The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  It was at an early age that he learned to entertain himself. Sticks became his companions, and stones his toys. His inner world redecorated the outer one. His imaginary friends proved more loyal than any real ones, if only because, unlike the latter, they existed. He ate, slept, played, learned some, and avoided the Muslim boys and their Turkish insults. By the age of five, he was expected to do minor chores around the house. When he was six, the chores were no longer minor. Two years later, the doctor’s wife decided the boy should learn a trade. “Who knows how long we’ll be here to take care of him?” she said. “Better that he figures out a way to earn enough to fill his bottomless stomach.” My grandfather was given to a pigeoneer to be trained.

  That was how my grandfather got swept up in the great pigeon wars of Urfa.

  Long before the one God, long before Abraham, long before the city was Muslim, before it was Ottoman or Turkish, pigeons used to carry the souls of Urfa’s dead up to the heavens. Pigeons have had a special place in Urfa’s heart ever since.

  “It’s not true what the Chileans say, that pigeons are rats with wings,” my grandfather said. “What do they know in Chile? You know it was a pigeon that announced the presence of land to Noah on his ark, the European rock dove, the same pigeon you see in all the cities of the world. Chile? Pfflt, let them go sour with their undrinkable pisco.”

  Most homes in Urfa had ornately covered holes for the pigeons, but some had pigeon houses on their outside walls that were a diminutive replica of the original house, a clone birthed out of its forehead. In some neighborhoods, the birds had tiny palaces, with mini–crescent moons atop miniature minarets; the architectural designs of the pigeon palaces far surpassed those of the surrounding human houses.

  “I hate pigeons,” my grandfather added, “but it’s not because they’re rats.”

  My grandfather’s mentor was an Armenian, Hagop Sarkisyan, who in turn worked for a Turk by the name of Mehmet Effendioglu. Though not a wealthy man, the latter was a pigeon fancier who owned over three hundred pigeons. Hagop trained the pigeons and had four boys to assist. Being the youngest, my grandfather had the worst job, cleaning the shit.

  “Shit everywhere,” he said. “Shit in the coops, on the terrace, on the roof. Do you have any idea what it’s like to deal with so much shit? Of course you don’t. You have a maid to pick up after you. I cleaned pigeon shit every minute of the day, and when I went home I had to wash it off me. My hair is as wild as it is today because I had to wash it so much when I was a boy.”

  Hagop, the pigeoneer, was the main flocker. His first assistant was in charge of feeding the pigeons, giving them the best seeds and the strongest vitamins. The pigeons had to be good-looking and sturdy. During the off-season, this assistant steered one or two of the pigeon flocks, though not the primary one, and never, ever, while the war raged. Mehmet, the master, sat on the roof and watched.

  “It was only during the battles that I didn’t have to clean,” my grandfather said. “I was allowed to watch the birds fly. I have to admit, they were beautiful up in the skies, circling and circling around an imaginary drain, then shooting out, diving like an Israeli jet. In those moments, I forgave the pigeons their shit.”

  Ah, the wars, the wars. The pigeon wars of Urfa had been going on for over a thousand years. The war started every November and ended every April, which coincided, not by coincidence, with the worst weather for pigeons to roam, an aerial endurance test. In the afternoon, at four-thirty sharp, the warmongers of Urfa ascended to their roofs, where the cages were, and unleashed their flocks into the heavens. The fluttering cacophony of thousands upon thousands of wings and the jingling sounds of pigeon jewelry were heard in every corner of the city. Upon each roof, a pigeoneer steered his birds; his unblinking gaze never left his soaring flock. A long cane with a black ribbon at its end was his instrument. With each wave, he directed his birds’ flight. And when he swung a large arc, his flock dived into the middle of another, disturbing the symmetry, confusing his adversary’s pigeons.

  “Hagop was good, but not outstanding. There was another pigeoneer, an Armenian by the name of Eshkhan, who was the prince of them all. He could direct his pigeons by simply whistling. Tweet, and his flock would circle; tweet, and it would come home. Eshkhan won the war more often than not, and it wasn’t because he had the best pigeons. He could have sold his cocks for a fortune and bought better pigeons to train, but he never did. You see, everyone thinks it’s about the money, but it isn’t. It’s about bragging rights. It’s about manhood.”

