The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  “Get the archers up here,” Baybars ordered. “Hit them before they retreat.” The archers hurried forth, and the first hail of arrows descended upon Halawoon’s troops. A hasty retreat was called, and disarray ensued. Halawoon could be seen cowering behind one of his officers. Slaves picked up the royal red tent, and he ran beneath it out of the line of fire. The archer shot his arrow and snapped the main pole. The tent collapsed upon its occupant, and Halawoon scuttled like a scarlet ghost. Aleppo’s people cheered. “That hit the mark,” exclaimed Prince Baybars.

  Saadi, the great Persian poet, once told a story that went like this: Not long ago, a king in the divine city of Shiraz held an archery competition for the amusement of his friends. He had a jeweler forge a ring of pure loveliness, upon which was set an emerald of inestimable value. The king caused the ring to be fixed high on the dome of Asad. A barker announced that whoever sent an arrow through the ring could claim it as a reward for his impeccable skills. One thousand of the best archers in the land shot at the ring with no success. It so happened that a young boy on a roof was amusing himself with a small bow. One of his arrows, shot at random, penetrated the jeweled ring. A great cheer erupted from the rapt audience. The ecstatic king offered the ring to the young boy, who took his great prize and wisely hurried home to burn his bow, so that the reputation of his immaculate feat should never be impaired.

  Layla uncovered her bundle, a small gilded cage within which a red dove cooed at the sight of her owner. She opened the door, and the pigeon perched on her finger. Her husband said, “You carried a pigeon all the way from Cairo?” and she replied, “Two.”

  “Where is the other?” Othman asked.

  “We are calling him now. He will join us soon.”

  Baybars told his companions, “We have to decide when to attack our enemy. It is true they outnumber us, but we have courage in our hearts. With the city’s troops, we now number five thousand men.” And Aydmur added, “Our enemy has twenty-five thousand men left. Determination and the right plan of attack will compensate for the unevenness in numbers.”

  Layla raised her hands in the air, and the dove fluttered its wings in joy. “He comes,” Layla said. A splendid red cock appeared in the sky, circled, and landed upon Layla’s outstretched arm.

  “Where did he come from?” asked Othman.

  “Not from too far, I hope.” She set both doves upon the cage and removed a message from the cock’s foot. “Forsake your planning,” Layla told Baybars and the warriors. “The army of the sons of Ishmael arrives and seeks to redeem the kingdom’s honor. They number five thousand men as well, and they lust after infidel flesh. If you desire a taste of your enemy’s blood, tarry not, for Halawoon’s army will not last much longer.” On the far horizon, a large swirl of sand bloomed.

  “Get the horses,” commanded Prince Baybars.

  The emir’s wife paced her chambers, irate. “There are too many of them. They are coming from all over, and the line gets longer every day. I cannot get to our garden anymore without passing through the reeking rabble. Not only that, but some of our friends no longer wish to be healed, because they do not wish to mingle.”

  “If you do not want the people to see our son,” the emir said, “we can deny access. We will make an announcement, and the seekers will return home soon enough. Frankly, I am not happy with the situation, either. It was grand and entertaining to help the needy, but years and years of incessant lines is enough. So much pleading, so much begging, does a soul no good. I thought it made you happy, but now that I know, we will stop the insanity.”

  “No, we will not. We will move the people away from our home. We will build a shrine, a glorious building with columns the thickness of twenty men and soaring arches and at least two minarets that reach the sky. Shams will receive visitors in the temple, and the masses will pray for him while they wait. Will that not be lovely?”

  The slave army rode out of the western gate with Baybars at its head, reached the enemy lines before the army of the sons of Ishmael. The ringing of swords, the war cries of heroes, rose on the battlefield. Fire-worshippers fell and were felled. Al-Awwar paid them no mind; he searched for the red specter of the fire king. The coward cowered behind his slaves. Al-Awwar lurched forward, pushed one steed out of his way, then another.

