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.”
Yasmin looked at her son, disappointed. “You ought to be thinking of your father, whose body was laid in the middle of this floor only ten days ago.”
Yousif swallowed hard. “Wherever he is, he’ll understand . . .” he said, biting his lower lip.
“For your sake, I hope so,” Yasmin said, looking weary.
For the next half-hour the three went round and round. Yousif mentioned that he had seen Anton Taweel clutch his own chest in front of the church. What if he died before Yousif and Salwa got married? Wouldn’t that complicate matters? Might not Salwa become guilt ridden? Might she not even change her mind about Yousif altogether? Uncle Boulus agreed that anything was possible. Yasmin was in a dither. She rubbed her own temples. She just couldn’t see how they could sing and dance and have wedding ceremonies while they were still in mourning. Wouldn’t they be criticized? Wasn’t Dr. Safi worthy of respect in death? Was she to be denied the opportunity to attend her only son’s wedding—wearing bright colors and smiling?
Yousif’s heart ached. He patted his mother’s hand, trying to comfort her.
“Give to each his due,” her brother counseled. “You gave Jamil all his rights when he died, now you give the living their rights.”
Brother and sister traded looks that were full of despair and understanding. With a hand gesture, born out of resignation if not frustration, Uncle Boulus seemed to tell Yasmin, “Let him go.”
There was a long pause.
“We’re forgetting,” Uncle Boulus said, his voice lowered, “that we’re in the midst of war. Let’s get this whole thing behind us and think about tomorrow. Bigger troubles are still ahead. Come to think of it, the wedding might not be a bad idea after all. If Anton Taweel is having chest pains, he might die. At least he’ll have Yousif to look after his family. If you die, Yasmin—”
“God forbid,” Yousif said.
“Well, these things happen,” Uncle Boulus said, clicking his masbaha and waxing philosophical. “Especially in war. I might die, you might die . . . who knows. Well, if Yasmin dies, Salwa will look after you.”
Yasmin sighed sharply. “All right, you can get married,” she told her son, looking him straight in the eye. “But promise me one thing, let’s keep it simple and dignified. No fanfare. No hoopla. You hear me, Yousif? Dignified.”
“Sure, Mother,” Yousif said, a prey of tangled emotions. “Whatever you wish.”
At that moment, Fatima walked in the front door, a basket of groceries on her head. She had to stoop a little to enter. Then she unloaded herself, placing the basket next to the door. Her face was flushed.
“No one is talking about politics anymore,” Fatima said, like a bubbling brook. “The whole town is talking about you, Yousif.”
Yousif was curious. “What are they saying?”
“That you are another Majnoon Laila,” Fatima answered, wiping her face.
Yousif knew what that meant. They were referring to the seventh-century poet who had gone mad for having loved and lost. Mad or not, Yousif was glad he had stopped the wedding.
“Majnoon Salwa,” Yousif corrected her, smiling. “And proud of it.”
“Don’t you worry,” Fatima said, sitting down on the edge of a chair and taking a deep breath. “I gave them a piece of my mind.”
“Who’s them?” Yousif asked.
“Everybody. At the butcher’s shop. At the baker’s. Throughout the souk.”
“What did you tell them?” Yousif prodded.
“I told them when the dust settles down Anton Taweel is going to be glad the way things turned out. He ought to be on his hands and knees, thanking God for what you did.”
“You told them all that?” Yousif asked, amused.
“Sure did,” Fatima boasted, the gap between her front teeth looking wide.
Then Yasmin told Fatima that they had decided to go ahead with the wedding. Fatima jumped to her feet, both her hands cupping her mouth as though she were ready to start ululating.
“No singing,” Yasmin begged.
“No singing?” Fatima asked, crestfallen. “The doctor, Allah yirhamu, wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Not now, please,” Yasmin said, her eyes misty.
To change the mood, Yousif smiled at Fatima. “I may not be able to keep my promise,” he teased her, “and buy you that embroidered dress so soon.”
“Yes, you can,” Fatima answered, bending down to pick up her basket. “I know a woman who has just the dress I want and she’d sell it to me in no time.”
All smiled—except Yasmin. But even she finally looked as though a burden had been lifted off her shoulders. And Yousif was pleased.
“Come on, Yousif,” Uncle Boulus said, rising and pocketing his masbaha. “Time is running short and we have a lot to do.”
During the day, Yousif and his uncle assembled relatives (such as Salman but not Basim, who could not be located) and a group of dignitaries (such as the mayor and Fouad Jubran and Dr. Fareed Afifi) to help them smoothe Anton Taweel’s ruffled feathers and to officially ask him for Salwa’s hand.
