The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  “We wanted to be together,” Othman said, and Layla added, “This is our honeymoon.”

  We wished for a bigger storm, more powerful, more destructive, strong enough to get the combatants to take a break from the fighting. In the winter of 1976, the rain was soft, the shelling wasn’t. The underground garage muted the sound of the bombardment. The fighting was in a different part of town, but my mother was worried enough to take us to the shelter. Light from a couple of kerosene lamps and infinite candles threw flickering shadows across the unwashed walls. My mother lit a cigarette. “I’m dying, Jihad, dying of boredom.” She turned off the transistor radio, interrupting the voice of the BBC anchorwoman in mid-sentence. “Entertain me or suffer the consequences.”

  “Me?” Uncle Jihad said. “Why don’t you tell us a story? Tell your children about the greatest love, how you picked their father out of all your suitors.”

  Lina picked up the transistor and moved two plastic chairs away to Uncle Akram’s parking space. His car must have been leaking for quite a while, since there was a large oil stain resembling the dark continent of Africa. Lina sat down, tuned the radio to a rock station, and put her legs on the second chair. Her butt hovered over Libya and Tunis, and her feet dangled over the southern tip of the horn. “Lina seems to be entertaining herself,” said Uncle Jihad. “Wouldn’t it be nice to tell your son about you?”

  “You’re supposed to entertain me,” my mother said. “Don’t fail me, mister.”

  “Relentless woman.” Uncle Jihad laughed. “All right. I’ll tell you a story about my mischievous youth, but I don’t want you to get any ideas, Osama. Let’s see. Where does one start? In the early days, before I was born, that’s when we’ll start.” He tapped out a cigarette and took his time lighting it, had two long puffs before beginning a third. “During the early 1900s, there was a Druze brigand, Yassin al-Jawahiri, who terrorized the mountains. Well, ‘terrorize’ might be too harsh a word. He was a card who fancied himself a Druze Robin Hood. He stole from the Ottoman Empire and its officials and shared some of his bounty with the Druze villages, and in return the villagers sheltered him, even against the wishes of their leaders, the princes and sheikhs of the mountains. He was a hero to the Druze, this Yassin al-Jawahiri.”

  “Al-Jawahiri?” my mother interrupted.

  “One and the same.”

  “This isn’t fair,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know the Jawahiri family,” my mother said. “Jihad is going to tell us how they became our friends.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because it’s a great story,” Uncle Jihad said. “Now, let me tell it. This Yassin was a clever fellow and became so popular that there was a song written about him. It went like this:

  Ya Yassin, Ya Jawahiri

  Your rifle slung on your shoulder,

  becomes snug on that shoulder

  Before your enemy blinks.

  Vultures and foreigners behind you

  Turn, turn, and shoot them.

  Ya Yassin, Ya Jawahiri

  Return to us our hero.

  “That’s a stupid song,” I said.

  “I learned it as a little boy. You know my father. He probably knew every song sung in the mountains. When he told the Yassin story, I remembered the song. Anyway, Yassin caused havoc for many years, but then the First World War started and the French arrived. Well, the French were more ruthless than the Ottomans. They caught Yassin and executed him.”

  “How does one capture a villain as wily as Arbusto?” asked Harhash.

  “How does one woo evil?” asked Layla.

  “We set a trap,” said Othman. “We seduce his greed.”

  “We seduce his ego,” added Harhash.

  “And top it with lust,” said Layla. “A powerful brew indeed. We send a message that a luscious dove has arrived in Tripoli, enamored of his infamous reputation, infatuated by his power. She wishes to be his slave and answer his bidding, do anything he desires.”

  “She will help him bring the sultanate to its knees,” said Othman. “She is able to seduce any man, including the virtuous King Baybars.”

  “She is able to relieve men of their reason,” said Harhash. “She can open any door.”

  “He will come running. I will spread the rumor among the city’s thieves.”

  “I will inform the pleasure-givers,” said Layla.

  “I will take the bandits and highway robbers,” said Harhash.

