The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  Uncle Jihad didn’t answer my knock on the locked bathroom door. I walked around to his room, still early-morning groggy. He wasn’t there. I knocked on his bathroom door, then tried it. It was unlocked. Uncle Jihad sat on the toilet, his pajama pants around his ankles, his head slumped, his eyes staring at a spot on the carpet. The bathroom smelled of shit. I suppressed an urge to scream. I rushed over, shook him by the shoulder. His skin felt cold. I recoiled. I bent down to look at his face. His eyes were lifeless. I searched for a pulse on his wrist. None. I broke into silent tears. Shaking, I walked out of the bathroom into the orange corridor, held on to the metal railing for support. My father sat at the dinette table, drinking his coffee and reading the paper. Melanie sat opposite, already dressed and made up.

  “Dad,” I said, my voice distorted. “Uncle Jihad is dead in the bathroom.”

  He looked up at me disbelievingly. I watched his face gradually change; his eyes grew whiter, his jaw dropped. He ran up the stairs, followed by Melanie. I let them pass me. I heard my father wail. I had never seen my father cry before, never seen him so distraught. He knelt on the floor and rocked Uncle Jihad in his arms. I couldn’t understand a word my father said. I stood in the doorway in shock. My father wouldn’t stop. He wept, the bathroom reverberating with the sound. In between sobs, my father kissed Uncle Jihad’s bald head. Melanie, tears flowing down her face, tried unsuccessfully to calm him. I no longer recognized the man in front of me. I called my mother. “Listen to me,” she said. “Put your father on the phone. Then you go to his room and get his travel pack. In it, you’ll find a pillbox. Take out a Valium and give it to him. Do you understand?”

  In the bathroom, Melanie held my father, who held Uncle Jihad. I gave my father the bathroom phone and watched his face as he began to calm down. I ran downstairs and came back up with the tranquilizer. I watched him nod in acquiescence to my mother’s instructions. He handed me the phone. My mother told me to put him to bed and said she would call back in ten minutes, after she called the hotel management.

  Melanie and I helped my father down the stairs, his arms draped over both of us. I put him in bed, under the covers. Melanie drew the curtains, darkening the room. I stroked his head, just as I had seen my mother do many times before. He promptly drifted into sleep.

  I went back up to check on Uncle Jihad. I didn’t want anybody to see him naked with his pajama bottoms down. When I entered the bathroom, I held my nose and flushed the toilet.

  “Do you want to carry him to his bed?” Melanie asked.

  I nodded. I was pulling his pants up when I realized his bottom was soiled. I wiped his behind with a damp washcloth. My stomach felt queasy again.

  I tried to lift Uncle Jihad from his shoulders while Melanie took his feet, but he was too heavy. We ended up dragging him slowly. The carpet kept pulling his pants down, exposing his genitals. By the time we got him onto the bed, I was dripping sweat. I covered him with the comforter and closed his eyes. His skin already felt leathery.

  Uncle Jihad used to tell me an Iraqi story about whom to mourn.

  It seems the great Caliph Haroun al-Rashid was traveling among his people when he came across a woman weeping. He asked the cause of her immense sorrow, and she replied that she was mourning her beloved son, who had just died. He asked her what her son did while he was alive. She said he worked for her. She was poor, and her son kept her alive. She no longer had anyone to take care of her and no one to make her a living. “Cry no more,” said the caliph. “I will give you a sturdy mule. He will work hard for you and help you earn a living. You shall not miss your son. You will be as comfortable as you were before.”

  Haroun al-Rashid moved on. He came across another woman crying next to the grave of her son. The caliph asked her the same question, “What did your son do while he was alive?”

  “My son? He used to gather honest nobles and men of good repute to his feasts. He would serve them the most delicious of meals. He would entertain them with the most ambrosial of music, regale them with the greatest of tales. When these men left his feasts, he would ride with them, keeping them company until they lost sight of his tent.”

