On the Hills of God (60 page)

The old man, apparently deep in thought, did not respond.

“That’s right,” Yousif went on, eager to share with someone the absurdities of history. “It was such a beautiful garden, he wanted his mistress to have it as a gift.”

The old man looked at him quizzically. “Son,” he said, “you’re too young to be losing your mind.”

Yousif was not affronted by the remark and let it stand. The idea that even Marc Antony had dared to give away what was not his appalled him. A tall slender Negress with a jug angled on her head appeared coming their way. When she saw the long line of marchers creeping toward her, she seemed puzzled and stepped off the road. Her jug of water was soon emptied as one marcher after another tipped it to his lips. If troubles came to Jericho, Yousif thought, this woman was going to wish she were back in Africa. For some reason most of those Ethiopians who had migrated to Palestine settled in Jericho. Except, of course, for the one or two peddlers of roasted peanuts who had often come to Ardallah during summer. Ardallah! He had been forced out of his hometown only a few days ago, yet it already seemed to recede into the past.

The two-mile road from Ain es-Sultan to the edge of Jericho’s business district was teeming with displaced people who sat over their bundles in the shadows of the palm trees. Even the garden and front steps of the old two-story Ashour Hotel were overrun with people squatting from the pain of exertion. With difficulty, Yousif wove his way through the gate, down the narrow path, and up the flight of stairs—apologizing for stepping on a foot here or a hand there. If his mother or Salwa were to be found anywhere, surely he would find them here. For years, they had been friends with the hotel owners, Elias and Jean Ashour.

Yes! Yasmin was sitting at the far end of the balcony, next to the railing, her eyes searching. He saw her first, watched her wipe her crimson face with her limp handkerchief, then fan herself. Yousif called out her name. She looked up at him, her eyes beaming with unexpected joy. The balcony was congested. But that did not prevent both from elbowing their way toward each other.

“Yousif,
habibi,
I didn’t see you coming,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief, embracing him with all her might. “My eyes have been fixed on that gate for hours. How are you,
habibi?”

“I’m fine,” Yousif answered, hugging her warmly and kissing her on both cheeks. “How are
you?
Where’s Salwa?”

“She’s not with you?”

“I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

“Oh, my God. Maybe she’s with her mother and brothers.”

“I hope so.” The fact that they had promised each other to remain in Jordan should they get separated gave him little comfort. A number of things could go wrong and she might not be able to keep her promise. “When did you get here?” he asked.

“Early this morning. I was lucky to get a ride from El-Auja. How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“All the way from El-Auja?”

“No. All the way from Ardallah.”

“How stupid of me,” she remembered, hugging him again.

Feeling sharp pain in his legs, Yousif wanted to sit down. She turned around to offer him her chair, but it had already been taken. Inch by inch, they eased themselves inside the hotel.

“Ah, he’s here,” said Elias Ashour, the owner, smiling behind the front desk. “Welcome, Yousif, welcome. Your mother was so worried.”

“I thought surely his bride would be with him,” Yasmin said, wringing her hands.

“She’s not?” Ashour said, frowning. “Well, sooner or later she’ll show up.”

“I hope so,” Yousif said, letting his mother lean on him.

The smooth-faced, sun-tanned hotel owner motioned for them to leave the jammed lobby and join him in his office. Men and women were trying to register when there were no vacancies. Some were squatting on the marble floor.

But once Yousif and his mother were in Mr. Ashour’s office, they collapsed on the soft armchairs. Each chair felt like a throne under them.

“Summer is our worst season,” Elias Ashour said, his long sleeves rolled. His hazel-green eyes shone with anxiety.

“I can imagine,” Yousif said, remembering Jericho as a winter resort. In summer months Jericho was like purgatory.

“From June through September, we usually keep a small staff,” Elias Ashour continued, “just so we don’t have to close down. Occasionally we have four or five guests who are in town on business. Otherwise it’s dead. Look at the hotel now. It’s bursting at the seams. I’ve never seen so many people in my life.”