  And Layla vowed, “I will drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid.”

  “Let us begin,” said Othman. “When shall we three meet again?”

  • • •

  Layla waited in her room. When the knock came, she lay on the divan while Othman and Harhash hid behind the curtains. “Come in,” Layla called. “Come sit next to me. I have admired you from afar for so long, and I yearn to see you up close.”

  Arbusto entered the room wearing his best robe and a scent of jasmine, trying to appear magisterial, but his nerve failed him. He sat at the end of the divan, beside her bare feet. “I thought your kind had repented.” He pulled his miter to make sure his clipped ear was covered.

  “I retired from public service, not private.”

  “That is a good distinction in your profession,” Arbusto said.

  “I have waited for this moment.” Layla kept her eyes fastened on her prey, whose gaze darted about to avoid hers. “Every time I heard stories of your exploits, I shuddered in secret joy. I was first intrigued, then enchanted, then infatuated. I kept hearing more and more stories. You have done some terrible things.” She winked, and he flushed. “You have been a bad boy.” She rose from the divan slowly, making sure her curves were highlighted. “Have you not?”

  “Yes, I have.” A nervous laugh escaped his lips.

  “And you must be punished. Give me your hands.”

  Arbusto extended his hands meekly. She tied them and secured him to the divan. His lustful eyes followed her every movement. She turned her back on him, and an astonished Arbusto heard her talk to the draperies, “Do you want him awake or unconscious?”

  “Is that it?” asked Harhash, coming out. “The evil Arbusto captured so easily? I had expected more twists and turns, more excitement.”

  “I would have dragged it out had I known,” said Layla.

  Harhash slapped Arbusto’s face. “You disappoint me. You are a bad boy? You need to be punished? You fell for that?” Smack. “You did not even make her work. Come sit on my divan and let me tie you up? Shame on you. I had expected so much more.”

  “The important thing,” said Othman, “is that we have captured this villain.”

  “True, but there are conventions,” replied Harhash. Slap. “This thief has stolen the thrill of capture from me.”

  “Oh well,” said Othman. “Reality never meets our wants, and adjusting both is why we tell stories.”

  “Hmm, so I was ten,” Uncle Jihad said. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but I was still a fairly reticent child. Beirut and the school proved to be overwhelming. I wasn’t unhappy by any means, but I was a lonely boy. I spent all my time reading books and watching the world. Uncle Maan and his family tried to draw me out at first, but their hearts weren’t in it. And after all, they had enough troubles of their own. Uncle Jalal was spending more time in jail than out of it. In 1942, the war was raging in Europe, and the streets of Beirut were boiling. The Arisseddines had time for nothing but Uncle Jalal’s problems with French rule. My grandmother was spending most of her time in Beirut, but I hardly ever saw her. I rarely saw any of the family. Only after independence, the following year, did the family return to anything resembling normal.

  “My blossoming began one day when I was standing under the oak tree Charlemagne, trying to understand how a yo-yo worked and singing the Yassin al-Jawahiri song to myself. A boy asked me how I knew the song, and I replied that I’d known
it since I was born. I boasted that I knew everything there was to know about the man.”

  “Was that boy Nasser al-Jawahiri?” asked my mother.

  “The one and the same. Nasser went home for the weekend, and on Monday a horde of Jawahiris descended upon the school. There were about a hundred of them, men and women, geriatrics and children, religious and secular, all one family. It was a big commotion, and I was surprised to discover they had come to talk to me. I was taken to a hall and interviewed. They asked if I was Druze and were very happy to find out my mother was an Arisseddine. They asked me about Yassin al-Jawahiri, and I answered. My father had told me the story, so I knew quite a bit, and I could see the astonishment on their faces with each of my responses.”

  “Tell me you didn’t,” my mother said.

  “I was as innocent as a lamb of God. I swear. In any case, it took me a while to figure out what was happening. I didn’t understand, so you can’t blame me for the beginning. I was answering their questions. I loved the attention. I knew each correct answer would get more.”

