The Hakawati (30 page)

“Come sit next to me,” Mariella said, laughing, mischievous, and coquettish. She sat on the faded yellow concrete wall that surrounded the building next to ours. Her legs dangled above the seven tiles in a single pile. She crossed her legs, which hiked her skirt a little higher.

Lina bristled. “Aren’t you going to hit the damn tiles?” she asked Hafez, who held the tennis ball and stared agog at Mariella.

“It’s a stupid game,” Mariella said. “Come sit here and let the children play.” She leaned back, tried to look as adult as possible.

“Can’t you sit somewhere else?” Fatima said. “We’re playing here. You’re right above the tiles.”

“I sit where I please.”

“Go sit with her,” Fatima told me. “If that’s what you want, just go.”

“We don’t need you,” Lina said. “And you’re too slow anyway.”

I joined Mariella on the wall. “Aren’t you going to come and play the oud for us?” she said. “My father keeps asking about you. You should visit.” The ball came hurtling six times in a row, but the tiles remained standing. Mariella pretended to be completely unaware
there was a game anywhere in our vicinity. Then the tennis ball, seemingly from out of nowhere, smacked her left thigh. She shrieked.

“Sorry,” Fatima said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Good shot,” Lina said. The other kids were all laughing.

“You’re a whore, Fatima,” Mariella said. “You’re nothing but a whore.”

I heard the roar of Elie’s motorcycle before it appeared. He turned the corner onto our street, his sunglasses reflecting the afternoon sun. All the kids stopped to stare. Dressed in militia fatigues, he looked much older than he was but still much too young to be driving a motorcycle. He stormed by us without a glance, got off his bike in front of our building. His mother ran out of their apartment to greet him. She hesitated, then slowly, wordlessly, stroked his hair with her right hand, and held it out gently, as if pointing out to him that it was a bit long.

I slid forward to jump off the wall and run over to Elie. Mariella gripped my arm and dug her fingernails into my skin, almost drawing blood. I looked back at her, but she was watching Elie. His father came out, shouting. “Where’ve you been, you son of a dog?” Elie strode past him into the building. His mother stared at their backs.

She felt him. Of that, at least, she was sure. Fatima steered her carpet into the thick clouds. Inside, blinded by white, she ascended slowly, through viscous sky instead of moist, through oleaginous instead of damp. As she approached the topmost layer, as sunlight began to seep in, she felt as if she was slogging through mud. Her progress slowed to a crawl. Breaking through, she saw the castle of mist in the distance. It seemed solid at first glance, but it changed its shape unhurriedly. A tower would shrink, a window appear, a ramp vanish, the whole ever shifting, with a mind of its own. She alit at the gate. As she had expected, she was able to walk on the clouds. The gate slid open for her, and she entered King Kade’s domain. Inside the unfurnished castle, she felt vulnerable, unable to get her bearings. The hall changed with every step. Warily, she moved toward the door, which disappeared when she attempted to open it.

“King Kade, King Kade,” she called to the cavernous space. “Are you not tired of these silly games?” She unsheathed her sword from its
scabbard, slashed the wall in front of her. The blade met no resistance. Walls of cloud. She walked through.

Fatima tried on lipstick in front of Mrs. Farouk’s vanity mirror. “I think dark reds suit me better, don’t you?”

“Why’s your name Fatima?” I asked.

“There’s nothing wrong with my name.” Her face creased up in anger, which made her look like a younger replica of her mother, particularly with the weird lipstick.

“I didn’t say there’s anything wrong with it. I just asked why. Don’t yell at me.”

I stood up, but she pushed me back onto the bed. “Then don’t ask stupid questions.”

“It’s not stupid. You can’t have two sisters and one is called an Italian name and the other an Arabic name.”

“Of course you can. What a dumb thing to say. My mom named her, and my dad named me.” She picked up a perfume bottle, turned it upside down on her index finger. It smelled like chemical flowers. She dabbed some behind her ears and lifted her arms toward the ceiling and smeared perfume under each.

“My parents named both of us,” I said. “That’s the normal way. They discussed it for a long time. Osama is my mother’s favorite name.”

“But your sister is Christian and you’re Druze, so don’t talk to me about strange. Did your parents discuss that?”

“Of course. My mom gets the girl, and my dad gets the boy.”

“That’s weird,” she said, then wiped off the lipstick and threw the used tissue in the basket. I did not point out that her mother would guess Fatima had been in her bedroom if she saw the discarded tissue. I followed her out of the room. Outside her apartment, my cousin Anwar sat on the stairs, looking uncomfortable. He stood up quickly and asked if Mariella was home. Without slowing down, Fatima punched him hard in the stomach. I watched my cousin double over. Fatima descended the stairs. Her lips still had a tinge of red. Anwar’s lips were glassy with snot. I ran after Fatima. I didn’t want my cousin to worry about my seeing him cry.

