The shopkeepers sought Othman, who said, “I will solve your problem, but you must pay me.” The men asked what he wanted, and Othman said, “A tub of your yellowest butter and one crooked carnation and one lamb sandwich and one cup of coffee and one comb of honey.”
The shopkeepers laughed and said, “You help us with the mayor and we will give you two of each.” And Othman added, “Oh, and a dessert as well. One must have sweets. And tomorrow, if anyone sees the mayor in the neighborhood, he must shout, ‘Baklava, baklava,’ to remind me of my sweet reward.”
When the oil merchant saw the mayor at his shop the following day, he yelled, “Baklava, baklava,” and every boy in the neighborhood followed suit. The other shopkeepers began to yell, “Baklava, baklava,” as well. The confused mayor asked, “Who wants sweets at an oil shop?” and he heard the voice of Othman say, “A man like you should think only of bitters, never sweets.” Othman, Harhash, and the warriors surrounded the mayor and his men, disarmed them, and relieved them of their clothes, leaving them all utterly naked. The mayor said, “I am going to arrest you and throw away the key.” Othman laughed. “You cannot arrest me. I work for a prince now. If the king knew what you were up to, he would throw you in jail.”
The warriors carried the naked mayor to the tanner and dunked him in a vat of black dye. “Now he is darker than I,” said one of the Africans. They put the naked mayor on his horse backward and rode him out of town. The neighborhood boys ran after him, jeering and whistling.
And the mayor swore revenge against Othman and Baybars. He had his men buy him a coffin, take him to the diwan in it, and inform the king that Othman had killed him.
Upon seeing his murdered mayor, the king called for Baybars and Othman and asked them what happened. Othman said, “I wish I had killed him, but I did not. Had I not sworn to follow the righteous path, I would surely have slain him.” The king asked him to elaborate, and Othman did, calling his witnesses: the shopkeepers, the warriors, and Harhash.
And Arbusto said, “But you beat up a government official, and here he lies in his coffin before us. This is murder, and you deserve death for it.”
Othman said, “No, I do not. If I am to be killed for killing him, then I should at least have had the pleasure of doing the deed. Now that I think of it, I do not believe God would mind if I killed a dead man anyway.” Othman drew his sword and stabbed the mayor in his coffin. The mayor sat up and died again. “Lazarus?” Othman exclaimed.
The angry king said, “This man was not dead. It was a ruse. My own mayor attempted to deceive his king. It is a good thing he is well and truly deceased. I call on you, honest Baybars, to wear the mayor’s suit.”
And that was how Baybars became mayor of the great city of Cairo.
“Distract me,” Fatima said.
“Let us decorate the room again,” said Job. The imps were lounging around her bed.
“No,” she replied. “Tell me a story, a tale so strange, a tale so true, so wonderful and engrossing that it will seduce my mind.”
“Demon tales,” cried Ezra.
“No,” Fatima said. “I know those too well.”
“Parrot tales,” said Isaac. “Those are the best.”
“I will tell them,” said Ishmael.
“No, I will,” said Elijah.
“Me, me, me.”
And Fatima decided that Ishmael would begin and the imps would take turns. “However, if one of the servant girls comes in here, she is going to be confounded by your presence. Make yourselves less shocking.” Ishmael and Isaac turned into red parrots. The rest followed suit in their different colors. The rainbow-hued parrots perched atop the bed’s backrest, the curtain rods, the lamps, and the short column at the foot of the bed.
My uncle Wajih was born two years after Samia. He arrived with little fuss. “He’s going to grow up wise,” the midwife said. His arrival was the cause of many a celebration. The bey himself blessed my uncle. “He’ll become the head of an illustrious family, a reaper of honor, an amasser of wealth, and a man of substance.” My grandfather offered cigars to all the men in the village. My grandmother offered sweets. Evil Sitt Hawwar had to keep quiet for a while.
My uncle Halim made his first appearance in our world in 1925. There were no delivery complications; the umbilical cord did not accidentally strangle him. Yet my grandmother recognized that something was off the instant she held him in her arms. His head seemed just a tad too warm, and his eyes seemed to flutter jerkily when closed. “He’s going to be a dreamer,” said the midwife.
My father came next, in 1930, and two years later came Uncle Jihad. They were their parents’ favorites. “We were too young,” my grandfather told me once. “It’s not that we didn’t love all our children. We did. But then your father, Farid, was born. We had been married for eleven years. We were—I don’t know—more mature. There was a difference, but it wasn’t intentional.”
I didn’t care. I was busy watching a lizard stand utterly still.
“Your grandmother loved Farid. He was special, much smarter than his siblings. If you placed all three other children on one scale and your father on the other, his intelligence would outweigh all of theirs. And then Jihad—he spoke before he was nine months old. He was brilliant. He made me so proud. How can you blame your grandmother for treating them differently? How can you blame her for loving them more? They were the chosen ones.”
