The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  Could he make her happy? The bey’s mother told Mona to ask her daughter.

  The mothers asked Najla if she thought the hakawati could make her happy.

  Najla looked at both women and said he made her laugh.

  Wedding torches would flare.

  Mountain weddings were known for many things: the feast and the accompanying feeding frenzy; the dancing, the Lebanese dabké and the dances of the swords and shields; the rites of riding to collect the bride; and most of all the zajal, the poetry duels.

  At weddings, poets competed in praising the bride, the groom, luminaries attending the wedding, and matrimonial traditions in general. They also dueled, entertained the crowds by engaging in boasts and insults, composing verses on the spot. A poet was guaranteed an invitation to every wedding. A good one was even paid. At some weddings, amateurs joined in, tried their luck in verse. My grandparents’ wedding became famous for a verse.

  A tasteless, reprehensible quatrain uttered by none other than the evil Sitt Hawwar.

  A groom with a huge mouth filled with many needless words,

  Yet no incisor and no molar,

  Married a girl with a bigger mouth,

  Whose teeth entered a room before her.

  I followed the aromas emanating from the kitchen, but knew better than to go in. I stopped in the prep room. Aunt Samia was complaining to someone, most probably Aunt Nazek. “I can’t take it anymore,” she was saying. I grabbed a piece of bread from the table and bit into it. “I don’t know why she thinks she needs to keep her nose so high up in the air,” I heard her say. “It’s not like she produced a bushel of sons, just a toad of a girl and a gnat of a boy.” I bit into the bread again and again.

  My grandfather came up from behind and covered my eyes. I knew it was him because of his smell, but I couldn’t tell him I knew, because my mouth was too full. “It’s only me,” he said, chuckling. “And don’t eat the bread by itself when there’s so much food around.”

  As noiselessly as possible, he moved a chair next to the table, motioned for me to stand on it. He uncovered a deep bowl in the middle of the table, moved it closer. I could see the stew inside. “The secret,” he whispered. He tilted his head, and I did the same. I saw soft steam churning upon itself, imagining a porcelain cover no longer there. “The bowl has lips,” he said, “and can tell you stories, if only you allow your ears to hear or your nose to smell.”

  “Or my lips to kiss,” I said softly. I bent, and the steam caressed my lashes, licked my lips. I stuck out my tongue and licked right back.

  Aunt Samia walked in. “Put that filthy tongue back where it came from.”

  I jumped off the chair and ran out as fast as I could. I heard her ask, “How could you let him do that, Baba?” but I didn’t hear his response.

  He found me on the terrace, leaning over the railing, staring at the rosebushes in the gated garden below. “That was fun,” he said. “I bet you don’t know what was in the pot. I know you think it’s chicken stew, but it most certainly is not. It’s imp stew. You have to catch those little devils, no bigger than chickens but very hard to trap. Killing the imps is never easy. You have to find them at the right time of the year and freeze them. That’s how you do it. Not easy.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “It’s true. And you have to blanch them to get rid of their red color, so no one can tell that it’s imp stew. You don’t want your guests to throw up, now, do you?”

  “But the guests would taste them.”

  “Oh, no, imps taste like chicken. Samia is just trying to trick us.”

  I didn’t say anything. I heard his breath.

  “Does your father still like his meat?” my grandfather asked.

  “Ask him,” I said.

  “He’s not here, is he? So—I’m asking you. Does he still sneak into the kitchen and eat the aliyeh when no one is looking?”

  “What’s aliyeh?”

  “It’s the fried lamb and onions and garlic and salt and pepper. What you need to prepare to add flavor to the stew. When your grandmother would cook, she’d have the best aliyeh—well, she had the best everything. She was the best cook ever to walk this cursed earth.”

  “Our cook is probably better. That’s what everyone says.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one will ever be as good as your grandmother. Her cooking woke the dead and the gods. Where was I? Your father. Well, your devious father would crawl into the kitchen on his hands and knees, holding a piece of bread between his teeth so it wouldn’t touch the floor. He’d get to the stove, stand up quickly, and dip his bread into the aliyeh while it was still frying, pick up as much as he could in that morsel, and run out before his mother caught him. He’d run, blowing on the food in his hand to cool it. Blow, and duck to avoid your grandmother, who ran after him. It was a game they played, and he had to stuff the bread in his mouth or she’d take it from him. He must have been your age, or maybe a little older. We couldn’t afford much meat when he was younger. We couldn’t afford imps, either.”

