On the Hills of God (49 page)

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 him 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?”

“You want me to be disrespectful to your father’s memory?”

“God forbid. But these are abnormal times. We need to adapt. Are you with me?”

“My heart says yes and my head says no.”

“Mother, there’s no time. We’re talking about next Sunday.”

“Let’s see what your uncle says. I see him coming.”

Yousif jumped to his feet. He could see Uncle Boulus by the wrought-iron gate, headed their way. He dropped a cigarette on the ground and stepped on it.

Moments later Uncle Boulus was inside the living room. All the three did was nod and mumble good morning.

“When did you get in?” Yasmin asked her brother.

“After midnight,” Boulus answered, taking a seat.

“Did you bring mother and father with you?” Yasmin asked, anxious.

“They wouldn’t come,” Boulus told her, lighting another cigarette. “East Jerusalem is relatively safe, or that’s what they think. Besides, Widad and her family have moved in with them.”

“They did?” Yasmin asked, brightening for the first time all morning. “I’m so glad.”

Yousif hurried to the kitchen and brought back an empty demitasse cup. Yasmin took it from him, filled it with coffee, and handed it to her brother.

Uncle Boulus took a sip and a long drag on his cigarette. “What is this I hear about you?” he asked his nephew.

Yousif smiled nervously. “It’s true.”

“You’ve managed to get yourself trapped, haven’t you?” Uncle Boulus continued. “It’s a case of damned if you do and damned if you don’t.”

Silence was glacial.

“What about you, Yasmin?” Uncle Boulus asked. “Are you ready for a wedding?”

“What do you think?” Yasmin answered, dabbing her chin and forehead.

Yousif’s heart skipped in anticipation.

“It seems to me,” Uncle Boulus said, “we’ve reached a dead end. Let them get married and be done with.”

Yasmin’s face lost all its color. “Boulus, what are you saying?”

“I see no way out of it now,” her brother told her.

“But the timing is so wrong.”

“He imposed it on us,” Yousif interrupted.

“That’s because you imposed yourself on him,” his mother corrected him. “If you didn’t intrude in his affairs he wouldn’t have bothered you in the least.”

“Well, that’s history. I had to do it.”

To avoid his mother’s glare, Yousif poured coffee in each cup.

“I’ll agree to the wedding, only after a decent period of mourning,” Yasmin said. “At least six months. And not a day sooner.”

Uncle Boulus took out his
masbaha
and leaned on his elbow. “Listen, Yasmin,” he said. “If your son doesn’t marry Salwa he’s going to blame you for the rest of his life. You know that as much as I do. Now he has a chance, let him grab it. One thing for sure, we can’t take Anton Taweel for granted. Nor can we taunt him. If he takes umbrage again, as I’m sure he will, he can get nasty. He’s liable to change his mind. I’ve known him to be more stubborn than a bull. We certainly don’t want Yousif to lock horns with him. There’s no telling what a proud, injured, scandalized man will do.”

“Still, we’re in mourning,” Yasmin protested.

“I wouldn’t want to cross him at this stage,” her brother said. “I know how you feel and how he feels exactly. You want her, you can have her. But on my terms, not yours. That’s what he’s saying.”

Yasmin began to wipe the sweat on her crimson face. “You must make him agree to an engagement for the time being.”

“I won’t even ask him,” her brother advised. “It would be bucking him again. You can’t turn his daughter’s wedding into a fiasco and then force him to eat his own words.”

“That’s right, Mother,” Yousif agreed. “We can’t make him compromise twice in a row.”