  The war was won by him who had lost the fewest pigeons to either capture or death. He who ensured his pigeons didn’t get lost or exhausted was a pigeoneer worth his salt, and not many were. Every day as the war raged, pigeons soared until fatigue seeped into their wings; oxygen rebelled and escaped their blood. Out of the sky, birds dropped, falling like bombs released by fighter squadrons, littering the earth with deformed corpses. Dazed, bewildered, and confused, some birds followed unfamiliar flocks and landed on alien rooftops, to be captured and paraded that evening at the local café, the spoils of war, the dishonor of their pigeoneers, the dilution of manliness.

  “There are wars in the Lebanese cities,” my grandfather said, “but they’re not anything like those up north. It’s done for fun here. It might get nasty in Beirut, but it’s not a real war. If one of your cocks ends up with someone else’s flock, you can get it back. The gentlemen’s rule in Beirut is first time free. You see, in a warless zone, most of the cocks are mated, and a pigeon always wants to return home to its mate, so it’s hard to keep a captured cock. You’d have to slay it. In a war zone, each team has about two hundred cocks and five hens. The flying teams consisted only of males, primarily Dewlaps. It’s about the war, not pigeon fancying. The pigeoneers in Beirut have teams of all kinds of pigeons: Dewlaps, Tumblers, Apricots, Jews, Fava Flowers, you name it. The fanciers who were attached to their pigeons would never dare fly them during the war.”

  The pigeon keepers gathered at the Çardak Café, as they had for hundreds of years. They kept score of the previous afternoon’s battles by counting the captured pigeons. Cages adorned all the walls of the café, and fanciers could admire or buy the caught birds. The original owner of a pigeon had first dibs, but only if the new owner wanted to sell.

  “But you couldn’t buy the peşenk,” my grandfather said. “The peşenk was the leader of the team of pigeons. You can’t win the war without a great one. All the other cocks follow him in flight. If a peşenk lands on another’s roof and is captured, the original owner retires from the war. Checkmate. He has to get rid of his team and start a new one. The peşenk can never be bought. He’s the chief of the clan, the mightiest of all.”

  My grandfather took a sip of maté, craned his neck, and spoke to the ceiling. “They say that talent skips a generation, which means that my father or my mother would have been a great pigeoneer, because, unlike my youngest, your uncle Jihad, I certainly wasn’t. I have no idea where he got his talent from, and, thank God, he had the intelligence to stop when he did. He wouldn’t listen to me, of course. Nobody does. But one day he finally understood that being a pigeoneer is a lowly vocation. Now, listen here. Just because I said I wasn’t a good pigeoneer doesn’t mean I didn’t have other talents. Fate’s schedule is not always naked and clear.

  “One evening, I was bemoaning my luck. I was hungry and tired. I had been cleaning shit for about six weeks and seeing no way out of it. The damned doctor’s wife said I whined a lot. She said there weren’t that many options for a wayward boy like me. But she was mistaken, you see, only I didn’t know it then. Remember, I was eight. So here I was, sweeping the main coop after a battle, and the stupid Mehmet calls. He hands me a fluffy, shiny black pigeon in a cage to take to the Çardak Café and give it to the owner.

  “I went to the Çardak Café. Impressive, let me tell you, big and wide and busy. But then it was all pigeons. Pigeons, pigeons everywhere. Cages on the walls, on the counter, on the tables,
under the tables. I began to get nervous. I thought maybe, if I lingered, the owner would ask me to clean the shit. I delivered the pigeon and ran out as fast as I could. I turned the corner, and there it was. I don’t know what made me stop. I was running hard, and maybe I needed to catch my breath. Maybe God sent me a sign. Maybe it was written.

  “What befuddled my young eyes was another café, the Masal, old but not historic, well lit but decrepit, smoky and dank. There were no doors, and the metal shutters were rolled up. There were tables outside, but the silent patrons had their backs turned to the street. Why be with people if you’re going to be quiet? Why sit outside if you’re not going to look at the world? And then I saw what enthralled everyone’s attention. Inside, on a chair upon a small dais, sat the hakawati.

  “He sat on his throne like a sovereign before his subjects. He wore a fez and Western clothing. A waxed black mustache two hands wide dominated his face. I couldn’t see his mouth move. He held a book in his lap but hardly looked at it. I moved closer and heard his silky voice. Magic.

