The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

  That October, Fatima and my sister decided to visit me in Los Angeles at an inopportune time. Four of us from work were scheduled to attend a self-improvement workshop at the Asilomar Conference, near Carmel. Our boss, a devotee of the seminar’s facilitator, suggested that our attendance would help team-building. I would have been away from Los Angeles for only four days, but neither Fatima nor Lina wished to remain in the city without me.

  Lina said she’d come along and stay nearby. The coast was gorgeous. She could take walks on the Asilomar grounds, hike in the rolling hills, shop in Carmel. Fatima—Fatima decided she had to attend the workshop. She would stay in the same hotel as Lina but would spend her days observing the strange rituals of lost souls.

  Fatima unclasped her hair, and it bubbled like an inchoate oil well, gushing and falling behind her head. She leaned back in her Adirondack chair, covered her eyes with sunglasses, and adjusted her necklace, making sure that every passerby noticed both the necklace and her bust.

  “Why are we here?” she said. “I’m bored. Have you seen the people in that workshop? They’re all healthy as mutts and they’re all complaining. Oh, help me, great fucking guru, I have a hangnail, and I don’t sleep well on nights with a full moon.”

  “You keep pushing your bust out like that,” I said, “and everyone will know you’re a tramp.”

  My sister, unsure what to make of the California fall weather, walked toward us in a soft cotton dress and a wool cardigan. Her hair was held atop her head with a childish barrette. She seemed fully contained, without needs or trouble, her step light and buoyant.

  I found myself between the women, a position I had grown accustomed to.

  “Your brother thinks I’m a tramp,” Fatima announced.

  “That’s not exactly true,” Lina said. “You’re a whore.”

  “I’m not,” she said, distracted and bemused. “I may not be the most virtuous of maidens, but whores do it for money.”

  “Oh God,” huffed Lina. “You’ve gotten a hundred times richer with each marriage. Have you ever fucked a guy who wasn’t wealthy?”

  “Fucked?” Fatima sat up in her chair, looked around her, pretending shock. “Moi?” Her fingers touched her chest. “You really do think I’m a cheap whore. I don’t fuck my men.”

  “And you certainly aren’t cheap. Have you told the boy about your emerald necklace?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t had the chance, with all the meditations and healings.”

  “She hasn’t told me,” I said, “but she has been brandishing that thing all day.”

  “That’s not the one, silly boy,” Fatima said. “Can’t you tell one emerald necklace from another? That one is exquisite.”

  “Gaudy,” added Lina.

  “Stunning,” said Fatima. “Should I tell him the story?”

  “Do,” said Lina.

  “Okay. Listen. This is how I found out I liked my husband. He’s ever so sweet. This was in April. We’d been married for a few months. I was in Riyadh because he couldn’t get away and couldn’t be without me. I’m bored and antsy. I get a call from my ex-husband in Doha. He misses me. Tough, I say. He must see me. Boring. He can’t live without me. Practice, I say.”

  “Sensitivity is part of her charm,” interrupted Lina.

  “Shut up,” Fatima went on. “So he says he regrets running away from me.”

  “And leaving behind just a few millions in change,” added Lina.

  “It’s my story. Let me tell it. Anyway, I’m not impressed. But he begins to whimper, and you know what hearing a man whimper does to me. He says he’s been to New York, to London, to Berlin, he even went to Thailand, but no one understood his needs the way I did.”

  “That would have touched me deeply as well,” Lina said.

  “I think why not. I told him to get his ass on a plane and meet me in Rome.”

  “But she’s not a whore, mind you.”

  “I tell my husband I need a break and I’m going home. He says that’s a wonderful idea, he’ll join me. What could I do? I remind my husband of my rules. No one stays in my house in Rome. It’s my sanctuary in this horrible world. He says he’ll rent a hotel suite. I figure I can leave him in the hotel every now and then and tell him I need to be at home. We’re in Rome. I meet my ex at the Spanish Steps. Not my fault. He’s a tourist. He begins to whimper again: Take me to my room. Take me to my room. I decide to take a walk. Make him beg some more. We go down Via Condotti, a pleasant spring day.”

