The Hakawati (22 page)

The convoy entered Damascus, where its ruler, Issa al-Nasser, saw the Circassians and told the slaver, “Those boys look more like women than men,” and when he saw the others added, “These are a little better,” and when he saw Mahmoud, “This one is too ill. Why did you not discard him along the way and save yourself the burden?”

In the morning, when they were leaving Damascus, one of the slaver’s debtors stopped him. “You owe me one hundred dinars,” the man said, “and I will not let you leave without payment.”

The slaver said, “Brother, let me pass this one time. I am on an urgent mission for the king. I have a royal decree. You will get paid, but let it not be now.”

“Then I will take this boy until I get paid.”

Mahmoud’s new owner took him to his wife, whose name was Wasila, and who was the meanest of women, as mean as seven hives of African wasps. She examined the sickly lad. “He is not much of a boy, but he will do,” and she began to assign him the difficult jobs: carrying the mortar from one room to the next, cleaning the outhouse, filing the corns and bunions on her feet. Mahmoud grew sicker, yet Wasila would not relent. “He is going to die soon anyway,” she was heard to say, “so why should I not make use of his brief stay in the world?”

And the boy ran away. He walked into the desert. That night, the
twenty-seventh of Ramadan, the holy month, Mahmoud lay down on the sand to die. He had been ill for too long. He was hungry, thirsty, and alone. But the hours passed and he neither slept nor died. When the night was two-thirds spent, by God’s will the sky opened its doors and there appeared before Mahmoud’s young eyes a dome of light so pure. From the heavens the light shone upon the land. He saw everything before him for leagues and leagues. He heard no sound, no rooster crow, no dog bark, no tree rustle. This was the true Night of Fate. The boy stood on his feet with difficulty and announced upward, “Hear me, O Lord. I beg Your forgiveness and plead for Your mercy. I beseech Thee, Almighty, in honor of this sacred, propitious night, to grant me this wish. Make me a king. Let me rule Egypt and the Levant and the rest of the lands of Islam. Bless me with victories over Your enemies and mine. Between my shoulders, plant the resolve of forty men, and I will sow Your will upon this earth. Make me Your king. Make me Your servant. You are the grantor. You are the powerful. You are the merciful. There is no God but You.”

And the boy was healed.

The next morning, Mahmoud returned to his mistress, Wasila, and begged her forgiveness for running away. “Forgiveness is not mine to give,” Wasila said, “and neither is mercy, so do not ask.” She pulled the boy by the ear, dragged him to the backyard, and tied him to a pole. First she slapped his face, then she hit him. But she decided that was not enough of a punishment. She built a fire and raised a burning stick to flog him with. And God sent her sister-in-law, Latifah, to knock on her door. When Latifah entered, Mahmoud yelled, “I am at your mercy, my lady, for I am your neighbor.”

Latifah saw the boy and pleaded with Wasila: “Forgive this boy, for my sake.” And Wasila said, “I do not forgive, nor do I wish to, and who are you to interfere with my affairs?”

Sitt Latifah grew angry. She untied the boy and walked him over to her house. And she called for a judge and for two notaries.

When her brother arrived to claim the boy, Sitt Latifah asked in front of witnesses, “Have you bought this boy?” and her brother replied, “No. He is mine as security. His owner owes me one hundred dinars, and I will not let go of him until I receive my payment.”

Sitt Latifah paid her brother one hundred dinars. “The boy is now mine.” She turned to the judge and the notaries. “Ask this man, my
brother, whether I have anything of his that belonged to our mother or father.” They did, and her brother replied that nothing of hers was his. “Then note this down,” Sitt Latifah said, “for I do not wish him or his to claim anything at a future date. And note this, and make it binding. All my money and all that is mine, all that I own and all that my hand grasps, belongs to this boy once I depart this world. If God will have me, I will leave with only a piece of cloth, and the rest will remain with the boy, whom I will take as my son. I will call him Baybars, the name of my deceased son, for he looks like him. To all I have said, you are witnesses.”