  “Weep on, O mother of a most gracious son,” said the caliph. “Cry and shed more tears, for no one, certainly not I, can comfort you or make good such a great loss.”

  And Haroun al-Rashid wept.

  I sat on the bed, crying and stroking Uncle Jihad’s head. My mother called. Just as she said that someone from the hotel would be coming to the room, I heard a knock on the door. My mother had talked to Air France and booked my father on a flight to Beirut. Melanie led three men in suits to Uncle Jihad’s room. “All I want from you is to put your father on the flight this afternoon,” my mother said. “That’s all. Everything else will be taken care of. Once he’s on the flight, Air France will make sure he gets here, but I need you to get him on the plane. After the doctor and coroner do their work, the hotel will ship Jihad to Beirut. Just take care of your father. You can stay in the room till you go to the dorms. It’s dealt with.”

  “I’ll get him on the plane,” I promised. I watched more men walk into Uncle Jihad’s room.

  “One more thing,” she said. “Make sure she leaves. I don’t want her using the suite after your father’s gone. Don’t let your father know that I know. But remember, after your father’s gone, she’s gone. I don’t want her with you.”

  The muffled footsteps sounded odd, quieter than nurses’ rubber soles. Fatima’s tilted head appeared in the doorway, peering into the room. Her hair was loose and framed her face. She grinned and tiptoed in, cradling two pillows and a blanket in one arm and her high-heeled pumps in the other. “How did you get in?” I whispered.

  “What do you mean? I just walked in. I waited for you at home and then decided, fuck you, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

  “But we’re not supposed to be here. We can’t get a bed in here or anything.”

  “Then you should’ve returned home. Lina, too,” she whispered, setting the heels and bedding down by the recliner, where my sister was snoring softly.

  Fatima disappeared into the hallway and returned with a gurney. “If we serve food on it, we can sleep on it. I’m certainly not going to sleep on the floor.” Fatima picked up the pillows, fluffed them, and lay down on the gurney. “Come here,” she said.

  I lifted myself onto the gurney and squeezed next to her. She wrapped her arms around me and nuzzled my neck. “Your necklace is imprinting itself on my back,” I whispered.

  She rotated it around one hundred and eighty. “Is that better?”

  “Wearing an emerald necklace to come here doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know, but it’s your father’s favorite necklace of mine. He was always complimenting me on it. I thought maybe, you know, if …”

  I folded Uncle Jihad’s clothes, put them in his suitcase. I went over his room inch by inch, combing every nook, making sure I forgot nothing.

  Melanie and I packed my father’s things while he sat cataleptically in the corner. I knelt before him, held his hand. It took him a while to look at me.

  “I have to get you dressed,” I said. “You’re going home.”

  I made sure he wore a light cotton shirt. I debated whether to give him his favorite wingtips or his moccasins, which would be easier to take off during the flight. I chose the wingtips, appearance being paramount to my father. He had his best tie on, double-knotted.

  “You know where to get hold of me,” Melanie said. “All you have to do is call Mike. He’ll always know where to reach me. If you ever need anything …” Her voice trailed off.

  I took my father to the airport in the hotel’s limousine. I waited till an Air France representative arrived to escort him. When she tried to walk him through the metal detector, he refused to let go of my hand. “I want to come along,” I said. “Until he gets on the plane.”

  A stewardess came out to escort him to his seat. I stood up and hugged him. He swayed gently
back and forth on his heels, but his arms remained at his side. I watched the jumbo jet lift into the shimmering air, taking my father home.

  I went to the Guitar Center on Sunset before returning to my suite at the Beverly Wilshire. With my American Express card I bought a Gibson J200, the most expensive guitar I could think of, the same kind that Elvis played.

  Eleven

  Fatima sweated and the parrots squawked. A servant poured hot water from a ewer into a porcelain basin. Fatima concentrated on the steam rising out of the bowl as it melded into the arabesque turquoise design of the ewer. “Quawk,” bellowed Ishmael.

  “Enough,” cried Fatima, gripping the damp sheets. “Be quiet or begone.”

