The Hakawati (78 page)

With the help of Emir Bashir of Lebanon, Ibrahim Pasha had forced Maronite fighters to help him against the Druze. Most refused the call and hid in the mountains. Those unable to disappear joined the battle but never took their swords out of their scabbards. One was a Khoury, my mother’s great-great-grandfather.

When the Druze rebels realized they could hold out no longer, they decided to wait for nightfall and attack. They would kill as many as they could before dying, and perhaps a few of them would be able to escape. One was an Arisseddine, my father’s great-great-grandfather.

The Druze attacked at night. Almost all of them were killed. Khoury saw a couple of riderless stallions trotting away from the battle and caught up to them and took their reins. Beneath the belly of one of the horses, a badly injured Arisseddine was holding on for dear life. Khoury unsheathed his sword for the first time, handed it to the rebel, and sent him on his way.

Their descendants were married one hundred and eighteen years later.

One day, a man walked into the diwan saying, “I have been victimized, O Prince of believers. I have been violated. Redeem my honor, my lord, I beg of you.” Baybars asked the man to tell him the story. “I am a merchant from Syria, and every year I travel to Egypt to trade. Usually, I avoid al-Areesh, because King Franjeel demands high toll taxes, as if the roads belonged to him and his foreign friends. This year, I was carrying perishables and had to travel the shortest route. I set money aside for the unfair toll, but when my caravan passed by al-Areesh, the king’s army confiscated my entire merchandise, including my camels, my horses, and my voluptuous Kazak slave, whom I had just bought only two days earlier. It is not fair.”

The story angered Baybars, who said, “I am not happy with these
alien kings who do not respect treaties that they themselves forced upon us. Al-Areesh is Egypt. It is time we reclaimed our city. Prepare the armies.”

“No, no, no, no,” cried Emir Othman, and Layla said, “Of course I am coming.”

In the Crusader fort of al-Areesh, King Franjeel berated Arbusto. “Were it not for your holy robes, I would cut off your head right now. This is your fault. You tempted me with riches, and now Baybars the barbarian is coming for me.”

The unperturbed Arbusto replied, “Do not fret. You know this fort is impenetrable. Shut the gates and I will take care of the rest. I will call on the other coastal kings for help. I will speak first to the king of Askalan. Hold the fort and the slave army will be defeated.”

“I will come with you,” announced the cowardly king. “I will leave the commander of the fort in charge. Shut the gates.”

“There,” said Aydmur, pointing to the offending edifice a short distance away. “The fort of al-Areesh is secure and sturdy. Unless we get into the fort, we will lose many men. So far, no general has discovered a way of breaking into the fort of al-Areesh.”

“I am tired of this endless equestrian journey,” announced Layla. “Let us rest. When night falls, I will open the gates.” She dismounted from her mare and rubbed her sore behind. “I will give you a signal with my torch when it is accomplished. I have been talking to my people on the inside. It will not be difficult.”

“People on the inside?” Othman glared at his wife. “You will not be going. I will not allow it. No wife of mine opens gates. I will open them.”

That evening, with the help of his wife, Othman dressed in a priest’s robe, combed his hair in Arbusto’s manner, held a jingling censer in his hand, and walked to the gates. The guards, believing he was Arbusto, rushed to let him in. They bowed before him. Othman extended his hand and waited until each man had kissed it. “I am grateful for such a courteous reception,” he said. “In return, I offer my blessings.” He lit the incense—myrrh mixed with opium—and said, “Inhale my blessings, deeper and deeper.” Soon the guards were traveling on a different plane. Othman opened the gate and signaled the slave army. The fort
of al-Areesh was vanquished before its defenders realized they were being attacked.

“Well done,” Layla told Othman, and Harhash said, “You inspire him to new heights.”

“The coward Franjeel is not here,” huffed Baybars, “and neither is Arbusto.”

“They left for Askalan,” Layla said. “They meant to raise an army to assail us while we laid siege to al-Areesh.”

“Their plan was foiled,” said Aydmur, “and the next will fail.”

“While you raze this fort,” said Layla, “I will ride ahead and uncover their next plan.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Othman stomped his foot.

My mother’s first admirer was her second cousin Karim—his father and her deceased mother were first cousins. She was fifteen and enrolled at a Carmelite boarding school when he decided that she would make him a suitable wife. Karim had everything going for him, or at least he seemed to think so. He was twenty-three, the eldest son of a prosperous man, and had surprised everyone, himself most of all, by passing the baccalaureate. And since he graduated high school, his father began to groom him for a career in Lebanese politics.

He met my mother at a family gathering. My mother swore she didn’t say a word to him and he never noticed. She was busy eating while he regaled her with his stories and future plans. Since she proved to be a first-rate listener, Karim began to woo her in earnest by sending a single red rose and a box of Harlequin chocolates stuffed with almonds to her school every Wednesday. She didn’t care for him one way or the other, but her girlfriends loved the chocolates.