  “Oh, Jihad,” my mother said. “You bad boy.”

  “What happened?” I asked. “Tell me.”

  “The Jawahiris would have come to the conclusion that your uncle was the reincarnation of Yassin al-Jawahiri,” my mother said. “The family had come to investigate, and Jihad was a very bad boy.”

  “And your mother is a harsh judge,” Uncle Jihad said. “They didn’t come to investigate, but to confirm. If it had been an investigation, a much smaller number would have come. They wanted to meet the great Yassin. I simply answered their questions.”

  “You could have told them where you got the information,” my mother said.

  “They didn’t ask. They never once asked how I came to know. They believed.”

  “What would they ask? Hey, do you have a crazy hakawati for a father, and does he know the most minute detail of every story ever told, and has he repeated them all to you over and over and over?”

  “Harsh woman. Harsh, unforgiving woman. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was lonely. When they told me I was Yassin al-Jawahiri, I couldn’t have been happier. They introduced themselves one by one. ‘I’m your nephew so-and-so, but of course I’m much older now than when you left.’ What did you expect me to do? I was the centerpiece of a magnificent epic. Stories swirled around me. More, I became what I’d always daydreamed of being, a hero whom people looked up to, and I did it without having to display a smidgen of courage. In one instant, I had acquired a new story, a new family, a new identity, and gifts, many gifts. Nothing expensive, but nice things like hand-knit vests and caps, and lots and lots of food. I was invited to their houses for meals. I never had to eat school food. They sent morning pies, savory pastries. They created a space for me in their hearts.”

  “And you created a space in your stomach,” my mother said as Uncle Jihad patted his ample belly. “I presume you didn’t horribly abuse their gullibility, since Nasser is still a friend.”

  “Abuse? Sweetheart, I was the joy of their lives. Nasser did become a good friend. The Jawahiris loved me. As I said, our family was busy. No one paid much attention to my comings and goings even though I was so young. Things went on like that for about a year and some, until the day Uncle Maan discovered what was going on. He was very angry. He put on his best suit and his fez and took me to the Jawahiris to apologize for my bad behavior. I had to sit there and look contrite, head bent, while everyone glared. Uncle Maan went on about what a scamp I was. He told them I wasn’t Yassin and there was no way I could be. He explained that I had been born many years after Yassin died—reincarnation is instantaneous. If they could find it in their hearts to forgive me, he would make sure I’d never disturb them again. I wasn’t a bad boy. I was from a good family. I just didn’t know any better. He actually said I was his favorite nephew, that this was his fault: he’d been busy and hadn’t been paying proper attention to my upbringing. It was Nasser’s mother who saved me. She said that, even though I wasn’t Yassin al-Jawahiri, she’d grown to cherish me, and I was welcome at her house at any time. Things settled down a bit, and a fortnight later, Nasser said that his mother wanted me to come to a big lunch for a nephew who had just gotten engaged. I couldn’t say no. After all, she was an astonishing cook. At the lunch, I felt awkward, and so did most of the Jawahiris. It was a celebratory feast, yet the mood was somewhat gloomy. I missed what we had before. I was among the Jawahiris, but I missed them. I longed for the way I had felt when I was around them, how special I was. I didn’t know how to make things better or what to say. Nasser’s mother served the lamb, and it was almost eerily quiet. There were people talking, but it was relatively hushed. When Nasser’s mother, bless her, offered me dessert, she patted my head and told me not to be too upset with Uncle Maan. She said he was a great man but he could be a bit rigid. And this was where I was bad.”

  My mother gasped and broke into a wide grin. “No. You didn’t?”

  “I’m afraid I did.”

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Al-Jawahiri is a common family, not titled,” my mother explained. “Maan Arisseddine was a sheikh.”

  “I wanted to make everyone happy. I told Nasser’s mother that Uncle Maan was a great man, honest and honorable. Just as she had said, he was also rigid about principles when it came to his family’s social position and obligations.”

  “You didn’t leave it at that,” my mother said. “That would have been too subtle.”

