“Please, sir,” she said in Filipina English, smiling as if her life depended on it.
I smiled back. “I’m trying to get juice.”
“Please, sir,” she repeated, and turned on the kitchen lights. “Orange juice, coffee, every morning, five minutes.” She brushed past me and reached for an untouched crate of freshly picked blood oranges, her fingers navigating the fleshy globes, choosing the best ones. The air burst with orange perfume. “Please, sir.”
Fely had been the family maid for at least ten years, trained by my mother. The soft, smiling exterior belied a willful, controlling woman who ruled her domain, exactly the kind of maid my mother, and my sister, grew to love. The kitchen belonged to her. She would do all the work. I was to return to my place and would be taken care of. I went back to the den, turned the television to the satellite news, and waited. Fely came in with a silver tray, Turkish coffee, kettle and cup, large glass of red juice, and two madeleines. “Good morning, sir,” she said, and retreated before I could reply. I heard the toilet flush in my father’s bathroom.
He walked out of his room in morning attire, pajama bottoms and his plaid dressing gown, which didn’t cover his undershirt or the dozens of chest hairs poking through the fine cotton. He stopped briefly when he saw me. “Good morning,” I said.
He only grunted. He sat on the other sofa—he, CNN, and I formed an equilateral triangle. He wouldn’t look at me. I stared at the television, as did he. Fely brought him his coffee and newspaper. He surreptitiously sneaked a look before unfolding the newspaper and burying his face in it. I stood and went back to my room. I didn’t re-emerge until Lina woke up.
Jamak and Heather held a weeklong feast to honor their son, the sultan. Samarkand rejoiced in the royal happiness. There was an archery competition on the first day, a horse race on the second. And on the eve of the return to Cairo, a dream appeared.
Layla sat up in bed in the middle of the night. “Wake up.” She nudged her husband. “Wake up. I had an awful dream.” Othman sat up beside her and hugged her and eased her shuddering. “The dream began wonderfully. You and I were in a bucolic meadow in a flowering springtime when, all of a sudden, an ugly crone appeared and announced that I had forsaken a friend. ‘His time is up,’ she said.”
“Worry not, my wife. Return to sleep; perchance your dream will unfurl further.”
And she did. In her dream, she looked out toward a sickle-shaped bay with two arms extending out to sea. She stood on a solid shore where footprints left no trace; the sand was free of seaweed and firm to walk on. She was thirsty, standing by a well. “Have you forgotten me already?” a voice said. “Has it been so long?” She turned around but saw no one. “You were my friend, and my sword was yours. Whenever you called, I ran to you. I have been calling for fifteen years and no one has heard. I have been erased from the stories of my friends.”
“Marouf,” Layla cried. “Forgive me, for I thought you were dead. Show yourself, and I will ride the stormy clouds to bring you home.”
She gasped as a naked Marouf, emaciated and riddled with disease, appeared before her, shackled to the wall of a dark cell, his unkempt white beard almost reaching the floor. “Save me,” he said. “I am about to fade away.”
“Wait for me,” she said. “I am coming.”
And in the morning, husband and wife prepared for travel. “Are you sure we know where to find him?” asked Othman. “Hundreds of his relatives from the sons of Ishmael have been searching unsuccessfully.”
“He is in Thessaly,” Layla replied. “I described my dream to various seamen. All agreed that I saw Thessaly and its sickle-shaped bay, and that is where we are bound.”
“So it shall be.”
• • •
“I told you we should have left quickly and more quietly,” said Othman.
“I did not think it necessary,” said Layla. “I assumed that men have some dignity. If someone told me he did not wish my company, my dignity would forbid me to tag along. I thought dignity was a common human trait.”
“Not so, my darling. Dignity is the rarest of man’s characteristics.”
“Funny that you should be talking of dignity,” Harhash said. “Need I remind you of your previous adventures? Does anyone recall being strung up in a stable and whipped? Does anyone remember being brought into town without a headdress, tied up with his butt in the air?”