  “Breathe,” said Elijah. “Concentrate on your breathing.”

  “I am in too much pain.”

  Elijah began to breathe loudly, with a military cadence. The other parrots followed suit. “Inhale,” said Job. “Exhale.” And Fatima’s breathing matched that of cockswain Job.

  She screamed again. “My back hurts.”

  “Turn around,” said Isaac. “It will relieve the pressure.”

  The frantic, disheveled midwife’s assistant rushed into the room. She staggered upon seeing Fatima on all fours with three parrots walking along her lower back and the other five breathing in unison. “My mistress asks if you can hold off for a while,” the assistant said. “The emir’s child arrives, and his mother is having trouble. My mistress cannot come right now.”

  In spite of the pain and discomfort, Fatima wanted to laugh. “Hold off? Can day hold off night? Tell your mistress she need not worry about me.”

  The assistant ran out. The parrots stared anxiously at Fatima. She glanced back at the remaining servant and said, “Leave. You are not needed here.” Fatima winced in pain.

  “Should you not return to our world?” asked Adam. “This fornicating palace is not a good place to give birth.”

  The assistant re-entered the room. “My mistress says I should deliver your child.”

  “No, you imbecile,” yelled Fatima. “I am the one delivering my child.”

  The two wails echoed simultaneously. The midwife cut the cord of the emir’s son at the same moment as her assistant cut the cord in the other room.

  “It is a boy,” announced the midwife’s assistant.

  “I know,” replied Fatima.

  “It is a boy,” announced the midwife.

  “He is dark,” said the emir.

  “He will surely lighten when we wash him.” The midwife handed the boy to a servant, who took him to the assistant to be bathed.

  The servant and the assistant opened the doors in unison, wailing bundles in hand. They walked down the corridor to the baths. The boys quieted as soon as they lay side by side. The assistant washed them with light soap and water, rubbed them in olive oil and lavender. She reached for the cotton cloths to wrap them with and stopped midway, astounded by the babies before her. She had been a midwife’s assistant for two years, had seen many babies delivered, but she had yet to see anything resembling this pair. One was the most beautiful child. His hair was the color of yellow fire, of sun-drenched fields of wheat. His skin was as white as calcite, his features tiny perfections. The other was the ugliest child. His hair was the color of soot, and his skin even darker. Big ears, big nose, big mouth, beady eyes, a horrible concoction of humanity.

  The assistant wrapped both boys and handed the light boy to the servant and walked out with the dark one. “Here is your boy,” the assistant said. “He seems very healthy.”

  Fatima held the baby, and all eight parrots squawked loudly.

  “This is not our boy,” said Isaac as soon as the assistant left.

  “This is not my nephew,” said Noah.

  “This is not your son,” said Ishmael.

  “He is my son,” replied Fatima. “Both boys are.” She kissed the baby’s forehead.

  The emir’s face brightened when he saw his light-faced heir. His wife extended her arms to take the baby. “He is so beautiful, my husband. The most perfect boy.”

  “Yes, it is all my doing. My tale of Baybars worked its magic, and I shall delight in regaling him with the rest of it.” The emir leaned over the mother and child. “He is indeed a worthy son,” he said. “Bright like the day, glorious like the sun, after which he will be named. Welcome into what will soon be your world, Shams.”

  In the other room, the imp Ishmael held the baby. “What shall your name be?” He kissed the boy and passed him to Isaac, who said, “Welcome, my master,” and kissed the boy as well.

  “In darkness and in light,” said Ezra.

  “In devotion and in fickleness,” said Jacob.

  “In obscurity and in clarity,” said Job.

  “In sun and in rain,” said Noah.

  “In sorrow and in rapture,” said Elijah.

  “In profusion and in paucity,” said Adam. “We will follow you and stand by your side.”

  “We are family,” said Isaac.

  And Fatima whispered to her boy, “As beautiful as an onyx, as dark as the darkest night, after which I name you. Welcome to what has always been your world, Layl.”

