The Hakawati (6 page)

“It’s not his fault, Uncle,” the bey said, his voice unctuous. “I wanted to come see you, and I wanted him to accompany me. I was a little busy, as you can imagine. Don’t blame your nephew. Now, please, tell me about your health. Are you feeling better?”

“So you couldn’t come without your master,” my father told Hafez.

“I called Lina every day,” Hafez said quietly, head bent as if he were speaking to the floor. His tie folded upon itself, bashful.

“But how is your health?” the bey asked.

Lina stuck her head into the room. “Your mother needs you, Hafez,” she said curtly, with a disapproving glance at the bey. My father shot her a pleading look. “We’ll be right back,” she said to him, and to Hafez, “Now.”

I knew I should stay with my father, but I could not bear it. I followed them out.

Aunt Samia was agitated and gasping for air. Her respiratory problems belied her true concern. “Is my brother offending the bey?”

“Ah, the illustrious bey, father of all,” I said.

Hafez took his mother’s hand and glared at me. “You’re so American,” he said. “Why is it that you’re quiet all the time but when you do speak all you do is irritate people?”

“Kiss my ass, Hafez,” Lina hissed. “If anyone shouldn’t mention the word ‘irritating,’ it’s you, you dumb shit.”

“Why do we always resort to strong language?” Aunt Samia asked no one in particular. “It’s all my father’s fault. He had such a tongue, that one. Shit, shit—that’s all he talked about.”

Hafez ignored her. “I didn’t mean anything, just that he’s always so critical. Look, Osama, you know I love you. You know that. But you’re forever disapproving. You make it seem that you feel superior to all of us.”

I took a deep breath, tried to sound measured and contrite. “From now on, I will watch what comes out of my mouth.”

Lina grabbed me by the arm and pulled me aside. “Walk.” We walked past the guard and down the hall. “Speak,” she said.

“I’m fine. What gets me is the ‘You’ve become American’ part. That’s what everyone says instead of ‘You’re fucked up.’ They might as well say they hate me.”

My sister burst out laughing. “Sweetheart, you’re such a treasure. They don’t hate you.” She began to walk me back to the room, a mother hen who instinctively knew she’d been away from her chicks for too long. “They hate
me
. You’re not that important.” She chuckled. “You’ve lived in America for twenty-five years, what are you supposed to become? An orangutan? They’re just saying you’re different.”

“I was different before I left here. And so are you.”

“Of course. Me they call the crazy one. They called my mother the bitch. You’re just the American.”

And on the sixth night, Khayal said, “My lovely. We are but a day away from your destination. I fear I have little time, and I regret how much I wasted of it. It seems that I do not have the ability to charm you, nor have I any skills in seduction. Let me try to convince you by telling you the story of the poet and Aslam.”

“I love stories.”

“This is a well-known story, which I have read in Ibn Hazm’s treatise on love,
The Ring of the Dove
. In the Arab lands of Andalusia, there was a literary man, Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi, a poet of great stature, well known for his verse, especially his poems about Aslam, the boy whose name means ‘to surrender.’ Students from all over Córdoba went to al-Nahawi’s house to study with him. The boy was one of the students. He was beautiful, refined, well read, earnest, and talented. The teacher fell in love with the student, and soon patience deserted the once-stoic man. He began to recite love poems to him. Tongues wagged. His witty verses of surrender to Aslam were repeated at gatherings in the red city.

“When Aslam heard of the gossip, he stopped visiting his mentor, cut off all classes of any kind. He restricted himself to his house and his stoop. The teacher stopped teaching, did nothing other than walk the street in front of Aslam’s house, hoping for a furtive glimpse of his beloved. The dust of his footsteps rose every day and settled only in the evening. Aslam no longer sat on his stoop in daylight. After sunset
prayers, when darkness melded into the evening light, overpowering it, Aslam would venture just under the doorjamb for his fresh air.

“When he could no longer lay eyes upon beauty, the poet resorted to guile. One evening, he donned the robes of peasants, covered his head the way they did, took chickens in one hand and a basket of eggs in the other. He approached Aslam, kissed his hand, and said, ‘I have come to you, my lord, to deliver this food.’

“ ‘And who might you be?’ Aslam asked.

“ ‘I am your servant, my lord. I work for you at the farm.’

“Aslam invited the man into his home, asked him to sit for tea, had his slaves take the eggs and chickens into the kitchen. He asked the poet whether the farm was in good shape. The poet replied that all went well. But when Aslam began to ask about the farmers and their families, the poet could not answer.

“And Aslam looked beneath the disguise and saw his nemesis. ‘O brother,’ he said. ‘Have you no shame? Have you no compassion? I am no longer able to attend classes. I have not left my house for the longest time. Is it not enough that I am unable to sit on my own doorstep during the day? You have deprived me of everything that gives me comfort. You have turned me into a prisoner in the jail of your obsession. By God, I will never leave the sanctuary of my home; neither day nor night will I sit on my own stoop.’

“The poet called on his friends, confessed to everything that had happened.

“His friends asked, ‘Have you lost your chickens and eggs?’

“Despair descended upon the poet, leaving him ill and bedridden. A friend, Muhammad ben al-Hassan, paid a visit to the poet, saw him looking ashen and feeble. ‘Why are you not being seen by a doctor?’

