Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

Elie nodded. His permanently serious face appeared to be concentrating on the machine in front of him, his lower lip completely hidden behind his jutting upper one.

“Your father lets you have a motorcycle?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know, does he? And he won’t know, because you won’t say anything to anyone about this, will you?”

I raised my eyebrows, but Elie paid no attention. He was on his knees. His wide eyes, their whites gleaming, looked intently at the engine. A vaccination scar on his arm looked like an old, frayed button. He opened the toolbox, handed me two screwdrivers, a box wrench, a monkey wrench, and two pairs of pliers. I held them close to my chest to ensure their safety.

“I got this for free because it doesn’t run,” Elie said, “but I’m going to fix it.” He put his palm out, extending his long, tapered fingers. “Screwdriver.” I carefully placed one in his hand.

“No, not that one. The other one.” Elie tinkered with the engine. “We’re going to win the war,” he said, keeping his gaze on his task, his aquiline nose glued to the motor. “We’re going to annihilate the Israelis, throw them back into the sea.”

“Are you going to fight?”

“I can’t join the army yet. But they don’t need me. We’ll humiliate them. Pliers.”

“Who’s we?” I asked.

“We,” Elie said dismissively. “We, the Arabs.”

“We’re Arabs?”

“Of course we are. Don’t you know anything?”

“I thought we’re Lebanese.”

“We’re that, too,” Elie said. “The Lebanese haven’t started fighting yet, but we will. The Israelis didn’t attack us, but we’re not going to wait. We’ll crush them. And we have a secret weapon. You see, there are five strong countries.” He looked up at me, held up the five greasy fingers of his left hand. “We have two and the Israelis have two. We have Russia and China on our side, and they have America and England on theirs.” His right forefinger pushed down two fingers on each side, leaving his middle finger pointing upward. “So we’re even. But then there’s still France. The Israelis think France is on their side, but she’s not. France will be ours, because France loves Lebanon. France is our secret weapon. We’ll trounce the Israelis for sure.” He brought the last finger down into a clenched fist.

I stared at him with renewed admiration.

“Monkey wrench.”

“King Kade is such a troublemaker,” Bast said, “but he does serve a purpose. A while ago, when I was even more ill tempered than I am today, I considered fighting him, but I came to realize that the warrior shield did not suit me. I was always meant to fight internal battles, not external ones. King Kade was my test.”

“You failed?” Fatima asked.

“Not at all. I won, if you wish to call it that. I prefer to think of it as transcendence. He no longer bothers me.”

“He bothers me.”

“Then you must conquer him, or conquer yourself, whichever is harder.”

“I will defeat him,” Fatima said.

“Of that I am certain.”

“Teach me how.”

“First, you must find him.”

“I think it’s time for Osama to take music lessons,” my mother told my father as she sat on a taboret in front of her dressing table. She was applying makeup, one eye closed, a finger delicately powdering the eyelid with color. I stood to the side, watching her reflection in the mirror. Her thick lashes were as dark as a starless night. She inspected her image, took out her lipstick, applied a coat of red, her mouth forming a demure O. She blotted her lips with a tissue.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” my father said, examining his appearance in the armoire’s long antique mirror. “Our boy is too smart for music.” He winked, then turned his head back to the mirror, continued knotting his tie. “He’s already a year younger than his class. We shouldn’t waste his time with music. He should concentrate on academics. If anything, we should get him into sports to toughen him up a bit.” He stroked two fingers along the deep grooves that ran from his nostrils to the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t think music lessons will interfere with his studies.” She bobby-pinned the final strands into her beehive, applied so much hairspray my eyes watered. “If they do, we’ll just stop them. I’ll talk to Mademoiselle Finkelstein next week and see what she thinks.”

“I want to play the oud,” I said.

“The oud? Why? It’s so limited. You can play anything you want on a piano.” The diamond necklace glittered as she turned around to face me. “With the oud, you can only play Arabic music. You don’t see anyone playing the oud among the great orchestras.”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. She shrugged, turned back to the mirror. “Why aren’t we listening to the news?” I asked. “How come we’re not following the war?”

“Because we have to get ready for dinner,” my mother said. “Don’t worry, dear. The war is far away.”

“Are you going to fight?” I asked my father.

“Me?” He laughed. “Why would I do a thing like that? This war doesn’t concern us at all, has nothing to do with us. We’re a peaceful country.” He ran a hand across his perfectly trimmed hair, used both palms to check for any stubble on his freshly shaved face.

“Don’t we want to crush our imperialist enemy?”

“Not tonight, dear.” My mother stood up, towered over me. She smoothed her dress, examined the mirror once more. “Now, tell me, don’t I look beautiful?”

“You’re beautiful,” I said, dazzled by her blue lamé evening dress.

“Does your father think so?” She picked up her small silver handbag and stuffed her lipstick inside.

“I do,” my father said. He held her in his arms and kissed her cheek. “You’re stunning.”

“Let’s just try not to make fools of ourselves tonight. Can we keep our hands off our hostess? I know it’s difficult, but we can try, can’t we?”

“It’s just flirting, dear,” he said as he walked out the bedroom door. “Only flirting. All women love it. It’s a compliment.”

My mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling lights. She patted my head and left the room, the clack of her high heels on smooth marble reverberating in the foyer, out the door, until she reached the elevator.

The following day, the concierge painted the windows of our apartment blue so the Israelis could not see the lights at night.

“Why would the Israelis want to bomb us?” I asked my mother.

“They don’t. It’s just a precaution. Everyone’s doing it.”

“How will we get the paint off?”

“Nail-polish remover, I think.”

“The army of light — the white army, or whatever they call themselves these days — will lead you to him,” Bast said. “But be careful. Like all bright things, he is deceiving. I doubt you will find him in his first house or his second.”

“The third,” Fatima said, “it is always the third.”

“Seek the highest, for that is where his power lies, in the skies, in the air, up north.”

“How will I defeat him?”

“That I cannot tell you. Each warrior must find her own way.”

“How would you defeat him?”

“Easily,” Bast cackled. “I would entice him into my world. In my mud and muck, he would be lost. But you cannot do that.”

“I have no means to entice him.”

“Be not obtuse,” the healer said. “You have enticed males more powerful. You seduced the one you want to rescue, which is why you have to meet King Kade in his realm, not yours.”