On the Hills of God (29 page)

“I didn’t come on my own,” Isaac said again and again. “They made me. I swear to God they made me.”

“Of course you didn’t come on your own,” Yousif told him.

“You and Amin must believe me. You must.”

“Are you crazy? Of course we believe you. Just stay calm and let me work it out with Basim.”

“I’m afraid,” Isaac confessed, gripping his friend’s hand with all his might.

“Just calm down, will you? Everything is going to be all right.”

Yousif’s last remark was to reassure himself more than Isaac. The way the two huddled together, one would think they were alone on another planet.

“Goodbye, Yousif,” Isaac said, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Don’t say that,” Yousif entreated, the roar of the crowd filling his ears.

“What the hell are you two doing?” the waiter standing on the truck with them asked. “You’d better watch out, Yousif, before you get your head blown off.”

Yousif grabbed the waiter by the throat. “No more violence, do you hear me?”

“Suit yourself. But if I were you I’d get lost.”

“No harm must come to Isaac, understand?” Yousif repeated. Then looking around, he appealed to his own cousin who had inflamed the crowd. “Basim, please help. For the love of God don’t let them hurt him.”

“It’s not up to me,” Basim said, motioning for him to get off.

“Get off, you idiot,” another man screamed. “Move away from that
yahudi.”

Yousif was incensed. “Isaac is innocent,” he pleaded with the angry crowd. “Have you forgotten who he is? Don’t you remember what a fine friend and neighbor he’s always been? It’s
Isaac
—Isaac Sha’lan—we’re talking about. Not a stranger who’s come from overseas to steal our land. It makes a big difference. Isaac is one of us.”

“It doesn’t look like it,” the waiter said, pushing Yousif away from Isaac.

“Don’t touch me,” Yousif said, fighting him back and hoping that the scuffle would not generate another surge of emotion.

Then the lisping hairdresser joined in the pushing and shoving until Yousif was several feet separated from his friend. Suddenly shots fired. Yousif didn’t have to look to know what had happened. Some gasped . . . some sighed in unison . . . and for a moment neither Yousif’s mind nor heart could take in the certain outcome of Isaac’s death. Poor Isaac was dangling off the edge of the truck, blood oozing from his back.

“Damn you!” Yousif screamed, flailing his arms and punching all those who were pulling him off the truck.

Some, including Amin, tried to hold him back. But he was uncontrollable.

“They killed the best boy in the world,” Yousif shrieked, his tears pouring.

“Calm down,” Amin begged, holding him tight. “Please, Yousif.”

“They killed him. Killed him.”

A blacksmith, twice Yousif’s size, pulled him by the hair. “Damn right we did. We killed the whole lot of them. Maybe we should kill traitors like you, too.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Yousif screamed, clawing at the man’s face with his ten fingers.

“You act like one,” the blacksmith said, pushing him away and then slugging him on the jaw. It was a powerful blow and Yousif shook his head to recover from it. He felt sure some of his bones were broken. He reached for his teeth, certain they had been loosened. They were all there, but his fingers were stained with blood. His knees buckled . . . his lips thickened . . . he felt dizzy. The rest was darkness . . .

Yousif stayed in bed for the rest of the day, his mind in a turmoil. His mother feared he was having a nervous breakdown. When his father rushed home to see about his condition, Yousif was too exhausted, too sad, to talk. The two stared at each other, saying nothing. Then the doctor sat on the edge of the bed, and opened his bag to give his son a sedative. Yousif shook his head.

“It’s no time to be squeamish,” his father told him.

“I don’t want a shot.”

“It will ease the pain.”

“I want to
feel
the pain.”

The doctor pouted. “Get hold of yourself, son,” he said, holding the medicine and syringe in both hands.

The moment of silence seemed eternal.

“Now I can see why you never talked about grandmother’s death all those years,” Yousif said, crossing his arms under his head. “Death is painful, isn’t it? Especially murder.”

The doctor’s eyes widened. All his life Yousif had heard about his paternal grandmother’s death at the hands of the Turks. They had shot her for hiding a British soldier in the
‘unbar,
where wheat was stored. He had never been able to get his father to talk about it. His father seemed to carry his sorrow as a secret disease.

The doctor took a deep breath, put the medicine and syringe back. “You know better than to bring up her death,” he said, shutting his black bag.

“Thirty years haven’t healed the wound?”

“That’s different.”

“How different? She’s your own blood and Isaac isn’t? Is that it? Wounds of the heart are all serious, don’t you think? You’re the doctor.”

The doctor put the black bag on the floor and took out his pipe. “See, son,” he said, lighting a match. “Life is full of tragedies. Isaac’s death is a tragedy, no question about it. And we’re going to see a lot more tragedies. Remember, this war hasn’t officially started yet. Heinous crimes are yet to come. I remember crying so hard when I heard about my mother’s death—I thought I was losing my mind.”

A sad smile crossed Yousif’s lips, but he kept quiet. This was the closest his father had ever come to broaching the subject.

“Like a fool,” the doctor reflected, puffing on his pipe, “I kept wondering what they did with all that wheat in the
‘unbar
. I guess I thought of it because wheat was scarce—like everything else in those days—and people were literally starving. Then I decided they must’ve have thrown it away. What else could they have done with it, soaked with blood?”

“Everything in this country seems to be soaked with blood,” Yousif said, his face grim.

The two sat alone—each wrapped in his own misery.

After his father had left, Yousif’s mind traveled distant slopes, sifting memories and feelings. Like a millstone, his world turned round and round and round. He remembered something he had read in the Bible: “They are all gone insane, they are altogether become filthy; there is none that doth good, no not one.”