“ ‘My cure is not a mystery, and doctors cannot heal me.’

“ ‘And what will cure you?’

“ ‘A glimpse of Aslam.’

“Pity took root in Muhammad’s heart. He paid a visit to Aslam, who greeted him as a gracious host would. After the tea was served, the poet’s friend said, ‘I beg a favor of you. It is about Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi.’

“ ‘That man has made me infamous, the object of salacious jokes. He has besmirched my name, my reputation, and my respect.’

“ ‘I do understand, but allow the Almighty to be the final judge. All
that he has done can be forgiven if you see the state he is in. The man is dying. Your visit would be merciful.’

“ ‘By God, I cannot do that. Do not ask it of me.’

“ ‘I must. Do not fear for your reputation. You are but visiting the sick.’

“Aslam begged off again and again, but the friend kept insisting, reminding him of honor, until Aslam agreed. ‘Let us go, then,’ the friend said.

“ ‘No. I am unable to do it today. Tomorrow.’

“Muhammad made him swear and left him to return to the poet, told him of the next day’s visit. Light returned to the poet’s eyes.

“The next day, Muhammad arrived at Aslam’s house. ‘The promise,’ he said as he greeted his host. And they left for the poet’s house. But when they reached the door, Aslam stopped, blushed, and stuttered, ‘I cannot. I am unable to move my foot forward. I have reached the house, but I cannot enter.’ And, swift as a racehorse, he ran away.

“The friend ran after him, grabbed Aslam by his cloak. Aslam kept running, and a piece of cloth remained in Muhammad’s hand.

“One of the poet’s servants had seen the guests approaching the house and had informed his master, so when Muhammad entered the house alone the poet was gravely disappointed. He snatched the piece of cloth. He insulted Muhammad, cursed at the world, swore at fate, yelled in anger, wept in sorrow. His friend withdrew to leave, but the poet grasped his wrist.

“ ‘Go to him,’ the poet said. ‘Tell him this:

Surrender, O lovely one
,
On the sick, have pity
.
My heart desires your visit
More than God’s own mercy.’

“ ‘Do not stray from the Faith,’ Muhammad admonished. ‘What is this blasphemy?’ He left the poet in anger, but had barely reached the street when he heard the wails of mourning. The poet, Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi, had died, clutching torn wool in his bony fingers.

“And this is true: years later, on a horribly rainy day, when only ghosts and jinn could walk unprotected, the cemetery warden recognized Aslam, who by then had become a grand poet himself, sitting on
the grave of Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi, paying his respects, visiting the dead, utterly drenched. Rain streaked his face like tears.”

And Fatima’s face was wet as well. “That is a cheerless tale,” she said.

“I feel sad for the poets,” Jawad said. “My heart is in pain. I am touched.” Jawad looked mournfully at his companions. “But I am not seduced.”

The bey made small talk, tiny talk, and my father replied with monosyllables or grunts. He was saved by my niece and a nurse entering the room. I knew for a fact that Salwa disdained the bey and all the traditions he represented, but from the look she gave him, the bey would have thought her an acolyte. Far along into her pregnancy, her wavy black hair forming a halo about her beatific, motherly-to-be face, she announced that my father needed some blood drawn. The nurse nodded. I noted that he didn’t have any syringes or needles or tubes. My father closed his eyes, unable to disguise his relief, or not caring to.

I walked the bey to the elevator, and as we passed the waiting room, all his sycophants hurried out. When the elevator doors opened, he didn’t enter. He finally decided to talk to me. “Your father is a fine man.” He wanted to sound mature, but it was difficult since he looked like a marionette. “You should be proud of him.”

I looked at him. One of his men was holding the elevator doors open. There were at least six other passengers, but not one complained.

“You should also be proud of your grandfather,” he said. I noticed all eyes on me. The elevator doors kept trying to close. “I always liked you. You should come and visit.” He stepped into the elevator and disappeared behind the closing doors. I stared at the spot where he’d been.

“Why does your father have to be rude?” Hafez said. He was holding his mother, acting as her cane. “Would it hurt him to be nice to the bey? The bey loves him, always says great things about him. We owe the bey so much. He shouldn’t treat him that way.”

Hafez was the closest cousin to me in age, and the family had assumed that we’d have so much in common, we’d grow up to be twins. We actually turned out to be total opposites. We were supposed
to be best friends, but we barely got along. He was an insider, and I an outsider.

His mother chided him: “Don’t talk about your uncle like that.”

“He’s just like Grandfather,” he said. “Obstinate.”

Hafez didn’t know what he was talking about. My grandfather had an altogether different kind of obstinacy from my father’s, which is why they could hardly speak to each other. Each wanted the other to see the world his way, but neither was willing to share spectacles. As I turned around, I heard Hafez say, “Why does Uncle disrespect me so? It’s not as if his children made anything out of themselves.”

Back in the room, I heard the same comparison. My father was apoplectic. My sister was trying to calm him down. “He’s just like his grandfather,” my father mumbled. “Obsequious, ass-kissing dimwit. Just like his grandfather. Son of a whore.”

Ah, my grandfather, the progenitor of this mess we called family.