Samia’s son Anwar and Tin Can rolled in a gurney topped with crates of food, forcing everyone to move closer together. The aroma of roast lamb instantly vanquished the medicinal smells. Lina was about to say something, but she held back, overcome and overwhelmed.

“No, no,” Aunt Samia said. “Take it outside. There’s not enough space in the room. There’s more family coming. We can serve ourselves.”

“So much food,” Aunt Nazek said.

“So much of us,” Aunt Samia replied. “And what about the other patients? Who’s going to bring them lamb on Eid al-Adha?”

“My lovely Samia,” my father said, “what have you done? You’re going to have Adha here? In a hospital room?”

Aunt Samia looked confused and unsure. “Of course she is,” Lina piped in. “Since we can’t take you to her house, she brings her house to you.”

“Exactly,” Aunt Samia said. “What did you think? I even brought my silverware and china. I’m not going to have my Adha meal on cheap plates. Do you know how long it took the boys to get everything up here? Two lambs I cooked. Not a smidgen of salt. You’re my brother. For you, I won’t put salt in my meal, but only for you. Now, where’s everybody else?”

Baybars became Sitt Latifah’s blessed son, and she doted on him. One day, as mother and son walked through the souk, Baybars admired a bow. The merchant asked if he liked it, and the boy told him it was
magnificent. The merchant said the bow was made by a famous hero two hundred years earlier, had been used by none other than the great Saladin, and Baybars could have such a masterpiece for the measly sum of two dinars. Baybars said, “My dear man, that is a bargain. This is the most beautiful instrument I have seen.” Sitt Latifah giggled. Baybars blushed and asked, “Are you laughing at me, dear lady?”

And Sitt Latifah replied, “No, my son, I am laughing at fate.”

She removed her veil, and the merchant saw her face and bowed. “My lady,” he said. “Please accept my apologies. I did not know.”

Latifah ignored the seller and spoke to her son. “This is not a bow worthy of you. It is cheap, terribly crafted, and has a will of its own. No warrior has ever touched it or ever will. Come, allow me to show you your destiny.” When she reached their house, Sitt Latifah led Baybars through the courtyard. She stood before a door, took a key from her cleavage, and opened the door. Baybars saw a hall with hundreds of bows and thousands of arrows, enough for an entire army. He picked the closest bow and realized he had been naïve. The merchant had lied. And his mother said, “I am called Latifah the bowmaker, because my father was a bowmaker, and my grandfather was before him, and his father was before that. All the heroes of our world had to visit Damascus to purchase bows from our workshop. And you, my glorious Baybars, stumble upon its hearth.” Sitt Latifah gestured toward the entire room. “This is now yours. All of it belongs to you, but it may behoove you to pick one weapon and call it yours.”

At first, Baybars considered the bows, but then he looked around and saw daggers, spears, bows, and swords that shone with a heavenly brilliance and beauty. One Damascene sword looked common, did not call attention to itself. He picked it up and noticed the exquisite workmanship. He placed it under his belt, and the sword radiated warmth to his belly.

One morning, Baybars watched another boy carry a pail up a ladder leaning against the barn. The boy entered an upper door, and Baybars followed him. Baybars saw the boy tying a rope around the pail’s handle and asked him what he was doing. “I have to feed al-Awwar,” the boy replied. “He will not let anybody into the barn, so the only way we can feed him is to lower his food from up here.” Baybars looked over the edge and saw a great blue-black horse huffing and puffing, pawing at the ground. “Is he really one-eyed?” Baybars asked.

“No,” the boy answered. “His eyes are as keen as a falcon’s. He is called Awwar because he has a white patch over one eye only. Do you see it?”

“Yes, and he has a white mustache as well.”

“True,” the boy said, “but do not make fun or he will get very angry. He is terribly fond of his mustache. And do you see the curvy white lines between his shoulders? The mistress says these lines run exactly like the Euphrates and the Nile.”

