The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

He looked wistfully out onto his garden. “I cannot marry another, my dear vizier. I am terribly in love with my wife. She can be ornery now and then, vain for sure, petulant and impetuous, silly at times, ill disposed toward the help, even malicious and malevolent when angry, but, still, she has always been the one for me.”

“No,” Fatima said. “Mine is bigger.” From under her dress, she took out her knife and cut his penis off and slit his throat.

“Ah, the smell of salt and sand,” Fatima told her companions. “There is no elixir on this blessed earth like it.”

“Being a bore is in itself unappealing,” our heroine said. “Being a bore and a liar to boot makes a man rebarbative, as well as dishonored. Lying with the Prophet’s words?

My father’s face told a different story. He looked wan, haggard, and old—very old. And thin. His wedding band danced upon its finger like a shower-curtain ring. He

“How lovely and bawdy that Baghdad poet was. I would have loved an opportunity to drink wine and match wits with Abu Nawas.

“Al-Mutanabbi was the greatest poet of the Arabic language, but more important, he is my favorite. He was blessed with the reckless audacity

“And al-Mutanabbi fought at the young prince’s side and praised him, immortalized him in verse so eloquent it has been known to make roses wilt in shame for not matching its beauty.

“How many tranquilizers have you taken?” Lina asked my aunt. “Have you gained weight?” Aunt Samia replied.

Each wanted the other to see the world his way,

never do they mention the Armenians. As if we were never there.”

The entire family had been at Aunt Samia’s apartment to celebrate Eid al-Adha, Abraham’s sacrifice, the only holiday the Druze celebrate. I loved Eid al-Adha.

“This is now the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron,” my grandfather said, as his finger settled on the fading map upon the rickety table, “where the sons of Sarah are still trying to cast out the sons of Hagar.”

“Why are you helping me?” “Because you need help.

“Why do I get the troublemakers? You are dying, and with your last breath you haggle. You must be Egyptian.”

“I shall help you,” Isaac said, counting the gold, “for I am fond of obstinate troublemakers.

Fatima descended farther into the tunnel. The air turned moist, made her feel heavier with each step. She held up her staff and lamp, saw moss the color of emerald filling every crevice, yet her path remained barren. Various night insects

roamed the moss, feeding, scurrying, creating a living, ever-changing Persian carpet.

Beyond the emerald gate, the air grew heavier still, reeking of an earthy stew. She came upon the mushrooms. Small at first, multihued, reds, sienna, ocher, browns, and greens. As she marched deeper, the numbers increased. Cuddled and coddled by the moist air, a metallic-blue mushroom grew as big as a shed. Next to it was one with velvet skin the color of avocado.

And Jacob said, “I will offer you help, dear mistress. The paths of folly are not always distinguishable from the ways of wisdom. Please, hurry.”

“Your light seems to be dimming,” Noah said. “I will offer help. Delete the need to understand. In this world and that of tales, the need is naught more than a hindrance.”

better.” Her lover opened his hand, and in his palm Fatima saw her decapitated hand. “That is my third hand,” she said. “And in it I will place my third eye,” he said. “This will be the proof of our union. Place it upon your person and no demon will dare hurt you. Place it above the door of your house and evil will never enter.”

“I come from a time when ink was still liquid and lush.” My grandfather broke silence as he stoked the fire. “None of this cheap Biro shit.

It was at an early age that he learned to entertain himself. Sticks became his companions, and stones his toys. His inner world redecorated the outer one. His imaginary friends proved more loyal than any

He regaled us with the story of Antar, the great black warrior poet. He was in the middle of the tale, but my soles spread roots into the tiles of the pavement. I was enchanted.

“How can I describe the first time I encountered my destiny? A god’s fire burned in

my breast, my heart aglow. In comparison, my life before that moment had moved at a sad and sluggish pace. Ah, Osama, I wish I could make you feel what it is like when you finally align yourself ...

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

“What happened to the nasty vizier?” “He went to France, where all the jealous people are.”

He announced he would like to tell the story of Antar, the great black poet. I shouted, ‘No,’ and I was by no means the only one. The hakawati apologized and asked, ‘Do you not like the story, gentlemen? I assure you it is the best tale ever told. Antar was the greatest of Muslim heroes, the most passionate of lovers, and most devoted to the faith.

As he reached a touching moment in the story, he had a habit of holding his hand out in front of him, palm toward God, as if offering Him that lovely moment or, better yet, offering Him the souls of all his listeners. When

Zeki told us about the desert birds attempting to distract Majnoun from suicide, he had a different whistle for each bird. On the way home, I was able to whistle the way he did, and I became very good at it. His whistling birds broke open my heart. ‘Oh, Majnoun,’ the desert wren whistled, ‘kill yourself not. Consider all pleasures life can offer,’ and the quail whistled, ‘Rediscover the enjoyment of eating. Do not forsake life.’ Bewitching.