  The sons of Ishmael crossed the battle’s threshold. Upon hearing their war cries, Halawoon the vile mounted a horse and bade his minions protect him. He ran away with his royal slaves and a squadron of his guards. Al-Awwar trotted after him, but the battle lay behind. He turned around, angry with himself for allowing the cowardly escape, and bulldozed his enemies, trampled them with the ferocity of a lion mauling an oryx. The slave warriors triumphed. Their enemies were slain or enslaved. The victorious fighters met in the field, amid the dead and defeated. Prince Baybars congratulated his troops on the victory. “A most valiant triumph it was,” said the leader of the sons of Ishmael. “I am called Marouf ben Jamr. I am the kingdom’s chief of forts and battlements. My people and I are at your service.”

  “I thank you, my chief. Your arrival was most opportune. How did fate encourage you to meet our enemies on this auspicious occasion?”

  “We were inspired by an eloquent letter from one of your subjects, a staunch dispatch which called us to arms to stand by loyal Prince Baybars, the defender of the faith.”

  Othman cried, “Where does the chief of forts reside? Pray tell me it is not the Fort of Marqab.” And Marouf replied, “It is precisely there.”

  “Where is my faithless wife?” Othman demanded.

  “Faithless?” his wife asked, as she penetrated the circle of men. “You call the writer of that letter faithless? I play my part in God’s theater. Do not revile what you do not understand.”

  “You asked my leave to visit lady friends in the fort, not the chief of forts.”

  “But I did visit my lady friends. They happened to dwell in the harem.”

  “You mock me,” Othman said. “I am bereft of honor, naught but a shell of a man.”

  “Judge not your wife, or yourself, too harshly,” Marouf interrupted. “I long ago made the acquaintance of your lovely dove. The kingdom was in need, and your wife’s actions were heroic. A wife’s valor demeans not the honor of a husband.”

  “I do not know how to live with such shame,” said Othman.

  “Practice,” replied Layla.

  The army began its journey back to Cairo. “Ride with us to Damascus,” Baybars told Marouf. “You will be my guest. Allow my mother’s eyes the glorious sight of our army. It will please her to find her dream come true.” And so the great army arrived in Damascus and was fêted. Sitt Latifah was elated. The army celebrated for three days, and separated. The sons of Ishmael returned to their homes, and the slave army left for Cairo, where they were fêted once more as the liberators of Aleppo and the great defenders of the kingdom. The king gifted Baybars with new robes.

  And that was how Baybars became the commander of the king’s army.

  The first public kiss occurred on their seventh birthday during the ceremony at the temple of the sun with the two minarets. The emir’s wife had planned the event for months, and worshippers had begun lining up, laden with presents, at the same time. The emir’s wife had hoped that Shams, the sun prophet, would behave in a more prophetlike manner on his birthday. The eight parrots had been noisier than normal, giving the emir’s wife a terrible migraine.

  The light and dark twins sat shoulder to shoulder on the ostrich-feather cushion, and Shams touched the head of each worshipper genuflecting before him. When the worshipper offered a gift, Shams in turn offered it to Layl, who tore into the package. When Layl found a delightful miniature wood carving of a horse, he showed it to a thrilled Shams, who kissed him. Not a friendly kiss, not a brotherly kiss, but a full mouth-to-mouth, indecently lasting kiss.

  And the emir’s wife’s face turned as red as the color of the chuckling parrots, Ishmael and Isaac, perched atop the throne.

 
“He kissed him,” the emir’s wife said. “In front of all, a shameful kiss. I would not have been surprised if they had undressed each other right then and there.”

  “They are only seven, my dear,” the emir said. “Boys are expressive at that age. It is nothing. He is a prince and can do as he pleases. Most do worse things with their slaves.”

  “Not kissing. I do not understand why the dark one has to be around him at all times. I cannot see my son alone. And what is with the damn parrots? They hover over him perpetually, as if our guards are not good enough. That Fatima woman has ruined my son. Why can I see him for only an hour a day? I demand to visit with him, but if it is not my allotted time, my own son refuses, throws a tantrum until I relent and allow him back to his rooms. I hired a tutor, but he told me he could teach Shams nothing. He told me my son was born educated.”

