Читать книгу On the Hills of God - Ibrahim Fawal - Страница 10

It was getting fairly dark when Yousif and Isaac left Amin’s home on the day of the accident. Yousif couldn’t wait to get home and tell his parents what had happened. After parting from Isaac at the wheat presser, Yousif ran the last two blocks home. At the wrought-iron gate, he paused and took a deep breath. The scent of the roses in the garden permeated the air. He was glad to see his father’s green Chrysler parked in the driveway.

Yousif sprang up the steps two at a time. While still on the balcony he could hear the radio blaring an Abd al-Wahhab song, “Ya Jarat al-Wadi”, one of his favorites. But the first thing he did when he burst into the house was head for the living room on his left and turn the radio off.

He found his mother in the kitchen getting supper ready. Fatima was with her. The noisy primus, a portable one-eyed stove, was flaming red, and the tiny kitchen was so hot that he could see sweat running down his mother’s neck. But she seemed happy enough—even in her faded, blue, short-sleeved dress. With the sleeves of her black ankle-length dress rolled up and pot holders in both hands, Fatima was about to produce one of his favorite dishes, makloubeh.

“You wouldn’t believe what happened,” he began, breathless.

Fatima got too close to the primus and jerked away from the heat.

“Mother . . .” he said.

“Step back, son,” his mother cautioned, concentrating on what she was doing. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”

He flattened himself against the wall to make room for their maneuvering between the sink and the cooking counter.

“Amin broke his arm,” he blurted, kicking himself for his poor timing. He didn’t want his mother and Fatima to drop the pot between them or to get scorched. But they did not seem to have heard him.

“In the name of the Cross,” his mother prayed, as she always did at the start of anything remotely serious. She covered the deep pot Fatima was holding with a large aluminum baking tray. Then both women entangled four arms to turn the whole thing upside down. They were both relieved that it didn’t spill. His mother tapped the bottom and the sides of the pot and waited for a few seconds before lifting it slowly. To their satisfaction and Yousif’s utter amazement, all the contents of the pot, to the last grain of rice, were now on the tray. Standing about a foot and a half high, with a circumference of about thirty inches, the makloubeh looked delicious. Yousif loved the aroma of its rice, cubed lamb meat, potatoes, cauliflower, and an assortment of spices. The pungent steam that arose filled his nostrils and made him ravenous.

“Now, what were you saying?” his mother asked, turning the faucet on and washing her hands. “I couldn’t hear a word you said.”

He waited for her to turn the water off and look at him.

“What is it?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

“Amin broke his arm,” he told her.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, her fingers touching her lips.

“Haraam,” Fatima said. “What a pity!”

“Where’s father?”

“In the bathroom,” his mother answered, her crimson face turning pale.

He left them stunned and went to look for his father. The bathroom door was open and the doctor was shaving. He was wearing a purplish robe and his thin, receding hair was wet. He had just taken a shower.

“Father, Amin had a terrible accident,” Yousif told him.

His father, whose old-fashioned razor was poised to slide down his lathered chin, stopped and stared. “What kind of accident?”

“He broke his arm. I tried to get them to let you set it, but they called old man Abu Khalil instead.”

“Hmmmm!” the doctor said, pouting. “Was the skin broken? Did he bleed at all?”

“See,” Yousif answered, pointing to a spot of blood on his shirt.

“That’s no good,” the doctor said, stirring his stubby brush in a fancy cup of scented shaving soap.

“And that old fool Abu Khalil kept blowing his nose and working on Amin’s arm without washing his hands.”

“I’ll have to stop by and give him a shot,” the doctor said, lathering his face.

Five minutes later the three-member family sat in the small dining room for dinner. The gloom was palpable.

“How did Amin break his arm?” his father finally asked, wiping his glasses with a linen napkin.

“A stone wall collapsed under him.”

“Where were you?” his mother wanted to know.

“In the woods. By the Roman arch.”