When they arrived at the Taweels’ house, about seven o’clock, awaiting them was a similarly large group of relatives and prominent people, including Father Samaan, who had won Yousif’s heart for having refused to be railroaded into marrying Salwa to Adel Farhat.
As the arriving party went around the large living room shaking hands with the men who had stood to greet them, Yousif’s heart fluttered. He was apprehensive about shaking Anton Taweel’s hand. Only yesterday, Yousif remembered, Anton had wanted to strangle him. Being the youngest of his group, Yousif was the last in line. As he shook other men’s hands, he kept his eyes on Salwa’s father, who looked like a man ready to receive condolences rather than the good wishes of those who wanted his daughter for one of their sons.
Before he knew it, Yousif had his hand in Anton Taweel’s hand. It was a lukewarm handshake. Their lips barely parted. Yousif was undecided whether to simply say hello or to apologize. Nor could he tell what Salwa’s father uttered when his lips moved. But Yousif didn’t care. He was only glad it was all over with and he was now moving on to shake another man’s hand.
For about five minutes the conversation centered on health, weather, and politics. They all agreed that the outcome of the war was anybody’s guess. Yousif sat, his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands folded in his lap. Then he heard his Uncle Boulus clear his throat. The whole gathering simmered down.
“I’m honored,” Uncle Boulus began, his voice raised so that everyone could hear, “to speak on behalf of my nephew and my sister and the whole Safi family—and to ask you, Anton Taweel, for your daughter Salwa’s hand in marriage to our nephew Yousif. We hope he will be worthy of your acceptance. We also hope that in time he’ll be a worthy addition to your family that you may regard him as your son. Nothing will gladden my heart and your heart more, I hope, than to see these two young innocent people, Salwa and Yousif, who seem fated for each other, and who come from two honorable families that have been bonded by friendship over the years—nothing will please us all, I must say, than to see them receive your blessings and all your good wishes.”
Silence echoed. Anton Taweel looked rigid, haughty. Yousif was impressed by his uncle’s impassioned plea on his behalf, although he regarded such flowery language and unabashed sentimentality a bit archaic. He couldn’t help but wonder if the words had been premeditated or whether they just gushed out of his uncle spontaneously.
Salwa’s father remained solemn, noncommittal—even though he was the one who had demanded an early wedding. Till the last second, Yousif thought, Anton was playing hard. But the mayor and the priest and other men were urging him to give his consent.
“Barek,” a chorus of men said. “Go ahead. Give them your blessings.”
Finally, Anton Taweel, black pouches under his eyes, looked around. “Mabrook,” he said, without enthusiasm. “May their wedding be blessed.”
Men cheered. The word mabrook resounded around the room. Again before he knew it, Yousif was urged to get up and embrace his “new uncle” and kiss him on both cheeks and beg forgiveness. This Yousif did with exaggerated formality—glad that no one had asked him to kiss Salwa’s father’s hand out of respect and as an admission of having done him wrong. Yousif was determined to balk at such an obsequious gesture, should it be suggested, at the risk of alienating his future father-in-law one more time.
While other men recited platitudes such as “it will blow over” and “all’s well that ends well,” Yousif remained standing in the room, wanting to get Anton’s attention.
“Excuse me,” Yousif said, nervous, “may I have your permission to see Salwa . . . now that we’re going to get married.”
Men all around him guffawed. They said it was about time he saw her. They said the poor fellow had waited long enough. They said he couldn’t believe his dream was coming true. Eventually, the good cheer infected the guarded Anton. On his face flickered a faint smile.
“I guess you may,” Anton said, sitting down.
Yousif dashed out of the room as Father Samaan began telling a story about the man in Genesis who plowed his uncle’s fields for seven years in order to win his daughter’s hand—only to lose her to someone else and to start another seven years of hard labor.
Salwa was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, her arms folded. Her mother was there too, tending two large brass pots of coffee. They seemed to have been expecting him.
“Welcome to the family,” Imm Akram said, breaking into smiles and extending both arms.
“The honor is mine,” Yousif said, embracing her and kissing her on both cheeks.
“Your persistence has certainly paid off. Mabrook.”
“Thanks,” Yousif said, then turned to Salwa.
There was a nervous pause. Salwa was blushing. Then the mother slipped out of the room.
For a moment Yousif and Salwa continued to stare at each other. Then he rushed to sweep her off her feet. There was a fraction of hesitation on her part, then she fell into his arms. Every cell in his body rejoiced. Salwa was a willing partner, letting him mould her to his body, smell and feel her hair, luxuriate in her warmth. But when he tried to kiss her, she turned her head away.