  “Are you complaining that our son already knows how to read and write?”

  “No, of course not. He has inherited our finest qualities. What I cannot stand is the company he keeps. That woman runs her own fiefdom within mine. I cannot bear it.”

  “Then get rid of her.”

  “I tried. I told her I would not be needing her services, and she laughed. I sent the guards to kick her out, and Shams threw a hysterical fit. He thinks she is his mother, not I. Oh, my husband, I am at a loss.”

  “What can I do to ease your suffering? Would you like me to continue the tale of Baybars?”

  Twelve

  I woke up confused, unsure where I was. It had been two months since I moved into the dorm room, but I still couldn’t envision it as my home. Each morning I woke up feeling anxious. I had expected to be ecstatic finally living on my own, independent, away from family, but that was not to be. I had a roommate the first week, which at the time I had considered to be bad luck—I had asked for a single. He was morose, rarely said a word or listened to any, and was so homesick that he packed his bags and dropped out of school the second week. I missed him.

  I wished I could pack my bags as well, but there was nowhere for me to return to.

  The phone rang, and I hesitated before picking it up. I had paid extra to have my own phone in the room, but still wasn’t used to receiving calls on it. It was from Rome. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in,” Fatima said. “I thought you might be in class.” She had moved there with her mother in 1975, when the war in Lebanon started. When we were in Beirut, not one day passed without our talking, but we were unable to keep the schedule since we separated. We tried to call each other at least once a week.

  “I should be,” I said, “but”—I couldn’t think fast enough; was there a good reason for missing classes?—“I’m tired, so I took the morning off.” I stared at the small bouquet of silk ocher lilies strewn haphazardly under the couch, waiting to be thrown out. They belonged to the old roommate, who forgot to take them with him when he returned to Fresno. I should also throw out the chair, itchy brown plaid upholstery atop fake wood.

  She asked if I was still unhappy. I rattled off my grievances. I told her how I didn’t understand anyone who lived on my floor, and there were so many of them, how hard I tried to get to know these Americans, and how amicably impenetrable they were. The Lebanese students weren’t any better. I didn’t belong with them, either. I told her how much I hated my room. “But you know,” I went on, “I’ve seen the places of some of the other Lebanese boys here, and they’re much worse.” I imagined her in her splendidly lit apartment in Rome, probably lying on her stomach, as she usually did, legs bent at the knees, her ankles crossed in the air. Her phone would be nothing like the cheap Princess I was using.

  “You’ll get used to being alone,” she said. “We all do.” She told me how much she missed the neighborhood; she even admitted to missing her vain, self-centered, irresponsible, and uncaring sister, who had refused to leave Beirut. “With Mariella not being here, I have no one to hate on a daily basis,” she added. “She’s having sex with every militia leader in Beirut, but I can no longer call her a whore. I miss that. I’m worried about her.” I heard her pause and hesitate. “Your sister is fooling around with a militia leader as well.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Lina is enjoying Elie’s company,” Fatima said. “She had always fancied him. I don’t know why. I mean, he was a lowlife before the war, and now he’s a killer.”

  We all knew Elie would grow to be a military man; he moved up quickly in the militia when he was a boy. Since none of us had considered there would be a civil war, no one ever thought he would someday actually matter. “She didn’t mention it to me,” I said.

  The joint in the ashtray had extinguished itself. I had a deep-boned urge to relight it and inhale for a long time. I reached for the pack of Gauloises.

  “Of course she wouldn’t,” Fatima said. “You’re her family. I’m her friend.”

  The story goes like this.

  A day of great beauty; snow covered the entire village, and a sky of unequivocal blue towered above. It was January 1938, and Uncle Jihad, all of five years old, vied for his mother’s attention. He poked her thigh with his finger, until she finally slapped his hand.

  “Put your coat on and go play with the other boys,” my grandmother said. “Don’t interrupt adult conversation.”

