I think I hear Mahliya’s feet on the stairs. It’s either that or the shuffling and crowding of the birds on the perches in her bedroom. Mahliya’s feet are so light they sound like wings. You’ll notice, in a few moments, how graceful and regal she is, an incredible thing at her age. Even I, who have attended her for more years than I care to remember, and have therefore had many occasions to be annoyed with her tricks, admit this. Her queenly poise never shatters. During the revolution, while others cowered indoors, she watched the crowds from her balcony, smoking a water-pipe.
Really, it’s too bad that a foreign researcher like yourself, the first to visit her, should be kept waiting so long! If you like, I can tell you a version of her story myself. Just keep in mind that Mahliya will tell it differently.
THE TALE OF MAHLIYA AND MAUHUB
or
THE PORTRAIT
My story begins with a portrait. The Egyptian princess Mahliya fell in love with a portrait of Mauhub that was painted on the wall of a church in Jerusalem, as was customary for princes of Mauhub’s line. The painting was fresh, the oil still gleaming; it was adorned with red gold and its eyes were a pair of topazes. Beside it glimmered a picture of a lioness suckling the infant Mauhub. A crystal candle filled with jasmine oil illuminated both paintings. Mahliya was enchanted. She embarked at once on a love affair conducted entirely under the sign of the portrait.
Portrait One: Mahliya as a Young Man
When Mahliya first met Mauhub, she was disguised as a young man. She introduced herself as Mukhadi‘, Mahliya’s vizier. We must suppose she did this in order to increase Mauhub’s interest in the real Mahliya, who was sending him gifts and letters at the same time. A frantic existence: by day, hunting trips and conversation with her beloved, seizing each chance to give him a brotherly punch in the arm; by night, tender yet formal letters, the preparation of splendid packages, sighs, poetry, fainting spells, and tears. You will have noticed the shudder in this story, the same trembling motion that shapes the Tale of the White-Footed Gazelle. Back and forth, back and forth. Incidentally, it’s a wonder Mauhub didn’t suspect Mahliya’s pretty young vizier. Mukhadi‘ means Impostor.
Portrait Two: Mahliya as Mirror
On their last hunting trip together, Mauhub caught Haifa’ in her gazelle form and Mahliya caught the White-Footed Gazelle. It was Haifa’, restored to human shape, who informed Mauhub that his hunting companion was also the mysterious princess who kept sending him gifts and letters. Mauhub rushed to Mahliya’s tent. They spent one glorious night together before their fathers recalled them to their respective kingdoms. The lovers continued to communicate through gifts, the most magnificent of which was certainly Mahliya’s mirror.
This mirror was enchanted so that when Mauhub looked into it, he saw Mahliya sitting beside him. “Nothing was missing,” the story tells us, “except the lady herself.” Such an odd phrase; if she was missing, surely nothing else mattered.
I see Mauhub contorting himself, one eye on the mirror, embracing a lady who only appears to be there.
When Mahliya heard of the beauty of Haifa’, who was staying with Mauhub, she got so furiously jealous she sent an eagle to snatch the mirror away.
Portrait Three: Mahliya as Anchorite
For the crime of arousing Mahliya’s suspicions, Mauhub had to be punished. Mahliya tortured his messengers, crushed his armies, beguiled him across the sea with a magic bird. At last, worn thin from travel and near-starvation, ugly with suffering, he stumbled to a hermitage on swollen feet. An anchorite peered down from the window, radiant in black wool. She made Mauhub swear to serve her, forced him to write the promise on his arm. All this so that when he reached the city, Queen Mahliya, in her true form at last, could yank up his sleeve and expose his inconstancy.
A love story. She forgave him.