“Does anyone recall being bonked on the head as he walked through a gate?”
“I never claimed to possess any dignity,” Harhash said. “I will do anything for a good story, including befriending ingrates like you two. One day, when I am old and weathered, I will be able to sit down with my friends and tell our great tales. A good storyteller can never afford the luxury of being dignified.”
“Well said, my Harhash,” Layla replied. “Now, what of those stories you mentioned? We have days left before we reach Thessaly. Tell me more about my husband tied up.”
“What is our plan?” asked Harhash once the three friends landed in Thessaly.
“Wait,” said Layla. “Look.”
An ornery-looking old lady was walking along the street, bent and leaning on a sturdy cane. Every person she encountered greeted her, and she cursed them all. “Good morning to you, Old Sophia,” a man said, and she replied, “A pox upon your house.”
“She is our ticket,” announced Othman.
The threesome followed Old Sophia into her cottage, and when she realized she was not alone, she said, “A plague upon all of you. I have nothing for you to steal, you vagabonds.”
“Curses upon your head, evil-tongued woman,” Layla replied. “Be quiet or I will break your jaw.”
“You ill-mannered harlot.” She raised her cane to strike, but Layla took it away from her and knocked the old woman unconscious. “Harlot?” asked Layla. “You think me cheap?”
Layla, disguised as Old Sophia, walked to the palace, with Othman and Harhash a discreet distance behind. Passersby greeted her, and she uttered curses in reply. While her friends waited outside, she entered the palace and came across a servant carrying a tray of food in one hand and a candelabrum in the other. The servant greeted Old Sophia, who replied, “May your home crumble upon itself and your thighs remain spread for eternity. Where are you going, my girl?”
“If only I could die and finish with this chore,” the servant said. “I have been carrying food to the prisoner for fifteen years. He should expire and save himself the agony. He rots in his cell, and I rot with boredom carrying his food every single day.”
“Let me help you. May you be sodomized by an incontinent mule.”
“That is so kind of you. Here. Take the candelabrum and follow me.”
Inside the cell, Layla saw an unconscious Marouf hanging from chains. The servant began to curse and yell at him to wake up. Layla silenced her with a quick punch. She took her keys and left the cell to fetch Harhash and Othman. In the corridor, one guard said to another, “Do you think this old hag belongs here?”
Layla sighed. “You were supposed to wait for me outside,” she said. “Come.”
When Marouf heard the voices of Layla, Othman, and Harhash and not that of the servant, he thought they were jinn. “Are you going to break our pact?” Marouf said. “You promised you would leave me to my misery.”
“It is I, Layla. We are here to rescue you.”
“If you are not a jinni,” said Marouf, “stand on my right and speak to me.”
And into his right ear Layla whispered, “We are taking you home, my friend.”
Othman unshackled Marouf, and Harhash carried him. “Take him to the ship,” Othman said. “I have but one more task. I will meet the two of you on board.”
King Kinyar’s guards drank wine as if it were cool water, and Othman helped them along their journey by adding opium to the vat. Soon the guards were swimming in the intemperate sea of drugged sleep. Othman sneaked into the king’s chamber and found Kinyar snoring in his canopy bed. Othman unsheathed his
sword and whispered, “For all the suffering and anguish you have caused an honest man.” He raised his sword and struck not flesh but another sword, in the hand of a young warrior. Othman thrust at the young man, who parried easily. “I do not partake of wine,” he said. “Your unmanly wiles are worthless against me.”
Kinyar opened his eyes to see swords clashing above his head, and his mouth dried up and would not release his voice. He pulled the covers up and groaned. The warrior’s blows were heavy and insistent, and none of Othman’s sword tricks were working. “Kill him, my son,” said a suddenly vocal Kinyar. “Avenge the effrontery upon my person.”
Taboush, the warrior who was not Kinyar’s son, redoubled his attack, and his sword cut Othman’s arm. And Kinyar commanded, “Finish him.”
The sound of a whip sliced the air, and the sword flew out of Taboush’s hand. Layla’s second strike forced Taboush to retreat a step, but he drew two daggers from his belt.
