The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  “Oh,” she sighed. “I didn’t see you.” She kept walking, laughed coquettishly. “I want something to drink.” She entered the store on the ground level of the adjacent building, then stuck her head back out. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I need to find a place,” he said. I nodded, unsure what to say. “She’s upset because I can’t find a place. She no longer wants to come with me to any of my friends’ places. She thinks it’s beneath her.” He paused, eyed me to make sure I was following. “You’re my friend, right? I’ve always taken care of you, so you’re my friend.” I nodded, still silent. “I have to use your room. Your mom takes bridge classes Mondays and Thursdays. We can go up there then.”

  “Why do you want to visit me when she’s not there?” I asked.

  “Don’t be silly. I want to use your room. You’re not going to be there.”

  “You want to be alone with Mariella?”

  “Yes. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?”

  “What about Lina?” I didn’t think she’d be happy if she knew he wanted to be with Mariella. My sister liked him.

  “Get rid of her.”

  Mariella came over and greeted me by bumping me with her hip. “How’s my little boyfriend doing?” She held her Pepsi bottle with both hands, and her lips played with the straw.

  “We’re going to use his room,” Elie said.

  She didn’t reply, didn’t even look at him. She concentrated on my eyes. I blushed. “I don’t understand why you play the oud for my sister but not for me,” she said. “Don’t you like me?” I blushed again.

  I waited in the building’s lobby on Thursday afternoon. Elie had said he’d come down as soon as he was done being alone with Mariella. I waited for a long time. Finally, he came out of the elevator, walked by me, smiled, and grabbed his crotch.

  My bed was a mess. The duvet was on the floor, and so was one of the two pillows. The other was crumpled. I tried to make the bed presentable. I smoothed the damp sheets, fluffed the pillows, and covered everything with the duvet. I sat on the bed to make it look less strange.

  Istez Camil asked me to repeat the maqâm. My fingers hurt. I was dripping sweat like hanging laundry. I was happy, though. Istez Camil wouldn’t admit it openly, but I knew he was impressed. I could tell because he sat up straight in his chair and his eyes turned into slim slits of brown, unmoving, unwavering, staring at the well-instructed fingers of my left hand.

  “Again.” He clapped his hands for a beat. One, clap, clap, one, clap, clap. I finished, and he wanted me to start over again. Sweat dropped into my eyes. I asked him to wait a minute. I wiped my brow, took a sip of water, and scratched my itchy head. “Let me see,” he said. He stood up and held my head. He ran his callused fingers through my clammy hair. He told me to take a break and left the room. My mother rushed in a few seconds later. Anxiety paralyzed my tongue. She held my head down and searched my hair. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “Don’t move.” She dashed out of the room. I heard her on the phone but couldn’t discern what she said.

  The whole family had to wash their hair with anti-lice shampoo. My mother called everyone in the building and demanded that they all use the medicine. The household linen was boiled and disinfected, and so was my entire wardrobe.

  My sister glared every time she walked by me. I worried that she would figure out that Elie had been in my room. All my cousins avoided me. I ended up sitting under the bush in the gated garden, huddled close to Fatima. At one point, my cousins Hafez and Anwar ran toward me and started mussing up each other’s hair and screaming, “Yuck, yuck, yuck!”

  At dinner that night, in front of the television news, my mother wouldn’t stop talking about the lice. I remained silent. Uncle Jihad nudged me with his elbow. “See.” He ran his palm over his smooth scalp. “Sometimes it’s good to be bald.”

  It seemed every time I saw my grandfather now he was noticeably older and weaker.

  He combed my hair and I wept. “I knew you’d need me.” His voice was gentle and soft, elderly and frail. After every stroke of his fine comb, he would dip it into a bowl of scalding, soapy water. “I knew they wouldn’t understand. Your parents are too modern.” He ran his left hand over my eyes, onto my forehead, all the way back to my hair and neck. “These days no one understands feelings, and when I leave this world—soon, probably—who will understand yours?” I cried, couldn’t stop my body from shaking. He combed. “You’re my boy, my blood.”

