The Hakawati Page 14

  “The city of Urfa had nothing but Barbara to talk about. Mehmet asked me if I had slept with the crazy English maiden. Hagop wondered if it was true that she walked around naked in the house. The boys wanted to know if her father had his way with her every Wednesday. The English, her mother and father, were of course the last to know.

  “Barbara finally did the unthinkable. She waited until Murat finished his duties, and, in full view of all the other boys, she walked up to him and declared her eternal love. And he listened. Now, Barbara was not the most attractive of girls, but she wasn’t ugly, either. It wasn’t about beauty for the boy. I assume he was flattered: not many boys are chosen. Being the honorable person he was, he informed her that there was no hope for love. He was a Muslim and she a foreigner. She said he didn’t have to do anything other than allow her to gaze at him. Even if she could not possess him, even if she only walked beside his shadow, she would die fulfilled.

  “The following day, Barbara resumed her passion and her position. And now he paid attention. Soon they were seen walking together. Soon they were walking unseeing. They paid naught but each other any mind. Soon the tongues of Urfa walked as well, and the scandal of all scandals erupted. And so did our house. Her perplexed father tried to talk to her. When her mother found out, she caned Barbara and locked her in her room. Her mother left the rattan leaning outside the door to remind the household that Barbara was in for another round. But Barbara, crazy Barbara, wouldn’t bend. She yelled and wept in her room. Apparently, that was nothing compared with what happened to Murat. He began to turn up at watch with black eyes and was unable to stand erect for the duration of the sacred guard shift. He neglected his studies of the Koran. He no longer had time for friends. He stopped twirling.

  “What is it about unfulfilled love that turns its flames to infernos? No lock, no house, no rain, no sandstorm, no parent, and certainly no religion could keep the boy from being seen on certain nights atop the stone wall only paces away from her window, declaiming his obsessive love for Barbara in verse. She was seen in the streets not too far from her house, her mother dragging her back by any means at her disposal. ‘Why?’ Barbara was heard to wail. ‘Why am I forbidden one glimpse of my beloved?’

  “This went on for months and months. Barbara and Murat were seen holding hands in the ruins of the Crusader castle. They stared forlornly into each other’s eyes behind the great mosque. I admit that I once carried a letter from Murat to Barbara. As I was leaving home to wash after feeding pigeons all day, he approached me and pleaded. I couldn’t refuse. Barbara forgave me all my past sins.

  “ ‘I can’t keep her in chains,’ her mother said. ‘Begin packing,’ her father replied. ‘We’ll leave by the end of the year.’

  “The leaves of my familiar life had begun to yellow.

  “That year—I was eleven—it became obvious early on that it was to be the year of the great pigeoneer Eshkhan again. He was dominating the war. His peşenk seemed invincible. Short orange feathers rose in odd angles on the top of his head—hence his name, Bsag, which means ‘crown.’ He led attacks into other flocks that caused chaos worthy of Judgment Day. Veterans of the wars lost more birds that year than in all ten previous seasons combined. Eshkhan’s flock would ascend into the skies, and descend with twice their number. In one memorable battle, three pigeoneers lost their peşenks, which was a first as far as anyone could recall. Envy reared her poisonous head. How was he doing it? What was his secret? At the Çardak Café, the pigeoneers moaned and groaned. It wasn’t fair. Half of them could no longer compete, and the other half had no chance of winning. And the great Eshkhan laughed at all of them.

  “By the time March came along, Mehmet had lost almost half his team. He pretended that he wasn’t upset, but he beat the assistants at the merest provocation. If one of his pigeons fell out of the sky, he beat me because I didn’t feed it well. If the coop wasn’t spotless every second of the day, he beat the shit-cleaner. One afternoon, Eshkhan’s peşenk attacked Mehmet’s team, and Mehmet flew into a rage. He began to scream across the roofs, ‘How could you? I have nothing to fight you with. It’s over. What’s the point if not to humiliate me?’ And, of course, that was the point—that was the point of any war.

