My Friends

by Hisham Matar

“Yes, I want him to be near me. A good conversationalist, proud, not afraid of the lofty heights.” “Beautiful,” Mother said, and said it more to herself. “I want him to be a singer, one who knows and loves a good song, can play an instrument, the oud or the ney, and preferably both. I want him to be a good mourner, know how to attend to the pain of others, a consoler who could assuage the grief I have for all those I loved and befriended and who are no longer here. I want him to be a healer, an expert in all that troubles me. I want him to be a fire that annihilates all danger that lies ahead and behind me and that which I have, somehow, without his help, found a way to avoid. I want him to be faithful—” “Faithful,” my mother echoed. “Incapable of deception. I want him to be constant—” “Constant,” several now echoed, as if in agreement that Malak’s words had launched themselves into poetry. “Constant in his love and in his prayers and, when those prayers are not answered, I want him to change reality with his own hands. I want him to be my lord—” “My lord.”