  “He was a Turk, and, mind you, my Turkish wasn’t very good at the time, but I heard him. I listened with my ears, my body, and my soul. He regaled us with the story of Antar, the great black warrior poet. He was in the middle of the tale, but my soles spread roots into the tiles of the pavement. I was enchanted.

  “How can I describe the first time I encountered my destiny? A god’s fire burned in my breast, my heart aglow. In comparison, my life before that moment had moved at a sad and sluggish pace. Ah, Osama, I wish I could make you feel what it is like when you finally align yourself with God’s desires for you. I had received the call.”

  By the light of a small bed lamp, I could see the curvy silhouette of Uncle Jihad’s head and its replica, a larger shadow projected on the wall. He tucked me in a bit too tightly. As my father’s younger brother, my number-one babysitter, and my favorite storyteller, he had the job of getting me to sleep, since my parents were having a dîner assis. My mother had told him to put me to bed and come right back, but he seemed distracted, lost in his thoughts. Though he said he wanted to make sure I slept by telling me a great bedtime tale, his heart didn’t seem to be in it.

  “Once, there lived a happy young prince,” he began. He stared at the headboard.

  “You said you’d tell me how I came to be.” I rolled to one side and then the other to unsecure the sheets. “You promised.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.” He picked up the drink he had set on the nightstand, his fingers smearing the perfect outline of the dew that had gathered on the tall glass.

  “I’m not a prince.”

  “I’m not starting the story with you.” He took a sip of scotch, and his eyes sparkled for the first time. “Why would you think you’re the prince?”

  “You told me. You said you’d tell the story of how I became me.”

  “My dear Osama.” He gulped more of his drink and grinned. “You should know better by now. The story of who you are is never about you. I’m starting from the beginning.”

  “If you do that, you’ll barely be able to make dessert.”

  He laughed. “Let me worry about that. So where was I before I was ingloriously interrupted? There were two young princes.”

  “It was one happy young prince,” I said.

  “Well, now they’re brothers, and I’m not sure how happy they were. Let’s say they were content and loved each other. One day, the princes went hunting in the forest, but the younger brother didn’t have the heart to kill any animals. They ended up shooting arrows into tree trunks. The younger prince asked his brother, ‘Can you hit that flag over there?’ and the older prince cocked his arrow and shot it and bored a hole in the flag. But it wasn’t a flag. A very old and ugly woman admonished them, ‘Why did you shoot my underwear? I’ll teach you to respect other people’s laundry.’ She clapped her hands twice, and suddenly the princes found themselves in a forest they knew not. They walked in every direction but couldn’t figure out how to get back home. Night fell. The following morning, they woke up and were still lost. ‘We have to find food or we’ll starve to death,’ said the older prince. They found a pigeon in a tree. The older prince aimed his weapon, but the pigeon said, ‘I implore you, noble prince. Don’t shoot me. I have two sons at home, and they’ll perish if I don’t bring back food for them.’

  “The older prince said, ‘But we’ll die, too, if we don’t eat you.’ And the younger prince said, ‘We can feed on berries and root vegetables. Look, there are parsnips here, and rhubarb and radish.’ The older prince felt pity and unstrung his bow. ‘I’ll repay your deed of mercy, my prince,’ said the pigeon, and flew away. ‘How can a pigeon repay a debt?’ asked the older prince. ‘We could have roasted him and served him with a berry-and-parsnip sauce.’ ”

  “That sounds like an awful sauce,” I said.

  “Any sauce is good when you’re hungry. The boys walked and walked and reached rushes that grew near a lake, and there they saw a wild duck. The older prince loved duck meat, confit with pearl potatoes, as did the younger. The older prince cocked his arrow, but the duck said, ‘I implore you, noble prince. Don’t shoot me. I have two sons at home, and they’ll perish if I don’t bring back food for them.’ The older prince dropped his weapon, and the duck said, ‘I’ll repay your deed of mercy, my prince.’ Farther along, the princes saw a stork standing on one leg and cleaning itself with its long beak. The older prince took careful aim, but the stork said, ‘I implore you, noble prince. Don’t shoot me. I have two sons at home,’ and the prince unstrung his bow. ‘We’ll sleep hungry tonight,’ he said, but the younger said he’d make a fabulous vegetable ratatouille, and he did, and it was sumptuous.

  “The following morning, the boys walked and walked until they reached a castle where an old king was standing at the steps. ‘You seem to be looking for something,’ the king said.