  “I didn’t. I added that I’d heard him say that a sheikh should guard his position in society at all costs, that one’s family name is all one ever has. I didn’t make that up, he’d said it often. I just made sure to mention it at the right time. Nasser’s mother stood up straight. Her face lit up. She yelled to the entire room, ‘Of course. That makes sense. The sheikh would never want to admit that his nephew was reincarnated from a commoner. The fact that the boy’s father isn’t a sheikh would make the man even more insistent that his nephew had nothing to do with us.’ The family exploded into a cacophony of joy. Even Nasser’s cousin, the future groom, stood up and shouted, ‘I knew you were one of us. I always knew. My heart never lies.’ The feast turned raucous. Everyone began to sing. Everyone was happy.”

  The cigarette in Uncle Jihad’s hand was more ash than filter. He dropped it on the ground and stomped on it. He had been carpeting the floor with cigarette butts. He lit another, signaling the end of the tale.

  “How long did it go on?” my mother asked.

  “Quite a while, I’m afraid.”

  “You never told them?”

  “No, there was never any need. For a couple of years after that lunch, I was back to being family. Then I started to work, and I also got more serious about studying. I didn’t get to see them as much, and I drifted away, but then the relationship changed, and we became friends. Our families are very close. You know that. Hell, they came with us to pick you up for your wedding. We’ve been together for so long that I don’t think anybody remembers who Yassin was, let alone that I’m supposed to be him. We owe them much, and we try to pay our debt.”

  I looked at my mother, and she saw I was confused.

  “More than half the people who work for the corporation are Jawahiris,” she explained. “Whenever a Jawahiri needed a job, your father found a place for him. Now we know why. I always assumed it was because they were friends of the family.”

  “It’s a bit more than that,” Uncle Jihad said. “We don’t usually like to talk about this. We had no money to start the company, and we had to borrow. A lot of people helped. Quite a few, but not the people you would have expected.”

  “I know,” my mother said. “Farid calls them the army of angels.”

  “Yes, I do, too.” He chuckled, then sighed. “The Jawahiris were part of the army of angels. They didn’t have much money, but I had to ask. I was desperate. If we hadn’t come up with the money, Farid would have killed himself. I went to them, and they all loaned me mo
ney, they dug into their savings. I didn’t know at the time, but Nasser’s mother sold her jewelry to loan me the money. I was family. They believed in me. We paid them back, of course. We paid everybody back a lot more than they gave us. If that delightful buffoon Nasser came down these steps right now and said he needed a heart, I would tear mine out and gift it.”

  Cairo’s jails were crowded with Crusader kings, and the Crusader cities were returned to the people. The great Baybars had liberated the lands.

  The queens of the captured Crusader kings begged King Flavio of Rome to intercede on behalf of their husbands. King Flavio sent an emissary to Baybars offering two treasure chests for each of the released kings. He also asked for Arbusto’s release. “No,” said Baybars. “I agree to release the kings, for they are of royal blood and were deceived into treachery. Arbusto, however, is the father of lies. When he lies, he speaks his native tongue. I will not let him go.”

  “Your Majesty,” said the Roman emissary, “King Flavio will free six thousand Muslim slaves in good faith if you can find it in your heart to release the priest.”

  And Baybars searched his heart, nodded his assent.

  That evening, Layla asked her husband, “Arbusto released? What kind of an exchange rate is that? Is one European life worth six thousand of ours?”

  “Will they ever stop?” my mother said. The shelling had been going on and on, and we were all getting tired. “This infernal night is never ending. Make it pass, Jihad. Make it pass or make those bombs stop. Those are your options.”

  “Shall we play cards?” Uncle Jihad asked.

  “No. Tell me another story. Entertain me once more.”

  Uncle Jihad turned to me and winked. “Why don’t you tell us a story, Osama? It’s time you contributed to our lore.”

  “Yours are so much better,” I said, “and she asked you.”

  My mother stretched her back. “I’d love to hear a story, Osama. Really, my dear, any story is good. Anything is better than this boredom.”