On the Hills of God (19 page)

The coffee boiled over. Some of it spilled on the charcoal, making a loud hiss and causing ashes to rise. Quickly, Yasmin raised the pot and then wiped its outside with an orange peel. She let the coffee settle for a few seconds and then poured it into small, ornate demitasse cups. Yousif picked up the tray and served.

Basim sat at the edge of a sofa, holding the tiny cup like a small bird. “Soon,” he said, “we’re going to start a big fund-raising campaign for arms. Some people think you ought to put up the hospital money . . .”

His uncle shot him a horrified look.

“. . . to build watch towers and buy arms.”

Nothing Basim could have said would have angered the doctor as much. “Don’t make me regret giving you that check.”

Basim chuckled. “It’s not my idea,” he said.

“But you go along with it?” the doctor wanted to know.

“We’ve lived long enough without a hospital, we can live without it a few more years.”

“You are all insane,” the doctor glared.

“Without arms we might all be dead.”

“Tell them not to try. Because if they do they’re going to be awfully disappointed.”

Basim took a deep breath. “I have already told them that, but they were not convinced. Someone will approach you.”

“Who will dare?”

“It’s not a matter of daring. There are priorities. Don’t be shocked if those who gave you the money to start with, come back and ask for it to protect themselves. That’s all.”

The doctor looked around, and Yousif knew that he wanted a cigarette to calm his nerves. Once he had seen him finish a whole pack in one sitting. The doctor now looked as upset as he had ever been that day—if not more. He seemed equally irritated with the message and the messenger. Even when Basim offered him a cigarette, he hesitated.

“Ever since I was a boy, I’ve been haunted by the idea of a hospital,” the doctor said. “I used to see Dr. Mitri galloping on a horse from one house to another all day and all night, winter and summer, year in and year out. He was the only doctor in town and had more patients than he was able to take care of. Even today there are many rural areas that don’t even have a doctor to look after them. There are thirty villages around Ardallah but not a single hospital. Even Ramallah—our finest summer resort—doesn’t have one. We need clinics, we need health centers, we need hospitals, we need schools. That’s what we need, not arms—not guns and ammunition.”

Basim’s look at his uncle was full of pity. “But we need arms to protect the land you want to build these things on. We need arms to
save
the people you love so much.”

“Then get the money from someone else,” the doctor insisted, looking truly worried that someone might try to wrestle the money out of him.

“We need arms,” Basim repeated.

“I’m telling you,” the doctor interrupted, “don’t expect it from me.”

The doctor rose, agitated. He walked to the window, pulled the ecru curtain aside, wiped the frosty glass with the tips of his fingers, and gazed into the night.

Basim emptied his coffee cup, put it down, and stood up to leave, picking up his blue scarf.

Dr. Safi turned and faced Basim, his face suffused with anger.

“Two months ago,” he said, “Amin lost his arm because some old fool set it for him without washing his hands. Today a baby died because his parents burned holes in his flesh to treat pneumonia. Such conditions are intolerable. We need hospitals to take care of people.”

“No one can argue with that,” Yousif said. “But when I suggested a peaceful solution, you and Moshe laughed at me.”

Father and son looked at each other as if no one else were in the room.

“You know better than that,” the doctor said, consoling. “I never laugh at you or at anything you say. Maybe it was the way you said it. Maybe the timing was wrong.”

“In any case,” Yousif said, “if diplomacy is out of the question now, what’s wrong with protecting ourselves?”

“Nothing . . .” his father began.

“Well,” Yousif jumped in, “we can’t depend on Egypt’s playboy King Farouk. Nor on Jordan’s Glubb Pasha.”

“Sir
John Glubb,” Basim corrected with a smirk. He seemed pleased with Yousif’s apparent inclination.

The doctor pouted. “Are you suggesting that I should give up the hospital money to buy arms?”

Yousif was not intimidated. “All I’m saying is that should a demand be made—”

“Demand?” his father asked, offended.

“Sorry, request. Should a
request
be made, one has to be realistic.”

His father’s face turned purple. “Listen, son, don’t talk above your head. If these are dangerous times, and if you want me to be realistic, then answer two questions: what the hell is fifteen thousand pounds going to do? And, how long will it last? In terms of wars, this is kid stuff. If you want to fight a war, you need millions. Do you understand? Millions. There’s no sense asking a country doctor like me for a small fund he raised over the years for a humanitarian purpose to blow it in a day or two. It’s madness.”

Standing by the window, the doctor looked pathetically alone. When he took off his glasses he seemed to have aged five years.

“Good night, Uncle,” Basim said, his expression severe.

The doctor simply nodded, the muscles of his jaws tightening.

Yousif saw Basim to the door, but before he opened it Basim signaled that he had something to tell him.

“Let’s talk on the balcony,” Basim suggested.

Yousif opened the door. Both stepped outside and stood in the dark. The weather was terrible. Trees swayed and the rain blew erratically.

“I’m glad you said we need to protect ourselves,” Basim said, tightening his belt. “But tell me, what are you going to do when the war starts?”

