The Hakawati (74 page)

On the fortieth day after King Saleh’s death, the king’s council met at the diwan to elect a new leader of the faith. “I should be king,” said many a council member. King Saleh’s widow, Shajarat al-Durr, sent a note with one of her attendants that said, “I am fit to rule.” Some demanded, “The new king must be Arab,” but others came back with “The king should be Turkoman.” The Kurds refused any such suggestion. “There shall be no king who is not a descendant of the king. King Saleh has a son in the city of Tikrit called Issa Touran Shah. He must be king.” The council agreed and dispatched Kurdish envoys with a letter informing their kinsman Issa Touran Shah that he was the new sultan of Islam.

The envoys found the new king drunk in Tikrit, his face buried in the generous breasts of an Ethiopian slave girl, his lips devouring her supple skin. “What can I do for you?” he muttered in between grunts.
The messenger handed him the letter, and Issa Touran Shah in turn gave the letter to his girl. “Read it to me,” he said. “My eyes have a higher priority.”

“The world is not everlasting,” read the slave girl. “Your father has passed away.”

“That is bad,” followed by what sounded like the squeal of a piglet.

“You are now king.”

“That is better,” followed by what sounded like the snore of a sated glutton.

King Issa Touran Shah left Tikrit and headed toward the great city of Cairo. In the great city, the king visited the tomb of his father, where he kissed the ground, read the Fatiha, and asked God to guide His servant. God may have guided the king, but wine complicated the directions. In the diwan, he teetered upon his chair, and Prince Baybars whispered in his ear, “Fear God and cease your drinking. Your subjects deserve a sober ruler.” The king promised to drink no more, but he appeared sheepish and even more inebriated the following day.

Prince Baybars complained to Othman, “Alcohol should not influence the decisions of the ruler of Islam. We must open his eyes.”

“My wife believes she can persuade him to stop drinking,” Othman said, “but I do not trust him. I have seen the way he looks at women. It is not natural.”

“If she can inspire him to wisdom,” Baybars said, “we must seek her help.”

Layla informed Othman that she needed to get into the king’s chambers. “I will not have you in his room,” Othman objected. “No respectable woman enters a man’s chambers unless they are her husband’s.” Layla replied, “I will take some friends.”

Layla and three companions, retired luscious doves, waited for the king to fall asleep. They hid behind the largest curtain, joined by Harhash and Othman, who refused to have his wife in the room without him. When the muezzin called the faithful for the prayers of dawn, Layla shook King Issa Touran Shah out of his slumbering stupor. “Wake,” she said sternly. “It is time for prayers.”

The king rubbed his heavy eyes and sat up. “My prayers have been answered. Show me your breasts.”

Layla slapped the king so hard his neck almost swiveled full-circle. Behind the curtain, Harhash whispered, “I do not think you have to worry about your honor.”

“Why did you hit me?” cried the king. “You are my subject. Behave accordingly.” Layla double-slapped him, palm out and back of the hand. “Stop that,” he yelped. She raised her hand to strike him again, and he cowered. “I am the king.”

“You are a dog.” Layla threw the terrified king to the floor and pulled his hair. He tried to move away but recoiled when he saw the other doves emerge from behind the curtain. They slapped him in order, one by one.

“You are an embarrassment,” the first admonished.

“You are lower than human waste,” said the second.

“Your father is suffering in heaven.”

“Who are you?” asked the king.

“Remove the drapes of drink from your eyes,” yelled Layla. “Can you not see?”

“You are the leader of the kingdom of Islam.” The first dove kicked him.

“We are here to protect our faith.” The second dove threw him at the wall.

“No,” whined the king. “This cannot be. God’s women are gentle and kind.”

“Be quiet.” Slap.

“God is rarely kind,” said the third dove.

“And neither are we,” added Layla. “We are here to guard our own. Follow the word of God, Issa Touran Shah. Do not equivocate. Our eyes follow you. Falter and we will return. If you have even one sip of wine, you will think we were kind on this visit.”

“Not one sip. Do not fail us.”

“Fear us.”

