The Hakawati (43 page)

B
elow, in the underworld, Fatima said, “I must rise.”

“Why?” said Afreet-Jehanam. “You should deliver here.”

“My child shall be born aboveground. He will master this world but must be a citizen of the one above.”

“You
do
treat me like a plaything,” her lover harrumphed. “I am the father. I should have some say.”

“But you do, dear, you do. Now, get me a carpet, please. I must be going. I do not wish my water to break in midair.”

In the castle, the emir’s wife felt her first pain the same instant Fatima felt hers in the underworld. She held her stomach, smiled at her husband.

“Should I stop the story?” the emir asked. “Should I call someone? Should I boil water? Where’s the midwife? What—”

“No, husband, go on. This Othman fellow begins to amuse me. Just help me with more pillows.” She pushed her body farther up on the bed and adjusted herself with a groan. “The troublemaker comes,” she said. “Pray continue, husband. Distract me.”

Prince Baybars, Othman, the Africans, and the Uzbeks attended Friday prayers at the mosque. The faithful eyed Othman with a mixture of awe, concern, and fear. Othman yelled, “Stop the staring. I have repented to God, who forgives all sins, and now I pray like you do.” The faithful welcomed him to their bosom. Leaving the mosque after prayers, the group heard a barker announcing the availability of the house of Prince Ahmad al-Sabaki, which ran the length of the farmers’ market on one side to the dyers’ market on the other. Baybars asked
who owned the house, and the barker answered that it was the four granddaughters of Prince Ahmad.

The barker led the group to one of the four doors of the house, where he said, “Forgive me, lord, but the ladies asked that anyone who wished to inquire about the house must enter through the green door, which no one has been able to open for generations.” Baybars turned the key in the lock, and the door swung open, the hinges sliding silently, as if they had been oiled that morning. The interior of the house was opulent. Othman’s fingers twitched, and he had to clasp his hands together. The barker disappeared and returned a few minutes later to announce that the ladies were ready to greet them.

The men entered a large hall where the four ladies lounged on colorful divans. With one voice the four said, “Which of you opened the door?” and the prince identified himself. “What is your name, young man?” their voice asked. Prince Baybars told them.

“No,” they said. “What is your birth name?”

“I was born with the name Mahmoud.”

“And where are you from?”

“I am from Damascus.”

“No,” their voice said. “Where were you born?”

“I was born in Samarkand.”

“And who are you?” asked the ladies.

And Prince Baybars told the stories of his grandfather and his father, and those of his mother, and those of his uncles. “This is who I am,” he finally said.

The women asked if he could afford the price of the house, and Prince Baybars assured them he could. And their voice said, “You claim wealth but carry no sign of it. You are a dissembler.” Baybars grew angry; the lion’s folds appeared at the bridge of his nose, and his beauty mark turned red. “You are the one,” the ladies’ voice said. “We have been waiting for you for far too long. The house is yours if you can pass a test and make a promise.” Baybars inquired about the test. “That monolith there must be moved.” The ladies pointed to a prehistoric menhir in the corner. “The house was built around it because no one has been able to relocate it. It is known that only its master can lift it.”

Baybars’s men gathered around the monolith. “This should be easy,” one of the Africans said. The Africans and the Uzbeks tried to lift the stone, but it would not budge. Baybars moved in to help, and, lo and behold, the instant he put his hands around the monolith, he lifted
it right out. “It is cumbersome but not heavy,” he told his servants. He took a couple of steps, and from behind the menhir he asked the ladies, “And where would you like me to put this?”

“Down,” they said, “so you can make your promise. You must build each one of us a mosque named after her. Promise that and claim your home.”

And that was how Baybars became a homeowner.

My aunt arrived first, in 1920, when my grandmother was sixteen. Najla began labor in the morning. At six in the evening, while she was still in pain, the bey sent one of his attendants to fetch my grandfather. The bey had begun his drinking early and needed entertainment.

“Run,” Great-Grandmother Mona told him. “You’re not needed here.”

The midwife, on her way back home after the delivery, informed the night watchman at the mansion’s gate that the bey’s hakawati had a healthy baby girl. The watchman told one of the servants, who waited to make the announcement until there was a break in the evening’s tale. Had it been a baby boy, the servant would have interrupted.

“It’s a good thing you’re here,” the bey told my grandfather. “No woman wants to announce right after delivery that she had a girl. Wives are very emotional. You should call your baby Samira, after my dear mother.”

Najla called her Samia.