“She arrived on a flying carpet,” said one of the courtiers. “I saw her. She descended from the heavens.” “The underworld is not up there,” the vizier said. “No man has ever descended to a demon’s lair and made it back alive. This tale is a lie. I would suggest the slave girl offer some proof of her exotic journey.” “Would you be willing to place a wager?” Fatima asked. “If I produce proof, are you willing to surrender everything you have on you at this moment?” And the vizier agreed. Fatima brought her left palm to her face and blew on it. Red dust appeared, multiplied, and formed a cloud that hovered before her. The imp Ishmael ran out of the dust. His brother Isaac followed, toward the vizier. “I claim all the gold,” he said. Fatima’s breath turned into orange dust upon touching her palm, and Ezra jumped out. Jacob ran out yelling, “The jewelry is all mine.” Job disagreed. “It is mine, I tell you.” The dust kept swirling above Fatima’s palm, then turned blue, and Noah emerged, followed by Elijah. Violet Adam was last. “I must catch my breath,” Fatima said.

The eight little demons climbed all over the vizier, undressed him, relieved him of all possessions. They left him naked, mouth agape in shock. A mistake. “Help me, Ishmael,” Isaac said, pointing at the vizier’s mouth. The red brothers jumped back onto the vizier’s head. Isaac and Ishmael came away with his gold teeth. “Quite a reasonable return,” Noah said. “She bargains well,” Isaac said. “She is from Alexandria. We shall be rich in no time. A most fortunate partnership.”

“Next time, try to bet with someone wearing fur,” Ezra said. “I love sable.” “You think as small as your mother’s vagina,” said Adam. “Next time, Sitt Fatima, have someone wager a harem.” Fatima blew into her palm again, and white ...

think that was proof enough,” she said, smiling lazily at the emir and smoothing the creases of her robe w...

So—what do you think of the emir’s story?” Fatima asked Afreet-Jehanam. She was lying in her lover’s arms, on the bed of slithering snakes, relaxing and unwinding. She could feel the changes in her body, but she still did not look pregnant. The jinni, stroking her sensuously, said, “The emir is a good storyteller.” She shifted her naked weight onto her elbow so she could face him. The snakes released by her movement rearranged themselves. “Is it a good adventure story?” Afreet-Jehanam stretched and yawned. “The story of Baybars is many lifetimes old. There are numerous versions.” “I am loving it,” said Ishmael, who was on his knees scrubbing the floor. The imps busied themselves with their chores. Hither and thither they ran. “Me, too,” Noah chimed in. “It is a delightful story.”

Suddenly all the snakes hissed as one, and the scorpions raised their tails and readied their stingers. The crows and bats descended in droves from above. Afreet-Jehanam sat up, a snarl upon his face. But the snarl remained frozen like that of a once-feared predator after a visit to the taxidermist. A magician in white robes and a long white beard materialized out of nothingness. His hand

Ten minutes later, the class was in an uproar. Madame Shammas announced on the intercom that we all should get our things ready to be picked up. The Israelis had begun the war.

“The name of the magician is King Kade, the master of light,” Ishmael said. “He loathes the underworld and its inhabitants,” Ezra said.

“He is obsessed with jinn,” Ishmael said, “but he does not attempt to use our power. He kidnaps the powerful jinn and tortures them. He chains and whips them, forces them to work on his palaces before he kills them. He had Mithras, the mighty demon, paint a giant mural of bucolic scenes. As he painted, King Kade’s angels threw darts at him and they touched up the mural with dabs of white, dab, dab, dart, dab, dab, dart. And then King Kade sucked the life out of Mithras. Oh, Afreet-Jehanam, my poor brother. What tragedy awaits you.”

One by one, the little imps’ facial expressions changed, their demeanor transformed. Ishmael stood up first. “I may not be of any use at the great encounter, but I will make sure you get there.” “And I will confound his armies,” Job said. “I will get the carpet,” said Noah. “Get a few,” said Elijah. “It is a long trip—why be cramped?”

“Come, my lovelies,” Jacob said. He raised his arms and created a yellow orb of mist above his head. The bats flew into it and disappeared. Elijah invited the crows into his sphere, and Adam brought the snakes, the scorpions, and the spiders.

am in a foul mood. When I bleed, that so-called holy magician of light is not what I want to talk about.” The healer turned around and walked into her cottage. Fatima and her entourage followed. “Stop being childish and churlish. You are needed.”

“Leave me,” Bast said, trying to stare Fatima down. “No.” Fatima sat upon one of the barrels in the room, as she had once before. “At least tell your companions to disappear. They are so colorful they sour my eyes.” “Self-centered witch,” Elijah harrumphed, and he vanished, leaving a barely discernible indigo cloud that dissipated quickly.

“What is wrong with color?” Ezra asked. “Are you some big-city artist? Oh, never mind.” And he, too, disappeared into his orange cloud, f...

They turned into cats. Isaac became a red Abyssinian and Ishmael an Egyptian Mau with dark eyes. And the Alexandrian healer laughed. “Still too red,” Bast said. Isaac wined his red and meowed.

They flew higher and higher, Fatima with the wind in her hair and the imps beside her, three carpets with three passengers each.

The carpets turned fractious and began to misbehave. The company was forced to alight in a green meadow with shin-high grass. Noah folded the three carpets into wallet-sized squares and swallowed them.

Umm Kalthoum carried the melody, sang of love in Egyptian dialect, and the words of longing made sense.