chant. Captain Malloy smiled broadly and attempted a few words in Arabic, his pink complexion turning red. He even stopped and watched the singing and dancing, tilted his neck backward, and nodded his head to greet the men above. The town’s elders, including the mayor and his council, lined up to shake hands with the British guest who towered almost a foot above them.
Cousin Salman walked toward Yousif, frowning. Yousif read his thoughts. Ardallah’s bluest sky could not conceal from these two the troubles that were gathering over Palestine in 1947. Nor did they miss hearing the rumbling of conflict between Arabs and Jews over whose ancestral land was Palestine.
“Good thing Basim isn’t around,” Salman whispered. “Look at them scrambling to meet that Englishman.”
“Can you believe it?” Yousif asked. “And I don’t care if he’s the chief-of-police. He’s still an Englishman. Look how we receive him. Like royalty. It’s disgusting.”
Salman nodded. “No one hates the English as much as Basim,” he said. “He thinks they are the root of all evil.”
“He’s right,” Yousif said. “Where is Basim anyway?”
“Who knows,” Salman said. “Just don’t tell him how some of these men behaved.”
“Thank God my father kept his karameh—his dignity.”
THREE WEEKS later the family moved into their new five-bedroom house. Ever since they had settled in their new residence, there had been an uninterrupted stream of visitors bearing gifts. They received enough sets of ornate coffee cups and ceramic ashtrays and crystal vases and silver trays and imported table lamps to fill a small shop.
One night Yousif stood with his parents on the balcony. In the prized aviary the birds were singing themselves to sleep. “The one word I keep hearing from people when they talk about the house,” Yousif said, “is magnificent. And I really believe it is.”
Colonnaded and well-lit all around, it brought to mind the Dome of the Rock when viewed from the Mount of Olives. It thrilled Yousif to know that people actually drove long distances just to see it.
“There’s one more thing for me to do in this life,” his father said, puffing on his pipe and pressing his wife to his side.
“To see Yousif married?” his wife guessed.
Yousif was taken aback, and the three exchanged glances.
“No,” the doctor said, smiling. “We have plenty of time for that. Yousif still has a lot of studying to do.”
His father was referring, Yousif knew, not only to his last year in high school, but also to medical school, which the doctor hoped his son would attend.
“I wish I had a brother,” Yousif said, “so he could carry on in your footsteps, father.”
“We do too,” Yasmin said, sighing. “But we have no right to question God’s will. If He wanted us to have another child, we would’ve.”
Yousif could sense that his parents were disappointed but resigned to the fact that life had denied them other children. Living in a world that exalted big families, they too would have welcomed and enjoyed a bigger brood.
“When I think of all those who don’t have any children,” Yasmin said, “I’m thankful we have you. Look at Dr. Afifi and Jihan. Look at my brother Boulus and Hilaneh. What wouldn’t they give for someone to carry on their names?”
“That’s true,” Yousif said. “Nevertheless, you are disappointed, are you not?”
Yasmin put her arm around her son’s waist. “We’d be both lying if we said we weren’t. There were times when I was bitter. All my life I looked forward to a house full of children and grandchildren. I wanted to cook for them. I wanted to open my arms for them when they returned from schools. I wanted to knit sweaters and scarfs and gloves for them. I wanted to shower them with gifts and love. But . . .”
“Don’t forget,” his father said, chuckling, “it took five years for your ‘majesty’ to arrive.”
“But you made up for all that we may have missed,” Yasmin told her son, giving him an affectionate squeeze. “You brought us joy that wiped out all our sadness.”
“Even if I don’t become a doctor?” Yousif teased.
“No matter,” she told him. “We’ve always been and we’ll always be proud of you.”
Should the troubles escalate into war, Yousif thought, it would be impossible for him to even contemplate leaving for school. He would stay and defend his country from the Zionists. How he would serve he still did not know. And if the threat of war was removed, he would rather be a lawyer than a doctor. He hated to disappoint his father, but he had no interest in medicine whatsoever; he was squeamish at the sight of blood.
“I guess,” Yousif said to his father, “the one thing left for you to do now is build the hospital.”
“Yes, that indeed,” the doctor agreed. “But construction work being so expensive nowadays, I don’t see how this town could afford it. Yet we can’t afford not to have it either.”
His wife snuggled against him. “It doesn’t have to be big. If you wait too long you may never be able to build it.”
The doctor nodded. “It needs to be at least five times the size of this house, and you know how much this cost.”
“How much?” Yousif asked, holding the railing and looking at the opposite mountain. From a distance he could hear an orchestra playing at the Rowda Hotel’s garden. He could imagine vacationers dancing under the full moon.
“Nearly ten thousand pounds,” the doctor answered. Then, turning to his wife, he added, “What do you think? You keep up with the figures more than I do.”
His wife shrugged her shoulder. “I don’t care. It’s worth every bit of it.”
“That we know,” her husband agreed. “In any case, today I contributed another hundred pounds to the hospital fund.”
“Again!” his wife protested.
Her husband looked at her reproachfully. “I should’ve given more, but right now that’s all we can afford.”
“It’s enough,” his wife assured him.
“I wouldn’t say that,” the doctor replied, stroking her back. “Some paid as much on lesser occasions.”
Yousif knew what his parents were saying. Ever since his father started the community fund to build a hospital, people had contributed at all happy occasions: weddings, childbirths, baptisms, the building of a new house, returning from abroad. Weddings had always been a good source of income, but of late people had learned to make donations in the loving memory of their deceased. How many times had Yousif seen his father take out his small black book to register five pounds here or ten pounds there?
What would the political troubles ahead do to all these plans? The thought nagged at the back of Yousif’s mind. Was there a solution that could satisfy Arabs and Jews? He would not bring up the subject tonight with his parents; there was no need to spoil their happiness.
