The Hakawati Read online

  My mother, who always took charge in emergencies, divided us into four cars: I was in her car, my sister in my father’s, Uncle Halim and two of his daughters with Uncle Jihad, and Uncle Halim’s wife, Aunt Nazek, drove her car with her third daughter, May. The belongings of three households were shoved into the cars. We drove separately, five minutes apart, so that we wouldn’t be in a convoy and get annihilated by a stray missile or an intentional bomb. The regathering point was a church just ten minutes up the mountain from Beirut.

  My mother and I reached it first. Even though I’d gotten somewhat inured to the sounds of shelling, by the time we stopped my seat was sopping. Within a few minutes, as if announcing Uncle Jihad’s arrival, Beirut exploded into a raging cacophony once more. We watched the insanity below us and waited warily for the other two cars. My mother was strangling the steering wheel. My father arrived next, and since he was supposed to be the last to leave, it meant that Aunt Nazek didn’t make it somehow.

  My father didn’t get out of his car, didn’t talk to us. He kicked my sister out, turned the car around, and drove downhill into the lunacy. Aghast and eyes ablaze, my sister stood on the curb, watched him disappear into the fires of Beirut. My mother wanted to follow him, but I was in her car. She yelled at me: “Get out. I need to go after him. I’m the better driver.” I was too paralyzed to move. Then my sister got into the car next to me, and it was too late to follow.

  We were lucky. Aunt Nazek’s car had died as soon as it hit the first hill. Always a good citizen, she parked the car on the side, even though there were no other cars on the road. My father had driven past on the way up and hadn’t noticed. He found them, and my cousin May jumped into his car, but he had to wait for Aunt Nazek as she tried to remember where she had put all her valuables. He returned them to us safely, but while he was driving back, a bomb fell about fifty meters away from them, and a piece of shrapnel hit the car’s windshield and got stuck there. No one was hurt, though both Aunt Nazek and May lost their voices for a while, having shrieked their throats dry.

  My cousin May said that my father shrieked as well when the shrapnel hit, an operatic high note. However, both my father and Aunt Nazek deny that. “He was a hero,” my aunt would say. “A real-life hero.”

  “It wasn’t heroic,” my father would say, “but cowardly. I’d have been too afraid to show my face to my brother if I hadn’t gone back after his wife.”

  That day was twenty-six years ago.

  Fatima was waiting outside her building, which was covered head to toe in black marble, one of the newer effronteries that have risen in modern Beirut. As if to compensate for the few neighborhoods that had not been upgraded since the war, Beirut dressed itself in new concrete. All over the city, upscale high-rises were being built in every corner, nouveau-riche and bétonné.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, grinning. I could usually predict her reaction, since she was an old friend and confidante. I was about to get a pretend tongue-lashing no matter what I said.

  “Get out of the goddamn car.” She didn’t move to the passenger side, stood with arms akimbo, her blue-green purse dangling from her wrist almost to her knees. She was dressed to dazzle; everything about her flashed, and the ring on her left hand screamed—a hexagonal mother of an emerald surrounded by her six offspring. “You haven’t seen me in four months, and this is how you greet me?” I got out of the car, and she smothered me, covered me in her perfume and kisses. “Much better,” she added. “Now let’s get going.”

  At the first sign of traffic, she slid open the visor mirror and interviewed her face. “You have to help me with Lina.” Her words sounded odd, her mouth distorted as she redecorated her lips’ outline. “She’s spending the nights sleeping on the chair in his room. As ever, your sister won’t listen to reason. I want to relieve her, but she won’t let me.”

  I didn’t reply, and I doubted that she expected me to. Both of us understood that my father wouldn’t allow anyone other than my sister to take care of him and was terrified of spending a night by himself. He had nightmares about dying alone and uncared for in a hospital room.

  “When we arrive,” she said, “kiss everybody and go directly to his room. I don’t think there will be a lot of people, but don’t allow the rest of the family to delay you. I’ll stay with the visitors, not you. He’ll be offended if you don’t rush in to see him.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, my dear,” I said. “He’s my father, not yours.”