Both parents looked at each other and then at Yousif.

“What were you doing there?” his father inquired.

“Following some tourists. At first they looked like lovers. Amin, Isaac, and I thought it would be fun to see what they were up to.”

His mother looked flabbergasted. “It would be fun?” she asked.

“We thought we might catch them kissing or—” he admitted.

His father eyed him sternly. “I’m dismayed. Didn’t it occur to you that you might’ve been intruding?”

Yousif felt embarrassed, but he was too excited to let them reprimand him.

“But wait,” he said. “What these tourists were really up to was espionage.”

Again his parents looked at him in amazement. “You certainly are full of news today,” his mother told him, passing a small basket of bread.

“I’m convinced they were Zionist spies,” Yousif insisted. “Why did they need cameras and binoculars and tripods and duffle bags if they were just on a romantic outing?”

“What did you think they needed them for?” his father asked, chewing.

“I thought they were surveying these hills for military purposes,” Yousif said. “But Amin fell and we lost them. I wish to God he hadn’t.”

Throughout the meal Yousif told them about the compass and where he had found it. To him, it was conclusive evidence that those who dropped it were more than just ordinary Jewish tourists.

His mother shook her head at his seemingly incredible theories. “You need to take a shower and get dressed quickly. It’s a quarter to seven already.”

“Dressed for what?” Yousif asked, glancing at his wrist watch.

“The special show at Al-Andalus Hotel. Have you forgotten?”

“It totally slipped my mind,” Yousif said. “Isaac mentioned it this morning.”

He had meant to go back and be with Amin, but the thought of joining his parents at the hotel garden seemed irresistible. Besides, there was a good chance Salwa might be there. He would be able to tell her about Amin and his afternoon adventure. He might even get a chance to dance with her. For the last two weeks he had been tutoring her ten- and twelve-year old brothers, Akram and Zuhair. Every time he went to their house, he had been able to see her. But seeing her was nothing compared to their dancing together.

Yousif finished showering and dressing long before his parents. He sat in the living room worrying about Amin, trying to listen to the news, and wondering where the spies had gone.

Why had they come to survey hills and valleys so close to his home? Certainly there was no big Jewish community in Ardallah that warranted protection. He had never thought of his hometown in military terms. Now that his imagination was ignited, he began to find all kinds of reasons why Ardallah would be considered a natural target for the enemy. It overlooked many towns and villages. It was only ten or twelve miles to the airport in Lydda. It was close to the Sarafand Military Camp. Above all, it towered over the highway connecting Jaffa and Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. The more he thought about it the more convinced he was that sooner or later his hometown would be in imminent danger. Ardallah was not only strategic—it was essential to whoever wanted to dominate the region.

He saw Fatima clearing up the dishes in the dining room. He heard his father fussing about a silk tie he wanted to wear.

“Ask Yousif if he wore it last,” his mother was saying. “Or let him help you find it. I can’t be bothered now.”

Over strains of music drifting from the radio, Yousif heard his father sliding back the hangers in his closet. He knew from experience that his father would not settle until he found what he was looking for. Although generally easy-going and congenial, in some respects his father was a difficult man. He had a strong streak of vanity. Twelve years older than his wife, he was quite particular about the way he looked. And if he had a vice, it was his inordinate spending on clothes. He had dozens of suits, all tailored. He had dozens of shirts, all silk. He had dozens of ties, all imported. Every time a friend traveled abroad or to some Arab capital, especially Beirut or Cairo, the doctor would ask him to bring him the finest of ties or shirts. British wool was a fetish with him.

