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. Yousif could tell that she did not mean to ignore him but was waiting for a pause to introduce him to everyone at the table. He looked around for a chair. He would not leave until he had an opportunity to watch the young men’s glances and determine the drift of their intentions. Salwa’s mother noticed that he was still there 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.
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,