  Seven

  In Cairo, Baybars and his followers were housed by his aunt. “You are the son of my sister,” she told him. “You are as dear to me as you are to her. This house is your family home.” She arranged for his belongings to be moved into private chambers. She introduced him to her husband, Najem, one of the king’s viziers. That night, she laid out a wonderful feast. “Tell me about my sister,” she said. “I would love to hear her stories.” And Baybars told her how Sitt Latifah had saved his life and adopted him, how she taught him archery. His aunt’s face flushed with affection.

  The next morning, Baybars wanted to breathe the fresh Cairene air. He and his warriors rode into the city. Al-Awwar was not in a good mood and made sure that his rider knew it. What was supposed to be a delightful exercise turned into a battle of wills between horse and rider. “None of our horses are happy,” the warriors said. “The vizier’s stable hands tend the vizier’s horses and not ours. We hired some help, but al-Awwar may require a stableman all to himself.”

  Baybars saw that his stallion was not well groomed, his mane was not combed. Baybars apologized to his horse. Al-Awwar arched his neck and snorted.

  That night, Baybars asked his uncle Najem if he knew where he could find a capable and worthy groom. The vizier said, “The stablemen’s shop is in the Rumaillah quarter, and you are sure to find a good man there. However, under no circumstance should you hire a young man by the name of Othman. The ruffian is about your age, but he has the criminal experience of an old man. He is a thief and a scofflaw who can only be controlled with a branding iron. The king has issued warrants for his arrest, but he continues to evade the law and find naïve folk to defraud.”

  At the stablemen’s shop, Baybars met an old man with a beard as white as swan feathers. Baybars told the chief of the stablemen he was looking for a groom, someone who was clever and strong, honest and guileless. The chief presented a groom, but Baybars did not like him, or the second, the third, or the fourth.

  An ostentatiously dressed young man with the face of a rodent entered the shop. Upon seeing him, everyone cleared out except Baybars and the chief, who ran toward the young man and prostrated himself and kissed the offered hand. Othman asked, “Did you get any money in today?” and the chief replied that he had not. “And what is he looking for?”

  “He is looking for a groom, but he did not like the ones I showed him,” the chief said. “He must want a special one.”

  “Do you like me?” Othman asked. And Baybars said yes.

  Othman thought the young man an easy mark: he would work for him that day and rob him that night. Baybars thought, “Either that young man will obey me, or I will kill him and rid the world of a parasite.” Baybars paid the chief stableman five dinars. The chief was about to put the coins in his pocket, but Othman glared at him, and he handed the money over.

  Baybars and his groom arrived at Najem’s stable. The instant the other stable hands laid eyes upon Othman, they scattered in every direction. Baybars said, “This is al-Awwar. I can see that he likes you, which is an excellent indication of your good nature. Take care of him, wash him, and feed him.”

  Alone in the stable, Othman thanked God for His glorious gift. Equestrian equipment, more valuable than anything he had stolen before, hung from hooks on the wall; beautiful, intricately stitched leather saddles lay in order on a wooden bar. What would he take first? He filled his coat pockets with golden bridles and silver bits. He found a large sack, in which he placed two saddles and five silver reins. He mounted his hor
se and rode out of the stable.

  “Where are you going?” asked Baybars, leaning against the side of the stable.

  “I am going to wash the equipment,” Othman replied. “It is the groom’s job. I do not yet trust the servants here. I shall hire people I have used before.”

  “But I cannot have you spending your own money on my equipment,” Baybars said. “I will give you ten dinars, and you can pay your cleaners with that.”

  Greed forced Othman off his horse, and Baybars hit his new groom with the hilt of his sword. He dragged the rascal back into the barn by the hair. “You will learn your lesson, you lying ingrate.” Baybars tied Othman up and hung him from a pole. He noticed that the thief’s belt was a whip. “You wear this to inflict pain,” Baybars said. “Now, then, you will be pained by my righteous anger.” And Baybars whipped Othman until the groom fainted.

