Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

The lamb was placed in the middle of the table. The whole family salivated.

“You outdid yourself,” the father told the mother.

“This lamb was particularly succulent,” the mother said.

And the boy felt his father tear into him.

“Pass your plates, children,” the mother said. “We’ll get to have a great meal for a change.”

And the boy felt his brothers bite into his flesh. He felt his sisters chew sumptuous pieces of him.

“This tastes so good,” his brothers said.

“The best meal we’ve ever had,” his sisters said.

And the mother brought out his stomach. His siblings fought over his intestines.

“You take this, my dear,” his father told his mother. “I know you love it.”

“And you take this, my dear,” his mother told his father, “for I know you love it.”

“And I am happy,” said the father.

“And I am happy,” said the mother.

And the boy felt his mother bite into his testicles.

And the boy felt his father swallow a piece of his heart.

And the boy was happy.

Fatima dressed for her entrance to the city. She covered her hair with a scarf of sheer red silk, around her forehead a chain of gold. Her neck held beads of lapis lazuli, her right breast supported a small brooch of gems, seven rings of silver encircled her left arm. She tightened the twined belt around her waist and made sure it held the sword firm. She wore her heavy robe, which concealed everything underneath.

It was only after she finished dressing that Jawad came out of Khayal’s tent. Embarrassed to have been discovered, he blushed, tried to speak, but ended up stuttering.

“I see you have made your choice,” she said. “I am pleased. I grew to like our suitor and would have been troubled had we been forced to send him away.”

And our three travelers entered the gates of Alexandria. Bast’s house was at the northern edge of the city, along an estuary. The healer stood outside, throwing morsels into the water. Fish surfaced, mouths open, snatching the bread before it hit.

“I had expected you earlier,” Bast said without turning, still feeding her pets.

“We were delayed,” Fatima said.

“And so expertly disposed of. Well handled, if risky, I must say. Not all obstacles will be as easily surmountable. More will be asked of you.” When she ran out of bread, she brushed off her hands and turned around. “You are more beautiful than I expected, and it is to be hoped you will become more beautiful still. Follow me, and leave the lovers outside. You will be separated soon, and they should not hear my counsel.”

“Why not?” Khayal asked, but the heedless healer had already begun walking toward her house.

“Can we trust her?” Jawad asked.

Fatima raised her left hand to quiet them and followed the healer into her domain.

“Afreet-Jehanam your plaything?” Bast asked. “That is quite a boast. Sit. Sit.” She pointed in the general direction of an area where various possibilities for seating existed. A pale fire burned in the chimney but added no heat, since it was cold neither outside nor in.

“Men are gullible.”

“True. It is also true that a boast is dangerous. One always ends up paying its price. Now, my dear, what have you brought me?”

“A lock of my mistress’s hair. She would like to give birth to a healthy and wise son.”

Puzzled, the healer shook her head. “But why did you bring a lock of the woman’s hair? That is not of much use. It is the father who determines the gender of his offspring, the mother its traits. I would need a lock of his hair to understand the issue, and hers would have provided the solution. You should have known that. Do not look so troubled, my dear. I would not return a resourceful woman empty-handed, for I, too, am resourceful.” She stretched on her toes, rummaged through the small cabinets hanging from the ceiling. “I have something that I have not used in a long time.” She bent down behind a table, and Fatima could no longer see her, but she heard the sound of heavy objects being dragged along the floor, and then the sharp meow of a cat as it scurried out. “Oh, Cleopatra, how could I know you were lying there? You have to tell me these things.” The healer resurfaced, fully erect now. Her chin settled on her hand, and her eyes focused on the ceiling. “I have to remember where I put it. Ah, of course, how stupid of me.” She picked up a long wooden spoon and one of the glass vials on the table and walked over to Fatima. “Please stand up, my dear.”

Bast knocked the worn cushion off the barrel Fatima had been sitting on and removed the lid. She stirred the contents with the spoon and dropped the vial into the barrel. “Your salvation,” the healer said, raising the vial, which was now filled with an amber liquid. “Any woman who drinks this within seven hours after intercourse will conceive a healthy male child. No guarantee on other qualities, though — the parents have to take care of those.” She pushed a cork stopper into the vial and put her hand out. From under her breast, Fatima took out a gold dinar and gave it to her.

“No haggling?” Bast asked.

Fatima raised her eyebrows for the Arabic “no.”

“Pity. And would you seek any further advice?”

“I cannot seek a husband, my lady,” Fatima replied, “for I am but a slave, and I do not wish for one at this time.”

“Ah, husbands are what most seek in coming to me. Pardon me, but I must mollify my poor Cleopatra or she will allow me no sleep tonight.” Bast walked away and stopped. “Your humility belies an arrogance, Sitt Fatima, but no matter, you will soon grow wiser. You should have asked for my counsel, but I will give it anyway. Rise, Fatima, and leave quickly. Time is of the essence. What you have to face, you must face alone, or others will be hurt. Leave your home city. It is not time for you to be back here. You will not be a slave for long if you make the correct choices, and the correct choices are always the most difficult ones.” She took a deep breath, lowered her head, stared at the floor, then looked back at Fatima, who no longer recognized the woman in front of her. The healer’s hair began to unfurl, and the air surrounding her head began to shimmer and sparkle. “Show me your hand,” Bast commanded. Fatima stepped toward her, but the healer held her palm out. “Stop. Show me your palm.” Fatima raised the palm of her left hand, and Bast recoiled. “Fatima’s hand. Leave now, quickly, and have courage.”

Bast turned away. “Here, kitty. Come here, Cleopatra.”

And the three travelers left Alexandria in a hurry. “Could we not have spent the day and seen the sights?” Jawad asked. “Seems a shame. I have never been to any city but my own. Khayal says the lads in Alexandria wear no underpants.”

“It is true,” Fatima said. “But I could not linger. We must make haste.”

For seven days, they rode with little rest, until they had crossed most of the Sinai. For seven days, Fatima felt her doom follow her, but spoke nothing of it. She heard the earth thump a rhythm that matched her heart’s. They rode into the deserts of Palestine.

“We cannot keep up this pace, Sitt Fatima,” Jawad said. “The horses cannot make it without a rest. We must ease up, or none will survive and neither will we.”

Fatima reluctantly agreed. They set up camp before the sun set. And she waited.

Fatima heard her name being called from below. She heard the low rumble before the lovers did, before the pack animals. She felt the tremor beneath her feet, and, as if her soles had ears, she heard the sand speak: “Fatima, I come for you, Fatima.”

The horses whinnied. The noise grew louder; the earth shook. The camels fled. Two untied mares joined them. Jawad seemed to struggle. His instinct was to try and corral them, but he was petrified. The mules stood still. That stillness — there was a moment of it, of unequivocal tranquillity, only an instant — and then the earth exploded. Between Fatima and the two lovers a hole yawned, spewing a hot yellow fire. The flames flickered here and there, but did not change color. Unnatural, they were like giant fronds of an anemone. A giant blue head appeared, the fire its hair. The jinni glared with three red eyes and growled, showing two rows of daggerlike teeth.