Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

My mother came home carrying a German-shepherd puppy in her arms. The puppy was so cute even my father smiled when he saw her. “What’s this?” he said, and my mother replied that it was time. She gave the puppy to me. I looked at Lina to see if she was jealous, but she wasn’t even looking at the dog. She scrutinized my mother. My mother removed her high heels in the anteroom, something I had never seen her do before.

“You’re right,” my father said. “It’s time the boy learned some responsibility.”

“I’m going to take a bath,” my mother said. “I need it.” She walked by, and I saw a bruise on her instep.

Uncle Jihad came in a few moments later. He went into the living room to finish the game with my father. I carried the puppy in so he could see her. Uncle Jihad asked what I was going to call her. I hadn’t thought of that. The puppy slobbered all over my face as I carried her to my mother’s room. She was still in the bath. I stood outside her bathroom door, felt the change in the moistness of the air. I asked what was the name of my dog.

“Not now, darling.” Her voice always sounded hollow when she was in her bathroom. “I’m resting.”

“The dog needs a name,” I insisted.

“Call her Tulip. That’s the name of a famous Alsatian.”

We didn’t find out about the accident until the following day. My father read about it in the morning paper at work. I heard about it at school. Fatima told me what little she knew; her details were sketchy. My mother had been in a car accident, a four-vehicle pileup. A number of people had died, but my mother was unhurt. I knew that because I had seen her. Other boys in our class began to add details. A big accident. A truck coming from Damascus had careered off at the steep curves of Araya as it descended toward Beirut. It ran over and crushed several cars. My mother’s Jaguar was in the way. She saved herself by flying off a cliff. “Like a magic carpet,” a boy said. “The Jaguar took off into the skies.”

“I meant to tell you,” my mother said when my father came home, “but I was too tired.” When she lay on the burgundy divan, it seemed that the living room’s furniture — the divan, the small Léger hanging above it, the smaller Moghul paintings on the side wall, the glass coffee and side tables — was handcrafted with her in mind.

“I don’t understand why you didn’t,” my father said. “You could have died, and you didn’t think it was important to tell me? Why? Why would you do such a thing?”

My mother held a cigarette and stared at the smoke floating toward the ceiling. “I was going to tell you. I was tired, shocked. I needed a bath. And time passed.”

“But you had time to stop and get a puppy?”

“Yes,” she said. “Isn’t she sweet?”

Everyone in the family used to say that Jaguar should donate their cars to my mother. She was their best advertisement. Elie said she drove like a warrior. Aunt Samia said she drove like a man. Uncle Halim said she drove like a taxi driver. Uncle Wajih said she drove like an Italian. And Uncle Jihad said she drove with élan. It was the way she handled the car that attracted attention. Her left hand hardly touched the steering wheel. She leaned to the left, her side against the door, her elbow jutting out the window, her head propped against her hand. She drove as if the world and its roads belonged to her.

My father sighed. He stopped his pacing. “Why don’t you go to your rooms, children? I need to talk to your mother.”

Both my mother and my sister said, “No.”

“I’m not a child,” Lina added.

“I don’t want to do this now,” my mother said. “I’m all right. The car is totaled, but I’m fine. It happened quickly. I reacted. It turned out I did the right thing.”

“How fast were you driving?” my father asked.

“What difference does it make? The truck lost control. It rolled into our lane. If I’d slowed down, I’d have been crushed like the other cars.”

“You take too many risks when you drive,” my father said. “I’ve told you that a hundred times. You never listen to me.”

My mother inhaled deeply and kept staring at the ceiling.

“This is the third accident,” he said softly. “And you don’t seem to take it seriously.” He looked at her, shook his head, and walked out of the living room, mumbling the word “husband.”

Aunt Samia poured herself another glass of arak. We sat around her dining table. Most of the family was on the terrace. “Why don’t you just hire a driver?” she asked my father. “That would solve all your problems.”

I had eaten too much. My stomach rumbled and rebelled. I didn’t want to leave the table, though, because I wanted my aunt to stop talking about my mother, who had stayed home.

“Stop it, Samia,” Uncle Jihad said. “There’s no way she’ll use a driver.”

“She could’ve been killed,” she said.

“If someone else had been driving,” Uncle Jihad said, “everyone in the car would have been killed. It’s a miracle she survived, but having a driver wouldn’t have saved anybody in this case.” His small towel worked overtime. He sweated profusely and kept wiping his bald head.

“You always take her side,” my aunt said. “You refuse to see, for some reason.”

“He’s not taking anyone’s side,” my father interrupted. He looked weary and drawn. To me he said, “Why don’t you go outside and play with the boys?”

I shrugged.

“Go,” Aunt Samia said. “You can’t stay here. Your father wants you outside.” I shrugged. “See?” she said to my father. “You’re not strict with your family. They’re undisciplined. How will you be able to control them if you let things like this slide?”

“Samia.” Uncle Jihad sighed. “Don’t start. This was a wonderful meal. Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m just thinking of his family.”

“You should think of his family a little less,” Lina said, materializing as if by sorcery. She leaned against the doorjamb. She wore a light dress and short heels and had her hair pulled back, which made her look adult and sophisticated. “After all,” she added, “thinking was never your strong suit.”

My eyes felt hot in their sockets. Aunt Samia wrung the glass of arak with both hands.

My father stood up, livid. I thought he was about to slap Lina, but he controlled himself. “How dare you?” he yelled. “You never speak to your elders in that tone.” His fingers coiled and uncoiled. His hand muscles twitched. “She’s your aunt. How could you? I know we’ve taught you better manners than this.”

Lina hesitated. I could almost see her eyes parsing out all the possible outcomes. In an unemotional voice betraying no inflection, she said, “You’re right, Father. I don’t know what came over me.” She smiled. “I’m really sorry,” she said to my aunt. “I don’t know why I’d say such a thing. Please forgive me.” She turned around and began to walk away.

“You will be punished for this,” my father called to her disappearing back.

They were both lying.

My mother did punish Lina. She had to. “You’re making me do this,” she repeated. “I’ll not allow bad manners in my house.” My father tried to intervene on Lina’s behalf, but my mother would have none of it. My sister was grounded for a week. She was allowed out only to go to school, and would have to have all her meals in her room. I sneaked in the grated-fresh-coconut-and-chocolate balls she liked so much. Then I saw my father sneaking her treats. Uncle Jihad brought her main dishes, all kinds of stews and rice. I thought they were doing it behind my mother’s back, but on the third day, I saw her give Lina a whole plate of cheese desserts.

At the end, Lina was grounded for only four days, because my mother thought she had gained too much weight staying in her room. She spent that time listening to a kind of music I knew little about, hard sounds, harsh chords. This was not the Beatles. This wasn’t the Monkees or the Partridge Family. I peeked through her keyhole to see how one listened to such jarring noise: erratic jumping, jerky hand movements, and head movements bouncy enough to ensure maximum wild hair. I didn’t understand the thump-thump of the bass.