Laila Lalami - Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

“Poor Ghomari knew that there was no use fighting the Sultan who’d stolen his beloved, so he turned to his tapestry and poured his sorrow into it. He weaved a rug that showed Jenara in all her beauty, her face unveiled, and in her hand a long knife, representing his desire for revenge. When he was done, he marveled at his own creation, which was so lifelike that it was as though Jenara was standing right before him, ready to strike. Ghomari gathered his father and Jenara’s father and showed them the tapestry. They, too, were amazed by the rug, and so they told their wives, who told their sisters, who told their husbands.

“And so, every night, after dark, Ghomari would close his shop to hold viewing sessions of this most marvelous tapestry, until Arbo got word of it. He told the Sultan about the tapestry, and soon enough it was confiscated and Ghomari was put in jail. When the Sultan cast his eyes on it, he was taken once again with how beautiful Jenara looked, but, even more, by the terrifying expression on her face. He showed it to his court, delighting in their reactions, and had it hung in his bedroom. When he next saw Jenara, he told her that Ghomari was to be executed by morning. Jenara didn’t show any sadness over the death of her betrothed. The Sultan asked his trusted Arbo why that might be. The midget replied that perhaps Jenara had finally seen the light. Over the next few weeks, Jenara seemed happy, chatting and joking with Arbo. ‘This is how women are,’ Arbo told his master. ‘Sometimes they have to be shown a strong hand before they’ll learn what’s good for them.’

“One night, Jenara told Arbo that she had long desired a beautiful bracelet, but that its owner, a jeweler in the Mellah, didn’t want to part with it. Arbo said, ‘Fear not, mistress, I will get it for you this very night.’ And so Arbo took off for the Mellah, leaving his post beside his master. Jenara walked into the Sultan’s bedroom, a knife in her hand.”

Anas arrived with the teapot and four stacked glasses, which he put on the table and started serving. “Very sweet,” Chrissa said, tasting her tea. “Delicious.”

“How does your story end?” Sandy asked.

“Jenara held the knife to the Sultan’s throat, who woke up in terror. He called out to his faithful Arbo, but the midget had gone to fetch the imaginary bracelet. The Sultan cried and writhed in fear. Members of his court came rushing in, and Jenara retreated against the rug hanging on the wall. ‘She’s trying to kill me!’ he screamed, pointing at the young girl. ‘But Master, that is only your tapestry on the wall.’ The Sultan cried out to them that they were to seize her, but none of his retinue moved.

“‘He’s lost his mind,’ said the Grand Vizir, and he left to go share the news with the Sultan’s younger brother, whom the Sultan had locked away in a dark gaol. The Vizir was eager to curry favor with the man who would soon replace the demented on the throne. Members of the court disappeared one by one, shaking their head over their master who’d gone mad. After the door had closed, Jenara finally brought the knife to the Sultan’s throat and killed him.

“She and Ghomari had finally gotten their revenge.”

“Wow,” Sandy said. “That’s brutal.”

Chrissa turned around to look at the carpet behind her. Anas refilled the glasses and asked, “¿Le gusta la alfombra?”

“Si,” Chrissa said.

Sandy laughed. “Really, Chrissa, is that all it takes?”

“Well, I think it would look beautiful in my cousin’s living room,” Chrissa replied, pursing her lips. “And I’m going to buy it.”

“Fine,” Sandy said. “Let’s just get it and leave. I want to get to Bowles’s house before it closes.” She looked at her watch.

“How much?” Chrissa asked.

“Mil quiniento,” Anas said.

“He wants fifteen hundred for it,” Chrissa translated.

Murad thought Anas must have liked the girl a lot, because he started the bargaining at such a low price. That carpet was worth twelve hundred, much more if it was sold in a fancy shop downtown.

“Too much,” Sandy said, leaning forward in her chair, eager to bargain, the way her guidebooks probably told her she should. “Six hundred.”

Murad raised an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” Chrissa asked her friend, turning to look at her. Sandy nodded.

The radio crackled with the sound of the four o’clock news. Murad turned his tea glass in his hand several times. “My friend made a mistake,” he said at last. “The price is eighteen hundred.”

Sandy blinked. “One thousand,” she said.

“Twelve hundred,” Murad said, standing. “My last price.”

“Fine,” Chrissa said, opening her purse.

“You’ll probably get three times that much for it on eBay,” Sandy said, shrugging.

Murad went back to sit behind the counter, leaving Anas to run the credit card and wrap the rug for them. He picked up his book, smoothed the edge of the page he’d marked by folding a corner, and closed it for good. There was no use reading stories like this anymore; he needed to write his own. He thought about his father, who’d told stories to his children, and how they were almost forgotten today. Anas closed the cash register with a loud ring, but Murad hardly paid any attention; he was already lost in the story he would start writing tonight.

FOR THEIR COMMENTS on portions of this manuscript, in various guises, I thank Mary Akers, Judith Beck, Katrina Denza, Alicia Gifford, Carrie Hernández, Kirsten Menger-Anderson, and Rob Roberge.

I am also indebted to Randa Jarrar, Maud Newton, and Mark Sarvas, for their faith and encouragement; Junot Díaz, Whitney Otto, and Diana Abu-Jaber, for their generosity; Lana Salah Barkawi, Lee Chapman, Susan Muaddi Darraj, and Tracey Cooper, for wonderful boosts during the writing of this book; and Shabnam Fani, for the gift of time.

Many thanks to my agent, Stéphanie Abou, for her patience and dedication; my friends at the Joy Harris Literary Agency, for their commitment; my editor, Antonia Fusco, for her judicious comments and enthusiasm; and everyone at Algonquin Books, for their hard work.

Thank you to my parents, Ahmed and Madida Lalami, for many spirited discussions during the writing of this book; my sister and my brothers, who always acted as though I could, and so I did; and Sophie, for never letting me forget what matters most.

Above all, thanks to Alexander Yera, for keeping the faith, even when I didn’t.