Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

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.”

“Ma rouf,” 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 Ma rouf, 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 Ma rouf 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 Ma rouf 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?” Ma rouf 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 Ma rouf, “stand on my right and speak to me.”

And into his right ear Layla whispered, “We are taking you home, my friend.”

Othman unshackled Ma rouf, 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.”