Upon returning to his house, Baybars found the old mayor’s intendants and attendants waiting for him. He inquired how he could help them, and they said, “We offer condolences on the death of the mayor, congratulations on your promotion, and our services.” Baybars asked that each inform him of his duty and salary with the previous administration.
“There were no salaries, sire. The previous mayor slurped any government money that appeared in his bowl. We earned our keep from the duties and taxes paid by Cairo’s cadres of thieves, gamblers, wine merchants, and criminals.”
“And how do you collect those duties?”
“Each cadre has a head, and the head of heads is Commander Khanjar, chief of the city’s gates.” Baybars ordered his new staff to give up their wayward ways. “I will pay your salaries, enough to feed and clothe your families. You may not collect funds from anywhere else. Renounce your past misdeeds, swear vows of honesty, pray, and fast. If I hear of any of you committing a deed that would anger God, I, the mayor of Cairo, will seek revenge.” And his staff swore allegiance to God and Baybars. “Get me Othman,” Baybars demanded.
That night, Baybars and Othman paid the commander a visit at his headquarters. Surrounded by his men, he sat on his chair like a prideful tiger wearing clothes that were much too fancy. Khanjar did not stand to greet his visitors, nor did he ask after their health, because he possessed a head swelled with self-importance.
Baybars greeted the commander with “Peace be upon you.”
Khanjar replied, “I know not peace. State your need, boy. Are you the one who was given the mayor’s suit? Are you the one who fooled Othman and Harhash onto the path of virtue? Follow me, be my boy, and I will reward you. I will take care of all your needs, all your wants, and more.” Othman chimed in, “We have come here to ask for your blessing.”
The commander beamed. Joy and greed burst from his eyes. “Then your presence here is most welcome. If you capture one of my artisans, release him and I will remunerate you. Obey me and acquire wealth, but cross me and you will regret it for the rest of your shortened life.”
“We aim only to please you, my father,” Othman said. “But how will I know if I catch one of your people?”
Khanjar thought. “Maybe if they gave you a secret word. You must punish anyone who does not work for me and spare those who do.”
Othman objected. “No word remains secret in the criminal world for long. It would be better if you introduced us to the members of the cadres. Inform the clans that the new mayor wishes to know them one and all.”
Quawk, began the parrot Ishmael. A
quawk here, a quawk there. Let us embark on the tales of the wise parrot. There was once a wealthy merchant who married a young woman of exquisite beauty. On their wedding night, he informed his lovely wife that he would be leaving on an extended journey the following day. His wife asked him not to go. She would be lonely. He said, “My business demands that I travel. I buy my silk in China, my cotton in Egypt. Spice I procure from India, and perfume from Persia. My shops need merchandise,” and she replied, “But I need you. I have no need for money with you by my side.”
Her husband glowed with pride and said, “A moneyless man is a fatherless one, and a home without money is haunted. The sun never shines on an indigent.” But, as the saying goes, a man who is given to much traveling does not deserve to be married.
The following day, the merchant walked to the bazaar and bought a magnificent parrot and a magpie. He charged his wife to obtain the sanction of both birds whenever she had to make a decision. Then he threatened the birds with a horrifying death if they allowed his wife to betray him. And off on his journey he went. Weeks passed, and then months, and the merchant extended his expedition longer and longer. One day, as the winsome wife hung laundry on the roof, she noticed a royal procession below. She saw a handsome prince astride a steed, and her heart was filled with love and lust. The prince chanced to glance up and was dazzled by the fair lady’s loveliness. Upon returning to his castle, he sent an old woman to the lady’s home with an invitation to his palace for that evening, which she duly accepted. Arraying herself in the finest apparel and donning her best jewels, she faced the birds.
“Dear magpie,” she said. “What thinkest thou of the propriety of my purpose?”
“I like it not,” said the magpie. “I forbid thee to leave.”
The lovely lady opened the cage door and wrung the magpie’s neck. She turned to the parrot. “My dear parrot. What thinkest thou of the propriety of my purpose?”
And the prudent parrot said, “My lady. You are most fair tonight. You are lovelier than the new moon, which weeps in shame and quivers with envy at the mere mention of your name. Sit, my lady. Let me entertain you for a while. I am a hakawati, and your gloriousness inspires me to tell a great tale. Allow me to begin.”
Three nights after his meeting with Khanjar, Baybars played host to him; the chief of the gates was to introduce all of Cairo’s thieves and criminals. “Shall we begin the introductions?” Baybars said. “Othman, bring in the first cadre.” Into the hall walked thirty black-robed women, each with her manservant. All bowed before Baybars. “Commander,” Baybars asked, “who are these women?”
“They are the cadre of savage doves, pretty and lethal. They live in all the neighborhoods of Cairo. They approach men and persuade them to join them at their houses. The savage dove plies her victim with wine until he is drunk, and then the manservant covers the man’s face with a pillow and sits on it until the man loses his breath. They confiscate his possessions, bury the body in the yard, and start over again.”
Othman led that group out into a different hall and brought in another, twenty brown-robed women. “This is the cadre of roaming doves,” the commander said. “They are docile and timid until a foolish man believes he has a willing victim. When the man invites the woman to his house, she asks to share some wine. Then she laces his cup with opium, strips him of his wealth, and leaves him unconscious.”