  Nine

  Below, in the underworld, Fatima said, “I must rise.”

  “Why?” said Afreet-Jehanam. “You should deliver here.”

  “My child shall be born aboveground. He will master this world but must be a citizen of the one above.”

  “You do treat me like a plaything,” her lover harrumphed. “I am the father. I should have some say.”

  “But you do, dear, you do. Now, get me a carpet, please. I must be going. I do not wish my water to break in midair.”

  In the castle, the emir’s wife felt her first pain the same instant Fatima felt hers in the underworld. She held her stomach, smiled at her husband.

  “Should I stop the story?” the emir asked. “Should I call someone? Should I boil water? Where’s the midwife? What—”

  “No, husband, go on. This Othman fellow begins to amuse me. Just help me with more pillows.” She pushed her body farther up on the bed and adjusted herself with a groan. “The troublemaker comes,” she said. “Pray continue, husband. Distract me.”

  Prince Baybars, Othman, the Africans, and the Uzbeks attended Friday prayers at the mosque. The faithful eyed Othman with a mixture of awe, concern, and fear. Othman yelled, “Stop the staring. I have repented to God, who forgives all sins, and now I pray like you do.” The faithful welcomed him to their bosom. Leaving the mosque after prayers, the group heard a barker announcing the availability of the house of Prince Ahmad al-Sabaki, which ran the length of the farmers’ market on one side to the dyers’ market on the other. Baybars asked who owned the house, and the barker answered that it was the four granddaughters of Prince Ahmad.

  The barker led the group to one of the four doors of the house, where he said, “Forgive me, lord, but the ladies asked that anyone who wished to inquire about the house must enter through the green door, which no one has been able to open for generations.” Baybars turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open, the hinges sliding silently, as if they had been oiled that morning. The interior of the house was opulent. Othman’s fingers twitched, and he had to clasp his hands together. The barker disappeared and returned a few minutes later to announce that the ladies were ready to greet them.

  The men entered a large hall where the four ladies lounged on colorful divans. With one voice the four said, “Which of you opened the door?” and the prince identified himself. “What is your name, young man?” their voice asked. Prince Baybars told them.

  “No,” they said. “What is your birth name?”

  “I was born with the name Mahmoud.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “I am from Damascus.”

  “No,” their voice said. “Where were you born?”

  “I was born in Samarkand.”

  “And who are you?” asked the ladies.

  And Prince Baybars told the stories of his grandfather and his father, and those of his mother, and those of his uncles. “This is who I am,” he finally sai
d.

  The women asked if he could afford the price of the house, and Prince Baybars assured them he could. And their voice said, “You claim wealth but carry no sign of it. You are a dissembler.” Baybars grew angry; the lion’s folds appeared at the bridge of his nose, and his beauty mark turned red. “You are the one,” the ladies’ voice said. “We have been waiting for you for far too long. The house is yours if you can pass a test and make a promise.” Baybars inquired about the test. “That monolith there must be moved.” The ladies pointed to a prehistoric menhir in the corner. “The house was built around it because no one has been able to relocate it. It is known that only its master can lift it.”

  Baybars’s men gathered around the monolith. “This should be easy,” one of the Africans said. The Africans and the Uzbeks tried to lift the stone, but it would not budge. Baybars moved in to help, and, lo and behold, the instant he put his hands around the monolith, he lifted it right out. “It is cumbersome but not heavy,” he told his servants. He took a couple of steps, and from behind the menhir he asked the ladies, “And where would you like me to put this?”

  “Down,” they said, “so you can make your promise. You must build each one of us a mosque named after her. Promise that and claim your home.”

  And that was how Baybars became a homeowner.

  My aunt arrived first, in 1920, when my grandmother was sixteen. Najla began labor in the morning. At six in the evening, while she was still in pain, the bey sent one of his attendants to fetch my grandfather. The bey had begun his drinking early and needed entertainment.