When they were ready to leave they looked to Yousif like a handsome family, elegantly scented and immaculately dressed. He himself wore a gray suit and a solid blue tie he had borrowed from his father’s collection. His father wore a blue suit with striped tie and a puffed-up white handkerchief in his small pocket. In his hand was his favorite pipe, a golden meerschaum he smoked on special occasions. His mother wore a knee-length, violet chiffon dress, a diamond watch, and a diamond necklace. Her slim body seemed to complement her husband’s slightly bulging stomach. Her pitch-black hair, fair complexion, large hazel eyes, delicate features, and sweet disposition made her one of the loveliest women ever to have left Jerusalem. Even her twin sister, Aunt Widad, did not begin to compare with her in looks or temperament. They were hardly identical.

“You look terrific,” Yousif complimented both parents. “But I wish,” he added with a glint in his eyes, “father would worry about his health as much as he does about his clothes.”

“What do you mean?” his father said in a huff. “There’s nothing wrong with my health.”

“I meant this,” Yousif laughed, tapping his father on the stomach.

The normally reserved doctor smiled. “It’s your mother’s cooking,” he said.

“They call it kersh el-wajaha,” his wife teased, stepping on the front balcony. “The bulge of the rich.”

“Only we’re not that rich,” Yousif said, waiting for his father to follow his mother.

“We have a lot to be thankful for,” she said, growing somber.

“Yes, indeed,” her husband concurred, joining her on the balcony.

Yousif shut the iron front door and locked it with a small key. Then he followed his parents to the Chrysler, which was parked in the driveway.

Instead of driving straight to the hotel garden, the doctor swung by the old district to give Amin a shot. But neither Amin nor his father was there. They had gone to Gaza to see about Uncle Hassan, whose condition they had learned was rapidly deteriorating.

“But why did Amin have to go?” the doctor asked the mother who had rushed out of the house to greet him. “A broken arm needs rest while it’s setting. I don’t like all that jarring on a bus.”

“Abu Khalil said it would be all right,” she replied anxiously.

“Abu Khalil, hell,” the doctor said. “Listen, the minute they return tell Amin to come and see me. I need to give him a shot.”

The moon was full, the night perfect for an outdoor event. And from what Yousif could observe, Al-Andalus Hotel was ready for it. Tables were covered with white cloths. The crystal glasses and silverware glistened. The entire garden, on both sides of the canopied dance floor, glittered with colored lights strung between the big, tall, hundred-year-old trees.

The crowd was already there by the hundreds and still coming in droves. Never had Yousif seen so much gaiety, so much splendor. The flat rooftops and the balconies of nearby homes crowded with those who wanted to be entertained without having to pay. Children had climbed pine trees outside the gate and in neighbors’ front yards, so they too wouldn’t miss the fun. Waiters in black pants, white jackets, and black bow ties were bringing out trays laden with food and drinks. The Greek band played with gusto.

A big round table had been reserved for Dr. Jamil Safi and his family, right by the dance floor.

“Is this whole table for us?” Yousif asked, as he held the chair for his mother.

“No,” she answered. “We’ve invited a few friends.”

Yousif did not have to wait long to see who they were, although he had a pretty good idea whom to expect. The two couples joining them were Dr. Fareed Afifi and Attorney Fouad Jubran and their wives. They were as smartly dressed as Yousif’s parents. In general, Yousif observed, men were just as vain as their wives, for they spared no money on their clothes.

Dr. Afifi was short and full of fire, positively radiating energy. His wife, Jihan, was lovely in a slender European sort of way, a brunette with hair that was always brushed to the back and tied in a bun. Her green eyes were beautiful to a fault—they were too distracting. But there was always about Jihan, despite her laughter, a tinge of sadness. She and her husband of twenty-two years were childless, and Yousif knew she yearned and ached for children more than anything else.

Attorney Fouad Jubran was tall and stout, with the deep, strong voice of an orator. His clothes were just as expensive as his two friends’, but somehow he never looked polished no matter what he wore. The touch of the peasant was in him, even though he was born and raised in the city. His wife was also hefty but in a most likable way. In fifteen years she had given her husband six sons and three daughters. No wonder, Yousif thought, the poor fellow’s skin was coarse and his eyes cunning. The man was exhausted.