  Othman awoke to find a multitude of eyes upon him. “Help me down, brothers,” he said, “for I suffer.” The other grooms did not move. “You,” Othman called to the youngest groom. “Come help me down. Let me rest for the night, and in the morning you can hang me up again.” The groom untied Othman and helped him down. Othman hit the boy, tied him up, and hung him in his place. All the other grooms hid. “Fools.” He climbed back on his horse and escaped.

  In the morning, Baybars found the young groom hanging instead of Othman. He untied the boy and saddled al-Awwar. He called the grooms and asked if any knew where Othman lived. One said, “He lives in the Rumaillah quarter, in the Sharbeel neighborhood, next to the long well. I do not know the house. He has threatened to kill anyone who says where it is.”

  Baybars rode out, and the African warriors emerged behind him. When he reached the neighborhood, Baybars asked a passerby if he knew Othman’s house, and the man ran in the other direction. A second man shouted, “Beware the evil eye,” and he, too, scurried away. A third refused to answer, and a fourth wet his pants and fainted. Baybars walked into the neighborhood bakery. He yelled at the baker, “My master Othman claims you cheated him out of a dozen loaves of bread, and unless you clear this up, he will burn your store down.”

  “That is not possible,” the baker replied. “It was only yesterday that I sent a dozen loaves with the boy here.”

  “You had better explain it to my master, then, because he is furious.”

  The baker told the boy to go to Othman’s house and find out what happened. The boy said to Baybars, “You can ride ahead. I will walk there. It is a shame to make your horse trot at my pace.” But Baybars said, “I have a better idea. Since you like my horse so much, ride him, and we will follow you.” The baker boy could not believe his good fortune. Al-Awwar allowed him to ride, and the boy led the men to Othman’s house. He was about to knock on Othman’s door when Baybars stopped him. The boy realized he had been tricked into revealing the house, and his mind flew in panic. “I will not tell,” Baybars whispered. “Go now.” The boy raced back to the shop. Othman’s mother opened the door and asked Baybars what he wanted. He said he wanted Othman. “And who is looking for him?” she asked, and Baybars replied, “His master. He works for me. I intend to make an honest man of him, to lead him onto a path of righteousness.”

  Othman’s mother glared at Baybars and said, “It is about time. I have been waiting so long. My son is in one of the caves of the imam. He is with his men, planning their revenge upon your family, I presume. Find him, and inspire him to virtue.”

  “Where do I find these caves?”

  “They are near the tomb of the imam, of course. Ask someone. I cannot do everything for you.”

  No one would tell Baybars and his companions where the caves of the imam were. From a vendor, he bought ten watermelons and asked that they be delivered to the tomb of the imam. The vendor called an old porter with a donkey. The porter put the watermelons on the donkey’s back and began to march toward the tomb. “Where exactly is your house, sire?” the porter asked.

  “I need to go to the caves. I shall pay you double if you lead me there.”

  The porter trembled and shook. The donkey, his companion of many years, stopped and moved closer to his master to comfort him. “I cannot take you there,” the porter said. “My soul would be forfeit. Only thugs and murderers roam the caves.”

  “If you do not take me to the caves,” Baybars said, “I will claim your life myself.”

  The old man took a couple of steps and then whispered into his donkey’s ear, “My penis is bigger than yours, friend.” And the donkey laughed so hard that his knees buckled under him. His stomach reached the ground, and his braying reached the sky. “Look, master,” the porter exclaimed. “My poor donkey is in pain. He cannot go any farther. Please, I must unload him and let him rest here.” He pointed east and added, “The caves are there. You will not miss them. Let my miserable donkey rest.”

  Baybars and his companions moved on, leaving the porter and his donkey behind. “He has gone, has he not?” asked Baybars, and one of his warriors, looking back, replied, “Yes, he is riding his donkey toward the city as swiftly as he can.”

  There were numerous caves in the hill, and Baybars did not want to search every one of them. One of his warriors unbridled a threatening cry. “Othman, groom of Baybars the bold,” the warrior yelled, “your master demands your presence.”