  “Run,” Great-Grandmother Mona told him. “You’re not needed here.”

  The midwife, on her way back home after the delivery, informed the night watchman at the mansion’s gate that the bey’s hakawati had a healthy baby girl. The watchman told one of the servants, who waited to make the announcement until there was a break in the evening’s tale. Had it been a baby boy, the servant would have interrupted.

  “It’s a good thing you’re here,” the bey told my grandfather. “No woman wants to announce right after delivery that she had a girl. Wives are very emotional. You should call your baby Samira, after my dear mother.”

  Najla called her Samia.

  Najla decided she wanted meghli, the sweet made of spices. It was supposed to be served after a boy was born, but Najla said, “If it helps me make milk, then isn’t it just as good for a girl?”

  The midwife agreed that all new mothers should eat meghli, but she advised the new mother not to serve it to guests. “Nonsense,” Mona said. “My daughter can’t eat meghli by herself and not serve the guests. I will make the first batch.”

  “I want my daughter to be queen of the village,” Najla told her mother, who agreed wholeheartedly. She was almost successful. Aunt Samia blossomed into a queen manquée.

  One day, King Saleh was riding through the city when he came to Lady Zainab Street. There were wooden planks spanning a small gulf, and his subjects crossed with difficulty. He felt ashamed that the maqâm of Lady Zainab was not in a more fortunate quarter of the city. He said, “A bridge must be built here, and a small neighborhood, with decent shops and adequate housing.” He put Baybars in charge, and Baybars was honored by the responsibility.

  The prince had Othman summon engineers to build the bridge. They hired carpenters and artisans and built a neighborhood so lovely it was as if the Lady watched over it. A marvelous gate protected it, and clean streets invited people in. The prince said to Othman, “Bring me grocers, butchers, perfumers, tailors, oil merchants, coffee traders, and other honest brokers.”

  Othman brought the shopkeepers, and they moved into the neighborhood within a couple of months, transforming it into the most popular in the city.

  Evil Arbusto, the king’s judge, heard of the miracle, and his blood coursed with envy. He called on his close friend the mayor of Cairo. The mayor inquired why the judge looked sad and was told, “There is a sight in the city that breaks my heart. The slave Baybars has built a lively neighborhood that I would love to see reduced to cinders and ash.”

  “I know the neighborhood,” the mayor said. “It will be a pleasure to be rid of it. That scoundrel Othman has bested me a few times, and now I will get him back.” The mayor called on a rogue by the name of Harhash and told him of his wish to burn the neighborhood. Harhash asked where the neighborhood was. The mayor said, “Next to the maqâm of Lady Zainab.”

  Harhash recoiled. “I cannot do this. I will burn any other neighborhood, but not the Lady’s neighborhood. That is blasphemy.”

  The mayor screamed, “That is not blasphemy, you jackass. You do not even know what the word means. You and your men will burn what I command you to, or I will have you in prison, and you will never see the light of day for the rest of your life.”

  And Harhash agreed to commit arson, for he had no other choice. He and two of his men went to study the neighborhood. The men told Harhash, “This neighborhood can only be burned in the middle of the night, when there are no witnesses.” Lady Zainab, the neighborhood’s protector, had made sure the weather was hot enough that a tailor was taking his siesta on the floor of his shop and not his house, and so was able to hear the conversation of the men standing nearby. When they left, the tailor sought Othman and informed him of what he had heard.

  Othman and the Uzbek and African warriors rode to the neighborhood. Othman told the gatekeepers to close the gate but keep its portal open. He ordered the residents not to light their night lamps that evening. And the prince’s servants waited for night to fall.

  Harhash and his twelve men arrived with barrels of oil and found the neighborhood dark and the gate closed. “This is a blessing,” Harhash whispered. “We can do our job and no one will witness.” He sent one of his men ahead through the portal. As soon as the man entered, one of the Africans banged him on top of the head with his closed fist, and the rogue collapsed unconscious. Othman waited a little and then whistled. Another man walked in and got thumped by another African. Othman whistled again. A third man entered, and this time Othman hit him on the head, but the man did not collapse. He stared wide-eyed at the Africans, and one of them thumped him quickly. Othman sulked. The warriors took turns whistling the rogues in, until Harhash was the last one to be knocked unconscious. The arsonists woke and found themselves tied and lined up before the fiercest-looking men they had ever seen. Harhash began to weep.

