“Who are they, and who are we?” I asked
He stopped and stared out the grimy window into the distance as pinecones crackled in the iron stove.
Ah, Urfa, city of prophets. Jethro, Job, Elijah, and Moses spent part of their lives there, but it will always remain the city of Abraham, his birthplace. Yet Urfa’s history is far more complex than mere myths, mere tales. It is Osrhoe, it is Edessa. It is in the Bible, the Koran, the Torah.
In the days of the mighty King Nimrod, there lived a young man named Abraham, son of Azar, an idol-maker. Out of wood, Azar sculpted beautiful gods that the people loved and worshipped. Azar would send his son to market with the idols, but Abraham never sold any. He called out, “Who’ll buy my idols? They’re cheap and worthless. Will you buy one? It won’t hurt you.” When a passerby stopped to look at the beauty of the craftsmanship, Abraham slapped the idol. “Talk,” he said. “Tell this honest man to buy you. Do something.” There would be no sale.
Of course, his father was upset. He was losing money and had a nonbeliever for a son. He told Abraham to believe in the gods or leave the house. Abraham left.
Abraham walked into a temple while all the townsfolk were in their own homes preparing for an evening of worshipping their beloved gods. Abraham held out food for the gods. “Eat. Aren’t you hungry? Why don’t you talk to me?” Again he slapped their faces, one by one. Slap, move over, slap. But then he took an ax and chopped the gods to pieces, some as small as toothpicks. He chopped all but the largest, and put the ax in this idol’s hand.
When the people came to worship their gods, they found them in a large pile around the chief idol. They bemoaned their fate and that of their gods. “Who would do this?” they cried in unison, a chorus of wails.
“Surely it was someone,” Abraham exclaimed. “The big one stands there with a guilty ax in his hand. Perhaps he was envious of the rest and chopped them up. Should we ask him?”
“You know they don’t speak,” the priest said.
“Then why do you worship them?”
“Heresy,” the people called, and took him to see his king.
My grandfather was the product of an indiscreet affair. His father was Simon Twining—like the tea—an alcoholic English doctor, a missionary helping Christian Armenians in southern Turkey. His mother, Lucine, was one of the doctor’s Armenian servants.
My grandfather’s first name, Ismail, was predetermined. What would you call a son of your maid if you lived in Urfa? His last name was not Twining. The doctor’s wife wouldn’t allow that. It was Guiragossian, his mother’s name. He received his full name, our family’s bane, in Lebanon, as a full-fledged hakawati.
What is a hakawati, you ask? Ah, listen.
A hakawati is a teller of tales, myths, and fables (hekayât). A storyteller, an entertainer. A troubadour of sorts, someone who earns his keep by beguiling an audience with yarns. Like the word “hekayeh” (story, fable, news), “hakawati” is derived from the Lebanese word “haki,” which means “talk” or “conversation.” This suggests that in Lebanese the mere act of talking is storytelling.
A great hakawati grows rich, and a bad one sleeps hungry or headless. In the old days, villages had their own hakawatis, but great ones left their homes to earn fortunes. In the cities, cafés were the hakawatis’ domain. A hakawati can tell a tale in one sitting or spin the same tale over a period of months, impregnating it with nightly cliffhangers.
It is said that in the eighteenth century, in a café in Aleppo, the great one, Ahmad al-Saidawi, once told the story of King Baybars for three hundred and seventy-two evenings, which may or may not have been a record. It is also said that al-Saidawi cut the story short because the Ottoman governor begged him to finish it. The city’s despot had spent every night enthralled and had been recalled to Istanbul for growing lax with the affairs of state, even neglecting the collection of taxes. The governor needed to know how the tale ended.