While his parents and friends were chatting and ordering drinks, Yousif scanned the garden for Salwa. She was nowhere in sight, and he felt disappointed. Restless, he rose and walked around looking for her. Isaac was across the terrace with his parents, who seemed to be enjoying themselves with their neighbors for the summer, the Haddad family from Haifa. Isaac, wearing a sports jacket but no tie, rose from his chair, glad to see his friend. But before the two boys could talk, Isaac’s father drew their attention.

“What’s this I hear about Amin?” Moshe said, smoking a nergileh.

“He broke his arm,” Yousif said.

“I know,” Moshe said, pain registering on his long dark face. “You boys need to be more careful.”

Isaac’s mother and the other guests showed the same concern.

“Pull up a chair and sit down, Yousif,” Moshe said. “Have something to drink.”

“No, thank you,” Yousif said. “I should be getting back to our table.”

Moshe would have none of it. “Isaac, call up that waiter,” he said.

Yousif loved the whole Sha’lan family, not just Isaac. He had known them all his life. In looks and manners and customs they blended so well in Ardallah that no one thought about whether they were Jewish. In his late forties, Moshe was so tall and strong of build that he could pass for a brother or a cousin of the Arab near him; three or four years younger than he, his wife was short and chubby. She looked like all the middle-aged Arab women who abandoned all pretense at youth and became plump from rice, bread, and potatoes. At home, Yousif remembered, the Sha’lans ate like Arabs and sang like Arabs. They were so different from the blond, blue-eyed Zionists from that afternoon.

From Basim Yousif had learned about the difference among the Orthodox Jews and Reformed Jews and Ashkenazi Jews and Sephardic Jews. Although this might be the wrong time to ask, he wanted to know who among the Jews leaned toward Zionism and who didn’t? And why? He had heard that some of the Jews who clamored the most “to return home” were only converts and not real Jews. Was that true?

“What do you call the Jews from south Russia?” Yousif whispered. “Khazars?”

“I’ve heard of them,” Isaac answered, surprised. “But what are you getting at?”

“Some say they aren’t even Jews.”

Isaac shook his head. “Tell me something. Are you still thinking about the tourists we followed this afternoon?”

“They weren’t tourists,” Yousif insisted, careful not to use the word spies.

“Whatever. What do they have to do with the Jews from south Russia?”

“I’m just curious. Would Jews who aren’t originally from here—would they be claiming Palestine is theirs and not ours?”

Isaac paused. “If they’re Zionists they would,” he answered.

A couple wanted to pass behind Yousif and he had to pull up his chair to let them squeeze by. “Do you know what I think?” he asked, under his breath.

“What?” Isaac said, humoring him.

“Zionists are bad news for all of us.”

“My parents are afraid of them,” Isaac agreed.

“Do they say why?”

“They think they’d bring nothing but trouble to all of us who live here.”

“I agree.”

“Fine. But let’s have fun tonight, will you? Amin’s accident was sad enough.”

“I’m sorry.”

A waiter stopped by and they ordered two beers. The band had stopped playing. The garden looked overcrowded.

“Have you seen Salwa?” Yousif whispered.

“Sure,” Isaac answered.

“She’s here?”

“She made a double take when she saw me. I guess she expected you to be around.”

Yousif looked for her. “Where’s she sitting?”

“On the other side,” Isaac motioned with his head.

Suddenly Yousif heard a roll of drums. Those standing began to clear the aisles so those sitting could get a better view. The floor show was about to begin, and Yousif returned to his table. A man and a woman dressed in white costumes covered with sequins were walking briskly down the aisle, closely followed by a boy, who looked no more than ten years old, and five musicians. As soon as they reached the dance floor and took their places, the hotel’s assistant manager, Adel Farhat, a young man about thirty years old with his hand at his waist as if his side were hurting him, tapped the microphone for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “Al-Andalus Hotel takes pleasure to present the best act this town has ever seen. The trio you are about to enjoy has performed not only in Palestine, but in Cairo, Beirut, and Baghdad. Here they are, the famous father and mother and son, the singing and dancing Saad, Saada, and Masoud.”

