The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  My father could afford the best medical care in the world. Lina had dragged him to Johns Hopkins, to the Cleveland Clinic, to Paris, to London. Yet he always returned to the just-competent Tin Can. He didn’t have any illusions in that regard. My father was the one who had dubbed him Tin Can, because he was about as effective a doctor as a tin can. But he was family, Aunt Nazek’s brother, my father’s brother Halim’s wife’s brother, and that to my father was more valuable than credentials or prestigious alma maters. In the last few years, he had refused to travel for medical attention and sought only the family doctor.

  I heard my voice speak. “And the doctor told the poor father, ‘The only way to heal your son is to take his heart.’ ”

  Their voices joined mine. “ ‘For the evil jinni has made himself a home there.’ ”

  My father laughed. “Don’t do this to me.” He clutched his heart, pretending pain. “My evil jinni doesn’t like to be amused.”

  “You’re still ever so strange,” my sister said. “What possessed you to think of that? How long has it been since you’ve heard that line? Thirty years?”

  “More than that,” my father said. “My father died thirty years ago, and he wasn’t telling those stories of his by then. It must have been thirty-five, maybe thirty-seven years.” He took a raspy breath. “God, Osama, you were such a young boy then.”

  My grandfather actually told me those stories of his until the day he died. He was a storyteller after all, in spirit and in profession. My father tried at different times to get him to stop filling my head with fanciful narratives, but he never succeeded.

  “What are you staring at?” Lina asked me. “Turn around and look at us.”

  “Look,” I said. “Look here. March has come in.”

  The sky was a perfectly cut aquamarine. As in most Mediterranean cities, Beirut’s late winter can be either stormy and brumal or magnificently clear, smelling of sun-dried laundry.

  “It’s still February, stupid boy,” Lina said. “It’s just a break. The storms will come back.”

  “A glorious break.”

  She came up behind me. “You’re right. It is glorious.” Her arms encircled me, and I felt her weight upon my shoulders.

  “I want to see,” my father whined from his bed. “Help me up. I want to see.” We moved to the bed, helped him sit up, turn around, and stand. He leaned on my sister, the tallest of us three. I dragged the intravenous stand with its deflated balloons behind him as he shuffled the eight steps to the balcony. The cheeks of his rear end jiggled and seemed to droop a little lower with each step. On the balcony, the three of us lined up to admire the false spring and the sun that bathed the sprawling mass of rooftops.

  My father catnapped on the hospital bed. Outside, Lina inhaled each puff of her cigarette as if it were her last. She smoked so rapidly that the tip of the cigarette burned into a miniature red coal. She leaned back against the balcony railing, stared up at the sky. I stared down. On the third floor of the hospital, where illnesses were less grave, two women whispered to each other on their balcony like two pigeons cooing. Across the street, in the distance, stood a house that showed severe signs of aging. From where I stood, its shutters looked rotted.

  “He’s dying,” she said, her voice noncommittal.

  A thick growth of weeds covered the house’s garden. Tall fronds of wild thistle, a few of the tips flowering yellow. “We’re all dying,” I said. “It’s just a matter of when.”

  “Don’t start with your American clichés, please. I can’t deal with that now.” She shook her head, her black hair covering her face for an instant. “He’s dying. Do you hear me?”

  “I hear you.” Just then, a car trumpeted its horn, one long uninterrupted burst. My sister jumped to check that the sliding door was completely shut. “What makes you think this time is different?” I asked. “He’s been dying for so long. He always pulls through.”

  “He won’t always pull through. It gets more difficult each time.”

  “I know that. But why this time?”

  She took a deep breath as she faced me. I could see her chest expand and deflate. My sister was much taller than I. It was with her height that she took after our mother, but Lina was even taller, bigger. Boucher instructed his pupil Fragonard to paint women as if they had no bones. Fragonard could have painted Lina. She was the antithesis of straight lines or angles. Graceful, like my mother.