  “And Mehmet remembered that war is never meant to be fought fairly. The next day, he searched and searched and bought the comeliest hen in the land. It was an old trick, a very old trick, and Eshkhan’s peşenk fell for it. When Eshkhan’s team flew above Mehmet’s roof, Hagop, grasping the hen by its tiny legs, raised his hands in the air. The pigeon fluttered its wings. Bsag saw the bait. He broke out of formation, circled above the roof, and landed on the ledge to investigate: Is this a beauty I see before me? Now, having a pigeon land on your roof and capturing it are two different things, especially a cock as wily as a peşenk. You can’t allow him to see the net that will capture him, and since Bsag landed on the ledge, we couldn’t approach him from behind. Still, the first assistant tried. He jumped clumsily and fell on his face, and the peşenk flew back up to the clouds. Of course, the boy received a beating.

  “But—before Bsag escaped, I saw his secret. I discovered the source of his power. On the pigeon’s white-feathered chest hung the most beautiful ornament I had ever seen: a tiny turquoise Fatima’s hand that warded off any evil.

  “There was a big fight at the café. Eshkhan called Mehmet a lowlife, among other things. Mehmet returned the insult. Eshkhan punched Mehmet and bloodied his nose. Mehmet was unable to return the blow, because he was held back. Eshkhan yelled, ‘Let’s see you try that again. Do you think my cock will fall for that old trick a second time?’

  “He did. Bsag landed on the ledge, and the same thing happened. When the first assistant tried to capture it, the bird flew away. There was another brawl at the café. On the third night, three veterans with their own nets joined our group. Everybody wanted Eshkhan to lose. They waited for the peşenk to land. He did, on the ledge again. No one moved, for fear of frightening him. The veterans stalked. I whistled. I whistled exactly the way Eshkhan whistled, exactly the way he directed his peşenk. I didn’t know what the signals were, but my whistling was enough to confuse the poor bird. Bsag looked at me, uncomprehending, and a net descended upon him. The veteran who captured him unleashed a victory cry up to the skies.

  “Mehmet took Bsag out of the net, cut off his head with a serrated knife, and threw the still-shuddering body onto the street.

  “Barbara had begun to calm down. She was sixteen now, and I figured she was becoming more mature. She asked me to bring home some matches from the Masal Café, saying she needed more than were available in the house. I couldn’t refuse such a simple request. After all, there were enough matches in the house to burn it down, so I assumed she wanted them for something inconsequential.

  “The evening Eshkhan lost the pigeon war and his peşenk was killed, I stole one hundred matches from the Masal and gave them to Barbara. She kissed me. That was the first time anybody other than Poor Anahid or Zovik had kissed me. I watched her break the phosphorus tip of each match and swallow it. After the fourth or fifth, I asked her what she was doing. She waved me away with a dismissive flick of the wrist. She swallowed the tips one by one.

  “The house woke up to the sound of her crying and retching. Poor Anahid, Zovik, and I huddled in the doorway and watched as her father tried to examine her, as her sister tried to comfort her, as her mother tried to talk to her. Barbara had the yellowest skin I had ever seen.

  “And Zovik whispered, ‘You don’t trample upon fate. Evil will close its circle.’

  “Barbara vomited and vomited. Her sister was holding her. Her mother began to cry. She called out, ‘Barbara, Barbara, talk to me. What’s going on?’ But she wouldn’t touch her daughter. When the doctor noticed the broken matches on the ground and under the bed, he moaned, ‘Oh, no.’ Her mother saw, and the first word out of her mouth was a strident ‘Whore.’

  “Barbara vomited some more. Her father whimpered, ‘You
didn’t have to take so many.’ He looked vanquished. His eyes seemed to be melting. Her mother’s eyes were afire. ‘How could you do this? How could you be so disloyal? How could you betray your faith?’ she hollered.