“Kill them,” yelled Kinyar. “I want both of them dead.”
“Run,” said Othman. “We cannot defeat him.”
“But we can delay him.” Layla struck the bedpost, and the canopy came tumbling upon the king’s head. She and Othman escaped as Taboush was forced to untangle the screeching king from under the covers, canopies, and falling drapes.
I lay on the couch reading, engrossed in The Quiet American. As the afternoon light faded, I switched on the lamp behind me. I felt myself sinking into both the novel and the couch. My father, up from his nap, walked into the den and sat on the opposite couch. He didn’t say anything. I expected him to turn on the television, but he just sat there silently, his head bowed, his hands folded.
I couldn’t concentrate on the novel. I lay on the couch pretending as the treasure-colored light of afternoon deepened. I kept sneaking looks and catching him averting his eyes. He sat before me, a despondent thinker, involved and disengaged.
In an older time, in a different room, my grandfather used to sit that way. When he was lost and the world befuddled him, when life refused to bow down before his desires and kowtow to his wishes, when my father and Uncle Jihad dismissed him as inconsequential, he sat among us separate and mute, downcast and downhearted, like a punished little boy facing the corner.
I sat up and fiddled with the lamp, a relic once belonging to my grandmother, once adored by my mother. I shifted it back and forth, pretending to be concerned with its inadequacies. I shut my book, stood up, and went out to the veranda. I leaned on the railing, admired the tangerine hues of the sky, watched the sun wilt into the sea, which was dotted with an archipelago of small motorboats and smaller row-boats searching for fish. The sun’s sultry reflection on the water triggered all kinds of emotions. I got lost in myself, the Mediterranean as my madeleine.
My father came out on the veranda. He stayed behind me and sat on the deck chair. I didn’t look back, but I felt the skin on my neck prickle. My hands were restive, and my sweatpants had no pockets to moor them. I waited a few uncomfortable minutes and slowly walked into the living room, turning on the stalactite lights of the chandelier. I lay on the big couch, my socked feet burrowing under the tessellated cushion. I reopened my book and counted the minutes. Four and a half and my father mutely settled in the living room, across from me.
Over my twelve days in Beirut, my father joined me in every room, moving when I did, following step for step, irate and cheerless, sluggish and pensive, and not speaking.
Othman, Harhash, and Layla returned with Marouf to the forgiving lands, much to the joy of the great sultan and his people. But back in Thessaly, there were angry calls for revenge. “I will destroy their lands,” cried Kinyar. “This is all Baybars’s doing. I will not rest until he lies dead beneath my feet. I will call on the French, the English, the Genovese and the Venetians, the Spaniards. We will create a new world order. I will lead the invincible army—no, my son, Taboush, the great champion, will command, and I, his father, will follow. He is a man now.”
The calls went out, promises of incredible riches were made, fighters swarmed from all across the continent, and an army of fifty thousand hungry men was birthed. An army that size could never escape the notice of the invidious Arbusto, and he traveled for days to reach it. He sought King Kinyar, who treated him with the hospitality and respect the evil one was used to receiving from fools. As soon as Arbusto saw Kinyar, he understood that Taboush was not his son, for no loaf of such sturdiness could have risen from the king’s yeast. Arbusto said, “I wanted to offer my help, for I have spent years in the land of false believers.”
Kinyar invited him to ride to war as his companion and counselor.
Taboush saw great minarets rising in the distance and ordered his army to halt for the day. “What city is this?”
“This is the city of Aleppo,” Arbusto said. “Not only are we going to thrash them here, we are going to Damascus and Homs and Hamah, and we are going to Baghdad and Mosul and Jerusalem, then we are going to Cairo to take back the sultanate. Yeeeeaaaah.”
“We camp here,” announced Taboush. “Send a letter to the ruler of this city and inform him that we declare war upon the sultan. If he opens the city’s gates, none will be harmed. If not, we will besiege the city until the sultan arrives.”