The bey first met my grandfather, a waiflike, hungry thirteen-year-old hakawati, in a sleazy bar in the Zeitouneh district of Beirut before the Great War. My grandfather had been eking out a meager living by entertaining customers in between various salacious or pseudo-musical acts. The bey was inordinately charmed by the witty stories. When he inquired after my grandfather’s background, the young Ismail provided three different improbable tales in a row. On the spot, the bey hired my grandfather to be his fool, and from that point on referred to him as “al-kharrat,” the fibster, or “hal-kharrat,” that fibster. One day, feeling generous, the bey decided to give the rootless boy some dignity. Since my grandfather had no papers, no documented father, the bey called in favors, paid bribes, and offered his boy a new birth certificate, baptizing him with a fresh name, Ismail al-Kharrat.
The little hakawati arrived in our world in the early evening of January 16, 1900. Simon Twining was telling the tale of Abraham and Nimrod to a rapt audience of his wife, his two daughters, his two Armenian maids, and four Armenian orphans in his care.
“Abraham stood defiantly before his king.” The language English, the tone rising, the voice smooth. “King Nimrod grew nervous, since it was his first encounter with a free soul. ‘You are not my god,’ Abraham told Nimrod.”
Lucine felt the first pang of pain; a wave of nausea swept through her. She breathed deeply, dismissing the pain as transitory, because the baby had one more month to go. She steadied herself, felt grateful that the stool was four-legged. The doctor believed three-legged furniture to be the work of Satan. It was unstable and mocked the Trinity.
“The young man grew in stature when he defied the hunter-king Nimrod. ‘Who is this mighty God you speak of?’ asked the frightened king.” The doctor picked up the long-handled broom leaning on the corner behind him, lifted it above his head. The handle almost knocked off a small box that he had placed below the angle of a ceiling beam to catch the droppings of a pair of swallows nesting there.
Lucine’s second shot of pain arrived three fingers below her belly button, four to the right. She struggled for breath but made no sound.
“Abraham was resolute. ‘He it is who gives life and death,’ he answered, his gaze unwavering. The king said, ‘But I too give life and death. I can pardon a man sentenced to die and execute an innocent child.’ ” All the children gasped. Lucine felt flushed and dizzy. “Abraham said, ‘That is not the way of God. But can you do this? Each morning God makes the sun rise in the east. Can you make it rise in the west?’ Nimrod grew angry, had his minions build a great big fire, and ordered Abraham thrown into it. The men came to carry Abraham, but he told them he could walk.”
Just at that instant, as Abraham walked into the blazing fire, Lucine’s scream was heard throughout the valley. Water spread beneath her four-legged stool, on the scrubbed stones, collecting in the grooves that acted as miniature Roman aqueducts.
A hakawati’s timing must always be perfect.
Ah, births, births. Tell me how a man is born and I will tell you his future.
A seer had told King Nimrod that one shortly to be born would dethrone him. The king beheaded the seer as the bearer of bad tidings. He called his viziers into the throne room and commanded the death of all newborns.
What to do? Adna, pregnant with baby Abraham, left her home in Urfa without having time to pack, walked carefully across town, and headed toward a cave in one of the surrounding hills. There she gave birth. Abraham arrived with eyes open, inquisitive and watchful. The baby did not cry. Adna had no milk. The baby reached for her hand, placed two of her fingers in his mouth, and suckled. One finger supplied milk and the other honey.
And now you want to know how the hakawati was conceived, so listen.
The spring before his birth in Urfa. The sun was setting, the temperature had cooled, and the last birds were settling in the highest branches. Dr. Twining was walking home when he saw his maid, Lucine, standing on an unstable log, trying to cover the outhouse with dry palm branches, a seasonal chore: a true ceiling would trap odors, s
o sun-dried branches mixed with lavender and jasmine covered the top. The faux plafond protected from the elements, provided a botanical sweetness, and allowed God the choice of not looking directly at a family excreting.
