The Hakawati

by Rabih Alameddine

it seemed the tune was created only for her delivery of these words. She repeated each line, once, twice, three times, more, until it vibrated within me. I listened, ears open, mouth open, eyes wide. When she finished the melody, the room shook. Men applauded, stood up, yelled at the radio.

“Long may you live!” “Again. One more time.” “May God keep you!” “It didn’t happen,” a man said to the radio. “You have to do it again.” She did. She...

her audience shouting encouragement to the singer. The leader of the imaginary orchestra repeated an elongated “Ya Allah” after each verse; his eyes rolled up, looking at the tobacco-stained ceiling as if asking Him to come down and listen. Each ...

When she finished the melody the second time, the audience erupted, the room was in an uproar. A short man stood on a table and shouted, “Allah-u-akbar.” Uncle Jihad looked radiantly happy. She began the same melody again. I was in ecstasy. The room sho...

still, she waited a little and then launched into a new melody. Same song, same key, a slightly different track, further elaboration of her longing. She repeated this version only twice, then went back to the first, after which she launched into a third melody, did not repeat it. Then first melody again, third, ...

There were many other reasons for the bey to fend for the Arisseddine family. The beys, in all their history and incarnations, were never altruistic. It was obvious while my great-grandfather was still in school with the missionaries that he was brighter than the other village boys. The bey

wanted the most intelligent man beholden to him, so he paid for his medical schooling. The bey also hated the fact that someone was smarter than he was, which was why he never tired of having the young man run menial errands for him.

They would need a new source of loyalty. Mahdallah Arisseddine and his family, particularly his second son, Jalal, would prove to be the bey’s boon in later years. But now I’m ahead of myself.

Do you care if they all grow up to be gypsies with no morals?

Yikes

Maybe you want them to grow up to be Kurds?”

when she was alone, she no longer wanted to be. “Ishmael,” she said, “come.” And Ishmael popped up next to her in bed. “What an awful-looking room,” he said. “You want your child to grow up to be a scholar?” “Do something, then.”

“With pleasure,” Ishmael replied gleefully. “Hold on,” said a materializing Isaac. “I will do it,” said Elijah. “You have no taste.” “Go home,” said Ishmael. “She asked me to do it.” His seven brothers ignored him. Adam turned the drapes

violet and Noah changed them to blue. Ezra and Elijah had a wrestling match over the carpet. Fatima’s bedspread had four competing pattern designs. By the time she yelled, “Stop,” the room was a disaster, clashing gaudiness in ever...

My mother emerged from the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Whenever she felt pressured, whenever she felt she was fighting alone against the world, the first thing she did was make sure she looked her best.

The driver opened the door, and I exited. Fatima slid over on the seat and held out her hand, the only skin exposed. Two emerald rings bewitched my eyes. She gently pulled on my hand, helped herself out of the car, and strolled ahead of me, a billowing, flapping black ghost. The clack of her high heels on the pavement, the head held

aloft, made her seem like royalty traveling incognito. A group of three veiled women turned their heads as she passed them. Two men ran to check the license plate of the car, and one of them dialed his cell phone. Fatima walked through the glass doors of the mall seemingly oblivious, but I knew better. I hurried in after her. She didn’t slow her step inside, didn’t look right or left. The black abayeh was not as formless as it first appeared, its finely sewn lines and folds accentuating her buxom and indolent body. Shoppers whispered in hushed tones as she passed. Men looked utterly confused, their faces showing naked lust and fear. They had no means to approach her.

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 ou...

“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 ...

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...

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.

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 n...

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....

the woman in question is, of course, my mother. What did my father tell Hovik that day? How did he win my mother? He saw her for the first time while she was walking with a friend on Bliss Street.

Night of Fate and was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad over a period of twenty-three years. During the Night of Fate, God listens to sincere supplicants, grants prayers, and forgives sins. The Night falls during Ramadan, the holiest of months, but God has not revealed its exact date, because He wants believers to worship Him during the entire month. Some say it falls on the night when the moon’s horns refill the circle, yet it is also said that the Prophet hinted that believers should seek it on the odd nights of the last ten days of Ramadan.

his victories over the Crusaders, like Saladin’s, were temporary, for whenever ferment spread in Europe, nervous kings and popes called for new crusades. There were so many crusades. You know, when the knights of the First Crusade landed on our shores, they massacred the entire population of Beirut without showing mercy on a single soul before heading toward Jerusalem—all

all of Beirut, every citizen was killed. And after the Great War, in 1918, when the French arrived with their fleet of innumerable warships, the first governor, General Henri Gouraud, announced upon landing in Beirut, ‘Saladin, we have returned.’ Believe me, Baybars did not defeat the Crusaders. No one did.

In 1982, a couple of months after the infernal Israelis blew up the dealership during an

aerial bombardment, and after their siege of Beirut, I went home for Christmas. The city was mired in civil war and occupied by Israeli troops, but that didn’t stop my mother from asking me to take four-year-old Salwa for a walk while she got a manicure and pedicure.

“Surrender. Pain is proportional to wanting the world to be other than it is.”

A brief list of sources that provided the most beans: A Thousand and One Nights (uncensored), Ovid’s Metamorphoses, the Old Testament, the Koran, W. A. Clouston’s Flowers from a Persian Garden, Italo Calvino’s Italian Folktales, Kalila wa Dimna (uncensored), Ahmad al-Tifashi’s The Delight of Hearts, Ibn Hazm’s The Ring of the Dove, Mahmoud Khalil Saab’s Stories and Scenes from Mount Lebanon, Homer’s Iliad, Jim Crace’s The Devil’s Larder, The Letters of Abelard and Heloise, Ida Alamuddin’s Maktoob, Shakespeare’s plays, numerous Internet folktale sites, and quite a few books of Syrian and Lebanese folktales bought for pennies from street vendors.