Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

Hannya let out a long, loud sigh. “We do what we must. Does the extinguished candle care about the darkness?”

“Your time has come,” Fatima cried.

“No, it has not. You are bound by your son’s word not to harm me. Begone. You and your son may be mightier, but you no longer have dominion over me.”

“Foolish, foolish woman. You should have killed me when you had the chance.” Fatima raised her arms in the air. “Death will expiate death.”

The monster rolled her three eyes. “Useless theatrics. You can cast no spell against me.”

“What you have fed upon,” Fatima declared, “will now feed upon you,” and she unyoked Hannya’s imprisoned demons and watched the monster’s gigantic face blanch.

“Wait,” screeched Hannya. “Wait. Let us bargain. I have something to offer you. I have something you need. I have the—” But the demons, set free from their shackles, descended upon their torturer. Hannya fended off the first three, and the fourth, and the fifth, but she was shortly overwhelmed, was slowly devoured. Her dying scream vanished first, and then her hands and arms, her legs, her head, until naught but space was left of her.

In the early morning, before it was light enough to tell a white thread from a black one, Beirut was pristine and shockingly loud — two apparently interrelated phenomena. The streets were empty except for gigantic green garbage-trucks, and I got stuck behind a particularly noisy one. There were many strange differences between my two homes, Los Angeles and Beirut, but for some reason none seemed more telling than garbage-collecting: in L.A., garbage was picked up once a week; in Beirut, four times a day. Farting and chugging, the truck stopped every few meters and wouldn’t let me pass. Finally, when the dark-skinned garbagemen jumped off to the right to empty the next building’s Dumpster, I steered left onto the curb and passed the truck. The driver seemed despondent and oblivious.

The hospital’s main entrance was still locked. Around the corner, the emergency-room entrance sucked me in with a barely audible hum. The hum of the fifth floor’s low fluorescent lights was more than audible. I followed the crayon lines along the floor, past the visitors’ lounge, past the unmanned guard’s desk, into the cardiac unit, past the rooms with their aquarium-window exhibits of aged, frightened patients.

No one would have recognized my father. What I remembered of him was nothing like what lay before me. I wanted to slap myself, wake up. I stroked his forehead. Fatima was snoring on the gurney. My sister was awake on the recliner, staring at my father’s prostrate form.

I went to her, touched her shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep,” I whispered.

“Neither could I.” She reached for my hand, either as a comfort or to comfort me. “Every time I dozed, I dreamed he and I were having a big fight. He was angry and unforgiving.” She leaned into my arm. “I’m terrified of sleeping.”

“Now that Hannya is no longer in this world,” said Majnoun, “I will make her world mine. Her lair will be my home.” He began to sweep the floor with a makeshift broom while humming a dirge.

“Your son has not been well,” Isaac said to Fatima.

“But he is getting better,” said Ishmael. “Night and day.”

“He will soon be healthy and thriving, if incomplete,” said Jacob.

“It would have grieved me,” said Fatima, “had he been anything but devastated. With the aid of time we shall heal him. Yet we must also find his brother.”

All eight imps stared at their hooves.

“We have been trying,” said Noah. “We have searched everywhere.”

“That fornicating demon Hannya cut him up,” said Adam, and Fatima wept.

Majnoun swept his broom into a corner and felt a prickle travel up through the handle. He bent and picked up an obsidian box the size of his hand. “Mother,” he called across the commodious cave. “I have found him.” Fatima and the imps ran toward him. She stared at Layl’s heart, lifted it, held it to her own. She let out a piercing wail and was joined by the imps. But grief, the vampire, did not overcome Majnoun. His face shone red, and his hair burst into flames once more. He reached for his lover’s heart, took it from his mother. Coddled in the palm of his hand, the heart glowed and pulsed.

“We can rebuild him,” said Elijah. “We have the ability.”

“Resurrect him,” said Adam.

“In our nephew’s hand, the heart lives,” said Job.

“Layl will rise once more,” said Ezra.

“We will need all of him,” said Fatima, “as well as a miracle.”

With his beloved’s heart close to his, Majnoun said, “I know where my adored is.”

When Baybars was informed that Othman and Layla were almost at Cairo’s gates, he announced, “It is time for our city to honor my friends. Let us celebrate their victory over the Mongolian queen. Taboush has to deal with the affairs of Kirkuk. We will have another celebration when he arrives. Let us surprise Othman and his wife.” Cairenes clogged the streets; shouts of joy and ululations erupted throughout the city. Before thousands, Baybars lauded Othman and Layla for their victory over the witch queen and for their longtime service to his kingdom. He covered their bodies in gold and covered their heads with turbans of valor.

“I do not understand,” said Taboush as he sat in his diwan in Kirkuk. “Why does the sultan choose to insult me so? He honored the face-cream woman for my victory. Am I not deserving? Have I not served faithfully? How can I show my face in public after being shamed? I led the army. I am the war hero. Why honor his friends at my expense? This cannot be.”

And the steward opened the doors of the hall and announced, “There is a priest by the name of Arbusto who begs a moment of your time.”

Wan and serene, Aunt Samia appeared in the visitors’ lounge, flanked by two of her boys, Anwar and Munir. Salwa, sitting on my right, looked as if she would sacrifice her firstborn to be back in my father’s room, or anywhere but the visitors’ lounge. Hovik had his arm around her shoulders. She reached out and held my hand. I lifted hers to my lips and kissed it.

“He’s coming soon,” she whispered. “I can feel it.” She mistook my incomprehension for shock and concern. “Don’t worry. There’s nothing wrong. He’s just kicking. He wants out.”

“But you’re not due for another week, are you?”

She shrugged. “I know when I’m due. I’m not saying he’s coming this minute. Soon.”

“She would know,” Aunt Samia interjected. “I always knew, long before the pain.” She paused, looking at no one in particular. “What are you going to call him?”

Hovik started to answer, but my niece was quicker. “We’re not sure yet,” she said.

“Call him Farid,” my aunt said. “That would be such a nice gesture. Your grandfather would be so pleased.”

“I don’t think I can do that,” Salwa said. “I don’t see how. I’d never be able to yell at him. How could I punish my child if he was named Farid?”

Aunt Samia looked confused. “Another name, then. Keep it in the family. ‘Jihad’ wouldn’t be good. ‘Wajih’? You didn’t know him, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Hovik decided that was the moment to begin participating in the family sport: teasing Aunt Samia. “We’re thinking of calling him Vartan, after my father,” he said.