  “You get a full-fledged weather report gratis.”

  “Shut up. I’m enjoying this. We’re walking, and it’s not my fault that Bulgari has a great store there, with the most magnificent picture window display. I stop. What woman wouldn’t?”

  “Yo,” Lina answered.

  “What intelligent woman wouldn’t? In the window, calling my name loudly and repeatedly, is a lovely emerald necklace. My jaw drops. My ex asks me if I like it. Of course I do. He walks into the store. I have to follow him; I can’t stand in the street by myself. He asks to see the necklace, places it on my neck—a match made in heaven.”

  “Otherwise known in the holy books as Bulgari in Rome.”

  “He buys it for me. One hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. So, of course, I take him to his room.”

  “And he’s still in the hospital recovering.”

  “He had fun. Anyway, I’m back in my husband’s suite, and I’ve forgotten that I’m wearing the necklace. He asks me about it. I tell him I was taking a walk and saw it in the window and just had to have it. He asks how much it was, and I tell him. And he says no wife of his will ever pay for her own jewelry. He takes out his checkbook and writes me a check for one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Isn’t he sweet?”

  “You know, you’re right,” said Lina. “ ‘Whore’ is not the right word. It sounds trite.”

  “True,” Fatima said. “It says little about talent.”

  “Demimondaine,” I said.

  “Yes,” Fatima exclaimed. “That sounds so much more encompassing. I’ve found myself. And here I thought this workshop was a puerile assignment in psychological masturbation. I didn’t even have to endure a dark night of the soul. It’s a bargain. I stared deep into my being and saw my true self. This is who I am. I’m a demimondaine.”

  A doe appeared, and two others followed her. Slow, hesitant steps.

  My sister yawned and stretched. “You didn’t tell me what she did today.”

  “Let her tell you,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy bragging.” Fatima only smiled. I sighed. “One of the women in the workshop showed up with a lot of different crystals, and this one over here asked what they were for. The woman said one was for healing, another was for dreaming, and so on. The grande dame said, ‘Oh, how sweet. My people have quite a bit in common with your people. You collect crystals, and I collect emeralds.’ ”

  Lina guffawed, and the startled does ran away terrified.

  “Are you getting anything out of the seminar?” my sister asked me. “It doesn’t seem to be work-related, so I can’t figure why your boss is asking his employees to do this.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Misguided, perhaps. If nothing else, it’s a social event, something for us to do outside work. It would have been easier without Fatima giving grief to so many.”

  Fatima sat up and faced my sister. “Can you imagine if you asked any of your workers to do something like this? You’re the president of al-Kharrat. Send a memo to all your dealerships. I, Lina al-Kharrat, capo di capi, ask that you attend a self-improvement seminar and meditate. Bring your tarot cards.”

  “Shut up.” My sister smiled at me. “Is there something I can do to make up for this one’s behavior?”

  I sat up. “You can tell the big whore not to seduce the workshop leader. Everyone was aghast.”

  “Me?” Fatima said. “I didn’t do anything. Is it my fault if he spent the entire morning ogling me and showing excitement? No, no, no, shorty. You can’t
pin that one on me.”

  “Excitement, you say?” Lina asked.

  “The whole morning session,” I said. “You know her. Three hours of stretching lazily, readjusting her butt every few minutes. In the middle of the session, she interrupted to suggest that the floor wasn’t very comfortable and asked for a fauteuil. The guy was a goner. The group couldn’t concentrate on anything but the bulge.”

  “Was the guru gargantuan?” Lina asked.

  “Please,” Fatima replied. “God, when are we leaving?”

  A lovely spring day, and nightingales sang in the bushes, and golden finches competed from trees. Gardenias tossed their scent into the air, and narcissi preened. And from her balcony the emir’s wife was shocked at the scene in the garden before her. Her twelve-year-old son lying on his stomach without a stitch of clothing, his white behind saluting the sky, his head nestled between his dark twin’s spread thighs. The dark one, naked and hairless, lying on his back, his head cradled in one hand and his other hand curled into the prophet’s golden strands as Shams licked his testicles, an effortless indulgence. The boys formed a calm, sinewy interlacing of alabaster and onyx. When Layl opened his eyes and noticed the emir’s wife aghast, a devilish grin appeared on his face.