  Fatima left the green city in a small caravan with a retinue of five of the emir’s bravest soldiers and Jawad, one of the stable boys. She understood the need for Jawad—the horses and camels had to be looked after—but she wondered whether the soldiers would be of any use.

  “Do you not think we need protection?” Jawad asked as they started their journey.

  “I do not,” she said. “I can deal with a few brigands, and if we are attacked by a large band, five men will be of no use anyway. On the contrary, their presence may be a magnet for that large group of bandits.” She felt the emir’s fifty gold dinars that she had hidden in her bosom. “If it were just you and me, we would invite much less attention. Well, nothing we can do now. We are in the hand of God.”

  On the fourth evening, in the middle of the Sinai Desert, before the sun had completely set, the party was attacked just as Fatima had predicted. Twenty Bedouins dispatched the city soldiers. Finding little of value among the belongings, the captors decided to divide the spoils evenly: ten would have Fatima, and ten would get to use Jawad.

  Fatima laughed. “Are you men or boys?” She stepped forward, leaving a visibly nervous Jawad behind. “You have a chance to receive pleasure from me and you choose this stripling?”

  “Be quiet, woman,” said the leader. “We must divide you evenly. We cannot risk a fight over the booty. Be thankful. You would not be able to deal with more than ten of us.”

  Fatima laughed and turned back to Jawad. “These desert rats have not heard of me.” She took off her headdress; her abundant black hair tumbled around her face. “These children of the barren lands have not sung my tales.” She unhooked the chain of gold coins encircling her forehead. “They believe that twenty infants would be too much for me.” She took off her abayeh, showing her seductress’s figure, stood before the Bedouins in her dress of blue silk and gold. “Behold,” she said. “I am Fatima, charmer of men, bewitcher of the heavens. Look how the moon calls his clouds; see how he crawls behind his curtains; watch him hide in shame, for he refuses to reveal himself when I show my face. You think you peons will be too much for me, Fatima?” She raised her hands to the vanishing moon. “Think whether twenty of you would satisfy me, Fatima, tamer of Afreet-Jehanam.” She glared at the men. “Tremble.”

  “Afreet-Jehanam?” the leader cried. “You conquered the mighty jinni?”

  “Afreet-Jehanam is my lover. He is no more than my plaything. He does my bidding.”

  “I want her. I refuse to have the boy. We have to redivide the spoils. This will not do.”

  “No,” the leader said. “We cannot have everyone get what they want. That is not the Arab way. It has already been decided.”

  “I want the woman as well,” cried another man. “You cannot keep her to yourself and give us this waif of a boy.” An argument ensued. Everyone wanted Fatima, except for one man, Khayal, who kept insisting, “I really want the boy,” to anyone who would listen. But no one listened. The nine men who were given Jawad but wanted Fatima grew livid. Rules or no rules, they had been cheated. They had no idea Fatima was so talented. They had been deceived and wanted their appropriate share. The goods, as any idiot could see, had not been divided equally. Battle lines were drawn, swords unsheathed. Quickly, the ten killed the nine.

  “I think the boy is winsome,” said Khayal.

  Twenty lustful eyes stared at Fatima.

  “Now, now, boys,” she said coyly. “Was that really necessary?”

  “It is time, Sitt Fatima,” the leader
said. “We are ready.”

  “Well, I am not. I must choose who goes first. The first lover is very important. He will help me set the stage for what is to come. Should I go with the one who has the biggest penis? I like that, but sometimes he who has the biggest is the worst lover, and that will force me to work harder. This should be amusement, not labor. Which of you has the smallest penis? A man with a small member would be more eager to please me, but then, as hard as it is, it is not as satisfying. Choosing the first lover should not be taken lightly. I have much to consider.”

  The leader huffed and puffed. “There is nothing to consider. I go first. I am the best lover, and the rest can take turns after I am sated.”

  “You are not the best lover,” another brigand said. “If you were, your wife would not be leaving her house in the middle of the night.” Those were the last words that man uttered. The leader unsheathed his sword once more and cut off that man’s head.

