“Ah, Tu Khan,” I said.
“Precisely,” Uncle Jihad went on. “And we kill the penultimate cook. Now, the seventh cook was Beiruti. He was no fool and was in no mood to be killed. He made crème brûlée, using the milk of cows that had drunk their water from the Litani River. Tu Khan had his first bite and wept again. Creamy, smooth, impeccable. But before his second bite, his stomach rumbled. He licked the spoon and his stomach yiked. He had a bowel movement before the third bite, and it wouldn’t relent, the never-ending stool. Plop, plop, diarrhea, dysentery, Tu Khan didn’t have time to move; he soiled his pants and the glorious paisley-infected textile he’d been sitting on. ‘I’m quite all right,’ Tu Khan said, but he really wasn’t. He lost five kilos within the first hour, three more in the second, and another three in the third. Rumble, rumble, his stomach wouldn’t stop self-evacuating. He refused to sleep sitting up and had his slaves place him on the edge of his bed with his ankles in stirrups, so his stool could fire out unencumbered. Boom, boom, all night; his diarrhea was so explosive he was hitting the wall across the room, painting an abstract-expressionist mural. Nothing great, mind you, mediocre painting informed by Lee Krasner. By morning, Tu Khan was dead, wasted away into a stick man.
“The bereaved Genghis refused to have his brother buried in exile, for his soul would remain on earth, eternally searching for home. Genghis would bury him among their ancestors. Grief, sadness, sorrow. A Mongol funeral march began. But grief, sadness, and sorrow weren’t enough to commemorate a man as great as Tu Khan.” And my uncle’s voice grew deeper, more serious. “No. It wasn’t enough. Along the way, the funeral procession killed every living thing it encountered: entire villages, cities; men, women, children, generations of babies not yet born; animals, birds, trees, shrubs, flowers, forests. Everything was smashed along the path, from Beirut to Ulan Bator, a viscous trail of death and devastation to mark the funereal journey.”
He gulped the rest of his scotch. I waited for him to say something.
“I guess we have it better now,” I said. He smiled, nodded. I laughed, nervously. “So when did he marry Rita Hayworth?”
“Stop that.” My uncle laughed. “That’s another story.”
“Now you’re telling me that Genghis Khan destroyed Beirut as well? I thought it was Hulagu who conquered the Middle East. Should I trust you?”
“Never trust the teller,” he said. “Trust the tale.”
The Uzbeks began to tell the king Baybars’s story:
Baybars’s grandfather had three sons, Talak, Lamak, and Jamak. He was old and wanted to test his sons and assess who was fit to succeed him as king. He sat Talak on the throne and told him to rule for one day. That evening, the king asked his eldest how he ruled, and the prince replied, “I was a fierce leopard, and my subjects were sheep.” The second day was Lamak’s turn, and he told his father, “I was a ferocious hawk, and the people were pigeons.” At the end of the third day, the youngest said, “I decided fairly between parties. I helped the persecuted against the persecutors. I tried my best to rule such that when it came time for me to meet God I would not feel a twinge of guilt or remorse.” Much to the consternation of his older sons, the king declared Jamak his heir.
After the king died, Shah Jamak assumed the throne and made his brothers viziers and declared that they would rule the land together. But his brothers plotted to kill him, because the twins, evil and envy, had taken root in their hearts. In the middle of the night, the brothers tied Jamak up while he slept and put him in a large bag. They gave the bag to a warrior slave and commanded him to carry it to the desert and stab it twenty-one times, until it was drenched in red.
The warrior followed orders. In the desert he took out his sword. The voice in the bag said, “Who are you?” to which the warrior replied, “I am your death.”
“That cannot be,” said Jamak, “for my death should be honorable and require to see its victim’s face.” The honest warrior felt shame. He let the king out of the bag. “I have never killed an unarmed man before,” he admitted.
“And you should not start now.” Jamak turned and walked into the desert.