  Last Fatima story: Fast forward once more to March 1996. I was depressed; my mother had passed away two years earlier. Fatima took me on a vacation of sorts to lift my spirits.

  Liquid heat rose off the asphalt in waves. It was springtime, but the temperature in Riyadh hovered in the hellish. Buildings shimmered and swayed as our car sped by. The tinted glass made them appear sickly and subdued, about to faint from fatigue. The air-conditioning slapped my face and made me shiver. Fatima began putting on her black abayeh, covering an obscene amount of flesh. She didn’t struggle, concealed her body with professional experience. Her head and face remained revealed.

  “You’re fucked up,” I said.

  “Blah, blather, blah. You’re here, so stop your complaining.” She took a compact from her purse, applied scarlet lipstick, and winked. “Can I help it if you still trust me?”

  I floated in the back seat of the Mercedes, its black interior luxurious and gloomy. “You’re fucked up,” I said again.

  “Mind your language.” She put away the compact, extricated a brush, and ran it through her hair. “He doesn’t speak English, but I’m sure he knows the word ‘fuck.’ ”

  The driver was in full Saudi uniform—headdress and Gucci sunglasses. He intermittently glanced back in the rearview mirror, but we didn’t sustain his interest.

  “Tell me you’re not getting married again,” I said. “Please.”

  “Oh, no. Fuck that. Enough is enough.”

  “Then why are you back here?”

  “Diddling,” she said.

  “And I’m here as your Sancho Panza.”

  “Ta-da! You’re wising up.” She leaned over and impressed a moist kiss on my cheek. I moved my hand to wipe it away, but she held my wrist. “Don’t. Leave it.” She replaced everything in her handbag and zipped it. “Don’t be so petulant. Have I ever failed you? You’ve been sitting alone in that godforsaken joke of a country, grieving your losses and moping. I know it’s hard, but you’ve been at it for too long. I couldn’t cheer you up over there. I thought a real change in scenery would do you good. This is a great place to spend your vacation. It may look ever so dull on the outside, but the stories, darling—the hidden stories are fucking incredible. Watch, listen, and learn. Trust me.”

  On cue, the car stopped at the entrance of a grand shopping mall. I grabbed the door handle, but she stopped me. She covered her head, and the veil dribbled over her face. A mysterious woman was birthed before my eyes. The driver opened the door, and I exited. Fatima slid over on the seat and held out her hand, the only skin exposed. Two emerald rings bewitched my eyes. She gently pulled on my hand, helped herself out of the car, and strolled ahead of me, a billowing, flapping black ghost. The clack of her high heels on the pavement, the head held aloft, made her seem like royalty traveling incognito.

  A group of three veiled women turned their heads as she passed them. Two men ran to check the license plate of the car, and one of them dialed his cell phone. Fatima walked through the glass doors of the mall seemingly oblivious, but I knew better. I hurried in after her.

  She didn’t slow her step inside, didn’t look right or left. The black abayeh was not as formless as it first appeared, its finely sewn lines and folds accentuating her buxom and indolent body. Shoppers whispered in hushed tones as she passed. Men looked utterly confused, their faces showing naked lust and fear. They had no means to approach her. Faltering and off-balance, they ogled. She got on the escalator.

  “Am I just supposed to follow you?” I asked.

  “Of course, dear, if it makes you happy, but you can walk alongside me, too. I do provide options.” She entered a record store, looked around, moseyed from section to section, and finally headed toward the Arabic compact-disc racks. “Come along.” She ran her graceful fingers through a stack of discs, some of traditional Arabic vocalists, others more contemporary.

  “I didn’t know you liked that stuff,” I said.

