Suddenly there was a flurry of activity. Everyone stood up, silent. A laborer was ready to haul the first leather bucket full of cement up one of the many ladders placed against the exterior of the house. But before he would start, the crowd waited expectantly for the Roman Catholic priests to say a prayer.
As everyone watched, Fathers Mikhail and Yacoub put their vestments around their necks and smoothed them down their chests, looking resplendent with their large crosses. The priests alternated saying short prayers, giving thanks to God for all his blessings and exhorting all the saints and angels to look after the Safi family and make their home free of jealous eyes or evil spirits. Their prayers were augmented with a profusion of incense from the two large censers they kept swinging back and forth over Yousif’s head, over the heads of his parents, the guests, over the cement mixers, the hands of the laborers, over the balconies and doorsteps, and throughout the finished but unplastered, unpartitioned house itself.
The last to be blessed was the laborer at the bottom of the ladder who was poised to haul the first bucket. No sooner had the priests stopped praying than the laborer lifted the leather bucket to his side and began to ascend. The moment his sole touched the first rung, a woman’s voice burst out in a ululation halfway between a yodel and an aria. She had a powerful voice that managed to startle quite a few. Yousif turned to look. An unsuspecting man standing by the singing woman had both of his hands over his ears. His mouth puckered. His eyes closed. At the end of the customary four verses, the woman began trilling. She pursed her lips as if she were about to whistle, while the tip of her tongue darted left and right like a piston. She electrified the crowd; they burst into applause.
Other women now broke out in song. The men atop the walls of the building and those mixing and transporting the cement started a chant that Yousif knew from experience would last for hours. The eighteen or twenty workers, reminiscent of those who had toiled to build the great Pyramids, were divided into two groups: those on the ground and those on top. One would start a verse and the other would repeat it, and so on and so forth until more than a hundred verses had been exhausted. But the robust, rhythmic, joyous singing was uplifting to Yousif.
Yousif stood by his parents and put his arm around his mother. Well-wishers approached them and shook their hands.
“Mabrook,” they all said, smiling. “Congratulations.”
There were hugs and kisses. The guests were full of compliments and good sayings.
“It’s a beautiful house.”
“May you see nothing but happiness in it.”
“Mabrook. May we visit you next at your son’s wedding.”
“May your son fill your house with grandchildren.”
Yousif broke away to tend to his duties. He rushed inside to be with Amin and Isaac. The three were soon joined by Salman and other young relatives who helped carry out trays of drinks. Glasses were touched and the guests moved about, sampling the variety of maza laid out on the tables.
The maid, Fatima, came out of the old house carrying on her head a large tray of stuffed lamb. She was followed by two women carrying two more lambs. All three were headed toward the neighborhood bakery to have them cooked and browned. At the sight of the lambs the men on top of the house cheered louder—and within moments the festivities increased to a new level of gaiety.
By 11:30, no less than forty or fifty women began to arrive from all directions carrying manasef on their heads. This substantial meal, Yousif knew, was most appropriate on such occasions. All his life he had seen some of the town’s women carry such large wooden bowls filled with layers of thin sheets of bread soaked in delicious maraka, topped with heaps of rice and fried pine nuts, all covered with chunks of spiced lamb meat.
This was the meal to be proud of—the one to serve a multitude of honored guests. Normally eleven or twelve such bowls would arrive on similar occasions. Today, Yousif counted up to thirty and stopped. They were so many, half the town could have been fed. They were brought by Christian families and Muslim families; by rich and poor; and by quite a few patients of Dr. Safi’s, grateful to be alive. Of the three Jewish families in town, the family of Moshe and Sarah Sha’lan, Isaac’s parents, was the closest to the doctor and his family, and they too chose to participate in the celebration. Instead of contributing the usual mansaf, they had ordered two large trays of kinafeh from Nablus—a town twenty miles to the northeast and famous for its pastries—and paid a taxi driver an outrageous fare to drive all the way and pick them up. The arrival of the two reddish trays was met with more cheers.
For Yousif the bacchanal was incomplete until he saw Salwa Taweel arrive with her tall, handsome parents. In her yellow dress, she stood out like a goddess. Yousif had been in love with her ever since she came to his house, almost two years ago. She and her mother had been attending a women’s meeting. That day Salwa wore a white cashmere sweater and a brown pleated skirt, her hair tied in a bun behind her head. She was only fifteen then, but was as tall and mature looking as a girl of eighteen. From that moment her image had not left his mind. One day he would move heaven and earth to marry her, of this he was certain; but until then he knew he would have to endure all the agonies and obstacles of a romance in a sheltered society.
Yousif had been carrying a tray of cold beer around the garden when he spied Salwa. He stood frozen, unable to take his eyes off her. He could not move until she looked around. Then he beamed, causing Amin and Isaac and some of the men to laugh at him. Embarrassed, he moved on but his foot got caught in the leg of a chair and he almost stumbled. The beer bottles on the tray began to bang and rattle.
At noon, a black limousine arrived, escorted by two jeeps full of British soldiers. Yousif watched many of the older men in the garden rise and line up to receive the dignitaries. He saw his father also weave his way through the crowd to welcome them. A very tall, uniformed man, with cap and baton in hand, stepped out of the limousine, which had been opened for him by a slender chauffeur with a birthmark the color of raw liver on his right cheek.
Yousif recognized the distinguished man with the matted hair as Captain Malloy, the British chief-of-police for the entire district, which consisted of Ardallah and thirty villages. The smallish, bespectacled man who got out next was the Appellate Court Judge Hamdi Azzam. The rest of the retinue was made up of British first and second lieutenants, who stood out like gold statues compared to the dark Arabs.
These men had been to Yousif’s house before on religious holidays. Still, he felt conflicting emotions at seeing the Britishmen again. He knew the troubles brewing between the Arabs and the Jews would not be there had Britain not acquiesced to the Zionist demands. Should a representative of that colonial power be welcome at an Arab home? On the other hand, could a hospitable Arab turn a guest away?
“I’m sorry we’re late,” Captain Malloy said to Yousif’s father.
“You’re welcome any time,” the doctor answered, shaking his hand.
“The District Commissioner planned to be here,” Malloy explained. “But at the last minute something came up and he couldn’t make it. He asked me to convey to you his regrets and his congratulations. Mabrook.”
“Thank you,” the doctor said.
“The house is truly magnificent.”
“You’re very kind.”
Yousif did not care for his father’s politeness, even though he knew it was no more than formal good manners. At least his father was not kissing Britain’s ring, nor was he fawning around her representative as others were doing. What was wrong with these Arab men?