Jamak walked and walked, across flatlands and hills, until, one day, not far from the city of Samarkand, he saw a lion attacking an old man on a horse. The old man called out for help, for he no longer had the strength to fight off the beast. Jamak said to the lion, “Come meet your conqueror.” Unarmed, Jamak held his ground as the lion veered toward him. Just when the beast was about to pounce, the old man, with his last remaining strength, threw his sword to the young savior. With one movement, Jamak caught the sword, drew it from its scabbard, struck the lion’s skull, and killed it. Jamak wiped the blood from the sword onto the lion’s red mane, returned the weapon to its master, and said, “You live another day, Father.”
The old man thanked Jamak and begged him to stay with him so he could honor him as his guest. The two men rode into Samarkand, and a large procession greeted them. Jamak realized he was sharing a horse with the city’s king. “My lord,” Jamak asked, “why were you riding alone when you could have had an army accompany you?”
And the king replied, “I was hunting with my friends, and I saw a doe and stalked it, but I could not get close enough. I followed it until I got lost, and that was when you showed up, at the perfect moment.” The king asked Jamak for his story. The old man admired the shah’s courage, nobility, and wherewithal. He made Jamak a vizier and married him to his daughter, Heather.
The king of Samarkand died, and Jamak ascended to the throne. He ruled justly and honored the heroes who in turn loved him and obeyed him. God blessed him with five sons, the youngest, Mahmoud, being his favorite. One day, the shah went to Friday prayers and saw his brothers, Talak and Lamak, begging outside the mosque. He called his servants and said, “Take these men to the baths, wash them, dress them in the finest clothes, and bring them back to me.” Back at the palace, when Jamak’s eyes fell upon his brothers, who now appeared as he remembered them, he hugged them. He sat them beside him and inquired after their health. The brothers said, “We are here because we missed you so much. We left our lands and lost everything trying to find you. We thank God that you are alive and safe and prosperous.” And Jamak welcomed them and made them viziers. Yet, before long, envy and evil grew even mightier in their hearts.
The brothers had fallen upon hard times. Once Jamak was out of the way, they had ruled the land with darkness and contempt. After much abuse, the people had rebelled and captured the two fake kings, intending to execute them. The brothers begged desperately and dishonorably for their lives. The people released them into exile and found an honest man to rule.
Now the brothers noticed how much Jamak loved Mahmoud, and they formed a plan. They would kidnap Mahmoud and demand the king’s treasury in return. During the night, the brothers tied up the young prince and rode away with him while everyone slept. When the shah discovered that his brothers had disappeared with his son, he cursed his brothers and berated himself for his foolishness. Queen Heather cried and dressed in mourning black.
The brothers took their nephew to a cave and kept him roped, intending to slay him after they received the ransom. They left Mahmoud by himself while they went out to hunt and forage for food. Once they were gone, the prince cried for help. A Persian dervish happened to be passing by, and he rescued the boy. The Persian decided to take Mahmoud to Bursa, where he could sell him for a good price. The prince grew very sick, and the Persian took him to the baths and sold him to a slave-trader who happened to be there because of the fine management of fate.
The king thanked the Uzbeks for their story. He turned to the prince and said, “My son Baybars, you are not a slave.” And Baybars said, “Praise be to the Almighty.”
And that was how Prince Baybars became a free man.
It was the first time I had seen Istez Camil since my grandfather’s funeral. He had shown up for the first day of condolences, but I had been at school. No music was played during
the mourning period. Istez Camil seemed more jittery than normal, tired and haggard. He was dressed in a white shirt with moon-shaped sweat stains under his arms, and a pair of thin gray cotton slacks, short at the ankles and chafed at the knees.
Whatever I played seemed easy. Notes flowed from my fingers with a newfound skill. Istez Camil shook his head. His lips were pale, the whites of his eyes unusually flat. “You’re not getting it,” he huffed.
“Not getting what?” I stopped playing, stared at him. “I think I’m playing well, very well, no mistakes.”
“Cascade of grace, remember? This is a cascade of grace no more.” He wouldn’t look at me. “You’re hitting the right notes, but there’s more to this than that.”
