On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

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.