  Othman appeared at the mouth of a cave with eighty men backing him up. “Why did you follow me here?” he asked.

  “You are my groom,” Baybars said, “and I am your master. You will either serve me or die.”

  “Begone,” Othman shouted. “Leave, or I will have my men tear you into tiny pieces and cook you in unclean water over a slow-burning fire.” The warriors trotted slowly toward the brigands, and, just as slowly, the brigands began to disperse. “Stay here and fight,” Othman commanded. “We outnumber them twenty to one. They only look frightening.” And Othman unsheathed his sword and yelled, “Follow me,” and ran unfollowed toward his nemesis. “May I?” asked one of the warriors. He jumped off his horse, did not take out his sword. He waited for the running Othman and unleashed a slap like fire upon the groom’s face, knocking him to the ground. The warrior tied Othman’s hands and threw him onto the back of the stallion.

  When they reached the gates of Cairo, Othman began to whimper. “Please,” he begged, “do not take me into the city with my hands tied and my head uncovered. It is not becoming.”

  “You are afraid of being mocked,” Baybars said, “and I am afraid you will run away and break your promise of service.”

  Othman vowed to serve his master. The African warrior untied him and offered him a headdress. They reached Cairo, and Othman said, “Please, wait. I pray at the Lady Zainab’s Shrine for good luck each time I enter the city.” And Baybars allowed him.

  Othman entered the shrine, knelt on the ground, and prayed, “Dear Lady, mother of us all. I place myself in your protection. Save me from this man.” Othman felt Baybars’s hand on his shoulder. “Smite him, mother of faith. Clobber him now.”

  Othman heard Baybars kneel beside him. “You followed me,” Othman whined.

  “I will follow you wherever you go,” Baybars said. “My soul will leave me before I leave you.”

  “Smite him,” Othman screamed. “Crush him, my Lady. This insane man will not leave me alone. Help your servant.”

  And before them appeared the Lady in all her magnificent glory. She shimmered in blue, shone in silver. And her bewitching voice said, “I am happy with you, Prince Baybars. This groom is one of mine, and I will watch over him forever.” The Lady paused, laughed. “The groom has been serving God for years. Let him now serve and obey you.” She placed her hand upon Othman’s head. “I will make sure he follows the virtuous path and fulfills his destiny.”

  And a weeping Othman said, “On my honor, I now repent.” He reached for his master’s hand. “I will be your servant.” And a weeping Baybars returned, “And I yours.”

  The vizier Najem was livid when he saw Othman on
his property. He drew his sword. “Stay your hand, Uncle,” Baybars said, “while I explain. This man has repented. He swore obedience to God. I have taught him proper ablutions and prayers.”

  The vizier studied Othman and witnessed faith in his eyes. He congratulated Othman on achieving wisdom and Baybars on finding an honest groom. He then said, “The king hunts in Giza every spring, and all the honorable men follow him. The season is upon us. Our house will begin to make preparations. You are welcome to stay in our tent or bring one of your own.”

  Baybars wanted to go, and he wanted his own tent. “I want a big one,” he told Othman. “I want a pavilion worthy of a king. Go and buy me one.” Othman said that a tent that size had to be ordered in advance and there was no time. A disappointed Baybars said, “Well, then, procure me the best you can find. I do not wish to be mocked.”

  Othman decided that the best place to find a pavilion worthy of a king was in a king’s court, so that was where he went. He found the servant in charge of the king’s tents, introduced himself, and asked how many tents the king owned.

  “Only the chamberlain would know something like that,” the servant said. “There must be hundreds. We have only used ten since I have been here.”

  “Well,” Othman said, “if they have been stored for so long, how do you know they are still usable? How do you keep moths away? Are they fresh, or do they smell? Our glorious king should not have flawed tents. I will examine every one of your tents and make sure they are worthy. It will be my duty and honor to serve my king.”

  “But there are so many of them,” the servant said.

  “True,” Othman replied. “I might be doing this for the rest of my inoffensive life, but I feel it is what I was born to do. Let me start with the biggest pavilion you have.”