Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

“That’s not exactly true,” Lina said. “You’re a whore.”

“I’m not,” she said, distracted and bemused. “I may not be the most virtuous of maidens, but whores do it for money.”

“Oh God,” huffed Lina. “You’ve gotten a hundred times richer with each marriage. Have you ever fucked a guy who wasn’t wealthy?”

“Fucked?” Fatima sat up in her chair, looked around her, pretending shock. “Moi?” Her fingers touched her chest. “You really do think I’m a cheap whore. I don’t fuck my men.”

“And you certainly aren’t cheap. Have you told the boy about your emerald necklace?”

“Not yet. I haven’t had the chance, with all the meditations and healings.”

“She hasn’t told me,” I said, “but she has been brandishing that thing all day.”

“That’s not the one, silly boy,” Fatima said. “Can’t you tell one emerald necklace from another? That one is exquisite.”

“Gaudy,” added Lina.

“Stunning,” said Fatima. “Should I tell him the story?”

“Do,” said Lina.

“Okay. Listen. This is how I found out I liked my husband. He’s ever so sweet. This was in April. We’d been married for a few months. I was in Riyadh because he couldn’t get away and couldn’t be without me. I’m bored and antsy. I get a call from my ex-husband in Doha. He misses me. Tough, I say. He must see me. Boring. He can’t live without me. Practice, I say.”

“Sensitivity is part of her charm,” interrupted Lina.

“Shut up,” Fatima went on. “So he says he regrets running away from me.”

“And leaving behind just a few millions in change,” added Lina.

“It’s my story. Let me tell it. Anyway, I’m not impressed. But he begins to whimper, and you know what hearing a man whimper does to me. He says he’s been to New York, to London, to Berlin, he even went to Thailand, but no one understood his needs the way I did.”

“That would have touched me deeply as well,” Lina said.

“I think why not. I told him to get his ass on a plane and meet me in Rome.”

“But she’s not a whore, mind you.”

“I tell my husband I need a break and I’m going home. He says that’s a wonderful idea, he’ll join me. What could I do? I remind my husband of my rules. No one stays in my house in Rome. It’s my sanctuary in this horrible world. He says he’ll rent a hotel suite. I figure I can leave him in the hotel every now and then and tell him I need to be at home. We’re in Rome. I meet my ex at the Spanish Steps. Not my fault. He’s a tourist. He begins to whimper again: Take me to my room. Take me to my room. I decide to take a walk. Make him beg some more. We go down Via Condotti, a pleasant spring day.”

“You get a full-fledged weather report gratis.”

“Shut up. I’m enjoying this. We’re walking, and it’s not my fault that Bulgari has a great store there, with the most magnificent picture window display. I stop. What woman wouldn’t?”

“Yo,” Lina answered.

“What intelligent woman wouldn’t? In the window, calling my name loudly and repeatedly, is a lovely emerald necklace. My jaw drops. My ex asks me if I like it. Of course I do. He walks into the store. I have to follow him; I can’t stand in the street by myself. He asks to see the necklace, places it on my neck — a match made in heaven.”

“Otherwise known in the holy books as Bulgari in Rome.”

“He buys it for me. One hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. So, of course, I take him to his room.”

“And he’s still in the hospital recovering.”

“He had fun. Anyway, I’m back in my husband’s suite, and I’ve forgotten that I’m wearing the necklace. He asks me about it. I tell him I was taking a walk and saw it in the window and just had to have it. He asks how much it was, and I tell him. And he says no wife of his will ever pay for her own jewelry. He takes out his checkbook and writes me a check for one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Isn’t he sweet?”

“You know, you’re right,” said Lina. “ ‘Whore’ is not the right word. It sounds trite.”

“True,” Fatima said. “It says little about talent.”

“Demimondaine,” I said.

“Yes,” Fatima exclaimed. “That sounds so much more encompassing. I’ve found myself. And here I thought this workshop was a puerile assignment in psychological masturbation. I didn’t even have to endure a dark night of the soul. It’s a bargain. I stared deep into my being and saw my true self. This is who I am. I’m a demimondaine.”

A doe appeared, and two others followed her. Slow, hesitant steps.

My sister yawned and stretched. “You didn’t tell me what she did today.”

“Let her tell you,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy bragging.” Fatima only smiled. I sighed. “One of the women in the workshop showed up with a lot of different crystals, and this one over here asked what they were for. The woman said one was for healing, another was for dreaming, and so on. The grande dame said, ‘Oh, how sweet. My people have quite a bit in common with your people. You collect crystals, and I collect emeralds.’ ”

Lina guffawed, and the startled does ran away terrified.

“Are you getting anything out of the seminar?” my sister asked me. “It doesn’t seem to be work-related, so I can’t figure why your boss is asking his employees to do this.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Misguided, perhaps. If nothing else, it’s a social event, something for us to do outside work. It would have been easier without Fatima giving grief to so many.”

Fatima sat up and faced my sister. “Can you imagine if you asked any of your workers to do something like this? You’re the president of al-Kharrat. Send a memo to all your dealerships. I, Lina al-Kharrat, capo di capi, ask that you attend a self-improvement seminar and meditate. Bring your tarot cards.”

“Shut up.” My sister smiled at me. “Is there something I can do to make up for this one’s behavior?”

I sat up. “You can tell the big whore not to seduce the workshop leader. Everyone was aghast.”

“Me?” Fatima said. “I didn’t do anything. Is it my fault if he spent the entire morning ogling me and showing excitement? No, no, no, shorty. You can’t pin that one on me.”

“Excitement, you say?” Lina asked.

“The whole morning session,” I said. “You know her. Three hours of stretching lazily, readjusting her butt every few minutes. In the middle of the session, she interrupted to suggest that the floor wasn’t very comfortable and asked for a fauteuil. The guy was a goner. The group couldn’t concentrate on anything but the bulge.”

“Was the guru gargantuan?” Lina asked.

“Please,” Fatima replied. “God, when are we leaving?”

A lovely spring day, and nightingales sang in the bushes, and golden finches competed from trees. Gardenias tossed their scent into the air, and narcissi preened. And from her balcony the emir’s wife was shocked at the scene in the garden before her. Her twelve-year-old son lying on his stomach without a stitch of clothing, his white behind saluting the sky, his head nestled between his dark twin’s spread thighs. The dark one, naked and hairless, lying on his back, his head cradled in one hand and his other hand curled into the prophet’s golden strands as Shams licked his testicles, an effortless indulgence. The boys formed a calm, sinewy interlacing of alabaster and onyx. When Layl opened his eyes and noticed the emir’s wife aghast, a devilish grin appeared on his face.