the doctor said, pouting. “Was the skin broken? Did he bleed at all?”
“See,” Yousif answered, pointing to a spot of blood on his shirt.
“That’s no good,” the doctor said, stirring his stubby brush in a fancy cup of scented shaving soap.
“And that old fool Abu Khalil kept blowing his nose and working on Amin’s arm without washing his hands.”
“I’ll have to stop by and give him a shot,” the doctor said, lathering his face.
Five minutes later the three-member family sat in the small dining room for dinner. The gloom was palpable.
“How did Amin break his arm?” his father finally asked, wiping his glasses with a linen napkin.
“A stone wall collapsed under him.”
“Where were you?” his mother wanted to know.
“In the woods. By the Roman arch.”
Both parents looked at each other and then at Yousif.
“What were you doing there?” his father inquired.
“Following some tourists. At first they looked like lovers. Amin, Isaac, and I thought it would be fun to see what they were up to.”
His mother looked flabbergasted. “It would be fun?” she asked.
“We thought we might catch them kissing or—” he admitted.
His father eyed him sternly. “I’m dismayed. Didn’t it occur to you that you might’ve been intruding?”
Yousif felt embarrassed, but he was too excited to let them reprimand him.
“But wait,” he said. “What these tourists were really up to was espionage.”
Again his parents looked at him in amazement. “You certainly are full of news today,” his mother told him, passing a small basket of bread.
“I’m convinced they were Zionist spies,” Yousif insisted. “Why did they need cameras and binoculars and tripods and duffle bags if they were just on a romantic outing?”
“What did you think they needed them for?” his father asked, chewing.
“I thought they were surveying these hills for military purposes,” Yousif said. “But Amin fell and we lost them. I wish to God he hadn’t.”
Throughout the meal Yousif told them about the compass and where he had found it. To him, it was conclusive evidence that those who dropped it were more than just ordinary Jewish tourists.
His mother shook her head at his seemingly incredible theories. “You need to take a shower and get dressed quickly. It’s a quarter to seven already.”
“Dressed for what?” Yousif asked, glancing at his wrist watch.
“The special show at Al-Andalus Hotel. Have you forgotten?”
“It totally slipped my mind,” Yousif said. “Isaac mentioned it this morning.”
He had meant to go back and be with Amin, but the thought of joining his parents at the hotel garden seemed irresistible. Besides, there was a good chance Salwa might be there. He would be able to tell her about Amin and his afternoon adventure. He might even get a chance to dance with her. For the last two weeks he had been tutoring her ten- and twelve-year old brothers, Akram and Zuhair. Every time he went to their house, he had been able to see her. But seeing her was nothing compared to their dancing together.
Yousif finished showering and dressing long before his parents. He sat in the living room worrying about Amin, trying to listen to the news, and wondering where the spies had gone.
Why had they come to survey hills and valleys so close to his home? Certainly there was no big Jewish community in Ardallah that warranted protection. He had never thought of his hometown in military terms. Now that his imagination was ignited, he began to find all kinds of reasons why Ardallah would be considered a natural target for the enemy. It overlooked many towns and villages. It was only ten or twelve miles to the airport in Lydda. It was close to the Sarafand Military Camp. Above all, it towered over the highway connecting Jaffa and Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. The more he thought about it the more convinced he was that sooner or later his hometown would be in imminent danger. Ardallah was not only strategic—it was essential to whoever wanted to dominate the region.
He saw Fatima clearing up the dishes in the dining room. He heard his father fussing about a silk tie he wanted to wear.
“Ask Yousif if he wore it last,” his mother was saying. “Or let him help you find it. I can’t be bothered now.”
Over strains of music drifting from the radio, Yousif heard his father sliding back the hangers in his closet. He knew from experience that his father would not settle until he found what he was looking for. Although generally easy-going and congenial, in some respects his father was a difficult man. He had a strong streak of vanity. Twelve years older than his wife, he was quite particular about the way he looked. And if he had a vice, it was his inordinate spending on clothes. He had dozens of suits, all tailored. He had dozens of shirts, all silk. He had dozens of ties, all imported. Every time a friend traveled abroad or to some Arab capital, especially Beirut or Cairo, the doctor would ask him to bring him the finest of ties or shirts. British wool was a fetish with him.
When they were ready to leave they looked to Yousif like a handsome family, elegantly scented and immaculately dressed. He himself wore a gray suit and a solid blue tie he had borrowed from his father’s collection. His father wore a blue suit with striped tie and a puffed-up white handkerchief in his small pocket. In his hand was his favorite pipe, a golden meerschaum he smoked on special occasions. His mother wore a knee-length, violet chiffon dress, a diamond watch, and a diamond necklace. Her slim body seemed to complement her husband’s slightly bulging stomach. Her pitch-black hair, fair complexion, large hazel eyes, delicate features, and sweet disposition made her one of the loveliest women ever to have left Jerusalem. Even her twin sister, Aunt Widad, did not begin to compare with her in looks or temperament. They were hardly identical.
“You look terrific,” Yousif complimented both parents. “But I wish,” he added with a glint in his eyes, “father would worry about his health as much as he does about his clothes.”
“What do you mean?” his father said in a huff. “There’s nothing wrong with my health.”
“I meant this,” Yousif laughed, tapping his father on the stomach.
The normally reserved doctor smiled. “It’s your mother’s cooking,” he said.
“They call it kersh el-wajaha,” his wife teased, stepping on the front balcony. “The bulge of the rich.”
“Only we’re not that rich,” Yousif said, waiting for his father to follow his mother.
“We have a lot to be thankful for,” she said, growing somber.
“Yes, indeed,” her husband concurred, joining her on the balcony.
Yousif shut the iron front door and locked it with a small key. Then he followed his
