The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  “Real,” I repeated. I tried to think of something to add, to make an impression.

  “Where are you from?” said Jake.

  I wondered if he was making fun of me, but he was too stoned. “I’m from Beirut,” I said.

  “Beirut.” Jake closed his eyes. “That’s in Latin America, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “Can you play something from your country?”

  “Tango or salsa?” I chuckled at my own joke. I took a long drag and allowed the smoke to percolate in my lungs. My brain was grateful. “How about something from Baghdad?” I began a maqâm for the first time in years, clumsily in the first few bars. The guitar’s sound proved awkward, and my pick had to strum harder. My fingers still remembered how to play, but the frets got in the way. I had to improvise. I slowed down, allowing myself more time to adjust. Count Basie and not Oscar Peterson. I switched to Maqâm Bayati, which had the fewest half- or quarter-notes. Images of the great desert seared the back of my eyelids. The notes seemed so naturally logical. My fingers played with a tarantulan languor.

  I opened my eyes to see Jake gawping, his expression tinged with shock and wonder. His roommate looked dazed. “That was different,” Jake said.

  “You shouldn’t play anything but that,” the roommate said. “It had soul.”

  The hairs on my arms rose for an instant. I began another maqâm, trying to lose myself in the essence of the music, in its passion. Played for about ten minutes before I paused and noticed that my discriminating audience had passed out. I resumed the maqâm, but I couldn’t make the guitar produce the sounds I was hearing in my head. Finally, it came to me. I knew what was wrong. I walked out of the room and into the common kitchen. I unstrung my guitar and put it on the Formica counter. I searched the drawers for the right tool, but could come up with nothing better than a steak knife to defret my J200. The steak knife was too flimsy, so I tried a bread knife. Without its frets, my guitar would sound better, more me. The bread knife didn’t work, either. I plugged in the carving knife, and the current jerked it into life. I went to work. The sound of the knife’s tiny motor grew deafening, but I persisted. I went too deep with the first fret, not so much with the second. I’d figured out how to operate by the third and fourth, but I stopped at the fifth. I stared at the dying instrument before me and left it. I returned to my dorm room and lay down, my head buzzing.

  “I was with Ali for years, through school, through college,” Uncle Jihad went on. “And you should know, those wonderful pigeoneers had a lot to do with our family being where it is today. There was another one as well. Let me explain. Ali abhorred this one pigeoneer, Mohammad Beaini. They were mortal enemies, and not simply because the Beainis were Sunni and the Itanis were Shiite. It seemed that Ali’s father had once insulted Mohammad’s, and the bad blood festered. Ali and Mohammad had never actually spoken to each other. They grew up with the feud, and each assumed the other was evil. One day, two or three years after I started with Ali—maybe it was 1948—one of Mohammad’s pigeons landed on our roof. Ali recognized it immediately and held his tongue. The bird seemed lost, so I approached it from behind, netted it, and carried it to the small cage, but Ali said, ‘No. Wring its neck. Mohammad won’t ask for it, and I won’t return it.’ I was flabbergasted. I refused to do it. ‘It’s for the bird’s own good,’ Ali said. ‘It’ll suffer away from home. We can’t keep it. It’s the humane thing to do.’ I held it out to him. If he wanted it dead, then he’d have to kill it. Kamal came to my rescue. ‘You can’t make the young man do your work. Either kill it yourself or return it.’

  “ ‘I won’t return it,’ insisted Ali. I told him I would, and he replied, ‘He knows you work for me. I won’t have it.’ Well, I knew about saving face. ‘I’ll take it back and tell him you weren’t here when it landed.’ And relief blushed Ali’s face. Even Kamal smiled. I walked the bird to Mohammad Beaini’s. The look on his face was priceless when he recognized me. I told him that Ali hadn’t been there, but he didn’t believe me. He took the bird back and thanked me.