“Tremble.” Each luscious dove smacked the sobered king before leaving the room.

In Paris, King Louis IX saw sparkles and glitter in his dreams and decided to invade the kingdom of the faithful, following in the footsteps of many a foreign king before him. “The Muslim king is an inept drunkard,” King Louis said. “My dreams speak of untold treasures in the fool’s coffers. I will be wealthy beyond my wildest imaginings, all for the glory of God. And God, ever so benevolent, does not require that I pay for His army out of my assets. Inform the faithful that donations are needed to pay for the soldiers of God, troops to force Arab
tongues to speak His name. We ask for money to spread His word in the inhospitable desert. Praise be.”

Louis raised a great army and promised them riches. They sailed across the Mediterranean and landed in Egypt, where they laid siege to Damietta. Greed coursed through King Louis’s veins, and he split his army in two. He kept the siege going and sent half his army to al-Mansoura. Need I remind you that greed is always fatal?

The day after the doves’ visitation, King Issa Touran Shah appeared in his diwan weary and clearheaded. Baybars and the kingdom’s viziers were pleased. The king whispered in Baybars’s ear, “I have followed your counsel and have eschewed vice.” The king ruled justly for seven days. On the eighth, a messenger arrived with a missive from the mayor of Damietta: “O Prince of believers, morning prayers were interrupted on this day and the air darkened. A king of the foreigners has landed on our shore and crawled inland with his army. Help us and guide us, leader of the faith, and may God guide you in eternal victories.”

“What am I to do?” asked the king.

“I will lead the first wave of your army into battle,” said Baybars. “The infidels are attacking us. Declare jihad and call on all the armies of Islam. Follow me with the second wave, and together we will destroy the army of foreign locusts.”

“Brilliant,” exclaimed the king.

Baybars had the peasants of Egypt divert the waters of the Nile toward King Louis’s army. The foreign horses drowned, and the exhausted soldiers struggled to extricate themselves from the great river. This time, al-Awwar wasted no time, heading straight for King Louis. The hilt of Baybars’s sword struck the foreigner, and he fell unconscious. Baybars marched toward Damietta, where he met King Issa Touran Shah and the army of Islam, led by the slave general, Qutuz the indefatigable. The army of believers attacked, and the foreigners were killed left and right. Touran Shah watched the battle from a promontory. Prince Baybars rode up the hill to inform the king of his glorious victory. Our hero saw the king bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

Baybars chided, “Shame on you, my king. You had repented.”

The king replied, “Forgive me. In the joy of victory, I forgot my oath.”

He dumped the contents onto the rock before him and threw the goblet up into the sky. But fortune was not with him that day. The cup hit a solitary falcon in flight. Dazed, the bird fell and touched down on the back of the unsuspecting king’s turbaned head. When the frightened king tried to shoo the falcon off, the bird dug its claws in. Fluttering wings obstructed the king’s view. He tumbled forward, and flew off the hill to his inglorious death.

My niece’s belly left the elevator before her. She waddled toward the patient rooms, not looking in our direction. I waved my arm. She saw me and smiled. She had a much better poker face than I did, not registering any surprise at the sight of Aunt Wasila and Dida so early in the morning. “My feet are killing me,” she said.

I told my aunt I’d be back and walked Salwa to the room. “You don’t have to stay with them,” she said. “Hovik is parking the car and will be right up. He actually likes them. You don’t want to be there when Aunt Samia arrives and realizes she’s not early enough to beat her rival.”

“You want to spare me the stress but force it on your husband?”

“Hovik finds the family fascinating. He’d want to be there. He considers being around our family an anthropological study.” She stopped and looked at me. “You enjoy it as well, don’t you? You’re like Hovik, an inveterate watcher.” I shrugged, smiling. She resumed her waddle.

“I got you something,” she said. “Hovik is bringing it up. Don’t argue with me, and I don’t want any shit from my mother, either. I’m warning you.”

“Argue with you about what?”

Salwa went up to my father and touched his hand. “Grandfather,” she said, “I saw Aunt Wasila outside, and she was asking about you. Isn’t it funny that she’s here? Can you hear me?”

