept his eyes on the area of the altar. He could see Salwa’s parents arguing with each other. Then they were joined by the priest and other relatives, forming a knot. Yousif was dying to know what they were saying.

  Soon Yousif found himself outside the church. Some congratulated him, slapping him on the shoulder, but most looked at him derisively. Yousif felt his upper lip swell. A few minutes later Salwa’s father appeared at the doorway, looking as tall as Lucifer. Yousif could see his long face, flushed and bluish. He seemed angry, tormented, bewildered, vulnerable.

  “Hey, boy,” the father said in an anguished, loud voice that froze the pandemonium. Everyone turned and looked at him. “You’ve stopped the wedding. But here’s a promise I make before man and God: I swear on my honor and the honor of my mother and father that unless you marry my daughter by next Sunday you will never, never, never marry her.”

  A new commotion broke out. Yousif didn’t know what to think.

  “It’s better than going to the movies,” said a woman standing behind Yousif.

  “Can you believe all this?” her female companion asked.

  Yousif felt his own skull hammered. He had not meant to humiliate this man and cause him such pain—or to put himself in such a predicament. His head was spinning. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. His own father hadn’t been dead for more than ten days—and they were still in mourning. How could he marry Salwa by next Sunday?

  “If it were mmmmme,” Ghanem Jadallah stuttered, “I’d make the son of bbbbbitch marry her hhhhhere and now.”

  “Poor Yousif can’t do that,” his wife said. “He has his mother to worry about. She’s still in black.”

  “Pppppoor my aaaaass,” Ghanem added, glaring at her. “That’s his probbbbblem.”

  Others were less hostile. From the snatches of conversations Yousif could hear, he gathered that Salwa’s father really had no other option. Some considered the ultimatum a wise move. Who would marry Salwa after today? they all asked. His daughter was more or less marked. No one in his right mind would touch her or come near her. Anton Taweel might as well swallow his pride and let her marry the one she wanted. What else could the poor fellow do?

  Yousif could follow their argument—even agree with it. But the irony did not escape him. First he had to battle her father and now he would have to battle his own mother. Would she agree to a wedding so soon after his father’s death? Yousif didn’t think so, considering that such things were taboo. On the other hand, would he risk losing Salwa forever? It seemed he had no choice but to get married next Sunday. He couldn’t humiliate her father twice in a week and make him delay the wedding date a few more months. People’s tongues were bound to wag until the tie was knotted. Malicious gossip was what Anton Taweel was trying to avoid. Yousif felt dizzy. Unless he married Salwa by next Sunday—it was hard to predict what her father would do. Some fathers w
ere known to turn violent. What if he harmed Salwa?

  Yousif became even more worried when he saw Salwa’s father clutch his own chest. What if the man had a sudden heart attack and died before next Sunday? What if he died angry at his daughter? Wouldn’t he, Yousif, feel guilty for life? Wouldn’t he be setting up a barrier between him and Salwa that might damage their happiness? In fact, was it not possible that Salwa might rebel against him now, to assuage her conscience? Stranger things had happened. What had he gained, Yousif asked himself, if he were to be denied Salwa forever? Arrows of desire and despair pierced his heart. What was he going to do now? Dizzily, he put his hand on his face. Both his mouth and nose were bleeding from the blows he had received inside. But what he dreaded most was what might be awaiting him at home.

  25

  The news of Yousif’s shocking behavior had reached home before he did. From the driveway he could see many heads in the living room. Relatives, friends, and neighbors were probably with his mother, he thought—all enjoying an afternoon of juicy gossip. He hesitated at the wrought-iron gate, his heart constricted. He knew his mother would be embarrassed. In time he would convince her that what he had done was right. But would she agree to a quick wedding? This he did not know. Nor did he relish at the moment facing the music in his own home and in front of so many women.

  “Sa’eedeh,” he greeted everyone, standing at the entrance to the living room.

  Everyone in the room responded hello—except his mother.

  Yousif, who had not taken his eyes off her, felt shaken.

  “Aren’t you speaking to me, Mother?” he asked. “I said sa’eedeh.”

  She glared at him, strands of hair falling on her forehead.

  “Why are you so upset?” he asked.

  There was a long pause. She looked crushed: her eyes enlarged, her skin sallow, her mouth twisted.

  “What have you heard?” Yousif pressed.

  “Enough,” she said, mournful. “I’m glad your father isn’t around.”

  “He would’ve been proud,” Yousif boasted. “Many praised me. Some even called me a hero.”

  “The majority call you majnoon,” his mother cried. “And they are telling the truth. You are insane.”

  All the ladies in the living room seemed embarrassed by the confrontation. Looking guilty, they avoided Yousif’s eyes. Some of them picked up their purses off the floor, pretending to be ready to leave.

  Yousif was cut to the quick by his mother’s remarks. “I’m not insane,” he defended himself.

  “Is this the respect you show your father’s memory?” his mother wanted to know, anger rising in her voice. “Ten days after he’s been killed, you go out and disgrace yourself in front of the whole town?”

  Yousif could feel the sweat on his back turn icy. Out of respect for his mother, he bit his tongue and walked away. He went to the birds’ cage. But his mother followed him.

  “How can you do such a thing?” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears.

  She might as well have fired a shotgun. The two hundred birds seemed terrified. They flew in all directions, clinging to the mesh-wire for their lives.

  “I will not discuss it until you calm down,” he said, reaching for a water pitcher to fill a tiny container.

  “Calm down? How can I calm down when the apple of my eye makes a fool of himself? Is this the way you reward our trust in you? Is this how you do us proud?”

  When he did not answer, she pounded a wooden stud. The birds flapped madly, colliding in the air.

  “I warned Salwa’s father, but he didn’t listen.”