  “Now, in a great story, Ali and Mohammad would become great friends, and their grandchildren would marry each other, and they would have offspring that were family, but that wasn’t the case. Mohammad simply stopped talking badly about Ali and refused to be anywhere near anyone who would. And whenever someone complimented Ali on his magnificent coop, he said, ‘I wish my pigeons were as lovely as Beaini’s.’ They both passed away without having spoken a word to each other. So, you ask, why am I telling you a story without a great ending? Because, as in all great stories, the end is never where you expect it to be.

  “Mohammad Beaini didn’t become a close friend of mine, either. But when I graduated from college and Uncle Maan put your father and me up in our first apartment, I started a small coop on our balcony. Ali offered me three pairs, a Rashidi, a Turkish, and a Zahr al-Fool. Two days after my coop was up, a young boy knocked on my door with a priceless gift from Mohammad, a pair of gorgeous Yehudis. We hadn’t seen each other since that first day, so I paid him a visit and thanked him.

  “I was able to repay him quickly. Pigeons loved me, you see. They bred for me. At one time, I was probably the best pigeon breeder in all of Beirut. My Yehudis were all prize pigeons. I gifted Mohammad with a wonderful pair. I also gave him a stunning pair of speckled Zahr al-Fool. Of course, I gave Ali similar mates. So, you see, Mohammad and Ali did end up having offspring that were family after all. I had become a well-known pigeoneer. By then my father knew, and he wanted me to stop, because he hated pigeons. He considered the profession demeaning. Did you know that a pigeoneer’s testimony isn’t accepted in a court of law? You know why? By law, a pigeoneer’s word can’t be trusted, because he spends his time on roofs and is therefore a Peeping Tom. People are naïve. Of course, that’s why most muezzins are blind. They may be high up, but they can’t see.

  “Your father wanted me to quit, too. Fairly or unfairly, society considered pigeoneers contemptible, and he wanted reputable men to respect him. More important, what decent woman would marry him if his brother was a pigeoneer? Your mother certainly wouldn’t have. I had to quit and start a company with him. When it came time for me to give everything up, I sold my pigeons for a tidy sum, the seed for our corporation, but we still needed a lot more money. Both Ali Itani and Kamal Hourani gave me everything they could spare. Neither was rich, but they held nothing back. They were in their eighties by then. They both passed away before I could repay them. Kamal died first, and of course Ali couldn’t bear it and followed him not ten days later. I can tell you, I spent those ten days with Ali. His grief was unbearable, and death surely rescued him. I repaid my debt to their families.

  “But since I was desperate, I had also asked Mohammad Beaini, and he didn’t hesitate, either. It turned out he was wealthier than anyone I knew. He ended up being the biggest contributor of the army of angels.”

  I was lucky that I was sober when my mother called. She asked about school. How was I doing with finals? Was everything going as well as it should? Yet I could hear the anxiety in her voice. “Listen,” she said, “I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else. Your sister’s getting married next week. It’s not going to be a big wedding, just the family and close friends. We’re not making a big deal out of it.”

  I watched my hand clench the phone. My mouth felt dry and cottony. My head hurt. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “What do you mean what do I mean? Wedding, marriage, your sister.”

  “Who’s she marrying?”

  “Elie, of course. The wedding’s next week. They’re in love. They’re happy. They’re getting married.”

  “I don’t understand. Why does she want to marry him? Why so quickly?”

  I heard her sigh on the other end. “Listen, darling,” she said, “you have to be an adult now. You don’t need to have everything explained. Think about it.” She paused for an instant. “Why would there be a wedding so soon after Ji
had passed away? It’s not a shotgun wedding, but an AK-47 one.” She paused again. “Why would I allow her to marry that fucking bastard with half a brain?” Another pause, a long breath, quieter. “Now, darling, don’t ask me any more questions. I’m just telling you that Lina is getting married and then I’m going to kill her.”

  She hung up without saying goodbye. I figured there were many reasons for her to be angry in this situation, but, knowing her, the fact that she was going to be a grandmother at her age might top the list.

  I decided I would leave for Lebanon on the Saturday after finals. I could get a plane to New York, then Rome, then Beirut, and arrive just in time. Civil war or not. It had been calm for about six days. I could go to the wedding, spend some time with the family, and return before classes began again. The wedding would be in the mountains. Nothing was happening there. There had been no bombs, no shootings, at least for the last little while.