When he opened his eyes next morning Yousif found Jamal standing at the door holding a musical instrument. From its shape and maroon color, Yousif knew it was Isaac’s
‘oud
.

“Come in, Jamal,” Yousif said.

The blind musician followed the voice, and stood by the bed. He held the
‘oud,
beckoning Yousif to take it. “Isaac would want you to have it,” he said, his voice choking.

The moment lingered on. The
‘oud
rested on Jamal’s stretched arms like an injured baby.

“This is the nicest gift anyone could give me,” Yousif said, taking it from him.

Jamal picked up the cane off his arm and stood still for a moment. “You and I wish there were no need for you to have it,” he finally said. “But life must go on.”

Yousif could tell that Jamal was anguished.

There was a long pause.

“Jamal,” Yousif whispered.

“Yes?”

“Will you play for me?”

Jamal’s lips tightened as he reached for the
‘oud
Yousif was holding out for him. He uncovered it and sat on the edge of Yousif’s bed. Yousif crossed his arms under his head and waited. When Jamal began to finger the strings, filling the room with a soft slow tune, Yousif remembered his slain friend—and his eyes welled up with tears of sadness and anger.

After a long pause, Yousif broke the silence. “What’s going to happen?” he asked.

“What always happens in wars—death and destruction.”

“Is there no way out? To use your own words, these are the hills of God.”

“True,” Jamal said, the muscles of his eye sockets working. “But like the rest of the world, they are inhabited by weak, flawed, pitiable human beings. Maybe the priests are right. Maybe there’ll never be true peace until the Messiah returns and redresses all wrong.”

“Do you believe that?”

“What else is there to believe in? Certainly you can’t put your trust in people.”

Yousif thought of Isaac’s family. He wondered who had broken the news to his mother, and how his father had reacted. He could imagine their agony, their despair. Poor Alex, poor Leah!

In the afternoon, Yousif busied himself with his birds. The special room was partitioned into four mesh-walled, walk-in cages, each of which contained no less than fifty of the colorful noisy creatures. He had already serviced two of these cages, preoccupied. His curiosity ran rampant—about Basim, about the war, about the consequences of victory or defeat. But his curiosity about Salwa was answered in person.

He was inside the left back cage, pouring water in a shallow container. As he turned around he saw her standing at the door. She was wearing a light-olive dress with a red belt that accentuated her small waist and full bosom. Her height almost filled the door opening. Her expression was uncertain.

Confusion assaulted him. This was the first time they were alone since her engagement. It hurt him to look at her, knowing that she was wearing Adel Farhat’s diamond ring.

“I’m sorry about Isaac,” she said, her voice low.

“I’m sorry you came,” he answered, turning his back.

She did not leave. And he was glad. His heart was not fluttering for nothing. He wished he could run his fingers through her hair . . . could kiss her. He wished he weren’t trapped by his mixed emotions.

“Our mothers are meeting in the salon. So I took a chance to come and see you. God knows what the other women will say. But I wanted you to know how sorry I am about Isaac.”

Yousif faced her, a pitcher of water in his hand. “Did you check with your fiancé first? Did you get father’s permission? They might disapprove of your coming to see me as much as I do.”

“If they find out I’ll be in trouble.”

He put the pitcher down on the floor and picked up a newspaper which he began to unfold and tear into small squares. Birds chirped all around him, with a couple alighting on his shoulder.

“One thing I am curious about,” Yousif said. “Why was the wedding postponed till June or July? I thought Adel Farhat’s family wanted him to get married immediately so he won’t go to war. What happened?”

Somewhat of a cynical smile flashed on her lips. “Maybe the postponement will give you an idea how much I didn’t want to get married. I wouldn’t even have gotten engaged if it weren’t for my father. We’re so close I couldn’t say no to him. It would’ve broken his heart.”

Yousif half-smiled. “What about now? Wouldn’t he object to your being here? Why are you doing it?”

She fiddled with the straps of her purse. “Because I want us to be friends.”

“Oh, really. You used to tell me you loved me.”

“Maybe I still do. But I can’t marry you.”

“Well, I’m not interested. Take your friendship and leave.”

“Anger becomes you, Yousif,” she muttered, leaning against the door’s frame.

Yousif got out of the cage. “One more thing,” he said, his hand still on the handle. “I didn’t see your Adel Farhat out rounding up the terrorists. I assumed he’d be the first one to fire his gun—just to please you. You’re the militant, remember?”

She stepped closer to him, seemingly undaunted by his rebuffs. “Maybe he doesn’t want to get killed before he marries me,” she said. “Maybe he thinks I’m worth living for.”

They were standing in the narrow passageway separating the partitions. Yousif couldn’t stand being near her, feeling the urge to put his arms around her waist. He could smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her vibrations.

“Go away,” he said, getting inside the left front cage.

“I haven’t seen him in a week.”

Yousif eyed her carefully. “I wonder why,” he said.

Salwa touched the mesh wire between them. “Listen, Yousif. I don’t know what’s going to happen. But if I do marry him, please don’t hold it against me. It only means that the obstacle was bigger than my ability to remove it.”

They were only a couple of feet apart. The two-karat diamond ring on her long, shapely, manicured finger sparkled between them like the eye of a serpent. But now Yousif could look past it. Hope was boiling in his veins.

“Salwa, is there a chance?” he asked, scrutinizing her face. “Can I do anything to help? You know I confronted your father, and sent my parents—”

She nodded.

“I was impetuous,” he said, moving closer. “Your father didn’t realize how serious we are about each other. Do you think he has cooled off by now, should I try again?”

Her face became flushed. “I’m not sure.”

“Would he want you to spend your life in misery? I don’t think so. Tell him you’re my age . . . we share the same ideals . . . we love each other.”