“Then this is my horse,” Baybars said. “I will ride him.”

The boy informed Baybars that no one could ride the horse, but Baybars untied the rope from the pail and knotted it around his waist. “Let me down and you will see.” The boy held on to the rope, Baybars descended slowly, and al-Awwar stared. The horse snorted, retreated, and then attacked. Baybars began to climb the rope as it was being let down. Al-Awwar’s head struck Baybars’s buttocks, and he began to swing like the tongue of a church bell. He called for help. Al-Awwar watched with a bemused look. After Baybars was pulled back to the top, he leaned over the edge and spoke these words: “I shall return.”

An army sergeant by the name of Lou’ai arrived at the house that afternoon and asked if he could speak to Baybars. The sergeant said, “My lord, I understand you wish to ride a great horse, and I have one for sale. Please, let me show you.” And there, on the street, was a magnificent roan stallion. “You can have him for forty dinars only. He is worth a lot more, but I can no longer keep him. He has been my trustworthy companion, but I have not been paid for months. I cannot feed my children, let alone feed him. He deserves a good owner.”

Baybars saw the horse’s eyes follow every move of Sergeant Lou’ai. “This is your horse,” Baybars said. “You should not be separated, for you have been faithful to each other.” He asked the sergeant to wait. He went into the house and returned with fifty dinars. “I offer this for teaching me a lesson in loyalty. May your horse continue to be your honest companion for many years to come.”

“Your generosity claims no boundaries,” the sergeant said. “The doors of paradise will forever be open to you.”

On the second day, back in the barn, the servant boy lowered Baybars, who held an apple in his hand. Al-Awwar approached and smelled the apple. He snorted, retreated, and attacked. He hit Baybars in the exact same spot as on the previous day, and Baybars went swinging again. This time, Baybars did not call for help. On the third day, Baybars
was dropped with two pears. Al-Awwar approached, smelled the pears, and ate them. Baybars was pleased. When the horse finished his meal, he snorted, retreated, and attacked. Baybars swung happily. On the fourth day, Baybars was dropped with a bunch of grapes. Al-Awwar had him swinging after finishing off the fruit. On the fifth day, Baybars had seven figs, and al-Awwar ate to his heart’s content and allowed the bearer to stay. But the horse would not let Baybars approach him. Whenever Baybars moved, the horse was sure to sidestep in the opposite direction. “Allow me on your back,” Baybars pleaded. “Let me see the rivers and the land between your shoulders, for I will rule these lands one day. Be my horse, be my friend.”

On the sixth day, Baybars descended with three sheets of amareddine, the dried-apricot paste. And this time, the horse loved the feast so much he licked Baybars’s face, but when Baybars bent to pick up the saddle, al-Awwar attacked again.

That night, Baybars complained to Sitt Latifah, and she said, “No one has been able to ride al-Awwar, because he is a war stallion. He can only be ridden by a great warrior.”

“But I will be a great warrior.”

“So will every boy,” Latifah said. “I cannot help you. I can, however, tell you a story about our great stallions. Listen, and hear me. Once, a long time ago, in an age long past, in a time of heroes and wars, there were three stallions. Heroes had ridden them during many battles, from one war to the next. The three horses grew old and weary. The heroes who had inherited them decided to set their steeds free as a reward for their years of faithful service. The horses were unbridled and unsaddled, unyoked into the wilds. The horses ran with the sand winds. Free at last. The heroes watched them gallop with an abandon that had not been seen in years. The horses ran toward a river to drink and wash themselves. Suddenly the sound of a bugle was heard, and the horses froze. The river lay before them, the bugle sound behind, and the great horses were torn. The heroes watched aghast as their stallions returned to them at a slow trot. A boy had amused himself by playing the bugle, and the horses returned for war. Those horses were the ancestors of all the great Arabians, which is why all warriors, from the far isles of Europe to the great mountains of China, have descendants of the three horses as their steeds.”