An animal story, teeming with life. Mahliya’s army of buffaloes tramples Mauhub’s army of lions. Her army of wildcats destroys his army of elephants. She builds him a fortress in the land of the jinn, a place swarming with snakes and lizards. Above each door of this fortress, a brass falcon whistles in the wind. When the lovers have passed many years in delight, a sorceress transforms Mauhub into a crocodile. Mahliya recognizes him by his pearl earrings. She knows him, although he never recognized her: neither as Mukhadi‘ the vizier nor as the beautiful anchorite. He didn’t know. He didn’t know me. Of course it was me, what’s the matter with you? Why are people so stupid? You’re like Mauhub: rather than the real person in an unexpected shape, you prefer the magic mirror, which gives you the image you wish to see, although it leaves you grasping nothing but air.
THE WONDER CURSE
Now that we’re being honest, let me ask you something. (A photograph? All right. Here, I’ll blow some smoke. That’s an old moviestar trick. It’ll make my mouth a delectable little beak, smooth my wrinkles, and impart an air of nostalgia.) My question is this: Why are you people so hungry for marvels? I mean here you are, braving a twelve-hour journey from JFK, one of the world’s worst airports, plus a taxi ride through the afternoon traffic, only to sit in an elderly woman’s apartment and listen to a story. Really, I felt I had to trick you to make it worth your while! (Hand me my wig, will you? It’s under your chair. You’ll want another photograph now, I suppose!) Of course there’s a venerable tradition of marvel tales here, a tradition that harbors my own story. But lately it seems to me that there is such a thing as a wonder curse, like the literary version of a resource curse. As if, having once tasted the magic of the East, visitors become determined to extract it at any cost.
The link between marvels and money is quite clear. Fabulous tales, astronomical wealth: both are forms of fortune. Perhaps the story is a kind of treasure map. But there is more than one map of the world, my friend. Consider what this tale contains and what it does not:
This Tale Contains:
Yellow silk, red leather, white marble, red onyx, gilded copper, ambergris, topaz, emerald, amber, musk, ebony, gold, carnelian, camphor, Indian aloes, Bactrian camels, pearls, rubies, Chinese steel, silver, sandalwood, slaves.
This Tale Does Not Contain:
Airports, cigarettes, internet cafés, “Shipsy” potato chips in tiny packets, pineapple-flavored “Fairuz” soft drinks, soap operas based on the works of Naguib Mahfouz, traffic jams, copy shops, subway trains shrieking down long black tunnels, subway trains so crowded you can’t get in, schoolgirls fanning themselves with exercise books, schools, radios, the knife-grinder’s cry, wedding parties on barges, street murals of Umm Kulthum with her iconic glasses and handkerchief, the light through the windows of Mari Mina Church at precisely 5:45 pm, broken china, makeshift tents, outdoor barbers, street musicians, street protests, cell phones, pictures of bruises taken with cell phones, barricades, security police, rooms where the lights are never turned on, tear gas, pamphlets, bullets, peaceful activists shot down on the street, a poet shot down on the street, the poet who wrote of the streets, who trembled, bleeding, her body transformed into something else, but what? There is no gazelle.
THE LION’S TALE
There is, however, a lion. There’s always a lion. This is his story:
The lion weeping in the dust was reunited with his mate, Mauhub’s wetnurse. He promised to be faithful to her, as Mauhub had promised Mahliya. But just as Mauhub betrayed Mahliya by swearing to serve the lovely anchorite, even going so far as to write her name on his arm, the lion betrayed the lioness. Tempted by some delicious roasted game, he agreed that if the old woman cooking it would give him a taste, he would marry her daughter.
For the sin of inconstancy he was turned over to devils in human shape who docked his tail and cauterized the stump with fire. His nose and ears were cut off, his whiskers shaved, his body smeared with dung, his neck encircled by an iron ring. Fairy tales are inexorable, their ferocity divine. When the lion returned to his mate, he was so hideously deformed she wouldn’t have him. His howls of anguish curl about the story, creating a beautiful border, a
frame for Mauhub and Mahliya’s wedding portrait.
Yes, it was Mahliya—that is, it was I—who sent the old woman to tempt the lion. You may suppose I did so in order to spare my beloved, to transfer his crime onto another body through which I could then enjoy, without suffering myself, all the pleasures of vengeance. Think what you like. Somebody has to pay. There’s always an animal, a wonderfully absorbent material, capable of sopping up an ocean of cruelty. Go visit the Alexandria Zoo sometime—you’ll see lions panting in a concrete hole, surrounded by mounds of trash.