The colors deepened at that time of day, allowing Dr. Twining to see his maid, with her back to him, as a mirage—ephemeral, shimmering, divine. Turkeys, chickens, rabbits, geese, three dogs, and two tortoises could all be seen moving around the perched Lucine. She was their daily feeder, and they were waiting for her. The doctor was grateful that he could provide selfless service to all the unfortunates, to the needy and the meek. A solitary swallow flew low in front of him. He saw the forked tail clearly. He fixed his gaze on Lucine, saw that she wasn’t a mirage; she moved back and forth on the unsteady log. “Lucine,” he called out. The chickens dispersed at his shout. Lucine looked back, her eyes surprised, as if they were questioning the reason for all this. She lost her balance. She opened her mouth to ask for help, swayed forward once, then stiffened, rigid as a column, and fell. Turkeys and geese scattered in all directions.
By the time he reached her, she had still not uttered a sound. She leaned against the gray wall of the outhouse, holding her bare ankle, having pulled up her skirt slightly to look at it. He bent down to examine it. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Let me see.” She removed her hand, and his took over, pressing gently. She shuddered. “That hurts?” he whispered. She nodded. His fingers pressed below the joint, gently stroked her sole. She remained quiet. “I think it’s a sprain.” His thumb and forefinger formed a gentle vise, massaging her calf. “Does this hurt?” She shook her head. Her eyes were new to him. He held her ankle with his right hand. His left massaged up farther, almost to the knee. “Does this hurt? And this? This?”
Fate, I tell you.
He consumed her right then, uncomfortably, outside the outhouse, the faint malodor acting as an aphrodisiac.
“Why would Abraham want to kill Ishmael?” I asked my mother as she undressed for the night. I, already in my pajamas, lay in bed waiting for her, trying to make my small body fit the large indentation my father had worn into the mattress.
“God asked him to sacrifice his son, but then God allowed him to substitute a sheep.” She put on her blue cotton nightgown and, in a maneuver that I always considered the height of acrobatic achievement, removed her brassiere from under the nightgown.
“Was it a boy sheep?”
“I assume so.” She finally smiled at me, chuckled, and shook her head. “Only my little Osama would wonder about that.”
She sat at her vanity to remove her makeup, which still looked wonderful. The entire family had been at Aunt Samia’s apartment to celebrate Eid al-Adha, Abraham’s sacrifice, the only holiday the Druze celebrate. I loved Eid al-Adha. Kids got money from adults during the holiday. All I had to do was walk up to any relative and smile, and I would get coins that jingled in my pockets.
“Why would God ask him to do that?”
She poured démaquillant onto a cotton ball and delicately wiped her face, sliding her hand from top to bottom. “It was a test,” she said, looking in the mirror. “He wouldn’t have let him kill his son.”
“Did he pass the test?”
“Yes, of course, dear. That’s why it’s a holiday and we get to eat so much and get fat. Two whole lambs, and nothing left. I think that’s a record.”
I propped myself on my elbow to watch her more easily. Usually when I moved around in bed, she would tell me to keep still so I could fall asleep faster, but not tonight, probably because of the holiday.
“But what if God didn’t stop him? Would he have killed his son?”
“Is that what’s worrying you?” Finally done, she walked to her side of the bed. She looked quite different without makeup, more girlish. “It’s just a story, Osama. It’s not real.” She slowly got into bed. “Stories are for entertainment only. They never mean anything.”
“Grandfather said it happened on a mountain and God stopped Abraham’s hand just as he was about to cut Ishmael’s throat. He was on a mountain that was close to the sky, and it was a clear day, too, so God was able to see everything.”
“Your grandfather says many things that aren’t true. You know how wild his stories are. You know he never went to school or anything like that. It’s not his fault. But you don’t have to believe the same things he does. If you think something he’s saying is too foolish to be true, then it is.” She stretched, clicked off the light switch on the wall. “Don’t let his stories trouble you. Don’t let any story trouble you.” She turned me around and hugged me. We were together like quotation marks. “Now go to sleep.”
“I don’t like Abraham’s story,” I said to the dark. “It’s not a good one.”
After a slight pause, “I don’t like it, either.”
I thought about the story. “If God asked you, would you kill me?” I felt her shudder.
“Now you’re being silly,” she said. “Of course I wouldn’t do such a thing. Go to sleep and stop thinking.”
