Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

My grandfather actually told me those stories of his until the day he died. He was a storyteller after all, in spirit and in profession. My father tried at different times to get him to stop filling my head with fanciful narratives, but he never succeeded.

“What are you staring at?” Lina asked me. “Turn around and look at us.”

“Look,” I said. “Look here. March has come in.”

The sky was a perfectly cut aquamarine. As in most Mediterranean cities, Beirut’s late winter can be either stormy and brumal or magnificently clear, smelling of sun-dried laundry.

“It’s still February, stupid boy,” Lina said. “It’s just a break. The storms will come back.”

“A glorious break.”

She came up behind me. “You’re right. It is glorious.” Her arms encircled me, and I felt her weight upon my shoulders.

“I want to see,” my father whined from his bed. “Help me up. I want to see.” We moved to the bed, helped him sit up, turn around, and stand. He leaned on my sister, the tallest of us three. I dragged the intravenous stand with its deflated balloons behind him as he shuffled the eight steps to the balcony. The cheeks of his rear end jiggled and seemed to droop a little lower with each step. On the balcony, the three of us lined up to admire the false spring and the sun that bathed the sprawling mass of rooftops.

My father catnapped on the hospital bed. Outside, Lina inhaled each puff of her cigarette as if it were her last. She smoked so rapidly that the tip of the cigarette burned into a miniature red coal. She leaned back against the balcony railing, stared up at the sky. I stared down. On the third floor of the hospital, where illnesses were less grave, two women whispered to each other on their balcony like two pigeons cooing. Across the street, in the distance, stood a house that showed severe signs of aging. From where I stood, its shutters looked rotted.

“He’s dying,” she said, her voice noncommittal.

A thick growth of weeds covered the house’s garden. Tall fronds of wild thistle, a few of the tips flowering yellow. “We’re all dying,” I said. “It’s just a matter of when.”

“Don’t start with your American clichés, please. I can’t deal with that now.” She shook her head, her black hair covering her face for an instant. “He’s dying. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Just then, a car trumpeted its horn, one long uninterrupted burst. My sister jumped to check that the sliding door was completely shut. “What makes you think this time is different?” I asked. “He’s been dying for so long. He always pulls through.”

“He won’t always pull through. It gets more difficult each time.”

“I know that. But why this time?”

She took a deep breath as she faced me. I could see her chest expand and deflate. My sister was much taller than I. It was with her height that she took after our mother, but Lina was even taller, bigger. Boucher instructed his pupil Fragonard to paint women as if they had no bones. Fragonard could have painted Lina. She was the antithesis of straight lines or angles. Graceful, like my mother.

I, on the other hand, inherited my teeth from my mother, not her height. We both had two crooked upper front teeth. She never fixed hers, because they accentuated her beauty, the flaw making her appear more human, accessible, more Helen than Aphrodite. She didn’t fix mine, thinking it would also work for me. It didn’t. Alas, unlike her, I had quite a few other flaws.

“Tin Can gives him three months at most,” Lina said.

“Tin Can said the same thing four years ago.”

“You have to be with him to notice the difference. He’s not going to make it, and he knows it.” She sighed and flicked her cigarette onto the street below. “I don’t know what to do.”

The old house across the street must not have been abandoned. A pile of plastic chairs stood outside the door. A stray electric wire, long and lax, stole power from the main city lines. A pigeon settled on the wire, which drooped and seemed about to snap. The pigeon did not last more than a second or two before flying off.

“Shall we begin?” Fatima asked on the second night. She sipped her cup. Sated, with full stomachs, the three travelers sat around the small fire.

“We shall,” Khayal replied. “Would my beloved care for a cup of wine to help smooth the rough edges of this evening?”

Fatima raised her eyebrows; her eyes asked if Jawad was interested. He nodded. “One cup only for tonight,” she said. “Until you get used to it.”

And Khayal lifted his cup. “May my beloved get used to much.” He gulped, smacked his lips, paused for dramatic effect. In a sonorous voice, he began to recite:

A woman once berated me

Because of the love I feel

For a boy who huffs and struts

Like an untamed young bull

But why should I sail the sea

When I can love grandly on land?

Why hunt for fish, when I can find

Gazelles, free, for every hand .

Let me be; do not blame me

For choosing a road

In life that you have rejected ,

Which I will follow till the day I die .

Know you not that the Holy Book

Speaks the definitive truth:

Before your daughters

Your sons shall be preferred?

“Magnificent,” Fatima cried, applauding enthusiastically. “One can always rely on the brilliance of Abu Nawas for entertainment. Who would have thought that a desert dweller would be able to quote the city poet? I am impressed. Are you not, my dear Jawad?”

“Does the Holy Book really say that a man should choose his sons before his daughters?”

“In matters of inheritance, my boy, but the poet took some liberties. More, more, our master reciter. Tell us more.”

I no longer wish to sail the sea

I prefer to roam the plains

And seek the food that God

Sends to all living creatures .

“A delight,” Fatima said. “How lovely and bawdy that Baghdad poet was. I would have loved an opportunity to drink wine and match wits with Abu Nawas. Was that not marvelous, Jawad?”

“It surely was,” Jawad replied. “I, too, am duly impressed. My suitor is learned and sensitive, but his poetry speaks nothing other than his preference for a certain kind of love. That he likes boys does not make him more desirable to me. It simply means he has good taste. His poetry is entertaining but does not move this listener. I do not feel seduced this night either, but I do feel sleepy.”

“So true. So wise. We have been dutifully entertained this night, but not seduced. Let us hope for a better temptation tomorrow. And a good night to all.”

On the third night, Khayal poured wine into Jawad’s cup. He stood before his audience. “I am a vessel filled with contrition. Forgive me, I beg you. Allow me to begin anew.”

“There is no need for forgiveness,” Jawad said.

“Please,” Fatima said, “favor us with your seduction. We sit here, parched earth awaiting its promised thunderstorm. Quench our thirst, we beg you. Begin.”

“I stand humble before you,” Khayal began, “a once-proud man debased by love.” His shoulders slumped. “I may look like nothing much at this moment, but looks can be deceiving.” His voice grew. “The cover does not fit the content of the book.

“I am first a warrior. I have fought in God’s army. From the coasts off Mount Lebanon to the hills of the Holy Land, heads of infidels have rolled off my sword by the hundreds. I have slain Papists in the west, Byzantines in the north, Mongols in the east. My spear knew no mercy in defending our lands. I am feared in every corner of the world. Europeans use my name to frighten their children. Courage is my companion; honor rides before me, loyalty at my side. My sword is swift, my spear accurate. I am the answer to every caliph’s prayers.”