THE CROW QUEEN’S TALE
Things don’t always work out in life. Somebody has to pay. This is my song.
Oh, come. You must have known I was also the Crow Queen. Didn’t you read the story? Look how Mahliya holds back from Mauhub, hides from him, tricks him, fights him. She is the Queen of the Crows, who separates lovers.
In the end, it’s true, I stayed with him. He died quietly in my arms. He had grown so small by the end, so shriveled, I could carry him like a child. The day before he died I flew with him over the tombs of Giza. He was half-blinded by cataracts, but he loved the air.
Sometimes I still can’t believe I cast my lot with human beings. It’s humiliating. Of Mahliya the story says: “Iblis captured her heart.” It’s true, I was captured and I was defeated. I can save a man who has been turned into a crocodile, but not a man who is growing old.
“Are you near or far, living or dead?” sings Mahliya in the story. “Oh that I were a cross hung around his neck, that I might taste his scent.” She sings that she wants to cover his mouth with hers, trace the gaps between his teeth with her tongue. “Oh that I were a sacrifice, mingled with his spit.” A love story, an animal story. All these animals in love. I understand the White-Footed Gazelle’s desire for his beloved’s feet. There is a place where we are all animal, even you. We flicker in and out of it. We can be terribly hurt there, but also comforted.
The Queen of the Crows falls from her window at dusk. She catches the air. An old woman, languid. She glides down Ramses Street toward Masarra. She doubles back toward the river. Masr al-’Adima. Everything’s pink. In the gardens of Maadi they are hosing down the paths.
I am the spirit of ruined utopias and unrequited love. It’s not my fault. You didn’t recognize me—do you think I recognize myself? No! That face in the mirror: that’s not me. I see myself only in motion, smoking, gripping my windowsill in the instant before flight. I only recognize the wings that flap. God, I loved Mauhub so much. He was a descendant of Nebuchadnezzar, you know—the king who lost his mind and ate grass like an ox, whose hair grew long like an eagle’s feathers and his nails like an eagle’s claws.
It’s growing late. The Crow Queen always feels restless at this hour. She longs for flight. Tonight, however, she has a guest, a foreign researcher. The Crow Queen squawks like an impresario, preens before the camera. The photographs will show a bald old lady with snapping kohl-rimmed eyes.
I have cast my lot with human beings, even knowing what I know: that things don’t always work out, that somebody has to pay. I’ll rise or fall with them. Dear beasts! Instead of scribbling down notes, why don’t you let me fly you over the square tonight? You can ride the featherless ostrich if you prefer, though I warn you he’s very slow these days, his belly scarred by rubber bullets. We’ll weave through the ghostly lights around the Mugamma al-Tahrir and watch the city flicker like a broken bulb. In that stuttering glow the square is like a dirty yellow mirror, a magic mirror reflecting even the ones who are missing. Yes, even the lions. I call it my palace, for these beasts are my true subjects. Look at me: I can’t stop shaking.
Honey Bear
We’ve decided to take a trip, to see the ocean. I want Honey to see it while she’s still a child. That way, it’ll be magical. I tell her about it in the car: how big it is, and green, like a sky you can wade in.
“Even you?” she asks.
“Even me.”
I duck my head to her hair. She smells fresh, but not sweet at all, like parsley or tea. She’s wearing a little white dress. It’s almost too short. She pushes her bare toes against the seat in front of her, knuckling it like a cat.
“Can you not do that, Hon?” says Dave.
“Sorry, Dad.”
She says “Dad” now. She used to say “Da-Da.”
Dave grips the wheel. I can see the tension in his shoulders. Threads of gray wink softly in his dark curls. He still wears his hair long, covering his ears, and I think he’s secretly a little bit vain about it. A little bit proud of still having all his hair. I think there’s something in this, something valuable, something he could use to get back. You don’t cling to personal vanities if you’ve given up all hope of a normal life. At least, I don’t think you do.
