The Hakawati (66 page)

Maria woke up ill, and Ma
rouf called in the doctor. “Heal my wife, surgeon,” he said. “I beg of you. Make her well.” The doctor examined Maria and said, “The change in climate is not doing her good. Take her to Deir ash-Shakeef, and have her rest for three months. I cannot identify the symptoms, but a three-month rest should cure whatever ails her.”

Ma
rouf took his wife, accompanied by one squadron, and sought the healing air of Deir ash-Shakeef. Within a few weeks, she began to feel better, if slightly heavier. “My husband,” she said. “I am not ill, unless being with child is a disease.” Ma
rouf jumped with joy.

Some while later, Arbusto paid a visit to Ma
rouf in Deir ash-Shakeef. The villain presented himself as a rich merchant and offered Ma
rouf a number of opulent textiles for his wife. “A glorious gift, honest merchant,” said Ma
rouf, “but what have I done to deserve such generosity?” Arbusto said he only wished for one thing, a letter from the chief of forts and battlements authorizing the bearer to travel the lands without interference. “Your reputation for honesty and valor is well known,” Arbusto said. “If I have such a letter, no one will dare accost me.” Ma
rouf obliged.

Arbusto slept the night outside Deir ash-Shakeef. In the morning, he tore his garments, washed his hair with sand, and hit his face with rocks. He called on Ma
rouf, who exclaimed in shock, “What has become of you, honest merchant?” Arbusto said, “Twenty leagues north of town, I was waylaid by a band of ruffians. I showed them your letter, and they spat on it. ‘The chief of forts and battlements is a limp braggart and a toothless house-cat that professes to be a lion,’ the scofflaws said. They overwhelmed me and stole all my belongings.”

The hero stood up and yelled at the ceiling, “I, a house-cat?” He stormed off to retrieve his sword. “Stay here,” he told the merchant. “I will return with your valuables and the valueless heads of your attackers.” He and his men headed north, leaving his wife with two guards.

Arbusto paced before the soldiers, pretending to be anxious. He removed bonbons from his left pocket and stuffed them in his mouth. One of the guards asked what he was eating. “Date bonbons,” Arbusto
replied. “Would you like some?” Out of his right pocket, he retrieved a bunch and gave them to the guards. Within a half hour, the sedative had coursed through their veins and the guards lay unconscious. Arbusto broke into the princess’s chambers, covered dormant Maria in a large burlap bag, and bore her away.

Beirut Airport’s arrival lounge seemed fuzzy, like the imprecision of settings in dreams. The space itself hadn’t changed, but the air was off-kilter, reeking of camphor, cigarettes, and humanity. Dust motes scurried across the stone floor, terrified of being stepped on. The ubiquitous posters of the unsmiling Syrian president forced me to stare ahead. His secret-service men, in polyester civilian, were only slightly less numerous than his pictures.

I negotiated the fare with the taxi driver, a man as old as my father. He asked for an exorbitant sum. His Mercedes was restored and revamped. Look. See? Not a scratch, not one bullet hole. “Look at me,” I said. “Do I look like a guy who cares what kind of car I get in?” He came down twenty. I went up two. He said our village was far, at least forty minutes. I said I could find another taxi.

Banks of ominous slate clouds hovered as we drove along the mountain road. Trees seemed sparser. “Kindling,” the driver explained. The car spasmed with every pothole. “At least this area is safe for now,” the driver said. “For your people at least. You’re Druze, right?”

“Half,” I said.

He turned to me questioningly, as if the concept was utterly foreign. He waited for me to elaborate, and I didn’t. “Why did you come back? People don’t return anymore.”

“Wedding.”

“And you’re arriving empty-handed?”

“My bag will be here tomorrow.”

“It used to be that emigrants returned with sacks and sacks of beautiful things, money and jewelry. They struck gold abroad and returned home to be men. Everyone leaves now, but no one returns. If I were you, I wouldn’t have come back, not even for a wedding.”

“I’ve only been gone a few months.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “It sure looks like you’ve been away longer.”

I wanted to look in a mirror, examine my face. Did I look like a foreigner?

King Saleh breathed the ill winds of infirmity. The doctors advised a month’s rest in a moderate climate. The king and his courtiers moved to al-Mansoura, where the fresh breezes had healed many a disorder. He regained his health and returned to Cairo, only to relapse. He heard the knells.