“But what if God asked you to?”
“He won’t ask me.”
“What if he asked Dad to kill me? Would he do it?”
“No. Now, don’t be annoying.”
I could not stop thinking. “What if God told someone to kill another person—would that be okay? You couldn’t put the killer in jail if God told him to do it. What if God told someone to kill a lot of people? Like how about the Turks or the French? God tells a man to kill all the French, and he goes out and shoots every Frenchman he sees. Bang, bang, bang. Is that okay? Does he get blamed? What if—”
She shushed me. She covered my mouth with her left hand. I could smell verbena, her moisturizing lotion. “God doesn’t talk to people,” she whispered in my ear. “God doesn’t tell anybody to do anything. God doesn’t do anything.”
“But people believe God talks to them.”
“Stupid people, only stupid people.”
I heard a mosquito’s buzz. I sat up, announced its presence to the room.
“Damn,” she said. “I thought the room was sprayed.” She stood up, considered ringing the buzzer for the maid, then opened the nightstand drawer and removed one Katol. Without turning on the light, she pushed the green spiral insecticide into its stand, struck a match to it. In the sudden flare, she looked like a movie star, her dark hair falling around her face.
“You don’t believe in God, do you, Mother?” I asked.
She looked at me as if I were a stranger, then blew out the match, throwing her face into darkness. “No,” she said, “I don’t believe there is a God.” I heard the hollow sound of the match falling in the waste-basket. “But I don’t want you talking about this with other people. It’s not something we talk about. Do you understand?”
“But how do you know there’s no God?”
“Because, if there’s a God, your father would have been smitten already. Now, for the last time, go to sleep or go to your room.”
The odor of the mosquito killer, mixed with verbena, permeated the room.
That night, in the comfortably furnished parlor while everyone else slept, the doctor confessed everything to his wife. His back to the mild fire, he knelt before her, wept. She put down her knitting and listened to his elaborate explanations. He was weak, only human. He didn’t know what had possessed him. It wasn’t Lucine’s fault. It was his. If only he could castrate himself, his life would be so much simpler, he would be a better human being, the husband she deserved. She remained quiet. It would never happen again, he promised her. It was an accident. Inconsequential. He would once again prove worthy of her trust. She was his anchor. She was his faith. Would she forgive him?
“What about her ankle?” his wife asked.
Puzzled, the doctor could think of nothing to say.
“Is her ankle all right?” she asked.
“It’s a severe sprain,” he responded. “It’ll be back to normal in a month or so, but she needs to be off it for three or f
our days.”
His wife went back to her knitting. Looking down at her work, she said, “That’s going to be difficult. It’s hard to keep that girl off her feet. She’s so industrious and loyal. I don’t know if she’ll be able to stay still for three days.”
Her husband walked back to his chair. He took out his pipe and his tobacco pouch. He began his nightly ritual. “We’ll just have to force her.” He lit the pipe, took a few puffs, waited for the shreds of tobacco to turn amber before blowing out the match. “For her own good.”
“You’re right. I’ll have to find her some chores that don’t require her to move about.”
He opened his book, and the bookmark fell on his lap. “Just make sure her leg is elevated.”
“Yes. The sprained ankle always above her heart, to make sure it doesn’t swell too much.” She paused, smiled at him; then her fingers resumed their spidery work.
A cast-iron woodstove dominated my grandfather’s sitting room. The exhaust pipe, big enough for a soccer ball to roll through, extended all the way across the room to the ceiling on the other side. He removed the stove every spring, yet when he brought it back in late autumn he placed it in the exact same spot, across the room from the hole in the ceiling. He stuffed the stove with split oak, pine, and pinecones throughout the cold season. The sitting room always felt like a slow-burning oven. And whenever the capricious wind changed direction, aggressive smoke puffed back into the room, searing my lungs. If I complained, my grandfather chided me for not liking the scent of burnt pine, for being a spoiled city boy used to gardenias and lavender handpicked from the gardens.
The Hakawati Page 5
