On the Hills of God. Ibrahim Fawal

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.

5

      Amin’s uncle Hassan died on Monday morning and was buried in Gaza late that afternoon. But Amin and his father didn’t return to Ardallah till Wednesday. When Yousif happened to run into Amin in the souk, talking to Isaac in front of his father’s shop, he was alarmed to see that Amin’s left hand, particularly the fingernails, had turned bluish.

      “Amin,” Yousif gasped, “you shouldn’t be walking around like this. Father needs to take a look at you. We’ll go together.”

      Amin refused, saying that he had some errands to run for his mother. But if his hand didn’t improve for another day, he’d certainly have it checked.

      “Nonsense,” Yousif said. “Come on, let’s go.”

      Isaac and his father urged Amin to go along with Yousif, convinced that his hand required immediate attention.

      “It must be worse than I thought,” he said, inspecting his unsightly hand.

      “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re running a fever,” Yousif said, leading him through the crowd.

      The doctor was not at his clinic, and Nurse Laila didn’t know where he was. All she knew was that he was making house calls, and she didn’t know how to reach him. Most of the people didn’t have telephones, she explained. Besides, she didn’t know in which order he’d be seeing his patients.

      “Listen, Laila,” Yousif said, with authority, “you keep on trying to reach Father. Tell him what’s going on. Tell him Amin’s hand looks awful. And you Amin, run along to the house. And don’t stop anywhere, please. In the meantime, I’ll fetch your father. Just tell me exactly where he’s working.”

      Following Amin’s directions, Yousif came upon weather-beaten, dusty-looking men chiseling rectangular stones. He followed the sound of hammers until he found Abu Amin supervising a man marking a rock for cutting.

      “Abu Amin,” Yousif said, his voice catching. “I don’t mean to alarm you but I think you ought to go home.”

      Abu Amin, wearing the traditional robe, and dusty from head to toe, studied his face. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his beady eyes frightened.

      “What’s wrong?” Yousif asked, furious. “Couldn’t you tell? Couldn’t you see Amin’s hand was turning bluish?”

      “We had enough worries,” Abu Amin explained, dropping his tools and shaking the dust off his clothes.

      “I’m sorry about your brother. I’m also sorry you didn’t let a doctor in Gaza take a look at Amin’s arm. They do have doctors in Gaza, don’t they?”

      “What is that supposed to mean?” the old man asked, glaring at him.

      “Well, damn it, Amin’s hand is looking awful. And it must’ve looked awful yesterday and the day before that. Didn’t it occur to anyone to—. Oh, forget it.”

      Both rushed down the hill, consumed with anxiety. Yousif’s heart went out to the old man.

      “I’m sorry, Abu Amin,” Yousif said, putting his arm around his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I’m just worried.”

      “Of course you are,” the old man said, taking long strides.

      They arrived at Amin’s house before the doctor. The inside of the house was not just dark—it was gloomy. Amin’s mother and several neighbors had been waiting anxiously. When the doctor finally showed up, they all stood up out of respect. His bag in his hand, the doctor motioned for them to sit down, and headed straight for Amin, who was lying by the window.

      Breathing heavily, the doctor took Amin’s hand in his own. Yousif and the others hovered at a discreet distance.

      “I need more light,” the doctor said.

      Aunt Tamam rushed to bring the kerosene lamp from the dresser under the huge mirror. Large shadows moved across the walls and low ceiling.

      “How long has it been like this?” the doctor asked.

      “It started yesterday,” Amin answered.

      “You didn’t tell me,” Abu Amin said, defending himself. “Really, I had no idea—”

      “Couldn’t you see for yourself?” the doctor asked without looking at the tormented old man.

      “We were busy . . .”

      “Busy, hell,” the doctor said.

      Even from where he was standing, Yousif could see that Amin’s whole hand looked bruised now. It had gotten worse. He felt nauseated just looking at it.

      The doctor reached for his handbag and took out a syringe and a small bottle of medicine. He filled the syringe and rolled up the sleeve of Amin’s good arm. The whole room grew quiet as he made the i njection.

      “Get his pajamas,” the doctor said to the mother, closing his handbag. “I’m taking him to the hospital.”

      The mother gasped and her fingers went to her lips.

      “Hospital?” Abu Amin said, incredulous.

      “Yes, hospital. Let’s not waste time, please.”

      The mother was opening and closing drawers. “Here’s a pair,” she said. “But I don’t have a bag or a newspaper to put them in.”

      “He’ll carry them under his arm,” the doctor said. “Let’s go.”

      “I’m going with you,” Abu Amin said.

      “Me too,” Aunt Tamam added. “I can’t sit here and wait until you come back. Where will you be taking him?”

      “To the Government Hospital in Jaffa,” the doctor said, already at the top of the stairs. “That’s the nearest one.”

      The neighbors muttered blessings on the “good” doctor whom one old woman called an angel of mercy. Yousif heard someone remark that Ardallah should have its own hospital, his father’s pet project. Normally the doctor would welcome such support and address it at length. But now he was too engrossed, too upset, to comment.

      Within minutes the doctor was behind his steering wheel ready to chauffeur Amin and his parents to the hospital. Yousif wanted to go but his father shook his head.

      “Too crowded,” he said, starting the ignition.

      “No it’s not,” Yousif said, opening one of the doors and squeezing himself inside.

      He watched his father shift gears and tear off like a policeman chasing a robber. Normally a cautious driver, the doctor sped through the main street, sending pedestrians and pushcart vendors scampering to the sidewalk. He drove through the old district’s dusty alleys, honking