The third group of women wore robes of red. “These are the luscious doves, the most beautiful doves of all, and the most proficient; they trick men into assuming compromising positions and proceed to purloin the house’s belongings as their powerless prey watch. Every man wishes to drink from a luscious dove’s beauty cup, even when he knows it could be lethal.” The fourth group was ten white-robed women. “The cooing doves,” the commander said. “Pickpockets and shoplifters.” The fifth group was twenty-five boys. “The baby porcupines are thieves.” The sixth was ten younger boys. “The hedgehogs are specialized pickpockets. A hedgehog works with a baby porcupine. When they see a possible victim, the porcupine hits the hedgehog, who runs to the man and begs to be saved. While the man comforts the hedgehog, his pockets get emptied.” The seventh cadre was the old doves. “These crones pretend to be sages, seers, and fortune-tellers. They are invited into houses and rarely leave empty-handed.” The eighth, ninth, tenth, and eleventh cadres were all porcupines: the burglars, the gamblers, the highway robbers, and the murderers.
“The twelfth?” Baybars asked, and the commander replied, “That would be me.”
Baybars left Khanjar in the hall and sought out the assembled horde of criminals. He faced them with Othman and said, “I command you to give up your wicked ways and seek solace in God’s love. Vow to live an honest life and swear not to sin again. He who makes the vow will be set free, but he who does not will be enchained.” And the women said, “But how can we live an honest life if we owe money to the commander? He forces us to work in order to pay him.”
Baybars said, “If you make the vow to God, your debts will be forgiven. Is there anyone here who will not make the vow and give up the life of crime?” There were no raised hands.
Othman lit a fire and with a branding iron marked the left wrist of every reformed criminal, dove, porcupine, and hedgehog in the room. Right after he branded one of the luscious doves, she whispered, “I know thirty-seven distinctly different pleasurable ways of using this branding iron,” causing Othman to flush and blush and rush to the next.
“If anyone wearing this brand is caught committing a crime, the penalty of death will be imposed,” Baybars said. “So it shall be.”
And Baybars returned to Khanjar and said, “My father, I have turned your workers into honest men and women. I will place the children in schools. It is now your turn. You are over eighty years old. Have you not worshipped God in all this time? Have you not prayed or fasted?”
Khanjar replied, “I have never set foot in a mosque. For seventy years, I have stolen from men, betrayed them, and killed them. Do you think I am as easy to convert as my minions? You are a fool, a little mind and a light head.” And he unsheathed his sword and struck, but Baybars’s sword parried the commander’s blow with one smooth motion, its hilt knocking him out. Othman tied him up and dragged the commander to jail, where he spent the rest of his life.
A quawk here, said the parrot Isaac, and a quawk there.
And the hakawati parrot began telling the lovely wife this story:
Four men—a tailor, a jeweler, a carpenter, and a dervish—traveled together on a long journey. They camped for the night and took turns guarding their belongings. The carpenter stood guard first, while the others slept. He saw a big log lying on the ground, and to pass the time he carved a statue of a beautiful woman out of it. The tailor woke up, and as the rest snored, he admired the lovely form and decided to sew a glorious outfit for the lady. Out of divine cloth, he fashioned raiment fit for a queen. It was the jeweler’s turn next, and he created wonderful adornments for the statue with the most precious of gems. And the dervish saw the creation and was so enamored that he prayed to God with all his heart to make her real. When light rose, the four men beheld a breathing woman of such comeliness their hearts were infatuated. Each man claimed her as his wife. They fought, they argued, but they could not arrive at a mutually acceptable decision.
Finally, they saw a Bedouin riding by on his camel and asked him to arbitrate.
“I sculpted her out of wood,” the carpenter said.
“I clothed her.”
“I gave her brilliance.”
“And I gave her breath,” said the dervish.
The Bedouin said, “All four of you have a rightful claim, and I see no way of dividing this woman. I therefore claim her for myself. She was created in the desert, and these are my lands. She will be my wife.”
The five men quarreled and quarreled, but could find no solution to their dilemma. They rode into town, and asked the first policeman they came across to be arbiter. After each man laid his
claim, the policeman said, “Each of you has a point, and I cannot decide for any of you, so I claim this charming woman as my own.”
The six men went to a judge and regaled him with their stories. The judge said, “We have a problem here. For the sake of fairness and impartiality, I claim this woman myself. She will be my wife so you can cease your fighting.”
The men squabbled into the night. Finally, the dervish said, “We can come to no resolution, because no man can arbitrate. None can resist the charm of our beloved. We must resort to an inhuman referee, the Tree of Knowledge.”
The seven suitors and the woman marched to the wise tree in the center of town. As soon as they approached the giant oak, its bark split open and the woman ran inside and the trunk closed back upon itself. The Tree of Knowledge said, “Everything returns to its first principles,” and the seven men were shamed.
The Hakawati Page 30