“After all we’ve been through,” he whispered, “you deny me a kiss?”
“Not yet,” she demurred. “Not here . . .”
“I’ve risked my life for this moment.”
“Don’t tempt your fate,” she murmured, looking in his eyes.
“For you I’ll tempt the gods,” he muttered, their cheeks touching.
Suddenly Salwa succumbed and their lips brushed like feathers. He became intoxicated; she melted in his arms as the kiss deepened and continued. Their bodies fit so well, her mouth tasted so good, he wanted the moment to last. Never in his life had he felt any better. Or happier. Or more alive.
After they had disengaged, they just held hands. Heat waves were still ripping through Yousif’s body.
“I love you,” he said, looking at her eyes.
“Ih cha na,” she answered, smiling.
Suddenly they both burst out laughing. Salwa had quoted from the story of a nitwit who was madly in love. When he met the object of his desires he poured his heart to her in the most “poetic” clichés he could muster. He compared her to the moon, to the sun. He called her dewy-eyed, lithe-limbed like a gazelle, tall and elegant like a palm tree. Her skin was like marble, her kisses sweet like honey. He was a harp and she was the finger which plucked and caressed the strings to make music. He loved her, he adored her, he worshiped her, he’d crawl to hell for her. To which the simple country girl answered: ih cha na—me too.
Yousif couldn’t believe his luck. The most beautiful girl in the world was his. She was there laughing with him and holding his hand. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
“I’m in a daze,” Yousif said.
“You were so brave at the church,” she told him. “When I heard your voice and turned around and saw you, I knew you were the one for me.”
Yousif feigned disappointment. “Only then you knew?”
“I just hope I’ll love you for the rest of my life as much as I loved you at that moment.”
“You’ll love me more. But just imagine! Now you’re mine, mine.”
“And you’re my hero.”
“Do you blame me for being in a daze?” he said, hugging her again.
“What I can’t believe is my father’s reversal,” she confessed.
“Me, too,” Yousif agreed. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
Her large eyes focused on him. “I’m glad you’re so happy,” she said.
“Tell me, where would you like to go on the honeymoon?”
“Honeymoon! Can you believe we’re even discussing it? Right now I’m supposed to be on honeymoon with—”
“Sshhhh,” he said, touching her lips. “Don’t mention his name. He never existed.”
“I promise. And I don’t care where we go. I just want to be with you.”
Again they fell into each other’s arms. The coffee on the fire boiled over and hissed. But they didn’t care. There was no shyness now. It was a kiss that resonated in the depth of their souls.
On Tuesday, Yousif had his father’s bank accounts transferred to his name. On Wednesday morning, Adel Farhat came to Fouad Jubran’s office bearing an invoice in his pocket. It was long and detailed. But one glance at the bottom line and Yousif knew that he would never pay it—even if he could.
The man must be crazy. Five hundred and eighty pounds!!! Yousif passed the sheet of paper to Uncle Boulus, who was sitting next to him. His uncle studied it carefully, but not one muscle in his face moved. Yousif waited for someone to speak. If it took till the end of eternity, he was not about to break the icy silence.
Big hulking Fouad Jubran, his jacket draped on the back of his chair, cleared his throat. “Figures can be adjusted,” he said, opening a new pack of cigarettes. “A fair settlement can always be reached if the two parties want to settle their dispute. But what’s at stake here is more important than money. I’d like for us to enter the negotiations in good faith and leave the room shaking hands. Ardallah is a small town. We’re destined to live together for a long time—if this damn war lets us. I consider all of us one family.”
“Life is too short to carry a grudge,” Uncle Boulus said, taking out his masbaha.
“Absolutely,” the attorney said, offering them cigarettes and ringing his bell for some coffee.
Yousif watched Adel Farhat’s face. It looked like a slab of granite. The attorney might as well have been addressing people in another room.
“But it seems to me,” Uncle Boulus said, “that this list here is a bit excessive, don’t you think?”
“I can document every item,” Adel Farhat protested, one leg tucked under the chair and the other one extended. “But I don’t think I have to. My integrity should not be questioned.”
“Of course not,” the attorney hastened.
“No one is questioning your integrity,” Uncle Boulus said. “I’m sure it cost you this much.”
“Why is it excessive then?” Adel asked. “If you agree that it must have cost me this much, pay me and let me go.”
“I meant excessive,” Uncle Boulus explained, “in the sense that you expect Yousif to pay for the whole affair.”
“He ruined the whole affair, didn’t he?” Adel said, mocking.
