Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

“Please,” he replied. “They are lesbians.”

“Ouch,” exclaimed Ezra.

The mosquitoes did not slow the flight of the eagles instantaneously. It took the predatory birds a minute to reduce their speed, after which they began to fly in circles. Beaks snapped on air, and feathers ruffled. The eagles seemed agitated and confused.

“Not enough,” said Isaac. “The birds are too pristine. Let them suffer.”

Job pointed his hand, and fleas rocketed toward the eagles. Then he sent gnats, mites, and ticks. The lice he saved for last. Splotches of red bubbled on the eagles’ white. “A much better color,” said Isaac. The eagles were overwhelmed and vanquished. Feathers were released from bodies and floated toward the ground. Within a short time, no eagle remained aloft.

Fatima looked below at the carnage. “Sad,” she said.

“Why?” asked Elijah. “They were too pretty.”

“I hate white,” said Isaac. “It is drab and colorless.”

Elie watched the burgeoning yellow-and-blue flames of the bonfire he’d built in an empty lot far from our building, hoping to lure Israeli fighter planes to waste their bombs there. The pop of the burning wood interrupted the eerie silence. The side of my sister’s face was lit by the fire, a flicker in her eye as she stared at Elie. I watched the passing cars, all their headlights painted blue, with only a tiny sliver of a cross to allow white light through. Elie yelled at the sky, a war cry. The hollow at the base of his throat expanded. The ridge of his collarbone vibrated. Lina opened her mouth, but didn’t scream. She was staring at Elie, as if in a rapture.

That night, the Egyptian army downed forty-four Israeli planes over the Sinai. Gamal Abd al-Nasser’s boys are fighting for their motherland, the radio intoned. I sat by the window, illuminated by the soft light of the morning sun. “That’s all lies,” Uncle Jihad said. He switched to BBC Radio: The Israelis are advancing easily. Jerusalem is theirs.

The concierge, Elie’s father, yelled at Madame Daoud on the third floor. “Talk to my husband when he comes in,” she yelled back. “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this.”

“Traitors,” he shouted. “You want the Israelis to destroy our homes.”

“Eat shit.” She slammed the door.

My father bent over the banister and bellowed, “What’s all the shouting about?”

“They haven’t painted their windows,” the concierge said, his voice quieter, meeker. “They want the Israelis to kill us.”

“Don’t be stupid,” my father chided. “You think they want to die? Probably no one told them to until you just started yelling. I don’t appreciate you pestering the tenants. Now, go back downstairs and I’ll talk to them about painting their windows.” He returned to our apartment, muttering, “Nobody knows his place anymore.”

The Daouds were strange in that they rarely opened a window in their apartment. At first, I assumed it was because they were Jewish, but my mother, who was a friend of Madame Daoud’s, told me otherwise. She said that many Jewish families opened their windows. She thought the Daouds kept theirs closed because they had lived for a time in Bologna and everyone knew that Italians were terrified of drafts.

• • •

“It’s those fucking Americans,” Elie said. He lit a Marlboro, flicked the match with middle finger and thumb. “We can crush the Israelis, but we can’t fight the Americans. All the planes are being flown by American pilots.” He took a long drag, banged the worn leather seat of the motorcycle. “Fuck all of them. All the damn American imperialists.”

“Are we losing?” I asked.

He turned, shoved me. I stepped backward, frantically trying to keep my balance. “We’ll never lose. We’ll win the war. God is on our side.” Elie turned back to the motorcycle. I ran out of the garage, up to the apartment, and hoped he wouldn’t notice I was gone.

Behind the first mountain peak stood a huge palace of majestic silver splendor. Three tall towers stabbed virginal white clouds. From above, the palace shone with unearthly brilliance, its silver reflecting the sun’s glory. A large, glittering pool was centered in the courtyard.

“Look at the beautiful women,” Elijah said when they landed in the courtyard. “They have such perfectly formed breasts.”

Seventy-two virgins, beauties with big round eyes and hair of various shades of blond, appeared perplexed at the sight of the colorful imps. As did twenty-eight strikingly white prepubescent boys. “Welcome, travelers,” said one of the girls.

“I think they were expecting only one warrior,” Fatima said. One large divan faced one hundred couches arranged in rows. The surrounding verdant garden soothed the senses. “This must be someone’s idea of paradise.”

“Come,” another houri said. The women and boys wore dresses of sheer silver silk that revealed more than if they were naked. “Join us. Let us ease the weariness of your journey. Allow us to rejuvenate you.” Ten of the seminude and smiling boys carried large jugs of wine. Each resident of the garden carried a cup filled with the burgundy liquid. “Come,” said a boy. “Relax. We can sing tales for you and entertain you.”

A houri stroked the top of Isaac’s head. “Are you truly pure?” he asked.

“We are as chaste as the sheltered eggs of ostriches.”

“How dull,” Isaac replied. “I am going to look around.”

The stunned houri burst into a magical melody, and her sisters joined her. One of the virgins took Fatima’s hand, but she shook it off. “I never lie with a woman whose breasts are more pronounced than mine.”

The song began to falter. “But we are chaste,” said one.

“We are bashful,” said another.

“Neither man nor jinn have touched us,” said another.

“You can have intercourse with us,” said another.

“We have wine,” said another.

“We have song,” said another.

“A truly overflowing cup,” said another.

“Do you not possess desire?” asked another, and Ishmael said, “No.”

“Nothing here of interest,” said a returning Isaac. “The song is in a minor key.”

And the company took to their carpets and flew.

The following day, they sat in our living room looking out of place, three men all the way from Syria. My mother had to serve them coffee, since the maid was packing.

“Are you sure this is necessary?” my mother asked. “It’s not as if anything is happening here. Lebanon will not get involved in the war.”

“The Israelis are coming, madame,” the maid’s father said. His hairy wrist extended three finger widths past the frayed sleeve of his shirt. He would not look directly at my mother. He seemed very tired, with drooping eyelids and a slack jaw. “We can hear them. The girl should be at home.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll go see that she’s packed.” Lina and I followed her out of the room. “Last time I’m hiring an Arab girl,” my mother said as she walked into the maid’s room.

The girl wore her best dress, chlorophyll-patterned, front-buttoned, hemmed an inch below her knees, showing white calves. A canary-yellow headscarf covered her hair, her worst feature. Standing there, gazing at her open suitcase, she looked much older than thirteen.

“Let me see how you’re doing,” my mother said. She unpacked the top layer, looked underneath. “Anything else going in this suitcase?”