Yousif laughed at the funny names, for they were variations on “happy” and “lucky.”

The band began to play, and the entertainers stepped forward. The bright lights made their costumes dazzle. Husband and wife looked more like brother and sister. Their round faces, ruddy complexions, and blue eyes disproved the theory that opposites attract. The husband reached for an accordion, his wife for a tambourine. In a moment, they joined the band in playing, their eyes fixed on the trees, not on the crowd. They seemed exhilarated, but in a dream world of their own.

Their son reminded Yousif of little Shirley Temple. To the women at Yousif’s table, he was embraceable. His parents had dressed him up as a circus ringmaster, except for the red hat with a rubber band under the chin, which looked like a bellboy’s cap. But a midget ringmaster he was, complete with a crackling whip. He began to sing:

If I could only have a wishing ring

And rule over the ladies for one day.

The tune was light and catchy. The lyrics poked fun at modern marriages. The women, the boy sang, were mistreating their men and getting out of hand. They needed to be put back in place. And if they did not know what was good for them, then the men had better straighten them out with the whip. To demonstrate, Little Masoud pranced around the floor, rendered the song with gusto, and cracked the whip on the floor—both left and right. The sound of the lashes and the energy with which he cracked the whip made the women in the audience howl with laughter.

“How cute!” Jihan Afifi said.

“Adorable!” Yousif’s mother concurred. “He ought to be in films.”

“Cairo should snap him up. That boy is going places.”

Yousif could not wait for the song to be over. He wanted to dance with Salwa and tell her about Amin, about the spies.

Half an hour later, she appeared from behind the bandstand like a star making her first entrance. Yousif was transfixed. Tall, erect, dressed in white, followed by a girlfriend who came to her shoulder, Salwa strode through the garden. All eyes were on her, but her own eyes seemed to be searching. Yousif knew that she was looking for him, and he was thrilled. The instant their eyes met, she headed in his direction, they stood facing each other quietly, and then began to dance.

“What would you do if you had a wishing ring?” Salwa asked him, as they stepped to the rhythmic music amidst the big crowd.

Yousif hesitated. Salwa was the best-looking woman in the whole garden; of this he had no doubt. He loved her height, her big almond-shaped eyes, her curved eyelashes, her long neck. He loved her auburn, shoulder-length hair, and the expensive perfume she was wearing. He loved her smile. Her full red lips tantalized him and made his blood rush. Even her teeth were perfect.

“I’m still waiting,” she told him, swaying in his arms.

“What would I do if I had a wishing ring?” he repeated, enraptured by the warmth of her body. “I’d wish you to be my wife.”

She laughed and tilted her head backward.

“Can’t you be serious?” she flirted.

“I am serious,” he told her.

“Well, what’s your second wish?” she asked, smiling.

His eyes scanned the garden. “I’d wish to have the heads of all the men around here examined.”

“Why?”

He told her about the afternoon adventure, about the trip through the woods, about Amin’s accident, and especially about the Zionist spies.

“You think they were spies?”

“I’m sure of it. They walked as if they were on a mission. And all that gear they were carrying.”

“How can you prove it?”

“They might come back. When and if they do, I’m going to track them no matter who falls and breaks his arm.” He turned around and surveyed the scene before him. “Look at all these men drinking scotch and soda, even champagne, as if the world is safe for them. Look at that table . . . and that . . .”

At one table were young men known to be playboys. They hardly worked, but dressed well, gambled, and chased women. How could these grown men live off their parents? Yousif could not understand. Where was their pride? He would never be like them. He himself was only seventeen, still in high school, and still living at home. Yet he felt bad, even guilty, every time his parents handed him his weekly allowance from their hard-earned money. He couldn’t wait to finish school and be on his own.

