Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

“Be careful with the nails,” said Arbusto.

“I will be ever careful with you.” The trader used both hands to pry out the first nail.

“But …,” stammered Arbusto, “but you are not hanging on to anything.”

“Have you still not recognized me? I have been looking for you, and you have not been easy to find.”

“You are not human,” gasped Arbusto.

“Is anyone?”

“O jinni. Do not take me. I can make you the richest demon in the world.”

“That I already am. I am so rich I can afford to unburden my camels, laden with the souls of all those whose deaths you have caused.”

“You are Afreet-Jehanam.”

“I am known by many names. Jehanam is my domain, and it is where I will take you.”

“Hell will be my home.”

“Most assuredly.”

“Death, the scourer, has come for me.”

Majnoun held his head and wept. Fatima embraced him and tried to comfort him. The imps surrounded mother and child.

“I cannot bear it,” Majnoun said.

“I cannot, either,” said Fatima. “Yet we will manage.”

“We are with you,” said the imps.

“I feel refreshed and rejuvenated,” the emir’s wife said to herself. “I am so alive.”

“Even among you,” said Majnoun, “I am so alone.”

“Grandfather,” my niece said, “can you hear me? We’re here.” Four of us surrounded his bed. I sat on his right, Salwa and Fatima on his left. Lina stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder. The machines were still going strong. The ventilator inhaled at the same clip. Lina gripped my shoulder.

“Father,” I said, “it’s me, Osama.” I was disappointed, unreasonably so, by the absence of any reaction. I glanced back at my sister, who was crying and smiling at the same time.

“Grandfather,” my niece said, “can you squeeze my hand?” She shook her head, then glanced at me. “Grandfather,” she said, “do you remember how Osama used to tell me stories when I was a girl? I was talking to your sister a few minutes ago, and I remembered. Do you? During the war, I used to get so nervous, and he told me stories about your father.”

Fatima was trying to cry silently, and failing. Lina kept nudging me. “Yes,” I said. “I used to tell her stories. I was there.”

“They were wonderful stories,” Salwa said. “I always felt that I knew your father, that I was alive when he was. The same for Uncle Jihad. They were odd characters, but I knew them. I’m going to make sure my son gets to know everybody just as well. Do you hear me?”

“The whole family is odd,” Lina said, squeezing my shoulder once more.

“I remember a lot,” Salwa continued. “I remember that Osama used to say you never listened to your father’s stories. Do you know how he came here? It’s a wonderful story. Osama should tell you. Let him tell you.”

And the lovely face of fate appeared in Baybars’s dream. “My son,” it said. “You have fought your last battle. The time has come to fulfill your life. New heroes must flourish, new stories must be told. Come home.”

At the diwan, Baybars announced, “My friends, I need rest. I wish to travel to Giza.”

“Your desire is our command,” replied Othman. “I will make the arrangements.”

“I wish my friends to travel before me. I wish to sleep in the pavilion my friends painted for me so long ago, in order to remember the best moments of my youth.”

And Baybars’s friends and companions traveled to Giza and erected the great tent with its quiltlike paintings. They cooked a grand feast and waited for the hero to arrive.

Baybars saddled al-Awwar himself. “It is time, my friend,” he whispered into the great warhorse’s ear. “We shall have our last adventure together. I am as grateful as ever for your company. With you, I am never alone.”

Baybars and al-Awwar headed to Giza. Yet, as soon as the great city of Cairo disappeared behind them, Baybars asked al-Awwar to turn right into the welcoming desert. And the great king, the hero of many a tale, rode toward the immortal sun.

“Do you hear me?” I asked my father. “Do you hear me?” I tried to concentrate on his eyelids and not on the breathing tube taped to his mouth. “I don’t know which stories your father told you and which you believed, but I always wondered whether he ever told you the true story of who he is, or the one that seems most true. Did he? He must have, but, then, maybe not.” I glanced up at the monitor, hoping it had registered some change, any sign that he might be listening. “Your grandmother’s name was Lucine. It’s true. I checked it out. Lucine Guiragossian. Your grandfather was Simon Twining. She worked for him. See, you have English, Armenian, and Druze blood. Oh, and Albanian, too. You’re a man of the world. We always knew that.” I gently held his hand.

“Your grandmother died while your father was still a baby. Another woman raised him, Anahid Kaladjian. Your father loved her most of all, and she sacrificed everything for him. He used to say that she was his first audience, that she was the only one to laugh at his jokes. She sent him away when he was eleven. He used to say that all he remembered was that she told him to go south, hide in the mountains of Lebanon, stay with the Christians. That was before the Turkish massacres of the Armenians. He left before the great Armenian orphan migration to Lebanon. Did you know that?” There was no reaction from my father, but my niece reached across the bed and held my hand briefly.

“Listen. Here’s a story you’d like. Your father was born tiny, as tiny as a rat, a jardown. No one gave him any hope of living. His mother, Lucine, concerned that he was so small, took him to the Armenian quarter of Urfa on her day off. She talked to people, interrogated, pleaded, until she was sent to a great fortune-teller called Shoushan. Lucine begged Shoushan for help, but she couldn’t afford to pay her. The fortune-teller said that she could do nothing without pay, because if word got out no one would ever pay her again. Lucine swore she’d never tell anyone. Shoushan said, ‘You think you can walk out of here without having paid and people won’t recognize you got something for free. No, no, anyone can tell when something is free. You must pay me something. Let me think of a form of payment. Wait here while I pray and ask the Virgin what I should collect from you.’ ”

Lina sat down on the bed behind me.

“After praying, Shoushan asked, ‘Do you have someone in your household who knits?’ Lucine replied that her mistress did. Shoushan said she wanted Lucine to bring her one of those knitting needles. That would be a fine payment. In her prayers, Shoushan had heard the Virgin say that a devil lived in Lucine’s household and knitted every night. Shoushan could do some things with a devil’s knitting needle. Would Lucine know if the devil also had a darning needle? That would be a princely gift. Shoushan could perform magic with a devil’s darning needle. Lucine promised to get her one of each.”

Lina settled her head between my shoulder blades. I felt the rhythm of her breathing, solid and tired.

“ ‘I’ll tell you how to make sure your son becomes a giant of a man,’ Shoushan said, ‘so listen. For seven days and seven nights, you must bathe your son in warm wine. That will nourish him and make him grow. But here is another secret: heat the wine by placing a red-hot horseshoe in it. He’ll grow to have the subtlety of wine and the endurance of iron. You must then cool him off by placing him in the shell of an unripe watermelon. The bitterness will make him wise. Go now, and make sure to bring me back a knitting needle and a darning needle.’