  “I’m not interrupting your conversation,” Uncle Jihad said. “I’m interrupting your work.” My great-grandmother Mona, my grandmother Najla, and my seventeen-year-old aunt Samia were knitting around the iron stove. “I don’t think my sister should be working on my sweater,” he added. “She doesn’t know how.”

  “Stop meddling in what doesn’t concern you,” my grandmother said. She was the only one among the three without a mandeel. My great-grandmother wore hers around her hair; Aunt Samia’s was on the coffee table in front of them.

  “It does concern me.” Uncle Jihad poked his mother again. “I’m going to be wearing it.”

  “Shhhh, my boy.” My great-grandmother covered my uncle’s mouth. “So much energy. Settle down. First, you’re not going to be wearing it. This one is for Farid. And your sister may not be as good as your mother and me, but we weren’t as good as she is when we were her age. That’s the point. She’s learning. She’s only doing one sleeve. So be quiet and let us work.”

  “Why do you always explain things to him?” Aunt Samia asked. “Why is he treated differently from other children? Tell him to sit still and be quiet.”

  “Sit still and be quiet,” my grandmother said.

  The women resumed their task and their conversation. My great-grandmother expressed her concern for her son Jalal. “He’s causing trouble. I can’t understand why he’s doing it. He writes these awful things in the newspaper, and the French warn him to stop or face the consequences. Everyone is giving him bad advice. The bey goads him on, but he’s not the one who’s being threatened. He’s always kissing European hands, yet he wants Jalal to stir the pot. The French want to put Jalal in you-know-what.”

  “What’s you-know-what?” asked Aunt Samia.

  “Prison,” Uncle Jihad replied. “The French think Uncle Jalal is a bad man because his writings are provocative.”

  “Provocative?” asked Aunt Samia. “What does that mean?”

  My great-grandmother and grandmother looked at each other. My great-grandmother smiled. My grandmother shook her head and bundled Uncle Jihad in wool: coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. She walked him out the door. “Play.” She pointed toward the sloping hill at the edge of the pines. “Farid is there. You can’t stay indoors all the time. Go.”

  “It’s cold,” Uncle Jihad replied.

  “It’s not that cold.” She gestured to her long black skirt and black sweater. “Look. I’m not even wearing a coat.”

  “You’re going to talk about a husband for Samia.”

  “That’s none of your concern,” my grandmother said. “Go play, and don’t come back until it’s time for lunch.”

  Ah, so many stories begin with three women kn
itting and talking. My favorite …

  One evening, a king explored his city, walked the alleys, and listened to his subjects through the open arched windows. He passed by a house where three sisters knitted around a fire.

  The eldest said, “I wish I would marry a baker. I would be able to eat fresh bread every day. And cakes—I would be able to eat wonderful cakes.” The middle sister said, “I wish I would marry a butcher. I would be able to eat meat any time I wanted.” The youngest said, “I wish I could marry our king. I would love and cherish him, take care of him, ease his worries so he can govern even more fairly.”

  The king appreciated what he heard. He sent for the three girls, and when he saw the youngest girl, he decided to make her wish come true. He married the eldest to his baker and the middle sister to his butcher. He commanded the two bridegrooms, “Treat your wives with utmost respect, and feed them whatever they desire.” And, in a grand ceremony that lasted many a day and night, he married the youngest sister. The king lavished his wife with gifts and luxuries, which planted the seeds of envy in her sisters’ hearts. The new queen grew with child, and the king was ecstatic. The eldest sister said to the second, “If our sister provides her husband with an heir, the king will love her forever. We cannot allow that to happen.” They offered the midwife gold if she would get rid of the queen’s child. The young queen delivered a healthy baby boy, but before anyone could see him, the midwife sprinkled magic water and spoke an incantation. The baby turned into a puppy. The king asked to see his child.

  “This is what your wife gave birth to.” The midwife held the puppy up. The apoplectic king said, “I refuse to be the father of this,” and with his own sword he cut off his son’s head.

  The queen became pregnant once more, and when she delivered, the midwife changed the boy into a piglet. “This is what your wife gave birth to,” the midwife said. The livid king said, “I refuse to be the father of this,” and killed his son.