“This is nothing,” Yousif said, edgy.

“No vacancies whatsoever,” the hotel owner added, unmindful of what Yousif had said. “I just hope they don’t tear down the hotel or mess up the garden. But what can I do?”

Yousif wanted to tell their host that there was something he could do: stop worrying about his silly hotel. Palestine was ravaged, people were homeless. The tall, heavy-set Elias Ashour, normally congenial, was becoming a chatterbox like his wife. But where was Mrs. Ashour—or Aunt Jean—as Yousif was used to calling her? And what was the business about no vacancies? Was it possible? The owner could not accommodate his best friends? Yousif’s mother was on the verge of collapsing. Yousif felt grimy and in need of a hot bath in the worst way. And his feet were swollen and aching.

“Where’s Aunt Jean?” Yousif asked, massaging his calf.

“In Greece,” Elias Ashour answered. “She wanted to show the kids the Acropolis, of all things. As if we don’t have enough ruins in Palestine.”

“Especially in Jericho,” Yousif’s mother said, her face contorted.

“That’s what I said,” the man agreed. “Go ahead, I told her. I’m staying.”

Yousif wondered if his wife had taken the children on vacation to sit out the war. But he didn’t ask.

“Elias, may I use your phone?” Yasmin asked the hotel owner. “I’d like to call Jerusalem and check on my parents. They are old and sick and I have an awful feeling . . .”

Seeing that she was having difficulty rising out of her chair, Elias Ashour placed the telephone on the edge of the desk. “By all means,” he said, “but you can’t get through. All lines to most of Palestine have been cut off for days.”

Yasmin was crestfallen.
“Oo ba’dain?”
she asked, helpless. “What’s to become of them?”

No one answered.

“Listen,” Elias Ashour said, leaning against the edge of his desk. “I’ve already assigned the kids’ rooms to some other friends. You two can have our own bedroom.”

“No, no,” Yasmin objected. “We can’t deprive you of your bed. Goodness! We are no better than the other people. We’ll sleep where they sleep.”

“Mustaheel,”
the hotel owner said. “Do you want me to be divorced? If Jean finds out you slept on a chair or on the floor, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Yousif and his mother looked at each other. Yousif was dying for his mother to accept. He was not used to sleeping on anything except a bed. The same with her. What was wrong with being lucky and having such a friend? After all, what were friends for? Were it up to him, everyone would have a bed.

“Where would you sleep?” Yousif asked, addressing the hotel owner.

“Don’t worry about me,” Mr. Ashour told him. “The way things are, I don’t need to sleep. And if I have to, I’ll doze off right here in my office. How many times did I spend a whole night at the poker table with your father?
Allah yirhamu.”

“May you live long,” Yasmin said.

Elias Ashour sighed. “Gone are those days. But, what can we do? In the meantime, go up to the room and rest. Here’s the key. Room 12. And I’ll send you food with room service.”

Yousif’s mother looked flustered. “You’re so kind.”

Yousif was deeply touched. “We’ll never forget you,” he said.

The man’s generosity made Yousif regret his earlier thoughts. One day he would repay the man—measure for measure.

“Maybe you can help us make up our mind,” Yousif’s mother said, wiping the sweat off her face. “Yousif and I haven’t talked about it yet.”

“We haven’t seen each other, let alone talked,” Yousif reminded her.

“That’s what I meant,” his mother explained. “Still, we have no plans? Give us your advice: should we stay in Jericho? Should we go to Amman? What do you think?”

Yousif was startled. “Mother, we promised each other to regroup in Jordan.”

“Well,” Yasmin said. “Suppose we find each other here in Jericho. We don’t have to leave then, do we?”

The hotel owner did not hesitate. “Yes. Go to Jordan. That’s what I would do if I were in your shoes. I can’t conceive that any part of Palestine right now is out of danger. The damn truce tipped the scale in the Zionists’ favor. When things settle down, you can always come back. But for the time being—keep going.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Yasmin said, pursing her lips. “Amman is only a hundred miles away. But there it’s safe. Here it is not.”