  “You should not have killed him,” another cried. “It is not right that you go first. We should let Sitt Fatima decide. She is the expert, not you. She should decide on the order. Since I have the biggest penis, I believe I should go first.”

  “You do not have the biggest,” argued another. “I do.” He lifted his desert robe. “Look here, Sitt Fatima. I have the biggest, and I promise you I am not a bad lover. You must pick me.”

  “Put that tiny thing away,” the leader said. “I am the leader, and I go first.”

  “It is thickness that matters, not length.”

  “I still want the boy. I just want the boy.”

  “Your member is no bigger than a thimble.”

  “You take that back. Admit that mine is bigger than yours or prepare to die.”

  And the men fought till death. The leader was left standing—the leader and the boy-lover, who had remained out of the fray. “The best of all men awaits you, your ladyship.” The leader puffed up like a pigeon. “Let us begin.”

  “Let us,” she said. “Undress and show me my prize.”

  “Come to me,” he said once he was nude. “Look. I really have the biggest one.”

  “No,” Fatima said. “Mine is bigger.” From under her dress, she took out her knife and cut his penis off and slit his throat.

  “Pack everything back into the caravan,” Fatima told Jawad. “We have some way to go before we settle for the night. Gather these dead men’s horses. I will go through their things. We will leave this arid wilderness richer than we arrived.”

  “But what shall we do with this man?” Jawad gestured toward his admirer.

  “By your leave, I would like to invite the boy into my tent,” Khayal said.

  “The boy is neither captured nor a slave,” Fatima said. “Since he has free will, you must convince him, charm him into your tent. We have seven nights before we reach my home city, Alexandria. You have seven nights to seduce him. You may begin tomorrow.”

  And Fatima looked up at the sky and its stars and thanked the moon for his help.

  And Fatima, Jawad, and Khayal led their numerous horses, camels, and mules into the night.

  “Ah, the smell of salt and sand,” Fatima told her companions. “There is no elixir on this blessed earth like it.”

  During the day’s march, our three travelers reached the blue-tongued shores of the Mediterranean. That night, they camped on the beach. Much to Khayal’s disappointment, Jawad unfurled his own tent after watering, feeding, and brushing the pack animals. After a dinner of bread, dried meat, and dates, Fatima poured herself a cup of wine. “Shall we begin?”

  “Begin?” Khayal wondered. “You mean my seduction? Am I supposed to perform publicly? I would prefer to talk to Jawad in private.” He bent his head. “I am, in large measure, a discreet man.” He lifted his head and looked at Jawad, sitting next to Fatima. “You would appreciate a discreet man, I am sure.”

  Jawad shrugged. Fatima said, “Discretion is boring.”

  “My lady,” Khayal said, “our agreement was that I seduce the boy in seven nights, not that I perform the seduction publicly. That would be unfairly humiliating.”

  “Love is unfairly humiliating.”

  Jawad nodded. “I do not know much of love, but I do know that it is humiliating.”

  “I must protest,” Khayal said. “The Prophet—may the blessing of God be upon him—said, ‘He who falls in love and conceals his passion is a worthy man.’ ”

  “Being a bore is in itself unappealing,” our heroine said. “Being a bore and a liar to boot makes a man rebarbative, as well as dishonored. Lying with the Prophet’s words? You might as well remove your headdress and shave your beard. The Prophet, peace be upon him, said, ‘He who falls in love, conceals his passion, and is chaste, dies a martyr.’ If you wish to become a martyr, that can be arranged easily, but it is already too late to conceal your passion.”

  “And chastity is not what he is after anyway,” Jawad added.

  “The desert nights are long and bare,” Fatima said. “Entertain us, or begone. If you desire to possess this boy, you must convince him.”

  “Convince me.”

  “Move him.”

  “Move me.”

  “Wait.” Khayal stood up. The light of the fire cast flickering shadows on his long white robe. He was a thick-shouldered man, with a hawkish beak and full, heavy eyebrows. “I will do what you ask if I have to, but allow me one final attempt at convincing you that discretion works best in matters of love. I can tell you the story of Bader, son of Fateh.”