  “ ‘If you had only told me,’ the doctor said. ‘You are my child. For you, I would have done it. For you, I would have gotten rid of the baby.’

  “Barbara had trouble breathing. Her life evaporated before our eyes. She clutched her father’s wrist. She said, ‘I did not pleasure him enough,’ and gasped her last breath.

  “Of course, I didn’t go to work that day. The doctor’s wife went crazy. She went to her room and began to pack. ‘I am leaving hell,’ she said. Thank God, no one asked where Barbara had gotten the matches. But then the doctor’s wife came up to me and yelled, ‘You live while your better died. I want you out of this house.’ She moved toward me, but Poor Anahid quickly shoved me behind her. The doctor’s wife slapped Poor Anahid and retreated to her room.

  “Poor Anahid sent me to our room and told me not to come out no matter what was happening. I stayed there for hours and heard all kinds of things going on in the house. Then one of the pigeoneer’s assistants arrived. I thought he was going to ask me to go to work, but he told Zovik that Mehmet no longer had any need for my services. Mehmet also suggested that I leave town, because Eshkhan had vowed to kill me in front of four witnesses. He had been told that I whistled, captured his peşenk, and killed him with my own hands.

  “It wasn’t true, of course. But who would believe me? I wouldn’t be able to convince Eshkhan. And if I did, then maybe Mehmet would kill me. I was in trouble. Zovik and Poor Anahid were crying in our room. The doctor’s wife was crying in hers.

  “Poor Anahid and Zovik decided that I should leave as soon as possible. They were at their wits’ end and knew no one I could be sent to. I told them that I knew someone who might help. We left our room quietly, tiptoeing along the corridor, hoping not to be seen, and went to see Serhat Effendi. The effendi said I should go far away. He had a cousin stationed in Cairo. He had not written to him in a while, wasn’t sure where he was exactly, but the effendi could find out his address in a month’s time. Poor Anahid told him I didn’t have a month. He said I should go to Cairo anyway. There should be no problem finding his cousin, since there couldn’t be that many Turks in Cairo. He gave me a letter and money to buy train and boat tickets.

  “The only thing I knew about Egypt was that Abraham and Moses and Hagar left it and were happy never to return. Back at home, Poor Anahid packed my few clothes. ‘You can’t go to Cairo,’ she said. ‘How will you find his cousin? That’s just crazy.’ ‘And do you think a Turk will take in an Armenian orphan just because his cousin asked him to?’ said Zovik. ‘You must go somewhere safer,’ said Poor Anahid. ‘Beirut. Go to Beirut. Seek out the Christians. Go to a monastery. They will feed you and care for you.’ I knew less about Beirut.

  “I said my last goodbyes to Zovik and Poor Anahid. I didn’t say goodbye to my father,” my grandfather said to me. “I came to Beirut and created our story.”

  The cold made me shiver, and I huddled closer to the stove. My grandfather drank his bitter tea, a palliative for his digestive problems. “When I’m no longer in this world,” Grandfather said, “and they ask whether you believed me, what will you say?”

  I didn’t think he expected a reply. He sat next to his stove, looking dejected. His pant legs were pulled up high enough that I could see his pale, hairless shins.

  “You’re eleven now,” he said, “and I was eleven.…” His voice trailed into nothingness before he whispered, “You know now who I am.” He removed the metal lid of the stove with the spatula and threw in his spent cigarette. He stood slowly, creakily, and stomped to his room. When he came out, he handed me an old white kerchief. “You are my blood,” he said. “This is for you.”

  Inside the kerchief was a jewel, a tiny turquoise Fatima’s hand with dark-brown and black blood encrusted in its grooves.

  Five

  The entire palace buzzed with stories of Fatima’s arrival. Some said the slave girl had come back on a flying carpet, which rose back into the heavens after the traveler alighted. Fatima had returned with a herd of jeweled elephants. She was accompanied by a band of brigands or a thousand jinn. She wore a crown of rubies. She wore a robe of gold.