  I, on the other hand, inherited my teeth from my mother, not her height. We both had two crooked upper front teeth. She never fixed hers, because they accentuated her beauty, the flaw making her appear more human, accessible, more Helen than Aphrodite. She didn’t fix mine, thinking it would also work for me. It didn’t. Alas, unlike her, I had quite a few other flaws.

  “Tin Can gives him three months at most,” Lina said.

  “Tin Can said the same thing four years ago.”

  “You have to be with him to notice the difference. He’s not going to make it, and he knows it.” She sighed and flicked her cigarette onto the street below. “I don’t know what to do.”

  The old house across the street must not have been abandoned. A pile of plastic chairs stood outside the door. A stray electric wire, long and lax, stole power from the main city lines. A pigeon settled on the wire, which drooped and seemed about to snap. The pigeon did not last more than a second or two before flying off.

  “Shall we begin?” Fatima asked on the second night. She sipped her cup. Sated, with full stomachs, the three travelers sat around the small fire.

  “We shall,” Khayal replied. “Would my beloved care for a cup of wine to help smooth the rough edges of this evening?”

  Fatima raised her eyebrows; her eyes asked if Jawad was interested. He nodded. “One cup only for tonight,” she said. “Until you get used to it.”

  And Khayal lifted his cup. “May my beloved get used to much.” He gulped, smacked his lips, paused for dramatic effect. In a sonorous voice, he began to recite:

  A woman once berated me

  Because of the love I feel

  For a boy who huffs and struts

  Like an untamed young bull

  But why should I sail the sea

  When I can love grandly on land?

  Why hunt for fish, when I can find

  Gazelles, free, for every hand.

  Let me be; do not blame me

  For choosing a road

  In life that you have rejected,

  Which I will follow till the day I die.

  Know you not that the Holy Book

  Speaks the definitive truth:

  Before your daughters

  Your sons shall be preferred?

  “Magnificent,” Fatima cried, applauding enthusiastically. “One can always rely on the brilliance of Abu Nawas for entertainment. Who would have thought that a desert dweller would be able to quote the city poet? I am impressed. Are you not, my dear Jawad?”

  “Does the Holy Book really say that a man should choose his sons before his daughters?”

  “In matters of inheritance, my boy, but the poet took some liberties. More, more, our master reciter. Tell us more.”

  I no longer wish to sail the sea

  I prefer to roam the plains

  And seek the food that God

  Sends to all living creatures.

  “A delight,” Fatima said. “How lovely and bawdy that Baghdad poet was. I would have loved an opportunity to drink wine and match wits with Abu Nawas. Was that not marvelous, Jawad?”

  “It surely was,” Jawad replied. “I, too, am duly impressed. My suitor is learned and sensitive, but his poetry speaks nothing other than his preference for a certain kind of love. That he likes boys does not make him more desirable to me. It simply means he has good taste. His poetry is entertaining but does not move this listener. I do not feel seduced this night either, but I do feel sleepy.”

  “So true. So wise. We have been dutifully entertained this night, but not seduced. Let us hope for a better t
emptation tomorrow. And a good night to all.”

  On the third night, Khayal poured wine into Jawad’s cup. He stood before his audience. “I am a vessel filled with contrition. Forgive me, I beg you. Allow me to begin anew.”

  “There is no need for forgiveness,” Jawad said.

  “Please,” Fatima said, “favor us with your seduction. We sit here, parched earth awaiting its promised thunderstorm. Quench our thirst, we beg you. Begin.”

  “I stand humble before you,” Khayal began, “a once-proud man debased by love.” His shoulders slumped. “I may look like nothing much at this moment, but looks can be deceiving.” His voice grew. “The cover does not fit the content of the book.

  “I am first a warrior. I have fought in God’s army. From the coasts off Mount Lebanon to the hills of the Holy Land, heads of infidels have rolled off my sword by the hundreds. I have slain Papists in the west, Byzantines in the north, Mongols in the east. My spear knew no mercy in defending our lands. I am feared in every corner of the world. Europeans use my name to frighten their children. Courage is my companion; honor rides before me, loyalty at my side. My sword is swift, my spear accurate. I am the answer to every caliph’s prayers.”