Najla decided she wanted meghli, the sweet made of spices. It was supposed to be served after a boy was born, but Najla said, “If it helps me make milk, then isn’t it just as good for a girl?”

The midwife agreed that all new mothers should eat meghli, but she advised the new mother not to serve it to guests. “Nonsense,” Mona said. “My daughter can’t eat meghli by herself and not serve the guests. I will make the first batch.”

“I want my daughter to be queen of the village,” Najla told her mother, who agreed wholeheartedly. She was almost successful. Aunt Samia blossomed into a queen manquée.

One day, King Saleh was riding through the city when he came to Lady Zainab Street. There were wooden planks spanning a small gulf,
and his subjects crossed with difficulty. He felt ashamed that the maqâm of Lady Zainab was not in a more fortunate quarter of the city. He said, “A bridge must be built here, and a small neighborhood, with decent shops and adequate housing.” He put Baybars in charge, and Baybars was honored by the responsibility.

The prince had Othman summon engineers to build the bridge. They hired carpenters and artisans and built a neighborhood so lovely it was as if the Lady watched over it. A marvelous gate protected it, and clean streets invited people in. The prince said to Othman, “Bring me grocers, butchers, perfumers, tailors, oil merchants, coffee traders, and other honest brokers.”

Othman brought the shopkeepers, and they moved into the neighborhood within a couple of months, transforming it into the most popular in the city.

Evil Arbusto, the king’s judge, heard of the miracle, and his blood coursed with envy. He called on his close friend the mayor of Cairo. The mayor inquired why the judge looked sad and was told, “There is a sight in the city that breaks my heart. The slave Baybars has built a lively neighborhood that I would love to see reduced to cinders and ash.”

“I know the neighborhood,” the mayor said. “It will be a pleasure to be rid of it. That scoundrel Othman has bested me a few times, and now I will get him back.” The mayor called on a rogue by the name of Harhash and told him of his wish to burn the neighborhood. Harhash asked where the neighborhood was. The mayor said, “Next to the maqâm of Lady Zainab.”

Harhash recoiled. “I cannot do this. I will burn any other neighborhood, but not the Lady’s neighborhood. That is blasphemy.”

The mayor screamed, “That is not blasphemy, you jackass. You do not even know what the word means. You and your men will burn what I command you to, or I will have you in prison, and you will never see the light of day for the rest of your life.”

And Harhash agreed to commit arson, for he had no other choice. He and two of his men went to study the neighborhood. The men told Harhash, “This neighborhood can only be burned in the middle of the night, when there are no witnesses.” Lady Zainab, the neighborhood’s protector, had made sure the weather was hot enough that a tailor was taking his siesta on the floor of his shop and not his house, and so was able to hear the conversation of the men standing nearby. When
they left, the tailor sought Othman and informed him of what he had heard.

Othman and the Uzbek and African warriors rode to the neighborhood. Othman told the gatekeepers to close the gate but keep its portal open. He ordered the residents not to light their night lamps that evening. And the prince’s servants waited for night to fall.

Harhash and his twelve men arrived with barrels of oil and found the neighborhood dark and the gate closed. “This is a blessing,” Harhash whispered. “We can do our job and no one will witness.” He sent one of his men ahead through the portal. As soon as the man entered, one of the Africans banged him on top of the head with his closed fist, and the rogue collapsed unconscious. Othman waited a little and then whistled. Another man walked in and got thumped by another African. Othman whistled again. A third man entered, and this time Othman hit him on the head, but the man did not collapse. He stared wide-eyed at the Africans, and one of them thumped him quickly. Othman sulked. The warriors took turns whistling the rogues in, until Harhash was the last one to be knocked unconscious. The arsonists woke and found themselves tied and lined up before the fiercest-looking men they had ever seen. Harhash began to weep.

“Oh, Harhash,” Othman said, “have times been so tough that you have resorted to playing with fire?” And Harhash replied, “Be not cruel, friend. Do you think me impious enough to commit a dastardly crime with the Lady so close were I not forced to? That these warriors stand here to protect this neighborhood is the only proof I need that the Lady still watches. Now I will never taste the fruits of paradise.”

And Othman joined Harhash in weeping. He sat down on the ground and said, “Oh, Harhash, you are not damned. If you repent before the Lady, as I did, God will listen and forgive.” Harhash and his men gave up their wayward ways and swore allegiance to God. Othman said, “Now you and your men can work for me,” and one of the Uzbeks said, “But you are a servant yourself.” And Othman replied, “True, but I am moving up in the world. Soon Harhash here will be able to afford his own servants. It is an ever-shifting multilevel process.”