  The emir and his wife interrupted their breakfast on the terrace and hurried into the palace. The vizier and the courtiers were gathered around Fatima in the throne room. Fatima greeted the emir and his wife with the requisite courtesy. The emir was oblivious to the change, but his wife realized, not without some weariness and concern, that the woman before them was no longer a slave. Fatima bowed too well. The emir insisted she regale them with stories of her adventures, and she did, albeit with a few omissions: adventures, yes; assignations, no.

  “Will the healer be able to help us?” the emir’s wife asked.

  “Absolutely. She gave me the cure.”

  “And the underworld? You entered Afreet-Jehanam’s domain and he gave you back your hand?” the emir asked.

  “He felt I earned it.”

  “Preposterous,” the vizier scoffed.

  “It was as I said,” Fatima replied.

  “Are you certain?” the emir said. “No one can doubt your courage, Fatima. There is little need to salt and pepper the story.”

  “She arrived on a flying carpet,” said one of the courtiers. “I saw her. She descended from the heavens.”

  “The underworld is not up there,” the vizier said. “No man has ever descended to a demon’s lair and made it back alive. This tale is a lie. I would suggest the slave girl offer some proof of her exotic journey.”

  “Would you be willing to place a wager?” Fatima asked. “If I produce proof, are you willing to surrender everything you have on you at this moment?”

  And the vizier agreed. Fatima brought her left palm to her face and blew on it. Red dust appeared, multiplied, and formed a cloud that hovered before her. The imp Ishmael ran out of the dust. His brother Isaac followed, toward the vizier. “I claim all the gold,” he said. Fatima’s breath turned into orange dust upon touching her palm, and Ezra jumped out. Jacob ran out yelling, “The jewelry is all mine.” Job disagreed. “It is mine, I tell you.” The dust kept swirling above Fatima’s palm, then turned blue, and Noah emerged, followed by Elijah. Violet Adam was last.

  “I must catch my breath,” Fatima said.

  The eight little demons climbed all over the vizier, undressed him, relieved him of all possessions. They left him naked, mouth agape in shock. A mistake. “Help me, Ishmael,” Isaac said, pointing at the vizier’s mouth. The red brothers jumped back onto the vizier’s head. Isaac and Ishmael came away with his gold teeth.

  “Quite a reasonable return,” Noah said.

  “She bargains well,” Isaac said. “She is from Alexandria. We shall be rich in no time. A most fortunate partnership.”

  “Next time, try to bet with someone wearing fur,” Ezra said. “I love sable.”

  “You think as small as your mother’s vagina,” said Adam. “Next time, Sitt Fatima, have someone wager a harem.”

  Fatima blew into her palm again, and white dust appeared. The imps sauntered into the cloud and faded. “I think that was proof enough,” she said, smiling lazily at the emir and smoothing the creases of her robe with the palms of her two hands.

  When I arrived at the hospital room the second morning, my father was sitting up in bed, pillows fluffed behind his back, white tabs attached to his chest, smiling, trying his hardest to appear jovial and nonchalant. Another brush with the unmentionable inevitable averted. His face was pale and fatigued, but his eyes darted about the room as if operating on a separate generator. Lina suppressed her wariness, and weariness, doing her best imitation of Auntie Mame. “It’s going to be a glorious day,” she chirped. “We should call the restaurant and order. They just might run out of lamb.”

  It was half past nine. Soon sunligh
t would begin to creep along the floor and fill the room, reducing the fluorescents to redundancy.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary.” Even though my father hadn’t used his oxygen mask all morning, he held it in his hand.

  “We can’t break with tradition just because we’re here. I’ll ask the restaurant not to use salt, and if they can’t, you’ll only eat a little. We can’t have Eid al-Adha without lamb.”

  “I don’t think it’s wise to order,” my father said. “Samia will probably send us some of her meal when they’re done. She’ll be insulted if we order.”