Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

“Well said,” Fatima called out. “One can see the influence of al-Mutanabbi.”

“Who is that?” Jawad asked.

“I will tell you in a little while, my dear. Let us allow our seducer to continue. I am sure he is not done yet.”

“I stood upon a hill watching the enemy ships drop anchor along our shores. They were soaked twice, first by milk-streaked clouds that rained upon them announcing my arrival, and then it rained skulls. I rode my steed swiftly, saw our enemy approaching as if on legless steeds. I could not distinguish their swords, for their clothes and turbans were also made of steel. I attacked even though it meant certain death, as if hell’s heart pumped all about me. Heroes and warriors fell before me, whereas I remained standing, sword wet and unsheathed. Victorious, I stood with my brethren, faces shining with ecstasy, exchanging smiles of joy. The foreigners had no real experience of the color red. I painted it for them. Blessed are war, glory, and eminence. Blessed is my audience, for allowing me the honor of introducing myself.”

“And blessed are you for sharing,” Fatima said.

“I feel honored,” said Jawad, “and grateful to be in your presence. But tell me, who is this al-Mutanabbi?”

Fatima guzzled her cup of wine. She kept her head back for a moment. She held out the cup, and Jawad poured. And Fatima declaimed:

I am he whose letters were seen by the blind ,

And whose words were heard by the deaf .

She paused, smiled at Jawad, and had another sip. “Al-Mutanabbi was the greatest poet of the Arabic language, but more important, he is my favorite. He was blessed with the reckless audacity of imagination, full of astonishing metaphors. He suffered much in his life, because he was born with the two grand infirmities: he was poor and he was Arab. He came into the world early in the tenth century, in Kufa, south of Baghdad. He began to recite poetry of an exquisite beauty that had never been heard before nor has since. He claimed that God Himself inspired his poetry. Hence, the name: al-Mutanabbi, the one who claims to be a prophet.”

“Conceit,” said Jawad.

“Quite,” added Fatima. “As an eighteen-year-old, he was imprisoned and tortured for his heresy. When he was released a few years later, he was once again penniless, powerless, and homeless — the poet in eternal exile. He had nothing to sell but his words, and he was willing. But who would be willing to buy? Most of the city-states were ruled no longer by Arabs, but by Muslims from all over whose native tongue was not Arabic. These princes, whom he wanted to praise, did not fully understand his words. So al-Mutanabbi, full of pride and arrogance, attached himself to the only Arab ruler in the area, Sayf al-Dawlah, the young prince of Aleppo, who was making a name for himself by protecting the northern borders from the evil Byzantine Empire.

“And al-Mutanabbi fought at the young prince’s side and praised him, immortalized him in verse so eloquent it has been known to make roses wilt in shame for not matching its beauty.

“But then al-Mutanabbi discovered he had a problem. The young prince, like most Arab rulers throughout the ages, fancied himself a poet as well. He began to compose puerile poems praising himself and belittling the great poet. And al-Mutanabbi could not answer back.”

“That is what being a servant is all about,” said Jawad.

“The situation did not improve,” Fatima went on. “Al-Mutanabbi left Aleppo for Cairo, attached himself to a different ruler, a king by the name of Kafur. The king promised the poet a province if he would sing the king’s praises. But Kafur never kept his promise. He was warned by his vizier, a smart man who recognized the poet’s genius, that if the king went back on his word he would live eternally as a mocked man, a historical joke. And the king was known to have said, ‘You want me to assign a province to this power-hungry poet? This man who claims prophecy after Muhammad, will he not claim the kingdom after Kafur?’

“And al-Mutanabbi left Kafur’s court and mocked him, immortalized him in verse so expressive it has been known to make snakes recoil in horror for not matching its venom.

“He wandered to Shiraz, in Persia. He then attached himself to Adud al-Dawlah, but this ruler, too, was unable to satisfy the poet’s needs. So the poet tried to return to his Iraq, but was waylaid and killed by brigands along the way. He was the man who in his prime said:

The stallions, and the night, and the desert know me ,

And the sword, and the spear, and the paper, and the pen .

But had to say before his death:

I am nothing but an arrow, shot in the air ,

Coming down again, unheld by its target .

And he was killed just north of Baghdad, where all poets go to die.”

My aunt looked as if she were awaiting a barium enema. Her frail frame didn’t settle completely in the chair, and her eyes wouldn’t settle on anything. Because of her age and ill health, her fretfulness exhibited itself in erratic slow motion. She opened her handbag, and her bony fingers took out a cigarette.

“What’s the matter with you, Samia?” my father asked. “You know you can’t smoke in here. One would think you’ve never been to a hospital before.”

“I’m just worried about you.” She spoke slowly, gulping for breath. Her speech pattern had changed drastically since her last petite stroke. “I’m afraid that you’re hiding things from me. Just tell me, tell me the worst.” She forced the cigarette back, crushing it into its box. “My heart is weak, but it can deal with any bad news if it’s about my only remaining brother.” Lina kept trying to catch my eye. “Don’t hide things from me.” Lina lifted her eyebrows, grinned conspiratorially. “It’s as if I’m not part of this family anymore just because I’m old.” Lina mouthed the exact words as my aunt said them: “No one tells me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” my father said. “I’m doing just fine.”

I stood up so my aunt wouldn’t see me giggle. “I should go to the waiting room. I think the hospital has a two-visitor rule in this ward. I’m surprised the guard hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Stay here.” My sister put her hand up, a border guard stopping an immigrant attempting to cross. “Your aunt’s here to visit you as much as your father. Sit back down and tell your aunt all about what you’ve been doing since she last saw you.” My aunt looked bewildered, if not bewitched. “Your aunt would love to hear about your life, I’m sure. Tell her what it’s like to work as a computer programmer in the great city of Los Angeles.”

When I was a young boy, my aunt used to say that she would be the first of the five siblings to die. She had made that pronouncement to her children, other family members, and random strangers. “Just do as I say,” she would tell me when I was seven. “I’ll be the first to die, and you’ll regret having aggravated me.” She was the oldest of the five, born in 1920, and even as a young woman, she wore infirmity like an itchy, gaudy shawl around her shoulders. She stopped saying she would be the first thirty years ago, when Uncle Wajih died.

“How many tranquilizers have you taken?” Lina asked my aunt.

“Have you gained weight?” Aunt Samia replied.

My aunt’s eyes almost shot out of their sockets. Her lips and the skin around them seemed to have suddenly been invaded by a thousand lines. The noise in the hallway was that of an approaching army, a police team rushing in for a bust. The bey entered the room, followed by a flock of suits. You would think that in 2003, in post-feudal Beirut, one would have little use for clan chiefs and titled nobles, but traditions are not easily erased in our world. The bey no longer collected taxes, tributes, or royalties, but favors and loyalties were still his to claim. Though this latest incarnation of the bey was thirty, he looked like a boy of seventeen trying on his father’s favorite suit. All smiles, he attempted to appear official and officious. He greeted us all perfunctorily, though his eyes never left my father, whereas it was my cousin Hafez, one of the bey’s entourage, who held my father’s attention.