  “I am not sure I am willing to be convinced. Are you, my dear Jawad?”

  “Well, I do like stories.”

  “There you go. The boy likes stories. Tell us the tale of this Bader.”

  Khayal said, “There was a Córdoban, from a great family, by the name of Bader ben Fateh. He was a man of faith, circumspect, a gracious host, well mannered, a beacon of good breeding. I was traveling in Játiva when I began to hear of his exploits. It seems he had lost all modesty by falling in love with a musician by the name of Moktadda. I knew this boy, and I can tell you he did not deserve Bader’s love; he did not deserve the love of one of Bader’s slaves. Bader spent a fortune on this honorless dullard, welcomed him into his house, and closed it to his other guests. He plied the peasant with the most expensive wines. I heard that our man had removed his kaffiyeh, unwound his head-rope, showed his full face, rolled up his sleeves.

  “He cast off the leash of propriety. He fell prey to that ravenous beast, desire. He became the subject of gossip, a notorious story in the harems, a news item in the diwans. His reputation became the object of derision. He lost his standing, his honor, his respect.

  “The young musician had not wanted his indiscretion revealed, and Bader’s loss of social standing made him a less desirable partner. The object of his passion ran away from him altogether, and refused ever to see him again.

  “Had Bader valued discretion, had he folded his secret in his heart, couched his desires, he would not have lost everything. He would have worn the robe of well-being, and the garment of respectability would not have become threadbare. He would have been able to keep both his honor and his lover had he chosen a more circumspect style. Allow me a modest approach.”

  “Modesty is dull,” Fatima said.

  “So was the story,” Jawad said.

  “So true. Didactic stories should only be told to children and to the faithful.”

  “I weep for the poor children who have to listen to such stories.”

  “Are you seduced, my dear Jawad?”

  “I am sleepy.”

  “Ah, at least the night passes. I pray that we will be gifted with a better seduction tomorrow. And a good night to all.”

  My father’s face told a different story. He looked wan, haggard, and old—very old. And thin. His wedding band danced upon its finger like a shower-curtain ring. He had spent an hour telling Lina and me that he felt grand. He was happy that I had flown in to spend Eid al-Adha with him, but we should
spend it at our home. He wasn’t ill anymore. He sounded better. He moved around better. He laughed better. He wanted to go home.

  The cast of light in the room was disturbing, slightly nauseating. The antiseptic white walls. The fluorescent lights. It was midmorning, but the sallow curtain diffused a pale gray-green glow. Lina had been going out to the balcony to smoke, always making sure the curtain was drawn so my father wouldn’t see her and crave a cigarette.

  “I’m doing so much better,” my father announced. “I feel formidable.”

  I pulled back the curtain to let some genuine light in, opened the sliding door for air. It was pitch-perfect weather, two clouds maculating a clear sheet of blue, an early spring in February. I stood for a moment with my back to the room, enjoying the play of the flimsy breeze upon my face. I considered for a moment returning to the waiting lounge to relieve Fatima and Salwa, my sister’s daughter, who were entertaining the visitors.

  “I know you think I don’t know what I’m talking about,” my father went on, “but I feel better, and I don’t want to spend another night in this godforsaken place.”

  The Chinese say prolonged illness can make one a doctor. My mother used to say prolonged illness made one a curmudgeon. My mother was wiser. I turned around and looked at the high nightstand, made sure that her framed passport-sized photo was still there, next to her silver locket, which my father insisted brought him luck.

  “We have to wait and find out what Tin Can has to say.” Lina regarded my father with soft eyes. When she was younger, my sister took after my mother, but as she matured, my father’s softer features overcame her face. Lina curled up on the recliner, laid her head back, imitating a Henry Moore sculpture. Her heels poked into the chair’s plastic upholstery.

  “Talk to him, darling,” my father whimpered. He grasped the bed rail, pulled himself onto his side in order to face her. He scratched the small protrusion in his chest where the pacemaker and defibrillator were. I turned around again and watched the sky.