Hovik and Salwa met in February 2000. She had a stomachache and was running a high fever. She went to the emergency room and was seen by the resident, Hovik. The diagnosis was simple, since a few cases of
Helicobacter pylori
had been reported recently, but it took long enough for the young doctor to fall in love while taking her case history. Cupid struck Hovik’s heart with the gold-tipped arrow, whereas it was the one with a tip of dull, blunt lead that pierced my niece to the marrow. He was smitten at first sight, and she recoiled in disgust. She
was, after all, her mother’s daughter, weaned on the bitter stews of love’s folly.

When asked why she was repelled at that first meeting, my niece said, “Well, look at me. What the hell did he see? I’m not that pretty under normal circumstances, and at the time I looked and felt horrible. I had been throwing up all morning and had severe diarrhea to boot. Fever was burning me up while the fool’s heart caught fire. I thought the man was a pervert. I had no doubt. I felt nauseated and nauseating, and the doctor asked me for a date? A yucky, weirdo pervert, unprofessional, and too handsome for his own good.”

Yes, he was handsome—terribly handsome. He was so handsome that women would develop imaginary aches and pains, palpitations, colic, and severe distress, yet he was captivated by the only one who had no interest in him whatsoever. He called her on her mobile phone; she yelled at him and hung up. He called again to apologize, she threatened to call the hospital and get him fired. He sent a note of flowery apology with a dozen roses. My niece told her mother, who drove to the hospital and announced in front of everyone that she would dissect his internal organs one by one if he didn’t leave her daughter alone. Hovik came to his senses. He stopped.

But you don’t trample upon fate. In May, my father had to have an updated pacemaker installed. As my sister and niece were returning to the hospital from lunch, Lina noticed a couple of young doctors in the lobby. One appeared stunned, rooted, mouth agape, eyes following Salwa’s path. My niece walked on, oblivious, and Hovik remained oblivious to anything but my niece. Maybe it was the look of despair upon his face, maybe it was the look of adoration, but it certainly was a look my sister recognized well. She saw herself in the young doctor. He’d won a silent convert. My niece was smack back in his narrative.

“I can see your problem,” the other young resident told Hovik. And that young resident, trying to impress, told the doctor in the cardiac unit that Hovik was infatuated with a relative of one of his patients. He had no idea that Tin Can was family. Tin Can told my father, who of course demanded a confrontation with the ill-bred lackey. Tin Can informed him that the lackey had done nothing wrong and that he would talk to the young man himself.

Hovik was embarrassed when Tin Can confronted him. He waited until my father was alone and paid him a visit in his hospital room, that
fateful day a few years ago. Hovik introduced himself, asked about my father’s health, and finally begged my father’s forgiveness. “I’ve made a grave mistake,” Hovik said. He made my father promise to listen to his whole story. He would appear the cad, he was guilty, but if my father listened to his entire tale, he might understand.

Hovik explained how he met my niece. He admitted how badly he had behaved. He was possessed by the demon of love. How else could he explain it? He could have destroyed his career. How could he have called her when she specifically warned him not to? But he had stopped. He was in control. It was the shock of seeing her once more that had confounded him. He would disturb her no more. He was not wanted.

“You mean to take my granddaughter away from me?” my father asked.

“Meant,” Hovik replied. “That is no longer the case, I assure you.”

“Fool.” And my father told Hovik how he had won my mother, how much he loved her, how he had wooed her, how much he missed her. “Fool,” he repeated. “You tried to win Salwa with clichés? Who sends roses anymore? My granddaughter hates roses. It’s spring. Send her crocuses, hyacinths, and narcissi. Her favorite color is yellow. Daffodils. You’ll have to woo her with her poetry—not yours. Polish up on your R’s, Rimbaud and Rilke—they’re her favorites. She hates movies. Don’t even try. And you’re too pretty. Get a bad haircut. Wear clothes that don’t match. And don’t, and I mean don’t ever, suggest a walk on the beach or a candlelit dinner. She would as soon slit your throat. Listen to her. Always listen to her.”