  “Rise, son,” said Ishmael, “and greet your own.”

  And Layl opened his eyes, and in the emir’s room, Shams opened his.

  The king’s judge, Arbusto, sent a letter to Khodr al-Bohairi in Giza. “My dear fellow, I wish to inform you of the appearance of a king’s favorite, a much-hated slave who goes by the accursed name of Baybars, upon whom the king has bestowed much power and honor. I ask you, my son, to help me do away with the usurper and rid the people of this slave’s rule. Send your Arabs out to cause trouble, to steal from the people of Giza, to rob travelers and elicit havoc in your area. I will advise the king to send out the slave boy to control the situation, and you will kill him once he arrives. As a reward, I will recommend that you become the mayor of Giza.” Upon reading the note, Khodr al-Bohairi saw bright gold in his future.

  That evening, he and his men waylaid the mayor of Giza and killed him. Within a fortnight, the king received news of chaos and upheaval in Giza—a mayor murdered, officials slain, tax collectors ambushed, merchants burgled. Arbusto said, “The only man who can purify Giza and exorcise its evil is the man who purified our Cairo, its mayor, Prince Baybars.”

  Giza’s high judge cried, “Help me, Prince Baybars. Khodr al-Bohairi has kidnapped my virgin daughter with the intent of selling her. We have no heroes in Giza who can face him but you. No one has been able to find the criminal or his hideout.” Baybars said, “I cannot rescue her or kill Khodr al-Bohairi if I do not know where they are,” and the high judge moaned, “Ah, my daughter, if we do not find you tonight, your life will be forfeit.”

  “We will find her tonight,” Othman said, and Harhash added, “Before the sun rises.”

  This story comes from the Bedouin tribes of Arabia. Pay attention.

  Once there was a wise and important Bedouin who took his young son with him to the camel market. While the man haggled with a merchant, his boy was abducted. The Bedouin searched everywhere, but could not find his son. He hired a crier, who walked up and down the market shouting, “My patron will pay one hundred rials for the safe return of his son.” Greed blossomed in the kidnapper’s heart. He decided to wait for the price to rise. But the next day, the crier shouted, “My patron will pay fifty rials for the safe return of his son.” The abductor assumed it was a mistake. The third day, the announcement was “My patron will pay ten rials for the safe return of his son.” The kidnapper quickly returned the boy and claimed the reward. He asked the Bedouin why the price had dropped so drastically, and the father said, “On the first day, my son was angry and refused your food. On the second day, he ate a little of what you offered to assuage his hunger. On the third day, he probably asked for the food. On the first day, my boy had his honor and pride, and on the second, hunger bargained with honor. By the third day, when he humbly had to beg his captor for food,
his pride was lost and his worth was less.”

  By the time the moon rose in Giza, Othman and Harhash had burgled eight houses, broken into five stores, and relieved a money merchant of a large bundle of cash as he returned home with two incompetent guards. They turned the loot over to the high judge and went back at it. By midnight, they had attacked three more stores, including a wine shop, where they tied the owner upside down from the ceiling by his ankles.

  “This is ridiculous,” said Othman. “These people are inept.”

  “They are bunglers,” replied Harhash. “We have to make more mistakes. I am losing interest.” And Othman said, “Women. The women must be smarter.” They broke into a brothel. Through the window they entered, avoiding the busy main hall, and ascended the back stairs. Half-naked women with drawn scimitars and daggers awaited them inside an upstairs room.

  “Most men come in through the front,” said the leader of the women.

  “But that is not always satisfying,” replied Othman. “We are finally captured, and stand helplessly before you.”

  “News of your exploits this evening has preceded you,” she said. “I certainly did not expect only two of you.”

  “We are ambidextrous,” said Harhash.

  “And much too clever by half,” she said. “Still, I must play my part in the drama and turn you over to Khodr al-Bohairi. Come visit after you are done with the fool. I am sure we can come up with many mutually beneficial arrangements.”