One day he would take care of his parents and repay them for all the good things they had done for him. That any man as old as these playboys—who had to be in their late twenties or early thirties—would want to be in their position was incomprehensible. Looking at them, one would think they were movie stars or gangsters in American films. If the truth were known, he thought to himself, they probably had to borrow money to buy the tickets for this show.

“Would you trust the future of Palestine to such idlers?” Yousif asked.

Salwa looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she inquired.

“They look so carefree,” Yousif whispered. “They don’t know what’s happening in their own backyards. They don’t know that these hills are being mapped by the enemy.”

They moved their feet, but they did not dance. Tension lingered between them in spite of the gaiety around them.

The assistant manager, Adel Farhat, was dancing next to them. But to the apparent distress of the young woman in his arms, he was staring at Salwa.

“May I have the rest of this dance?” Farhat asked, ready to dump his partner.

Yousif looked at him unkindly. “No way,” he said, swinging Salwa away from him.

Salwa grew pensive, though the intrusion didn’t seem to bother her.

“Guess what I would wish for if I had a wishing ring?” she asked.

“Let me guess. You’d wish for a whip to crack on these men’s backs.”

She shook her head. “Worse than that. I’d wish for a well to dump them all in.”

The lively music stopped and Yousif looked at Salwa.

“Are you coming tomorrow to tutor my brothers?” she asked as they walked on the gravel between the crowded tables.

“I only come on Thursdays.”

“I wish you could come tomorrow, too,” she admitted, blushing.

This unexpected remark was enough to lift Yousif’s spirits. He walked her back to the table to pay his respects to her parents. Her father was like his own father in many ways: reserved, bespectacled, well-dressed. In other ways they were different. His father was of medium height, his mustache about an inch wide like Charlie Chaplin’s. Her father was tall, his mustache pencil-thin like Ronald Coleman’s. Yousif did not know her father well. The man was humorless, icy, often grave. His mouth was almost always drawn at the corners. It was her cheery mother who charmed Yousif. A tall, buxom woman, she was always in good spirits, always laughing. Her dark red hair contrasted well with her green satin dress and milky complexion. Yousif liked her and had a feeling that she liked him.

At the table with them were men and women who were strangers to Yousif. The two youngest men earned his instant suspicion. One was about twenty-five years old, with a short haircut, a striped bow tie, and a high thin voice. The other was a couple of years older, had a big nose, and wore a tie with so many flowers on it that Yousif thought he ought to stick it in a vase. Both men seemed unattached and this bothered Yousif. Who were they? What did they want?

Salwa was bubbling with conversation. Yousif could tell that she did not mean to ignore him but was waiting for a pause to introduce him to everyone at the table. He looked around for a chair. He would not leave until he had an opportunity to watch the young men’s glances and determine the drift of their intentions. Salwa’s mother noticed that he was still there and told her two young boys, Akram and Zuhair, to get up and give him one of their chairs. At that point Salwa’s father stopped talking long enough to introduce him.

“Oh, Yousif, I’d like you to meet a couple of my friends,” he began. “We work together at the office. This is Ahmad Jum‘a and this is Jowdat Muhyiddin.”

A relieved smile crossed Yousif’s face and he shook their hands. From their names he could tell they were both Muslims. There was no longer any reason for him to be worried. Salwa would never marry outside her Christian faith.

Then a bottle of champagne arrived—compliments of Adel Farhat. Yousif didn’t know what to think. Was the assistant manager a friend of the family? Did he have designs on Salwa? Yousif hated himself for being so suspicious. The poor guy might already be married. He might have been dancing with his wife when he’d tried to cut in. While Salwa chatted with her mother, Yousif watched her father turn and wave to Farhat, who was standing on top of the stairs. Adel waved back—grinning. Yousif felt a strange, sinking feeling.