  “I certainly don’t. I’m here for you, dear. This is all for you.” She held up an Umm Kalthoum disc. “Look.” The top of the plastic wrap had been sliced delicately with an X-acto knife. She tore through the wrap with her impeccably manicured fingernails, extracted a handwritten note from the disc box, and read it to me. “ ‘If you like the music of Umm Kalthoum as much as I do, we probably have even more things in common. I’m a good man, twenty-four, gentle, educated, and very respectful of ladies. Let’s talk. Here’s my cell phone number.’ ”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I could only imagine her face as she looked at me, smug, bemused, probably laughing.

  “There are others. Look. Kazem al-Saher. Three different discs have notes. These boys are so desperate. So many of them.” She took out another note, different boy, same request.

  “That’s sad.”

  “It is,” she replied quietly, and sighed. “Damn. Once upon a time, I thought it was amusing.” She chucked the discs onto the rack, crumpled the love notes, and turned around. “Let’s go.” She took out her phone. “I’m ready,” she told her driver.

  I followed her down the escalator. “Whenever I feel blue,” she said, “which is not very often, I try to come to Riyadh. I feel so wanted.” She paused. “I’m inspired by the braves.” She marched toward the exit. The automatic doors burped in noxious heat. No fewer than twenty men, Saudis clad in expensive desert robes, waited in the scalding temperature. As soon as the identifying Mercedes reached the curb, they twittered; she was the bell to Pavlov’s dogs.

  A tall, handsome man walked quickly toward her. He slipped between us, and his hand touched her ebony abayeh, leaving a small yellow Post-it note on her back, with a handwritten phone number. I squinted, trying to read it, but another man blocked my view as he stuck on another note. Only two braves.

  The Post-it notes glimmered in the sun as she walked toward the open door of the Mercedes. Two lonely gold islands in a sea of oil black.

  The emir’s wife had an ominous premonition that the prophet’s thirteenth-birthday celebration was going to be a disaster. It was not an unqualified premonition, for she had been witnessing the horrific changes in her son for the previous month. He had become moodier and crankier. His healing powers seemed to be fading, if not disappearing completely. His rebellious heart no longer cared. He would touch the supplicants and no change occurred. He could only pretend to heal for about ten minutes before giving up in a huff and returning to his room.

  The emir’s wife could no longer lie to herself about what the twins were doing in that room. She had caught them frolicking in the garden on more than one occasion. And when she tried to reason with him, Shams told her to perform unnatural sexual acts upon herself.

  At her wit’s end, she tried to talk to Fatima, her nemesis, wh
o only said, “All boys go through this stage. Leave him be. He is no longer the same person he was as a child. The powers he possessed then have transformed. Guruji has died. Mourn for him, but let him go. None of us is the same person in each stage of our life.” And the emir’s wife hated Fatima even more and promised to dedicate her life to the eradication of that woman.

  The largest crowd of all appeared on the morning of the thirteenth-birthday celebration to witness Shams becoming a man. Their prophet and his companion stood before them, drunk on wine, and laughed. And the prophet yelled, “Eat my shit, you dimwitted bastards. Have you nothing better to do? Go home.”

  The horrified emir’s wife heard the woman’s voice echo in her head. “It is time.”

  Fifteen

  I stood before the hospital vending machine and contemplated the latest existential crisis: Was drinking insultingly horrible coffee better or worse than spending the morning decaffeinated? I allowed the machine to slurp my money. Dark, viscous liquid poured out of a crooked funnel. I picked up the paper cup and almost spilled the coffee on Aunt Wasila and her daughter, Dida. My free hand settled above my heart to calm its startled beat. Dida kissed me. I tried not to stare at her nose, which she had recently had cut and reshaped to Anglo-Saxon.

  “I won’t kiss you,” Aunt Wasila said. “I know you hate fake sentimentality.” She shoved a baker’s box into my chest, and I could feel it was still warm. “Fresh croissants. And better yet.” She took out a thermos out of her Prada handbag. “Better than that gunk in your hand.” I could have kissed the tiles beneath her feet. “I was hoping that if I arrived early I’d get a chance to see him briefly,” she said. “I know he doesn’t like anyone to see him infirm, but he won’t know I’m there.” I looked from mother to daughter. “Just me,” Aunt Wasila said.