Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

I thanked him and got up to leave. “Remember,” he said, “put everything we talked about in the essay. And don’t mention the music-and-math theory, okay?”

As I closed the door, I heard my father say quietly, “He’s just a little immature sometimes. Not always.”

Before she led me to the office, I asked Josephine where the men’s room was. I went in, peed, masturbated, and sneaked a couple of puffs from a cigarette. The essay I wrote elaborated on my theory of combining math and music, and I included a timeline graph as well.

I had just stepped out of the shower when Uncle Jihad opened the bathroom door on his side. I covered myself with the towel. I was starting to hate the idea of a bathroom with doors connecting two rooms. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he said as I wrapped the towel around my waist. He tilted his bottle of cologne and dabbed a few drops on his scalp.

“I see you broke the perfume bottles as well,” I said. He laughed.

Uncle Jihad used to tell a story about a parrot, the pet of an oil-and-perfume merchant. For years, the parrot entertained customers with tales and anecdotes. One night, a cat chased a mouse into the shop, which frightened the parrot. She flew from shelf to shelf, breaking bottles in her wake. When the merchant returned, he hit the parrot with a blow that knocked off her head feathers. The bald parrot was upset for days, until, one morning, a man with no hair entered the shop, and the bird yelled in joy, “Did you break the perfume bottles as well?”

Uncle Jihad washed his hands, building layers of lather. “I think the dean really wants you.” He talked to my image in the mirror.

“Yes. I think I’m in.” I dried myself with a second towel. “My father wants me to take Melanie dancing.”

“He told me. I think it’s a good idea. He thinks you spend too much time studying and reading. Melanie will have fun, and it’ll be good for you.”

“He should take her dancing.”

“He’s not the dancing type.”

He stared at my chest, probably wondering why I hadn’t filled out yet. I went into my room and put on a UCLA T-shirt Melanie had bought for me.

“Where did they meet?” I asked.

“At the baccarat table.”

“Did he stop to think she’s almost as young as Lina?”

“Hey,” he said, shaking an admonishing finger, “I don’t want you to say anything like that. You can’t even think that.” He stood before me in my room, his face an angry red. He looked exhausted, for some reason.

Chain-smoking, Lina had finished three cigarettes on the balcony. She gestured for me to get rid of Hafez, running her forefinger across her throat. She may have left the room, but her specter hadn’t. “I hear you went to the old neighborhood,” Hafez said. “I go there quite a bit these days so I don’t forget. I can take you into your apartment if you want.”

“That might be interesting.”

“Why don’t you play the oud for him?”

I hesitated, surprised. “Hafez, I haven’t played the oud in about thirty years.”

It was his turn to look stunned. “Why? You were so good. What happened?”

“I switched to guitar a long time ago, and then I stopped playing that. I got bored.”

“I don’t understand.” His voice rose to more than just a whisper. He seemed more animated. “Everyone was so envious of you. The family used to talk about your playing. How can you get bored with music? I wouldn’t have.” He smiled at me, and his eyes regained a bit of luster. “I guess I should go now, look in on my mother. Call me if you want to go to the old neighborhood.” I walked with him to the door, four steps. “I would have kept on playing if I had your talent,” he said. “Yes, I would.”

That night, my sister and I were in my father’s room. The lights of the ward had dimmed. She cuddled herself in the recliner, and I sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. She poked me with her foot, once, twice. Go home. Go home. I held her foot with both hands, pressed my thumbs along the heel.

“Hafez isn’t the only one who was disappointed you stopped playing,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven you. No one has. When Salwa was a child, I used to regale her with stories of how amazing you were. She never got to hear you. She tried to take up the oud, but she wasn’t any good. I should blame you for that as well.”

“Blame me.” I pinched her foot. “I only played when I was a child.”

“And I have to admit that I wasn’t as fond of your guitar.”

“You’re the one who made me learn to play.”

She reached for the water bottle on the side table. “I can tell you a strange story about Hafez. If you want, that is.”

“Of course I do. Gossip stokes the fire of my soul.”

“Hah. Well, where do I start? For the last six or seven years, Hafez has been disappearing a few afternoons every week. You know that, right? He swore to his wife that he wasn’t cheating, but he wouldn’t tell her or anyone what he was doing. I knew Hafez wasn’t cheating — it’s Anwar who’s the asshole philanderer. It was just that no one knew what Hafez had been up to. Anyway, a few years ago, Fatima decided she wanted to go to the souk in Tripoli, do the tourist thing, mix with the common people. She dragged me along, and there we were, in the gold market, when we saw him. He was carrying a tourist guide to Lebanon, in English, holding it front side out, so everyone could see. He tried to look bewildered and engrossed, gazing around as if he were seeing everything for the first time. Just as I was about to call him, a woman walked by him and said in English, ‘Welcome to Lebanon.’ His face lit up as if he had swallowed the sun, the moon, and all the stars. Then he saw us and turned as red as a ripe summer tomato. He swore us to secrecy and explained. It turned out his favorite pastime was to stroll around various places pretending to be a tourist. He did it mostly in Beirut, but he hit all the other major hot spots of Lebanon, too. He walked all over the place with a guidebook, desperately trying to be seen as someone other.”

Shavings of light were strewn on the avocado carpet. I had slept late. I heard nothing downstairs. I drew open the curtains on a glorious day, the light clear and merciless. I put on shorts and sunglasses, went out on the balcony for my morning smoke. I lay back on the chair, soaking up sunlight, and hummed “California Dreaming.”

“All the leaves are brown.” A cold gust of panic. I jumped out of my seat and hid my cigarette behind my back. Melanie stood at the balcony door in shorts, her sunglasses hooked into her bikini bra; she carried a tray with a coffeepot and two cups. “Sorry about startling you, but I thought you might want a cup of coffee up here. They went shopping.” She had a touch of roguishness to her smile. “You can take the cigarette out of your butt.” I had to laugh. She sat down, poured us coffee. Her bikini top covered nothing but her nipples. “We don’t have to go dancing if you don’t want. We can go to a movie and tell them we went dancing.”

“It’s just that I hate disco,” I said. “I never go to dance clubs.”

“That’s settled, then.” She lit a cigarette. “What do you like to do? What did you do in Beirut on Friday nights?”

“Planted explosives, shot at pedestrians from balconies, that sort of thing.” She almost choked on her coffee, gave her weird snort. “Mostly stayed home or hung out with a friend,” I said. “Played music. Got stoned.”

“You want to get high tonight?” She gauged me with her eyes.