  “That entitles you to interfere with people’s lives?”

  “I couldn’t lose Salwa. She means the world to me.”

  “You are selfish. A sore loser. A spoiler.”

  Yousif took a deep breath. “I never thought I’d hear you say this to me.”

  “Neither did I,” she said. She buried her head in her hands and began sobbing.

  Her agony was so genuine Yousif felt rotten. He opened the door and went toward her, stretching his arms.

  “It’s not as bad as all that,” he said, enfolding her.

  “Don’t touch me,” she said, pushing him away. “I wish God would strike me dead this second. It’s a hundred times better than having to face the people, to answer all the questions—”

  “Salwa’s father doesn’t want to answer questions, either,” Yousif said. “That’s why he’s demanding that I marry her next week.”

  From the look on her face she seemed to know.

  “I don’t blame him,” she said. “Who would marry his daughter after you’ve blackened her name?”

  “I saved her from a lifetime of misery.”

  She glared at him. “Let me tell you something,” she said. “If you decide to get married next Sunday, don’t expect me to be there.”

  She walked off, crying. He stood among the birds—their twittering reflecting his confusion. Anton Taweel had put him up the tree and now his own mother was shooting at him.

  Later that night, Yousif and his mother sat on the eastern balcony. The storm had subsided. They were now both drained, calm, reflective. With them were Aunt Hlianeh, Izzat and Hiyam, and cousin Salman and his wife, Abla. Uncle Boulus, whom Yousif desperately needed at the moment, had gone to Jerusalem to see about his parents and no one knew when to expect him.

  All evening Hiyam had acted like a dutiful daughter-in-law, attending to their needs. Because they were still in mourning she did not have to serve any fruits or sweets, but she seemed attentive nevertheless. What she did most was empty the ashtray in front of Salman, serve water and bitter coffee, and look ready to do whatever was needed. At one point, not entirely jesting, Yousif remarked how nice it would be to have Salwa around the house to do what Hiyam was now doing. He tried to make his mother smile, but she wasn’t amused. Nor did she cry or whimper. She just sat close to the railing, stoic, her hands clasped in her lap.

  In a way, Yousif was glad Hiyam and Izzat were now living with them at the house. They were closer to his age and could empathize with him. On the other hand, seeing them together was torture. Every time he saw her smile at her husband and brush her long auburn hair against his cheek, they reminded him of what he was missing. Her satiny skin, seductive mouth, the tilt of her neck—her perfume, slippers, peignoir—all made him wish he were married to Salwa.

  Next morning, Yousif woke with only one thing on his mind—Salwa. How was she feeling now? Was she remorseful? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? How was she coping with her father? Remembering yesterday’s episode, Yousif felt electrified. The idea that he might—just might—be married to Salwa by next Sunday thrilled him. He tossed and turned, then bolted straight up—thinking. Had there been precedent to what he had done yesterday? Had any wedding been canceled on account of a jealous lover? Yousif could not recall exactly similar circumstances. But he had heard that brides and grooms were known to be switched at the last moment. Wasn’t there a semblance of truth in the Arabic proverb, “Even at her own wedding ceremony a bride will never know who will receive her at the altar”? And what about the other proverb which said that a male cousin had the right to force his female cousin off a white horse as she rode, like a fully clothed Lady Godiva, on her way to her wedding? Meaning: should a male cousin choose to claim the bride for himself, he could do so even if it meant a last-minute rescue. But Yousif was not pleased with this reasoning. One, he was not Salwa’s cousin. Two, such nonsense had taken place in olden times. No modern Arab would subscribe to it. Yousif was for free will in marriage. He was for liberating women—not for confining them to outmoded customs. He was for love.

  What now? Yousif thought, still in bed. What amends could he make to salvage the situation?

  The first step in the healing process, he thought, was to make a financial settlement with Adel Farhat. That would prove to the townspeople—and mainly to his mother—that he was mature, responsible. Maybe then they could begin to see h
im in a new light. But would that persuade his own mother to give him the green light? What would it take to gain her blessings?

  Yousif put his blue robe on and went out looking for his mother. Yasmin was in her room making her bed.

  “Good morning,” he said, standing behind her and giving her an affectionate squeeze.

  “Good morning,” she answered, fluffing a pillow.

  “Feel any better?” he asked.

  She sighed but did not answer.

  A few minutes later, they were alone in the living room drinking coffee. The room had a dream-like quality about it. Rays of sunshine cut it in half, casting the intricate design of the crocheted drapes all over the furniture. The floor and one of the walls looked like a leopard’s skin. Izzat and Hiyam were still asleep. Speaking in a low voice, Yousif divulged his plans.

  “What kind of money would Adel Farhat be asking for?” he asked her, sipping his coffee.

  “It depends on how much he spent,” she told him, putting her cup down. “Is he going to make you pay for everything?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll pay what’s reasonable. But I won’t let him gouge me.”

  There was a pause. Their hands were spotted with the soft pattern of the drapes. The radio was on. Abdel Aziz Mahmoud was singing one of Yousif’s favorites. A song about patience.

  “I can’t wait for Boulus to come back,” Yasmin said. “I want to hear what he thinks.”

  “I hope he’ll say I was right standing up—”

  “Breaking a man’s heart is right?”

  “Saving Salwa from a loveless marriage is right.”

  “You have no regrets?”

  “No regrets. No repentance. Nothing. Just think. By now Salwa would’ve been a married woman. No way. Next Sunday she’s going to be mine.”

  His mother pursed her lips. “We’re still in mourning. Do you want me to come to your wedding decked in black?”

  “It wasn’t my idea to rush the wedding. If it were left up to me, I’d rather wait. At least until after the first anniversary of father’s death. But Anton Taweel is pressuring me. If we can’t budge him, will you go along with me?”