On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

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