“It, this, that,” I snapped. “I’m playing well.” I refused to look at him, too, now. Shocked at my fledgling audacity, I lowered my voice. “You say I’m not but won’t tell me exactly what it is you want, what it is I’m supposed to do. More feeling, more feeling. I’m feeling it now. How can you tell whether I’m playing with feeling or not?”
“I can tell,” he said slowly, “and you can tell.” He stood up, turned his back to me again, and stared out the picture window. “You have to be more honest with yourself. You have to.”
“I’m playing well,” I insisted. I whispered to my shoes, “This is who I am.”
The resumption of my oud lessons wasn’t enough for my sister. She waited for the day when my father began whistling again while shaving in the morning. That afternoon, she shut the door to her room and resumed blasting her insufferable music at full throttle, as my father called it. He would ask her to lower the volume, and she would for a few minutes, before reclaiming the air.
Except I no longer found the music insufferable. I began to discern its simple charms. I also began to discern Jimmy Page’s solos, to guess at Eric Clapton’s peculiar handiwork.
One afternoon, I opened her door without knocking, and found her experimenting with colored eyeliners. She glared at me through her vanity mirror. The space was pregnant with tension and the acidic scent of many perfumes. I lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t say anything. The rustle of my blood coursing through its veins echoed the rhythm of the base. My head buzzed. “Play something weird,” I said when the song ended.
“Kiss my ass, stupid,” she said over her shoulders. “Be like furniture and shut up.” When she stood, I noticed she was wearing tight mauve shorts that clung to her curves like a wet bathing suit.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” My head was propped up on her pillows, and I followed her with my eyes. “You know your father won’t like it.”
“I’m not going to wear this to school. It’ll be all right.”
I didn’t argue. She walked to the closet. For the previous few years, it seemed to me she had been growing taller with each step she took. I remained uncomfortable with the size and shape of her shorts, which made her look unnatural and unfamily. On the floor, next to her feet (in laced-up knee-high black boots), was an album with the face of a man wearing more makeup than she was. “Play that,” I said.
“Shut up,” she replied. “If you want to be in here, you can’t talk.”
The next afternoon, I was back on her bed. She played David Bowie. I was like furniture.
The October War started a few months later. We were winning, yet few seemed to believe it. The Syrians and the Egyptians surprised the Israelis. Radios once again unequivocally blared the Arab victory. “Wait,” my father said. “The Americans won’t let this happen.”
At school, the Palestinian boys beamed, a manifest bounce in their step. They believed it. The student council called for a strike in support of the war. There were supposed to be speeches, but I went home. I saw Lina smoking a cigarette at the mouth of the building’s garage. Elie straddled his idle motorcycle and talked to her. I wondered whether the mauve shorts were to impress him. From afar, Elie, like the Palestinian boys, looked as if he believed.
I lay on Lina’s bed and listened to Deep Purple. She arrived angry, carrying a guitar. “I need you to learn to play.”
“There’s a war going on,” I replied because I had to say something.
“Who cares?” she said. She handed me the guitar as she stormed to her album rack. “You have to play, and you have to play well, and you have to make it look easy, and you have to do it by Saturday night. We have two days. Two days to figure out what you’re going to play and how you’re going to play it impeccably.” She rifled through her collection and picked out Abbey Road. She scratched the Deep Purple album as she quickly removed it from the turntable without replacing it in its cover. “This is what you have to learn. It’s impressive.”
The opening notes of “Here Comes the Sun.”
I had to take the guitar to school. While various student leaders gave speeches, I played in a corner of the cafeteria’s outdoor terrace. Oblivious to anything else, I didn’t hear the Israeli plane until it was right above me, flying low, its noise deafening.
Two seniors sat on the floor next to me, startling me. “Don’t mind us,” one of them said. I knew of him, but never imagined that he’d talk to me. He was the son of a Lebanese woman and a Kuwaiti prince, although he didn’t look it. He was never seen in anything but dirty T-shirts, sweats, and jeans. He had only one pair of sneakers. I guess he desperately wanted to look more like an American than an Arab prince. He didn’t smell as awful as his friend, though.