“Shit,” he says.
“Sweetheart . . .”
He doesn’t apologize for swearing in front of Honey. The highway’s blocked by a clearance area, gloved hands waving us around. He turns the car so sharply the bags in the passenger seat beside him almost fall off the cooler. In the back seat, I lean into Honey Bear.
“It’s okay,” I tell Dave.
“No, Karen, it is not okay. The temp in the cooler is going to last until exactly four o’clock. At four o’clock, we need a fridge, which means we need a hotel. If we are five minutes late, it is not going to be okay.”
“It looks like a pretty short detour.”
“It is impossible for you to see how long it is.”
“I’m just thinking, it doesn’t look like they’ve got that much to clear.”
“Fine, you can think that. Think what you want. But don’t tell me the detour’s not long, or give me any other information you don’t actually have, okay?”
He’s driving faster. I rest my cheek on the top of Honey’s head. The clearance area rolls by outside the window. Cranes, loading trucks, figures in orange jumpsuits. Some of the slick had dried: they’re peeling it up in transparent sheets, like plate glass.
Honey presses a fingertip to the window. “Poo-poo,” she says softly.
I tell her about the time I spent a weekend at the beach. My best friend got so sunburned, her back blistered.
We play the clapping game, “A Sailor Went to Sea-Sea-Sea.” It’s our favorite.
Dave drives too fast, but we don’t get stopped, and we reach the hotel in time. I take my meds, and we put the extra in the hotel fridge. Dave’s shirt is dark with sweat, and I wish he’d relax, but he goes straight out to buy ice, and stores it in the freezer so we can fill the cooler tomorrow. Then he takes a shower and lies on the bed and watches the news. I sit on the floor with Honey, looking at books. I read to her every evening before bed; I’ve never missed a night. Right now, we’re reading The Meadow Fairies by Dorothy Elizabeth Clark.
This is something I’ve looked forward to my whole adult life: reading the books I loved as a child with a child of my own. Honey adores The Meadow Fairies. She snuggles up to me and traces the pretty winged children with her finger. Daffodil, poppy, pink. When I first brought the book home, and Dave saw us reading it, he asked what the point was, since Honey would never see those flowers. I laughed because I’d never seen them either. “It’s about fairies,” I told him, “not botany.” I don’t think I’ve ever seen a poppy in my life.
Smiling, though half-asleep,
The Poppy Fairy passes,
Scarlet, like the sunrise,
Among the meadow grasses.
Honey chants the words with me. She’s so smart, she learns so fast. She can pick up anything that rhymes in minutes. Her hair glints in the lamplight. There’s the mysterious, slightly abrasive smell of hotel sheets, a particular hotel darkness between the blinds.
“I love this place,” says Honey. “Can we stay here?”
“It’s an adventure,” I tell her. “Just wait till tomorrow.”
On the news, helicopters hover over the sea. It’s far away, the Pacific. There’s been a huge dump there, over thirty squ
are miles of slick. The effects on marine life are not yet known.
“Will it be fairyland?” Honey asks suddenly.
“What, sweetie?”
“Will it be fairyland, when I’m grown up?”
“Yes,” I tell her. My firmest tone.
“Will you be there?”
No hesitation. “Yes.”
The camera zooms in on the slick-white sea.
By the time I’ve given Honey Bear a drink and put her to bed, Dave’s eyes are closed. I turn off the TV and the lights and get into bed. Like Honey, I love the hotel. I love the hard, tight sheets and the unfamiliar shapes that emerge around me once I’ve gotten used to the dark. It’s been ages since I slept away from home. The last time was long before Honey. Dave and I visited some college friends in Oregon. They couldn’t believe we’d driven all that way. We posed in their driveway, leaning on the car and making the victory sign.
I want the Dave from that photo. That deep suntan, that wide grin.
Maybe he’ll come back to me here, away from home and our neighbors, the Simkos. He spends far too much time at their place.
For a moment, I think he’s back already.
Tender : Stories Page 6