  “Well said,” Fatima called out. “One can see the influence of al-Mutanabbi.”

  “Who is that?” Jawad asked.

  “I will tell you in a little while, my dear. Let us allow our seducer to continue. I am sure he is not done yet.”

  “I stood upon a hill watching the enemy ships drop anchor along our shores. They were soaked twice, first by milk-streaked clouds that rained upon them announcing my arrival, and then it rained skulls. I rode my steed swiftly, saw our enemy approaching as if on legless steeds. I could not distinguish their swords, for their clothes and turbans were also made of steel. I attacked even though it meant certain death, as if hell’s heart pumped all about me. Heroes and warriors fell before me, whereas I remained standing, sword wet and unsheathed. Victorious, I stood with my brethren, faces shining with ecstasy, exchanging smiles of joy. The foreigners had no real experience of the color red. I painted it for them. Blessed are war, glory, and eminence. Blessed is my audience, for allowing me the honor of introducing myself.”

  “And blessed are you for sharing,” Fatima said.

  “I feel honored,” said Jawad, “and grateful to be in your presence. But tell me, who is this al-Mutanabbi?”

  Fatima guzzled her cup of wine. She kept her head back for a moment. She held out the cup, and Jawad poured. And Fatima declaimed:

  I am he whose letters were seen by the blind,

  And whose words were heard by the deaf.

  She paused, smiled at Jawad, and had another sip. “Al-Mutanabbi was the greatest poet of the Arabic language, but more important, he is my favorite. He was blessed with the reckless audacity of imagination, full of astonishing metaphors. He suffered much in his life, because he was born with the two grand infirmities: he was poor and he was Arab. He came into the world early in the tenth century, in Kufa, south of Baghdad. He began to recite poetry of an exquisite beauty that had never been heard before nor has since. He claimed that God Himself inspired his poetry. Hence, the name: al-Mutanabbi, the one who claims to be a prophet.”

  “Conceit,” said Jawad.

  “Quite,” added Fatima. “As an eighteen-year-old, he was imprisoned and tortured for his heresy. When he was released a few years later, he was once again penniless, powerless, and homeless—the poet in eternal exile. He had nothing to sell but his words, and he was willing. But who would be willing to buy? Most of the city-states were ruled no longer by Arabs, but by Muslims from all over whose native tongue was not Arabic. These princes, whom he wanted to praise, did not fully understand his words. So al-Mutanabbi, full of pride and arrogance, attached himself to the only Arab ruler in the area, Sayf al-Dawlah, the young prince of Aleppo, who was making a name for himself by protecting the northern borders from the evil Byzantine Empire.

  “And al-Mutanabbi fought at the young prince’s side and praised him, immortalized him in verse so eloquent it has been known to make roses wilt in shame for not matching its beauty.

  “But then al-Mutanabbi discovered he had a problem. The young prince, like most Arab rulers throughout the ages, fancied himself a poet as well. He began to compose puerile poems praising himself and belittling the great poet. And al-Mutanabbi could not answer back.”

  “That is what being a servant is all about,” said Jawad.

  “The situation did not improve,” Fatima went on. “Al-Mutanabbi left Aleppo for Cairo, attached himself to a different ruler, a king by the name of Kafur. The king promised the poet a province if he would sing the king’s praises. But Kafur never kept his promise. He was warned by his vizier, a smart man who recognized the poet’s genius, that if the king went back on his word he would live eternally as a mocked man, a historical joke. And the king was known to have said, ‘You want me to assign a province to this power-hungry poet? This man who claims prophecy after Muhammad, will he not claim the kingdom after Kafur?’

  “And al-Mutanabbi left Kafur’s court and mocked him, immortalized him in verse so expressive it has been known to make snakes recoil in horror for not matching its venom.

  “He wandered to Shiraz, in Persia. He then attached himself to Adud al-Dawlah, but this ruler, too, was unable to satisfy the poet’s needs. So the poet tried to return to his Iraq, but was waylaid and killed by brigands along the way. He was the man who in his prime said:

  The stallions, and the night, and the desert know me,

  And the sword, and the spear, and the paper, and the pen.