“Go on,” his friend said. “We can listen.”
“Better than those dumb speeches,” the first added.
I replayed the opening. The Kuwaiti started to sing, and his friend joined him. I was surprised, since I hadn’t considered vocals. I had memorized the song, but hadn’t thought of actually singing it. I wasn’t sure I wanted the song enunciated. I stopped playing. The Kuwaiti raised his eyebrow. “I’m not very good yet,” I said. “I’m just learning.”
“I can tell,” he said. I paused. “That’s not a guitar pick.”
“It’s for the oud. That’s what I play.”
“The oud is for old-fashioned Arabs,” he said. I no longer wished to be an old-fashioned Arab. He extended his hand toward my modern guitar. “Here, let me play.”
He didn’t use a pick, sang a folk song in an American or Australian accent. His playing was bad, and his friend shook his head to an inconsistent beat. The Kuwaiti prince asked me if I liked the song as he handed me the guitar. I told him I did, and his face relaxed, looked grateful.
“I wonder if the speeches are done,” his friend said as they stood up.
“Can you imagine what would happen if we win a war?”
“We almost won. Maybe next time we will.”
I didn’t think they believed. I resumed playing.
• • •
On Saturday, I played “Here Comes the Sun” for Lina. She was impressed, though not as surprised as I thought she’d be. “Aren’t you going to sing?” she asked. I told her that would require more practice, since I had never sung before. She didn’t seem to mind.
That afternoon, we left home sans guitar. Lina wore wild makeup and her mauve shorts. She looked like she’d fit better on Carnaby Street than in Beirut. We rode the bus four stops, and ended up at a coterie of buildings similar to ours, but much more upscale, seven buildings of nothing but marble and glass. She led me into one whose lobby was enclosed, air-conditioned, and stark. In the elevator she suggested that I not talk too much.
A girl my sister’s age opened the door. She had two pigtails that began at the top of her head and descended ungracefully to her shoulders. “You brought your little brother?” The left corner of her mouth crunched up to meet her eye. “Yes,” my sister replied and walked by her into the apartment. I hurriedly followed. I didn’t need to be told that Pigtail Girl was the reason I had to play the guitar, that she had done something to offend Lina.
A dozen boys and girls milled about the large glass-enclosed balcony, chatting noisily and i
gnoring the rock music. “Try this,” Lina said, pointing to an orange beanbag, and she joined two other girls.
All the teenagers ignored me. They seemed preoccupied with looking modern, cool, and Western. I concentrated on the music, helped myself to a bottle of Pepsi. My sister kept throwing glances at a tall blond boy across the room from her. He seemed too sure of himself, used to being the center of attention, and welcomed it with a modicum of disdain. With Lina, there was no modicum; her disdain was unequivocal and unfettered. Her glances grew less subtle and more hateful. I wondered where he fit in the unfolding drama. I didn’t wonder for long.
Pigtail Girl walked into the room with a guitar. The instant the blond guy saw her, he lifted his arms as if warding off evil. “You have to play for us,” she said, turning the music off.
“No, no,” he said. “I don’t want to ruin the mood.”
“Please,” the girl insisted. “For me.”
My sister struck as quickly as a famished cobra. She snatched the guitar out of Pigtail’s hand. “He doesn’t have to,” she said, as she walked toward me. “The little shrimp here can play. He’s not bad.” She handed me the instrument and plopped herself next to me on the beanbag. “Play,” she ordered, nudging me with her elbow.
I played. My sister began to sing. Her two girlfriends joined in after the second verse. I didn’t look up from the guitar, too nervous. The singing wasn’t very good, but by the last verse, half the company had unleashed their voices.
“That was great,” one of the girls said. “Let’s do it again.”
My sister wouldn’t have been able to contain her glee had she cared to. She looked as if she’d eaten a whole jar of fresh honey. She wasn’t the only one; her two friends were laughing.
The Hakawati Page 25