Salwa’s same question echoed in Yousif’s ears. “I don’t know,” he wavered. “Actually I was thinking of finishing my education.”

Basim’s forehead became creased. “We have no Arab universities here,” he said. “That means . . . Oh, I see. You wouldn’t be going away because you’re afraid, now would you?”

“Afraid? I’m not afraid.”

“Then who’s going to do the protecting? You’re going to leave it up to others.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then why would you want to go? Could you live with yourself if we lost the war and you hadn’t done your share?”

Suddenly, Basim turned and was descending the stairs, walking on the long tree-lined driveway. But before he reached the wrought-iron gate, the rain got heavier. Lightning seemed to split the sky, painting the whole scene with silver. Yousif stood in awe. The lightning bolts looked like arrows intent on pinning Basim to the ground. But Basim walked on, his head high. Standing still, Yousif watched him disappear into total darkness.

Despite the new worries of the night before, Yousif spent the morning trying to be a good student: listening to lectures and taking notes. But he couldn’t concentrate.

At the ten o’clock recess he listened to Amin’s worries about money. Winter was very hard on Amin’s father. Home construction virtually ceased, and stonecutters did not work. And if Amin’s father did not work, the whole family, which depended entirely on his wages from week to week, was left deprived.

“What I can’t understand,” Amin grumbled, “is why a grown man would settle for a seasonal job for all these years. He might as well be temporary help.”

Isaac, who had stopped to talk to some fellow students, joined them. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I’m talking about my father,” Amin replied, shaking his head. “For nearly forty years he’s sat in people’s yards chiseling rocks and inhaling dust so
they
would have fine homes. And every time it rains or snows he doesn’t work and our whole family has a hard time coping.”

Never before had Yousif heard Amin complain so openly about poverty. With the war looming on the horizon, construction would come to a virtual halt and Amin’s worries would be compounded. Yousif saw that Amin was already feeling the burden of having to help care for his family.

“Sometimes I feel so angry with him that I want to shake him by the shoulders,” Amin confessed. “But when I see him looking so helpless I feel ashamed of myself because I know he’s tried his best.”

They strolled by several teachers. The tall thin mathematics ustaz from Acre looked comical with his long hook nose. Yousif did not know whether the ustaz seemed pinched because of the cold or because he was smelling disaster.

“I wish money were our only problem,” Isaac said, throwing the end of his blue wool scarf around his neck. “Ever since the night of shooting we haven’t been the same. Our house looks more and more like a morgue.”

It was cold, though the December sun was shining. They were supposed to be enjoying a ten-minute break, but Amin and Isaac sounded so morbid. Yousif felt sorry for both of them. On the school ground, just off the street, dozens of students were swarming around a vendor selling crusty sesame rings and hard boiled eggs. Yousif had a taste for what the man was selling but knew there was no chance he could buy any of it today. Instead, he walked around the football field, carrying a brass bell by the ball-on-chain to stop it from ringing.

Yousif himself was not in the best of spirits. The question of the hospital money still gnawed at him. He felt caught between his father and his cousin. Each one had a point. But he was uncertain how far he could go in opposing his father. Ardallah needed to be protected, no doubt. If the hospital money could buy arms that could save one family or even one child it would be worth it. On the other hand, wouldn’t it be awful to lose the war and the money at the same time, especially if you knew in advance that the money would have absolutely no bearing on the outcome?

But Yousif could not tell his friends of these concerns that morning. The argument in his house the night before had to be kept a secret. A more pressing concern was his possible separation from Salwa. Weren’t wars unpredictable? Couldn’t the most unlikely occur?

“I guess each of us has something to gripe about,” Yousif said, swinging the bell without letting it ring.

“You too?” Isaac said, not believing him. “At least people are not shooting at your house. Your parents are rich. You have a girl.”

“That’s just it,” Yousif said. “I’m worried about Salwa.”

“Worried how?” Amin asked, sarcastic.

“What if the Zionists invade Ardallah?” Yousif asked. “What if they drive us out to make room for the Jews in Europe? Will she and I end up in the same place? Will I be able to find her?”

Isaac rolled his eyes upward and Amin shook his head.

“Okay,” Yousif said. “What if her parents pack up and leave for Lebanon until the war is over? What then? Don’t tell me that can’t happen.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” Amin said.

“I’m serious. I wish I could marry her now and avoid taking that risk.”

“Why can’t you?” Isaac said, wiping his glasses. “You’re smart and some people think you’re good looking. You come from a good family with money and status. I’m sure Salwa’s father would love to have a doctor’s son as a son-in-law. Don’t you think so, Amin?”

“I suppose so,” Amin said, again looking withdrawn.

“They’d say I was too young for marriage,” Yousif argued. “Boys don’t marry at seventeen. We have a lot of growing up and settling down to do first. Both of our parents would agree on that.”

Isaac didn’t seem convinced. “But this is an emergency. If it weren’t for the war you’d be glad to wait.”

Amin nodded, his face grim. “What would Salwa say if you were to ask?”

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.”