Across the room, King Kade sat atop a massive, ephemeral throne whose color blended with the floor, the walls, and his garments. His hands and face seemed to float in space because of the uniformity of color surrounding them. And King Kade asked, “Have you come to burn incense at my altar?”

“I have come to shatter it. I have vanquished your armies. It is now your turn.”

King Kade laughed, a bubbly and breezy sound. “You amuse me. I can see why the devil kept you. Maybe I will choose to keep you for myself. I shall place you in a gilded cage instead of an engaging parrot and have you entertain me with witty remarks. Approach me, warrior.”

“Prepare to die, fool,” Fatima replied.

King Kade laughed again. “Attempt to say that phrase in a deeper voice, for it does not yet strike fear in its listener’s soul.”

“Then why do you tremble?”

The color of King Kade’s cheeks changed from ashen to bright pink, and a scowl visited his face. He raised his hand and unleashed a beam of fiery light. The talisman between her breasts sucked it in. Fatima’s hand, her ward against evil, turned warmer and bluer the stronger the beam became. “And you think me amusing?” she asked.

“No longer,” King Kade replied. “You have become tiresome.”

He directed his beam toward her sword, which flew across the room, clanging and settling in the corner. She turned to retrieve it and was struck by a heavy blow that felled her.

“You are a fool as well as a whore,” King Kade said. “You may be immune to magic, but you will always be frail. I need no witchcraft to destroy you.”

Two immense albinos with long silver-white hair and large wings sprouting out of their backs towered over the crouching Fatima. The first kicked her and sent her tumbling. The other lifted her above him and threw her against the wall, which seemed to turn solid on impact.

“Fool, fool, fool,” muttered King Kade to himself.

Fatima tried to crawl toward her sword, but the albino picked her up again and threw her against the other wall.

“Who should prepare to die?” King Kade asked.

“He who plays with angels,” Fatima said. “Thy doom arrives.”

When the second albino lifted her, Fatima took a match from her robe. “Fire,” she whispered, and a flame burst forth. She lit the angel’s wings, which burned immediately. He released Fatima and wailed in
pain and grief. She whispered, “Fire,” again and burned the second albino’s wings. The albinos bent over in agony, burned and melted until nothing of them was left. She turned to King Kade and sent a flame in his direction.

He extinguished it with a flick of his wrist. “You cannot harm me with trivial magic,” he said. “I have defeated warriors much more powerful than you.”

“But none wilier,” she said. “And none, I am sure, as beautiful.”

And she threw the last of the mud at the magician’s tunic.

I recognized Uncle Jihad’s broad, meaty face behind the silly white beard. His wet laugh was identifiable. He had stuffed at least two pillows under his red coat. I walked up to him, pointed at his beard, and said, “You spoke Italian to Mariella, then to Fatima. You’re no Santa.”

He puffed out his chest, and the corners of his mouth disappeared into a smile behind his lifeless beard. “I hear someone speaking,” he said in English, “but I can’t tell where it’s coming from. Is there a poor, helpless child who doesn’t know that I fly across the world and speak to all children in their native language? Where’s this child who doubts who I am? Let him come forward.” He swiftly picked me up before I could escape his grasp.

“Speak Congolese, then,” I challenged.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, naughty little boys, blah, blah, blah.”

“That’s not a language. You’re making it up.”

“What? You understand Congolese now? I’ve spoken the language since the beginning of time. It’s primitive, you know, but it’s delightful, because each ‘blah’ has a different meaning, depending on intonation. Want me to tell you a Congolese story?”

“No,” I said. “No story. Not now. Can I have my present, please?”

The Christmas party was at Uncle Halim and Aunt Nazek’s apartment. Santa Claus had come to our flat the year before. That gathering had been so successful, and the children had had so much fun, that the family decided to repeat it at Aunt Nazek’s, even though no one other than my mother had ever put up a Christmas tree before. To ensure that the party took place in her home, Aunt Nazek had bought a colossal fir tree. It didn’t fit in her living room. My mother couldn’t take her eyes off it. She’d be talking to someone, and her gaze would inadvertently
flip back to the giant tree. The ceiling should have been at least a meter higher. The top of the tree had broken in two places; one segment ran along the ceiling, and the tip angled toward the floor. The silver star on top pointed down at a wooden footrest in the corner. From behind us, we heard a woman’s voice whisper, “Is the footrest supposed to be the barn or the crib?”