Silence hung in the air like an invisible shroud.

“Did you know my father-in-law, Anton Taweel?” Yousif asked.

“Was it Anton’s daughter you married? I didn’t know that. Good family. What about him?”

Yousif cringed. “He passed away.”

Ashour was thunderstruck. “You mean died? How? Where?”

“Had a heart attack. About twenty miles from here.”

“Jesus! What a shame!”

Yousif gave him the details, which sounded worse in the telling.

“Jesus!” Ashour repeated, his face turning bluish. “Left in the wilderness! What a tragedy! If he’s not eaten already, his body will be bloated beyond recognition in this heat. Jesus!”

A dark shadow of sorrow and despair loomed on their faces. The three remained quiet, enveloped by memories, disturbed by uncertainties. The hubbub of the refugees was rising. The hotel’s backyard was strewn with exhausted men and women—like a cemetery with open tombs.

Two days later Jericho was still swarming with people, but there was no hint of Salwa. Yousif and his mother waited in vain for a way out of the stifling city. But vehicles were rarer than snow in the desert. It seemed hopeless until, by a gift from heaven, Yousif ran into Makram, the taxi driver from Ardallah. Even then he and his mother had to wait two more days before Makram returned to pick them up. His dusty black Mercedes was already occupied by a couple and their three children when it arrived. But Yousif and his mother did not complain. They were luckier than most.

“What! No luggage?” the short, dark Makram jested as he moved swiftly around the car to open the doors.

“Funny,” Yousif said. “Listen, Makram. Have you seen Salwa or any of her family?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“I can’t believe this,” Yousif said, frustrated. “Where did they go?”

The big man in the front seat got out and let Yousif squeeze in between him and the driver.

Abbas Bittar was a forty-eight-year-old business man from Jaffa. But his wife called him Abu Mamdouh, which made her Imm Mamdouh. Their three children were a son, Mamdouh, age ten; a daughter, Siham, age eight; and a baby, Azmi, age six months. Yousif judged them to be of comfortable means. They had about them the look and demeanor of those who knew, up till now, the good life. Imm Mamdouh was attractive, with flowing black hair. One of her upper teeth was turned sideways, and the whites of her eyes were conspicuously large. Yet neither distracted from her flaming sexiness. Looking at least fifteen years younger than her husband, she had a tendency to blabber. In comparison, Abu Mamdouh was taciturn.

The traffic was heavy. At the narrow, shaky Allenby Bridge over the Jordan River, the natural border between Palestine and Trans-Jordan, movement was imperceptible. Thousands of people were lined up alongside trucks and private cars, waiting to be checked and admitted into Trans-Jordan. Abu Mamdouh shook his head and cursed all those responsible for the tragedy. Yasmin sighed with impatience. The heat was so unbearable in the car, they had to open the four doors. But that brought no relief and proved a great nuisance to the pedestrians, so they had to close them again. The children in the car grew restless. Yousif’s mother was sympathetic and commended them on their good behavior.

“God bless you, you’ve been angels,” she told them, trying to take the baby from his mother’s arms. The baby kicked her with his bare little feet and began to cry.

Bemused, Yousif watched his mother. Her flushed face worried him.

“I can’t take much more of this,” she complained, constantly fanning herself with her handkerchief. “Get out, son, and see what you can do. Tell them I’m sick. Do something. Makram, give someone five pounds. Get us out of here, please. I’m burning up.”

“Mother!” Yousif said. “No one is privileged here. And stop talking about money. Where do you think you are?”

“The arrogance, the conceit of the Zionists is incredible,” Abu Mamdouh reflected, smoldering like a chained lion. “They think they can come back after two thousand years and just take our homes, our farms?”

“And throw us out?” Yousif agreed.

“Especially,” Abu Mamdouh added, “when we had nothing to do with their leaving in the first place.”