Baybars received the news within three days and set out with the slave army to Aleppo. The heroes arrived to find the foreign army encircling the great city. Marouf entered the sultan’s pavilion and bowed down before his lord. Baybars begged his friend to sit beside him. Marouf said, “My king, the warrior who leads this army is none other than my son, Taboush.”
Baybars said, “Glory be. May God gift him with wisdom to help us against His enemies,” and he dictated a letter to Taboush: “It has come to our attention that you are not the son of infidels. Your father is Marouf ben Jamr, a hero and the epitome of nobility and courage. Leave your enemies and ours and return to your father’s house and ask for his blessing.”
Taboush read the letter and passed it to Kinyar and Arbusto, who said in one voice, “The man is a liar and says these things because he fears you. Reject his deceit and call him to battle.”
“I will take the field at dawn and throw down my challenge,” Taboush said. True to his honest word, Taboush’s sword greeted the rising sun upon the field of battle, and his cry sent a shiver through all who listened. One Uzbek warrior rode out to meet him. The fight lasted for two hours, until Taboush finally landed a blow and the Uzbek fell to the ground. On his back, he looked up at the great Taboush, who said, “You fought well. Return to your sultan, and tell him to send out someone stronger.”
The Uzbek mounted his stallion and sought Baybars. “That warrior is not the son of the king. A hyena begets not a lion. He is inexperienced in the art of battle because of his youth. If he gains the wisdom and wiles of age, he will be indestructible.”
Baybars called on the best fighter of all. “Aydmur, my friend and conqueror. This boy is a great warrior and must be dispatched. Rid me of him so I may launch this war.”
Marouf knew that his son would not do well against a veteran hero like Aydmur. With each joust, his son would get stronger and smarter, and he would mature to be Aydmur’s equal if not his superior, but he was not yet. Marouf approached Aydmur as he prepared for battle. “I beg you, friend,” Marouf said. “Cede your place to me. I fear for my son and wish him not to suffer.”
“How can you fight if you do not wish him harm?”
“I will speak to him,” said Marouf. “Delay but for a minute, and I will ride to meet Taboush. I chose to disobey the sultan, not you.” And father and son met on the battlefield.
“This was a waste of time,” I said to my sister as she watched me pack.
“You’re so insensitive,” she replied.
“He couldn’t talk to me. Why did he want me here?”
“He’s upset and distraught. It’s only been eleven months. What did you expect?”
“A ‘good morning.’ ”
“Well,�
� Lina said, “the next time you’re here, he’ll be able to say good morning, and the visit after that, he might be able to form a full grammatical sentence.”
“I’m not coming back anytime soon.”
“Of course you are. Why do you keep lying to yourself? You’re coming back in two months, for a longer stay. Fatima will be here. He needs to go through this, and you have to be here to allow him to.”
“Does the sultan mock me by sending out an old man?” Taboush asked Marouf.
“Look. Open your eyes, see with your heart. Before you stands your father.”
“You are the father of lies. My father is Kinyar. Draw your sword and fight.”
Marouf sighed. “Do you believe cowardice could beget courage? Kinyar hides in his pavilion and risks your life. Shed my blood and you shed the blood of your father, and your grandfather, and your great-grandfather before him.”
Taboush raged and struck with his sword, but the old warrior was ever quick and parried with his sheathed sword. “Wait,” Marouf said, holding out his palm. “If you are to fight, you must learn the skills. I face you because the sultan wished to send the Azeri. You are strong but inexperienced, not yet a match for the slave general. The first blow should never be predictable. How you open a fight is of utmost importance. It must surprise your enemy, frighten and worry him. Begin.”
Taboush stared at his father. He struck.
“No,” said Marouf. “Still unsurprising. Try again. You rely much on your muscle.” And father began to teach son the art of survival. Both armies watched in amazement at the sight before them, lessons being taught and learned. Taboush landed a fierce blow across his father’s sword. “Much better,” said Marouf, pulling himself off the ground and remounting his horse.
The Hakawati Page 55