  But had to say before his death:

  I am nothing but an arrow, shot in the air,

  Coming down again, unheld by its target.

  And he was killed just north of Baghdad, where all poets go to die.”

  My aunt looked as if she were awaiting a barium enema. Her frail frame didn’t settle completely in the chair, and her eyes wouldn’t settle on anything. Because of her age and ill health, her fretfulness exhibited itself in erratic slow motion. She opened her handbag, and her bony fingers took out a cigarette.

  “What’s the matter with you, Samia?” my father asked. “You know you can’t smoke in here. One would think you’ve never been to a hospital before.”

  “I’m just worried about you.” She spoke slowly, gulping for breath. Her speech pattern had changed drastically since her last petite stroke. “I’m afraid that you’re hiding things from me. Just tell me, tell me the worst.” She forced the cigarette back, crushing it into its box. “My heart is weak, but it can deal with any bad news if it’s about my only remaining brother.” Lina kept trying to catch my eye. “Don’t hide things from me.” Lina lifted her eyebrows, grinned conspiratorially. “It’s as if I’m not part of this family anymore just because I’m old.” Lina mouthed the exact words as my aunt said them: “No one tells me anything.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” my father said. “I’m doing just fine.”

  I stood up so my aunt wouldn’t see me giggle. “I should go to the waiting room. I think the hospital has a two-visitor rule in this ward. I’m surprised the guard hasn’t said anything yet.”

  “Stay here.” My sister put her hand up, a border guard stopping an immigrant attempting to cross. “Your aunt’s here to visit you as much as your father. Sit back down and tell your aunt all about what you’ve been doing since she last saw you.” My aunt looked bewildered, if not bewitched. “Your aunt would love to hear about your life, I’m sure. Tell her what it’s like to work as a computer programmer in the great city of Los Angeles.”

  When I was a young boy, my aunt used to say that she would be the first of the five siblings to die. She had made that pronouncement to her children, other family members, and random strangers. “Just do as I say,” she would tell me when I was seven. “I’ll be the first to die, and you’ll regret having aggravated me.” She was the oldest of the five, born in 1920, a
nd even as a young woman, she wore infirmity like an itchy, gaudy shawl around her shoulders. She stopped saying she would be the first thirty years ago, when Uncle Wajih died.

  “How many tranquilizers have you taken?” Lina asked my aunt.

  “Have you gained weight?” Aunt Samia replied.

  My aunt’s eyes almost shot out of their sockets. Her lips and the skin around them seemed to have suddenly been invaded by a thousand lines. The noise in the hallway was that of an approaching army, a police team rushing in for a bust. The bey entered the room, followed by a flock of suits. You would think that in 2003, in post-feudal Beirut, one would have little use for clan chiefs and titled nobles, but traditions are not easily erased in our world. The bey no longer collected taxes, tributes, or royalties, but favors and loyalties were still his to claim. Though this latest incarnation of the bey was thirty, he looked like a boy of seventeen trying on his father’s favorite suit. All smiles, he attempted to appear official and officious. He greeted us all perfunctorily, though his eyes never left my father, whereas it was my cousin Hafez, one of the bey’s entourage, who held my father’s attention.

  Fatima, looking furious and threatening, viperlike, followed them into the room. The entourage must have sped past the visitors’ lounge or she would have stopped them.

  “How are you doing, dear uncle?” the bey said.

  My father didn’t reply. My sister did, loudly. “How did you all get in here? We can’t have this many visitors. There are rules.”

  Everyone stopped moving. The very air seemed to perspire. A couple of men ahemmed. “It’s quite all right, Lina,” Hafez said. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. “The guard won’t report us. We’re here because we care about my uncle.” He was a few weeks older than I, but he had the face of a boy.

  “Then care outside, in the visitors’ room. The guard shouldn’t have let you in. I won’t allow it. No more than two visitors at a time.”