  Thirteen

  One day, a messenger entered the diwan carrying a letter from the mayor of Alexandria: “A majestic galleon waving the flag of peace entered our port and dropped anchor. A nobleman emerged and announced that he is the vizier of the king of Genoa and brings a letter to the sultan of Islam and bears many gifts for Your Majesty. He wishes an audience at the diwan.” King Saleh dispatched a reply asking the mayor to allow the vizier entry. The vizier of Genoa sailed the Nile and sought the diwan upon arrival in Cairo. He genuflected before the king and offered a letter from his liege. King Saleh asked his judge, Arbusto, to read the letter, which stated that the king of Genoa had made a vow when his daughter, Maria, was sick. He had promised God that if He healed his daughter he would send her on a pilgrimage to Holy Jerusalem. Now his daughter was well again, and the monarch wished to fulfill his vow. He begged permission for Maria’s pilgrimage, and asked King Saleh to ensure her safety by assigning loyal and courageous soldiers to protect her. The king of Genoa would pay the guards five thousand dinars.

  The customs of protection were under the jurisdiction of the chief of forts and battlements, Marouf ben Jamr, and so King Saleh commanded Prince Baybars to carry a letter asking the chief of forts to assume responsibility for the princess’s protection.

  Prince Baybars traveled to the Fort of Marqab and was greeted effusively by Marouf. After Marouf read the letter, he kissed it and touched his forehead. “For you, my loyal friend, and for the sultan, I will protect the princess myself. I do not require payment. Distribute the money among the needy, among the widows and orphans.”

  Marouf waited for five days in Jaffa before the Genovese ship dropped anchor in port. The princess and her companions disembarked and set up camp. Marouf paid the princess a visit. When Maria saw her protector enter, she stood up and greeted him. His demeanor and grace impressed her eyes, and love tumbled into her heart. Maria asked, “Are you my escort, dear sir?” and he answered in the affirmative. She bade him sit and join her. She asked her attendants to serve her guest. The following day, Marouf led the convoy to the Holy City. The princess rode on a litter borne by slaves, and the chief of forts and his men surrounded it on all sides. The princess entered the city with Marouf. She visited the holy sites of Jerusalem, distributed alms to the poor, admired the wonders. The Mosque of al-Aqsa astonished her. She asked Marouf if she could enter, and he replied that she could if she went in with him, unaccompanied by her servants and attendants. Maria and Marouf marveled at the Aqsa’s architecture. As she wandered inside the mosque, she saw a wise imam reading to young students. Maria asked Marouf, “Would this exalted teacher be able to interpret a dream?” and Marouf asked the imam, who said, “Tell me your dreams, young maiden, and God will guide my interpretation.”

  And Maria began, “In a desolate valley, I thirsted. I walked until I reached a river whose water was as white as milk and as sweet as honey. I cupped my hand and took a sip that quenched the heat of my thirst and cooled the aching fire in my heart. A black fly fell out of my lips onto the ground. A white fly entered my mouth and settled in my throat. Upon the river sailed a boat, and I rode it until I reached new land, another valley, which was verdant, filled with springs and brooks, resplendent with songbirds and fruit trees. I slept under a willow, and a white bird pecked my head, from which escaped a small bird that I loved very much. A black bird attacked the small bird and carried it away. I wept for my kidnapped little bird and woke up.”

  And the wise imam said, “The desolate valley is where you came from, and God guided you to the verdant valley that is Islam. The black fly was the darkness, and the white fly that nestled in your throat is the Shahada, the Muslim profession of faith—I witness that there is no god but God, and that Muhammad is the Prophet of God. The boat is the vessel of life. The white bird is the honorable man who will marry you and love you. Your joining shall produce a viable seed that will flower away from you. God has shown you the way. Surrender to His will.”

  “I will become a Muslim,” Maria said, and she uttered the Shahada in faith. She kissed the imam’s hand, and he blessed her. She told the imam, “I cannot return to Genoa as a Muslim. I must marry a valiant man of faith to protect and defend me in my new life.” The imam asked her to bring him the man of her choice, and he would marry them. “The man of my choice is here,” Maria said. “There is no one more worthy.” Marouf’s heart blinked and fluttered.

