Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

Sunlight finally broke through the windows. The air smelled sweet and fragrant. “Were they like other fish?” I asked.

“No, of course not.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, his pale, bony wrists protruding from frayed white cuffs. “They were special fish. Sparkled like gems at night, colors you’d never see. If only I could show them to you. And the dervishes looked so holy in their traditional outfits, the white robes and red hats.”

“Aren’t they the ones that dance? I’ve seen them. They’re beautiful and grand.”

“They twirl. That’s how they pray. And they are beautiful.”

“I want a God that makes me twirl.” I jumped off the couch. I untucked and unbuttoned my shirt so it would flow like a robe. “Like this. I can do this for God.” I held my hands out. I twirled and twirled and twirled. “Look,” I said. “Look.”

The Dutch painter Adriaen van der Werff, an accomplished, rather sentimental and repetitive minor master, painted a Biblical scene of Sarah offering her Egyptian slave girl, Hagar, to Abraham. Of course, Hagar looks nothing like an Egyptian. Chestnut hair — close to blond, even — and she has the lightest skin of all three figures, Nordic features, too young and beautiful. She is at the bottom of the painting; only her torso is shown, naked from the waist up. A piece of clothing (a petticoat?) and her right forearm cover her right breast. The right hand on her left breast serves to accentuate the sumptuous nipple. She kneels beside the bed, looks down at her naked belly, demure, submissive, excluded from the discussion between Sarah and Abraham.

Sarah, a crone, stands behind Hagar, talking to her husband. She is fully clothed in drab material, her white hair partially veiled. Abraham is naked on the bed, a navy-blue sheet covering everything below his navel. He has a thick brown beard, but his muscular chest is completely hairless, his abdominals defined. His hand rests on Hagar’s sensuous bare shoulder beneath him. He looks happy with the offer, smug almost.

“You see,” Sarah says, “that the Lord has prevented me from having children. Go into my Egyptian slave girl. It may be that I build my family through her.”

Abraham listened to the voice of Sarah and went into her Egyptian slave girl.

Months later, the sky swelled with glory, and the valley began to color and bloom. Abraham’s face had lost its winter pallor; his hair remained black, never-changing, with its widow’s peak. Sarah’s eyes were swollen, full of tears, her face blotchy. She stared at Abraham, hoped he would not notice her. She had urged him to sleep with her Egyptian. God spoke through her. Hagar would provide him with a male heir, and Sarah would be elevated, if not in his eyes, then surely in her own. Sarah never imagined that Abraham would fall in love with the slave, treat her as a wife. He had such affection for Hagar. And she grew. She still behaved herself, but the look on her face was no longer that of a slave. It was more graceful, more self-assured, the look of someone who belonged. The slave had quickly gotten used to salvation.

“You are responsible for the wrong I am suffering,” Sarah informed her husband. “I put my servant in your arms, and now that she is pregnant, she despises me. May the Lord judge between you and me.”

“She is your slave,” Abraham replied. “Do with her what you think best.”

“We should call the midwife,” the doctor’s wife said. “We don’t want people to talk.”

“Fine. Fine. Call the witch. I will make sure she doesn’t make things worse. Tell her to keep her mouth shut. I don’t want to listen to her tiresome life story once more.”

Zovik interrupted the midwife’s supper — boiled rice and lentils with a touch of cumin. She told Zovik she would come soon after she finished her meal, but then she actually heard Lucine’s wail. She jumped up off the ground, almost knocking over the brass tray and the dish of lentils. Nimble for a woman her age and weight, she ran out the door, with a concerned Zovik trailing behind. “Why did you wait so long?” the midwife asked. “Why does everybody wait so long?”

A crowd milled outside the doctor’s house. Some had come from as far as two or three neighborhoods away to discover the source of the wails and to discuss their significance. The midwife squeezed through the crowd, ran into the house, and found the children clustered outside the maids’ room. As she approached, the wail started as a low rumble, rolled forward like a tumbleweed in harsh winds, and reached a crescendo that almost brought her to her knees. The children’s faces registered shock, followed by dismay, and then they slowly began to cry. The doctor’s wife came out of the room. “I can’t take this anymore,” she said to no one in particular. “To your rooms, children. You have no business here. Don’t forget your prayers, your teeth, and your eye drops. Now go to sleep.” She disappeared into the hallway.

Lucine lay in bed, her eyes staring at the ceiling, her lips praying, her brows and forehead anticipating the next contraction. The doctor seemed agitated and slightly bewildered. The midwife asked if the water had broken and whether the baby had begun to reveal itself.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“It’s definitely a boy. Boys don’t like to come out if there’s another male in the room. Boys like to be enticed into coming out. Boys want to be made to feel special.”

“That’s nonsense. I wish you’d stop it.”

“O Holy Virgin. This boy seems to be having problems finding his way out.” She stroked Lucine’s belly. Once, twice, three times. “Listen to me, my boy. We want you out here. You’re our special boy. If you come, I’ll tell you a story. Come.”

Once, there was a little boy who lived with his grandfather in a small hut in a small village. This boy was so tiny that everyone called him Jardown, the rat. Jardown loved his grandfather, who in turn loved Jardown more than anything in the world. His grandfather took care of him, cooked for him, and told him stories.

One day in fall, his grandfather told the other village men that he was getting old and could not bring home as much firewood as he used to, and that the boy, Jardown, was too small to carry all they needed for the approaching winter. The other men told him not to fret. They would all send him their sons the following day, and they should be able to collect enough firewood to last for two or three winters.

The next day, all the village boys arrived at the cottage. Jardown’s grandfather gave each boy a piece of bread, a piece of chocolate, and two drops of condensed milk. “This is to thank you for helping us. Go into the forest and bring back as much firewood as you can. Take care of Jardown while you’re out there. He is younger and much smaller than any of you.”

The boys went into the forest, each carrying his bread and chocolate and condensed milk. Some began to collect firewood while others chopped down dying trees. Every boy was doing his share, except for Jardown, who sat on a big rock with his feet dangling above the forest floor.

“Jardown,” one of the boys said, “why aren’t you cutting wood?”

“My grandfather gave you a piece of bread so you would cut wood for me, too.”

So the boys cut more wood. When they thought they had enough, they gathered all the wood in bundles to carry back to the village. Each boy carried his own bundle — each boy except for Jardown, who still sat in the same place.

“Jardown,” another boy said, “why aren’t you carrying a bundle?”

“My grandfather gave you all a piece of chocolate so you would carry my bundle.”

The boys picked up Jardown’s bundle and began to leave, but then they noticed that Jardown was not moving. “Why aren’t you coming with us, Jardown? We are going home.”