  “The older prince replied, ‘We’re looking for home, but we can’t seem to find it.’

  “The king said, ‘What luck! I’ve lost my companions. Work for me, and I’ll feed you and clothe you until you find your home.’ The boys became the old king’s companions and told him stories and entertained him. But not everything was wonderful: the king had a nasty vizier.”

  “There’s always a nasty vizier,” I interrupted.

  “Someone has to be nasty. This vizier, who was envious of the princes, told the king, ‘It’s my duty to inform Your Majesty that these boys are up to no good. They mock the court. Why, just the other day they boasted that if they were your stewards not a single grain of rice would be lost from your storehouses. They must be shown their place. Mix a sack of rice with one of lentils, and have the boys separate the two in an hour’s time. Show them where arrogance leads. Boasting must never be left unanswered.’

  “The king was a good man, but he was nothing if not gullible. He gave the order to have the bags mixed and told the boys, ‘When I come out of my diwan in an hour, I expect the lentils to be separated from the rice. If the job is done, you’ll be my stewards, and if it’s not, I’ll cut off your heads.’ The princes tried in vain to convince him that they hadn’t been boastful. The king’s servants led the boys to a room where the rice and lentils were strewn all over the floor.

  “The boys fretted: this was a week’s task for a thousand men. ‘We are doomed,’ said the older prince. They sat amid the rice and lentils and hugged each other. A pigeon appeared at the window and asked, ‘Why are you sad, my princes?’ and the older prince explained what the king had ordered them to do. ‘Be not concerned,’ said the good pigeon. ‘I am the king of pigeons, whose life you spared when you were hungry. I will repay my debt as promised.’ The king of pigeons flew away, and returned accompanied by a million pigeons, who set about separating the rice from the lentils. Uncountable wings flapped, the resulting air moving piles around the room, and thousands of beaks pecked at rice and lentils. Work, work, work—the pigeons made two large piles in minutes. The king couldn’
t believe his eyes. He asked his servants to look through the heaps, but not one grain of rice could be found among the lentils. He praised the boys’ industriousness and talent and made them his stewards.

  “The vizier was apoplectic. The next morning, he told the king, ‘The boastful boys have been at it again, saying that if they were the keepers of your treasures not one ring would ever be lost or stolen. Put these vain boys to the proof, Your Majesty. Throw your daughter’s ring into the river, and order them to find it.’ The foolish king believed the vizier once more and ordered the ring thrown into the river.”

  “Why do people always believe liars?” I asked.

  “We all need to believe. It’s human nature. So the king told the princes, ‘I understand that you boys are fond of boasting. I’ve thrown the princess’s ring into the river. I’ll be in my diwan for an hour, and when I come out, I expect you to have found the ring. If the task is done, you’ll be the keepers of my treasures, and if it’s not, I’ll cut off your heads.’ The princes sought the river. The younger prince walked up and down the bank, and the older prince waded in, but neither could find anything. A duck floated down the river and asked, ‘Why are you sad, my princes?’ and the older prince explained what the king had ordered them to do. ‘Be not concerned,’ said the good duck. “I am the king of ducks, whose life you spared. I’ll repay my debt.’ The duck flew away and returned with a million ducks. They swam up and down the river, diving underwater in teams, duck heads bobbing and weaving, until the ring was found. When the king returned from the diwan and saw the ring, he made the boys his keepers of the treasures.

  “Seeing that his efforts had been foiled once more, the vizier hatched his master plan. He knew the king had tried to learn sorcery and necromancy and had failed and failed, so the vizier said, ‘The boys have not ceased their boastful ways. They have said that an exceptional child shall be born in the palace this night, the brightest child in the universe, the most beautiful, the most delightful, but not only that. These vain boys were not satisfied with a child of such exceptional qualities. They said they asked the jinn to make the boy even more special and the jinn complied. They said the child will be the best oud player in the world, and boasted that if Your Majesty hears the child play the instrument, Your Majesty will weep. Such bluster will never do.’ Since the king had never been able to communicate with the jinn, he boiled with rage upon hearing this news. ‘If this miracle doesn’t happen tonight,’ he threatened the princes, ‘I’ll cut off both your heads, and I’ll bury your bodies without prayers in unclean soil, and you’ll meet those demons you’re communing with.’