  “And what would be her dowry?” asked the imam.

  “I will offer ten thousand dinars,” answered Marouf, “on my honor, upon my return to the Fort of Marqab.”

  “So be it.” The imam married the ardent couple, signed the documents. He wrote a fatwa stating that the girl had surrendered to the faith and married of her own choice. “God be with you, my daughter. Wrap your shawl about you. Do not exit as you entered.”

  Boarding hadn’t been announced yet. From a phone booth, I called Fatima to shock her. I was in Rome—Da Vinci Airport in Fiumicino, to be precise—and I wasn’t going to see her. I was flying to Beirut, surprising everyone. “Why is your stupid sister marrying that idiot?” she spoke loudly into the phone. “She won’t talk to me. She’s avoiding everybody. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “They’re in love,” I said lamely.

  “Don’t be stupid. That bastard doesn’t know what the word means, and Lina is just being brainless. He’ll ruin her life. Your mother wants her to get an abortion. Your sister won’t listen. She wants his child and doesn’t want to raise a bastard. She’s nuts.”

  I didn’t say anything. The receiver felt heavy. “They’re boarding,” I said.

  “And if you ever come here again without visiting me, I swear I’ll roast you in a big Italian oven.”

  On the journey out of Jerusalem, Maria lay within her litter, but she relaxed the curtains and smiled at her husband, who was riding beside her. Happiness made Marouf sit up in his saddle. He rode close to his bride and beamed. Marouf led the entourage past the turnoff toward Jaffa, and the vizier of Genoa inquired where they were going. “To the Fort of Marqab,” Marouf replied, “so you can be my honored guests.”

  A feast was held in the Fort of Marqab upon their return. And on the wedding night, Marouf visited his princess. The following morning, he left her chambers and took his usual seat among his men. The Genovese vizier said to Marouf, “You have been most kind and generous to us. We are grateful. And now we must be on our way.”

  “Return to your home, and tell the king of Genoa that his daughter has become a Muslim and has married Marouf, the chief of forts and battlements.”

  The vizier blanched. “Have you entered her chambers?”

  “I surely have. She is my wife.”

  The vizier moaned, slapped his face, and beat his breast. “Kill me now, sire. I cannot return to Genoa without her.”

  The king of Genoa heard the wails and lamentations of Maria’s attendants before they walked into the court. The vizier, haggard and pale, announced, “Your Majesty, the princess has given up her faith and married a Muslim. She did not wish to return.”
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  The king turned wrathful. “Send a letter to King Saleh and kill this messenger.”

  Back at the diwan, King Saleh’s judge read him the letter. “This cannot be, Your Majesty,” Arbusto said. “The king of Genoa trusted God and you with protecting his daughter’s honor. You entrusted Baybars, and he and his good friend Marouf betrayed you. A scandal of this magnitude I have never witnessed.” The king called Baybars to the diwan and demanded an explanation. Baybars said, “I have received a letter from Marouf saying that the princess chose the true faith and was not forced into it. God gifted her. Marouf has a fatwa from the imam of al-Aqsa confirming the gift of God and the princess’s choice of Marouf for a husband.”

  King Saleh said, “That is a true story. Islam is a bequest from the Almighty. My judge, send a letter to the king of Genoa explaining what happened. Be gentle. His daughter’s choice to live so far from him will surely be difficult to hear and bear.”

  The king’s judge was not gentle. “King Saleh has allowed his protégé, Prince Baybars, to kidnap your daughter,” the letter said, “and sell her to Marouf’s harem. If you send me a ship to Jaffa, a full money chest, and a battalion of men in disguise, I will return your daughter to Genoa myself. The king is ill in the mind, and I do not wish to remain here and witness the realm’s demise under his successors.” The king’s judge sent the letter to Genoa by messenger. He packed his belongings and all the goods he had stolen through the years. Arbusto discarded the robes of judge and abandoned the fair city of Cairo.