  “Oh, Harhash,” Othman said, “have times been so tough that you have resorted to playing with fire?” And Harhash replied, “Be not cruel, friend. Do you think me impious enough to commit a dastardly crime with the Lady so close were I not forced to? That these warriors stand here to protect this neighborhood is the only proof I need that the Lady still watches. Now I will never taste the fruits of paradise.”

  And Othman joined Harhash in weeping. He sat down on the ground and said, “Oh, Harhash, you are not damned. If you repent before the Lady, as I did, God will listen and forgive.” Harhash and his men gave up their wayward ways and swore allegiance to God. Othman said, “Now you and your men can work for me,” and one of the Uzbeks said, “But you are a servant yourself.” And Othman replied, “True, but I am moving up in the world. Soon Harhash here will be able to afford his own servants. It is an ever-shifting multilevel process.”

  Fatima’s room was across the hall from the royal chambers, and the second stab of pain forced a sigh that echoed that of the emir’s wife. Fatima asked her attendants to leave her, but when she was alone, she no longer wanted to be.

  “Ishmael,” she said, “come.” And Ishmael popped up next to her in bed. “What an awful-looking room,” he said. “You want your child to grow up to be a scholar?”

  “Do something, then.”

  “With pleasure,” Ishmael replied gleefully.

  “Hold on,” said a materializing Isaac.

  “I will do it,” said Elijah. “You have no taste.”

  “Go home,” said Ishmael. “She asked me to do it.�
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  His seven brothers ignored him. Adam turned the drapes violet and Noah changed them to blue. Ezra and Elijah had a wrestling match over the carpet. Fatima’s bedspread had four competing pattern designs. By the time she yelled, “Stop,” the room was a disaster, clashing gaudiness in every corner. She looked around. “This is truly awful. I love it.”

  Aunt Samia loved and idolized her mother. For her, my grandmother could do no wrong. God, in all His great bounty, created the world in six days, and on the seventh, He concentrated on Najla. She was the most virtuous woman who had ever lived, the most devout, the most intelligent, the most fill-in-the-blank-with-an-ideal-trait. My poor, poor grandmother Najla, born an orphan, married to a ne’er-do-well hakawati, still managed to raise the perfect family and provide her children with a loving environment. Aunt Samia mimicked her mother’s every movement, modeled her entire personality after her. She learned to cook the same meals, weave the same textiles, cross-stitch the same patterns. Whenever she remembered, Aunt Samia pronounced her “s” the same way my grandmother did, spitting saliva upon the listener. Luckily, she didn’t often remember, and she never did it after her mother passed away.

  And Aunt Samia had the same adversary as my grandmother and my great-grandmother: none other than the evil Sitt Hawwar, the builder’s wife, who would commit the most egregious of acts against her. Aunt Samia had thought that she would end up spending her life with her mother, since she remained a spinster long past marriageable age.

  “We’ll grow old together,” she used to say to Grandmother.

  “No, we won’t,” Najla would reply. “You will get married.”

  In the morning, the mayor and his men rode into Lady Zainab’s neighborhood. Surprised to find it still standing, the mayor asked the first shopkeeper if he had seen or heard anything during the night. The shopkeeper replied that he had not, because he had turned off the lanterns and fallen asleep. The mayor yelled, “It is against the law to extinguish the lamps,” and he had his men take the shopkeeper out and beat him. He moved to the next shop and asked that shopkeeper if he had had his lamp extinguished last night. The man replied that Othman had ordered him to, which angered the mayor even more, and he had his men beat the second shopkeeper. The mayor went into the next shop, a perfumery, and told the shopkeeper, “Show me your dried carnations.” The perfumer opened a box, and the mayor said, “This carnation is crooked.” The puzzled shopkeeper said, “Find me a carnation that is not,” and received a terrible thrashing for his insolence. The mayor then asked the dairyman, “Why is cow’s milk white but your butter is yellow?” and he replied, “It is always so,” and he, too, received a whipping. The mayor moved from one store to the next, meting out severe beatings.