Rabih Alameddine - The Hakawati

“No, we will not. We will move the people away from our home. We will build a shrine, a glorious building with columns the thickness of twenty men and soaring arches and at least two minarets that reach the sky. Shams will receive visitors in the temple, and the masses will pray for him while they wait. Will that not be lovely?”

The slave army rode out of the western gate with Baybars at its head, reached the enemy lines before the army of the sons of Ishmael. The ringing of swords, the war cries of heroes, rose on the battlefield. Fire-worshippers fell and were felled. Al-Awwar paid them no mind; he searched for the red specter of the fire king. The coward cowered behind his slaves. Al-Awwar lurched forward, pushed one steed out of his way, then another.

The sons of Ishmael crossed the battle’s threshold. Upon hearing their war cries, Halawoon the vile mounted a horse and bade his minions protect him. He ran away with his royal slaves and a squadron of his guards. Al-Awwar trotted after him, but the battle lay behind. He turned around, angry with himself for allowing the cowardly escape, and bulldozed his enemies, trampled them with the ferocity of a lion mauling an oryx. The slave warriors triumphed. Their enemies were slain or enslaved. The victorious fighters met in the field, amid the dead and defeated. Prince Baybars congratulated his troops on the victory. “A most valiant triumph it was,” said the leader of the sons of Ishmael. “I am called Ma rouf ben Jamr. I am the kingdom’s chief of forts and battlements. My people and I are at your service.”

“I thank you, my chief. Your arrival was most opportune. How did fate encourage you to meet our enemies on this auspicious occasion?”

“We were inspired by an eloquent letter from one of your subjects, a staunch dispatch which called us to arms to stand by loyal Prince Baybars, the defender of the faith.”

Othman cried, “Where does the chief of forts reside? Pray tell me it is not the Fort of Marqab.” And Ma rouf replied, “It is precisely there.”

“Where is my faithless wife?” Othman demanded.

“Faithless?” his wife asked, as she penetrated the circle of men. “You call the writer of that letter faithless? I play my part in God’s theater. Do not revile what you do not understand.”

“You asked my leave to visit lady friends in the fort, not the chief of forts.”

“But I did visit my lady friends. They happened to dwell in the harem.”

“You mock me,” Othman said. “I am bereft of honor, naught but a shell of a man.”

“Judge not your wife, or yourself, too harshly,” Ma rouf interrupted. “I long ago made the acquaintance of your lovely dove. The kingdom was in need, and your wife’s actions were heroic. A wife’s valor demeans not the honor of a husband.”

“I do not know how to live with such shame,” said Othman.

“Practice,” replied Layla.

The army began its journey back to Cairo. “Ride with us to Damascus,” Baybars told Ma rouf. “You will be my guest. Allow my mother’s eyes the glorious sight of our army. It will please her to find her dream come true.” And so the great army arrived in Damascus and was fêted. Sitt Latifah was elated. The army celebrated for three days, and separated. The sons of Ishmael returned to their homes, and the slave army left for Cairo, where they were fêted once more as the liberators of Aleppo and the great defenders of the kingdom. The king gifted Baybars with new robes.

And that was how Baybars became the commander of the king’s army.

The first public kiss occurred on their seventh birthday during the ceremony at the temple of the sun with the two minarets. The emir’s wife had planned the event for months, and worshippers had begun lining up, laden with presents, at the same time. The emir’s wife had hoped that Shams, the sun prophet, would behave in a more prophetlike manner on his birthday. The eight parrots had been noisier than normal, giving the emir’s wife a terrible migraine.

The light and dark twins sat shoulder to shoulder on the ostrich-feather cushion, and Shams touched the head of each worshipper genuflecting before him. When the worshipper offered a gift, Shams in turn offered it to Layl, who tore into the package. When Layl found a delightful miniature wood carving of a horse, he showed it to a thrilled Shams, who kissed him. Not a friendly kiss, not a brotherly kiss, but a full mouth-to-mouth, indecently lasting kiss.

And the emir’s wife’s face turned as red as the color of the chuckling parrots, Ishmael and Isaac, perched atop the throne.

“He kissed him,” the emir’s wife said. “In front of all, a shameful kiss. I would not have been surprised if they had undressed each other right then and there.”

“They are only seven, my dear,” the emir said. “Boys are expressive at that age. It is nothing. He is a prince and can do as he pleases. Most do worse things with their slaves.”

“Not kissing. I do not understand why the dark one has to be around him at all times. I cannot see my son alone. And what is with the damn parrots? They hover over him perpetually, as if our guards are not good enough. That Fatima woman has ruined my son. Why can I see him for only an hour a day? I demand to visit with him, but if it is not my allotted time, my own son refuses, throws a tantrum until I relent and allow him back to his rooms. I hired a tutor, but he told me he could teach Shams nothing. He told me my son was born educated.”

“Are you complaining that our son already knows how to read and write?”

“No, of course not. He has inherited our finest qualities. What I cannot stand is the company he keeps. That woman runs her own fiefdom within mine. I cannot bear it.”

“Then get rid of her.”

“I tried. I told her I would not be needing her services, and she laughed. I sent the guards to kick her out, and Shams threw a hysterical fit. He thinks she is his mother, not I. Oh, my husband, I am at a loss.”

“What can I do to ease your suffering? Would you like me to continue the tale of Baybars?”

I woke up confused, unsure where I was. It had been two months since I moved into the dorm room, but I still couldn’t envision it as my home. Each morning I woke up feeling anxious. I had expected to be ecstatic finally living on my own, independent, away from family, but that was not to be. I had a roommate the first week, which at the time I had considered to be bad luck — I had asked for a single. He was morose, rarely said a word or listened to any, and was so homesick that he packed his bags and dropped out of school the second week. I missed him.

I wished I could pack my bags as well, but there was nowhere for me to return to.

The phone rang, and I hesitated before picking it up. I had paid extra to have my own phone in the room, but still wasn’t used to receiving calls on it. It was from Rome. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in,” Fatima said. “I thought you might be in class.” She had moved there with her mother in 1975, when the war in Lebanon started. When we were in Beirut, not one day passed without our talking, but we were unable to keep the schedule since we separated. We tried to call each other at least once a week.