Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

Fatima, looking furious and threatening, viperlike, followed them into the room. The entourage must have sped past the visitors’ lounge or she would have stopped them.

“How are you doing, dear uncle?” the bey said.

My father didn’t reply. My sister did, loudly. “How did you all get in here? We can’t have this many visitors. There are rules.”

Everyone stopped moving. The very air seemed to perspire. A couple of men ahemmed. “It’s quite all right, Lina,” Hafez said. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. “The guard won’t report us. We’re here because we care about my uncle.” He was a few weeks older than I, but he had the face of a boy.

“Then care outside, in the visitors’ room. The guard shouldn’t have let you in. I won’t allow it. No more than two visitors at a time.”

All the men stared at her. Hafez’s hands moved from his sides, trembling, up and down. His eyes were those of prey about to be swallowed. “You’re overreacting, my cousin. We won’t overstay. I’m sure my uncle is happy to have the bey here.” He looked to my father for support.

“Only two visitors. Everybody follow me to the waiting room.” Lina, with Fatima’s help, directed the confused crowd to the door. Fatima actually pushed one of the men out. “Come out with me,” my sister said to my aunt. “Help me be a good hostess. You, too, Hafez. Unless you want to be one of the two. Just two people. Everybody else has to leave.”

“But I’m not a visitor,” Hafez mewled. “I’m family.”

Lina turned to me. “Stay.” She got closer, bent down to pick up her handbag, spoke softly so no one else would hear. “Make sure he doesn’t get excited or emotional. And if the bey asks for money again, come out and get me.”

My aunt was still sitting, not comprehending what was happening. Lina helped her up. “Why am I leaving?” my aunt asked.

“I need your wit,” Lina replied.

After setting up camp on the fourth night, Khayal began: “I am a poet. By the age of three, I was able to astonish all who heard my eloquent use of our illustrious language. I learned to read and write. I memorized the greats, the not-so-great, and the horrid. I have won more poetry wars in the Syrian countries than anyone has before me. I know panegyric poems, I know love poems. I can recite the entire Muallaqat , the qasidas. I am familiar with ghazal poems and khamriyas, the Bacchic songs.”

“Tonight the poet offers bravado,” Fatima said. “How delightful!”

“I am in awe, but I am not seduced yet,” Jawad said.

“I am a lover. Boys from Baghdad to Tunis remember me in their dreams. I am the one whose exploits are recalled fondly by every lad, no matter how many he has had after me. I am the one who has left behind a trail of conquests as long as the Nile itself.”

“Boasting and fireworks.” Fatima applauded. “Every poet needs to show off.”

“I do not find what he said particularly enticing,” Jawad said. “I appreciate the technique, but my soul is unmoved.”

• • •

And on the fifth night, Khayal said, “I must beg your forgiveness. I have been doing this all wrong. I implore you to forget what has come before and allow me a new beginning.”

“Go on, please,” said Jawad.

“No need for apologies,” added Fatima. “You may not have seduced us, but you have certainly entertained us on this long journey, and for that we are grateful. Proceed.”

And Khayal began:

“My love for you, Jawad ,

Leaves me no health or joy ,

You are the moon that has taken on

The shape of a boy.”

“Oh, how scrumptious,” Fatima cooed. “Back to Abu Nawas. We are going to have an evening of love poems. You will enjoy this, Jawad.”

“Your face reveals a down so light

A breeze might steal it, or a breath;

Soft as a quince’s bloom that might

Find in a finger’s touch its death .

Five kisses and your face is cleared

While mine has grown a longer beard.”

“Ah,” sighed Fatima, “that must be Latin.”

“I am pleased,” Jawad said, “but if my suitor finds me beautiful, does that necessarily mean that I should find him so in return? This form of poetry is fun, delicious, but my soul remains untouched. It only increases my longing for the ineffable.”

“Your name means ‘horse.’ My name means ‘horseman.’ We were meant to ride together. Can you not see?”

“I can see that I still do not feel seduced. My heart flutters not.”

“Your daughter is a strong woman,” the bey said. His mustache twitched when he spoke, and paralleled his thick brows. He dragged the chair closer to my father’s bed. My father refused to look at him, kept his eyes fastened on Hafez, who hovered, unable to control his nervous energy, and seemed torn between opposing overseers. My father followed his every movement disapprovingly. My father’s father had been employed by successive beys, treated as one of their many servants. I didn’t think my father ever forgave his for that, and it was going to take quite a bit of time for him to forgive Hafez for becoming a toady by choice. “What are you doing here?” my father asked him. “Why didn’t you come when you heard I was hospitalized?”

“It’s not his fault, Uncle,” the bey said, his voice unctuous. “I wanted to come see you, and I wanted him to accompany me. I was a little busy, as you can imagine. Don’t blame your nephew. Now, please, tell me about your health. Are you feeling better?”

“So you couldn’t come without your master,” my father told Hafez.

“I called Lina every day,” Hafez said quietly, head bent as if he were speaking to the floor. His tie folded upon itself, bashful.

“But how is your health?” the bey asked.

Lina stuck her head into the room. “Your mother needs you, Hafez,” she said curtly, with a disapproving glance at the bey. My father shot her a pleading look. “We’ll be right back,” she said to him, and to Hafez, “Now.”

I knew I should stay with my father, but I could not bear it. I followed them out.

Aunt Samia was agitated and gasping for air. Her respiratory problems belied her true concern. “Is my brother offending the bey?”

“Ah, the illustrious bey, father of all,” I said.

Hafez took his mother’s hand and glared at me. “You’re so American,” he said. “Why is it that you’re quiet all the time but when you do speak all you do is irritate people?”

“Kiss my ass, Hafez,” Lina hissed. “If anyone shouldn’t mention the word ‘irritating,’ it’s you, you dumb shit.”

“Why do we always resort to strong language?” Aunt Samia asked no one in particular. “It’s all my father’s fault. He had such a tongue, that one. Shit, shit — that’s all he talked about.”

Hafez ignored her. “I didn’t mean anything, just that he’s always so critical. Look, Osama, you know I love you. You know that. But you’re forever disapproving. You make it seem that you feel superior to all of us.”

I took a deep breath, tried to sound measured and contrite. “From now on, I will watch what comes out of my mouth.”

Lina grabbed me by the arm and pulled me aside. “Walk.” We walked past the guard and down the hall. “Speak,” she said.

“I’m fine. What gets me is the ‘You’ve become American’ part. That’s what everyone says instead of ‘You’re fucked up.’ They might as well say they hate me.”

My sister burst out laughing. “Sweetheart, you’re such a treasure. They don’t hate you.” She began to walk me back to the room, a mother hen who instinctively knew she’d been away from her chicks for too long. “They hate me . You’re not that important.” She chuckled. “You’ve lived in America for twenty-five years, what are you supposed to become? An orangutan? They’re just saying you’re different.”