There was another awkward silence. Yousif watched the other three, giving them a chance to air their views. They could argue all they wanted but he would pay what he thought was fair and not one piaster more. At the same time, deep in his heart he felt sorry for Adel. The man’s humiliation was etched over his face like a scar across the firmament.
“Yousif, what do you think?” Fouad Jubran asked.
“First I want to apologize to Adel,” Yousif said, his tone oozing with confidence.
“Tell him apologies not accepted,” Adel said, his face turning red.
“I meant you no harm. It could’ve been anyone—”
“Tell him to get to the point,” Adel demanded, his anger rising.
Yousif wanted to look in the man’s eyes and tell him that it was nothing personal, that Adel just happened to be in his and Salwa’s way. But, withdrawn and hostile, Adel Farhat never once looked at him. Finally, Fouad Jubran and Uncle Boulus told Yousif with looks and gestures to forget about the apologies and go on with the negotiations.
“From what I hear,” Yousif said, “no wedding in this town ever cost this much. A few cost around five hundred pounds, the rest cost a whole lot less.”
“See?” Adel Farhat said, with a pious smirk. “He’s questioning my integrity.”
“No, I’m not,” Yousif said, anxious to get Adel’s attention. “What I was trying to tell you is that I don’t think I should pay for the gold watch, the bracelets, the crosses, the diamond ring . . .”
“What’s he paying for then?” Adel said, looking at the attorney. “The wedding invitations and postage? Ridiculous.”
“I didn’t say that either,” Yousif defended himself. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”
“It seems to me you both have a point,” the attorney said, like a true peacemaker, Yousif thought. “But the way I see it, the expenses can be divided into two columns: perishables and non-perishables. Used or not used.”
Yousif jumped up and snatched the invoice off the desk. “He wants five hundred and eighty pounds,” he said, ready to do some mental calculating. “Let’s see now. Three hundred and forty of it went for a diamond ring and jewelry. It sounds like a lot, but that’s OK. Another hundred and ten for topcoat, dresses, shoes, perfumes, underwear, etc. If we add all this together, we come up with four hundred and fifty pounds. And if we subract it from the total he’s asking for, we end up with a hundred and thirty pounds. I don’t know exactly for what, but I’m willing to pay it and forget about the whole mess.”
“During the engagement period, she used some of it,” Adel protested, rising to his feet. “Then there were the engagement and wedding expenses.”
“That’s why I’m willing to pay the hundred and thirty pounds. But that’s all.”
It was the first concrete offer and Yousif got the impression that the ball was now rolling.
“It’s a good start,” Fouad Jubran said, reaching for a pencil and a pad.
“It’s not a start at all,” Yousif corrected him. “It’s all I’m willing to pay.”
Adel rose in a huff. “Then I’ll meet him in court,” he threatened.
“With pleasure,” Yousif said, unblinking. “Ten attorneys won’t cost me as much as he wants me to pay. I’ll show him how to tie up his money.”
But after two rounds of coffee, three ashtrays full of cigarette butts, two huddles between Yousif and his uncle, and a room clouded with smoke, Fouad Jubran and Uncle Boulus ironed out an agreement whereby Adel Farhat would turn over every item on his list and Yousif would pay the entire bill. Adel Farhat was apparently glad to unload everything he had bought for Salwa. Such items, he must have rationalized, were jinxed and he wasn’t interested in keeping any. Which was God-sent for Yousif. After all, a bride required a diamond ring, jewelry, and a trousseau from the groom. The deal they had just concluded was bound to save Yousif time.
Yousif whipped out a checkbook from his hip pocket and wrote a check for that amount. It was the first check he had ever written in his life and he signed it with a flourish. He was buying not only Salwa’s freedom—but their wedding bliss.
“You bring the goods to Mr. Jubran,” Yousif told Adel, “and he’ll give you your money.” Then he handed the check to the attorney.
Adel Farhat agreed and rose to leave. But he seemed to have something on his mind.
“What is it?” Yousif asked.
Adel ignored him. “I’ll bring the items I have. Not the items already in Salwa’s possession.”
Yousif understood. Because Salwa had aborted the wedding to Adel Farhat, she was supposed to return to him everything he had given her. And because he had settled up with Yousif, he was in turn supposed to deliver everything to him. It would be a tangled affair.
“Oh, sure,” the attorney agreed. “No need to bother with too many exchanges. Yousif and Salwa are going to be married to each other, you know.”
Adel Farhat’s coloring, which already had an unhealthy cast, turned bluish. Yousif knew that Adel was aware that they were getting married. Yet hearing the news again must have upset him. It tugged at Yousif’s heart that his rival was so unhappy. But, then, no one ever said losing Salwa was easy. It would crush anybody.