The Hakawati (16 page)

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.’

“In their rooms, the princes huddled and hugged. At least with the
first two tasks they had known how to begin, even if they couldn’t have accomplished much without help. But how could one find a child?”

“A stork.”

“Of course. The stork tapped at the windowpane, and the princes opened the window. The older prince explained about the miracle. ‘Be not concerned,’ said the good stork. It flew away and returned carrying a bundle swaddled in white cotton. The stork gently placed the bundle on the floor, and out of it crawled the most beautiful baby in the world, and the princes fell in love with him right away and knew that they would cherish this boy forever and ever. The baby crawled over to the oud lying next to the bed and began to play an exquisite melody.”

“A maqâm?”

“But of course. The melody was so charming that everyone in the palace began to wake, wanting to know where this music was coming from. They all rushed to the room and saw with their own eyes the miracle of this most special baby playing the oud. The king heard the song, and his heart expanded, and he wept. The beautiful princess loved the baby and she said, ‘This boy will be my son, and this prince will be my husband.’ The older prince married the princess, and their son was the most special boy in the world.”

“What happened to the nasty vizier?”

“He went to France, where all the jealous people are.”

“That’s not a good story. I wasn’t born playing the oud. I learned how to.”

“You’re simply remembering how to play, my dear boy.” Uncle Jihad drained his glass completely. “You’re claiming what you’ve always known.”

“What about Lina?”

“Hers is a different story,” he replied.

“How can that be? She’s my sister. We can’t have different stories.”

“Who says?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “A family has one story.”

And my grandfather said, “The next evening, when the pigeon battle was over, I cleaned everything as fast as I could and ran back to the Masal. But I had arrived late. The hakawati was well into his story and had resolved the cliffhanger.

“ ‘Please,’ I interrupted, calling to him from outside. ‘How did Antar escape the deadly trap? It would seem impossible. I must know how,’ I said in broken Turkish. I must have confounded him. He glared at me, unblinking. The owner of the café came at me. ‘Get out of here, you dirty scoundrel,’ he yelled. ‘Get back to where you came from, you unbeliever.’

“Now, mind you, insults meant nothing to me. They bounced off me like iron bounces off a magnet. No, I mean like two magnets or something like that. After all, Barbara and Joan used to insult me every day, and the other assistants at work said horrible things. I felt bad that he thought I was dirty, so I said, ‘I’m only dirty because I’ve been cleaning shit, and that’s why I was late, and if I went home to clean up I’d miss more of the story.’ It obviously didn’t impress the owner, who waved a threatening cane in my direction. ‘If you don’t scram, I’m going to tan your behind,’ and I said, ‘That’s not fair. It’s not my fault I have to work. I want to hear the tale.’ The owner raised his cane, and I was about to flee when I heard a horsy guffaw. A fat man, most respectable, in an expensive fez, suit, and tie, sat laughing at a table outside. Hookah smoke erupted out of his wide mouth. ‘Why are you insulting a future customer, my man? Let the boy stay and listen to the tale,’ he said, and the owner replied, ‘His kind will never be a customer, effendi. He’s a street boy.’ Before I could contradict him, the effendi said, ‘He’s a working boy, not an urchin. How can you turn away a boy who wants to hear a story? Come, my boy. Sit at my table, and open your ears. I don’t mind the smell of shit. And bring this boy some tea and something to eat. We have a story to listen to.’

“And that was how I was taken under the wing of Serhat Effendi.

“I was in paradise. I hardly spent any time at home anymore. Each day, as soon as the battle was over, I hurried to the Masal to hear the hakawati. I sat at Serhat Effendi’s table every evening. I was served a highly sweetened glass of hot tea and a cheap sandwich, which was still better than anything I was getting at home. The effendi was nice to me. He didn’t mind my stink, and he treated me with the utmost respect. Once, when I asked how I could repay him for the daily meal, he replied that my job was to keep him company, because he didn’t like being by himself at the café. But we hardly ever talked, except for the times I arrived a bit late and he’d whisper in my ear what I had missed. On my ninth birthday, he bought me a delicious lokum.