He wrote to her father in Brussels, who in turn wrote to my mother wondering what was going on. My mother put his mind at ease by saying she had no intention of marrying before getting a university degree. The young man courted my mother for four and a half months, during which she barely had to utter a single syllable. He visited her once and brought her a potted succulent, an asclepiad that had impressed him mightily. It was after his remarkable second visit that he received a call from Brussels telling him that my mother never wanted to see his face again, under any circumstances. It wasn’t the asclepiad.

He had arrived for the second visit, their third meeting, in his best gabardine suit, his mustache soldered with wax, his face flushed with pride. He showed my mother off to the woman accompanying him, a lady in her thirties, whom he introduced as his father’s first cousin’s young wife, a new aunt. “Isn’t she pretty?” he said of my mother. “And she’s smart, too. She’ll finish school.” My mother was about to tell him that she didn’t wish to be anyone’s exhibit, to be shown off like some antique carpet or fine embroidery, when she suddenly realized that she was the one he was trying to impress. The gloating smile, the studied placement of the hand around his
aunt’s
waist, and the forced coziness were meant to convey to the young beloved that her suitor was a man of the world, a man who had mistresses, a man who was desired. He wasn’t just anybody. He wanted to impart the idea that she, too, could aspire to be special because someone special wanted her.

My mother called her father. Karim stopped sending her Harlequin chocolates stuffed with almonds. Her girlfriends were miffed, and one actually wondered aloud why my mother couldn’t have waited till the end of term to break her suitor’s heart.

“I would have preferred to stay and watch the fort being pulverized,” Harhash said. “It is not as if one can witness total destruction every day.”

“Be quiet,” Othman said. “A friend would not complain. A good friend would support a man whose wife keeps shaming him in public. A good man would not concern himself with a fort when it is his friend’s honor that is being pulverized.”

“Will one of you wake me when this tired diatribe is over?” Layla said. “My husband is beginning to sound like a muezzin, repeating the same words five times a day. Shame, if you ask me. Whereas the blind muezzins are uniformly dull, my husband was once interesting, but he has been reduced to a single-whine conversationalist.”

After twilight, Layla knocked on the gate of Askalan. “Who’s there?” asked a voice.

“A luscious dove,” answered Layla.

The gatekeeper slid open the peek hole, and his mouselike face appeared in the aperture. “The luscious doves have repented and retired. Everyone knows that.”

“Do I look retired to your ugly eyes?”

“I have never seen a luscious dove before. Why should I believe you? Why would a luscious dove come to this city? I think—”

Quicker than the strike of an asp, Layla’s hand slipped through the viewer. Her fingers poked the gatekeeper’s eyes, squeezed his nose, and jerked his face forward, slamming it into the gate. She held on to the gatekeeper’s nose, and he screeched, “Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch. I believe you. I will open the face—I mean the gate. I will open the gate. I swear.”

The three travelers entered the city. Layla spoke to the gatekeeper. “These two men are my personal physicians. Inform the working women of the city that I have arrived, and that I expect them to pay their respects in the morning.” The gatekeeper’s eyes were filled with lust and desire. She used only her third-best smile on him. “We need a place to sleep. Lead the way, and make sure my mare is fed and groomed tonight.”

Baybars and his slave army raised the kingdom’s flags outside Askalan. One of the African warriors asked permission to assume the duties of crier. “Hear me, foreigners,” the African bellowed. “The king of kings has arrived, and he demands your capitulation. Inform Brigitte, the usurper king of this city, that he is to abdicate. Surrender all and we will allow you to return to your countries. Resist and we will drop these walls upon your heads. Give up your arms or this fort will become a mausoleum interring your bodies for all time.”

“Well said,” Baybars cheered, and Aydmur added, “I am in awe.”

“I am dying, Egypt, dying of boredom,” cried Layla from the city’s parapet. “Will you not come in and conquer already?” As the gigantic metal gate slowly lifted, Othman appeared at the entrance, gesturing for the mighty army to invade. Baybars’s army entered Askalan, whose soldiers were surprised to find themselves fighting within the city walls. Swords hit their marks, and maces descended upon the heads of infidels, and Askalan fell quickly.

Baybars asked Othman where Arbusto and the kings were, and Othman said, “We are late. Arbusto decided to travel to King Diafil of Jaffa and ask for his assistance. King Franjeel of al-Areesh told King Brigitte about the size of our army, and both decided to join Arbusto in Jaffa.”

The victorious King Baybars said, “After razing this fort, we will
head to Jaffa, the den of sin.” And Othman asked his wife, “Does that mean we ride ahead?”

The beautiful city of Jaffa had three glorious lighthouses, three anxious kings—Franjeel, Brigitte, and Diafil—three lust-stricken guards at the eastern gate swearing unwavering fealty to the luscious dove, but no Arbusto, who had left by sea, allegedly to fetch reinforcements from Europe. As the three kings prepared for a siege of their city, Layla prepared the three porters at the gate. “No, no, no,” she said. “Touch without permission and you lose the offending hand. I will come back one evening soon, and when I do, you will open the gate when I tell you. You will do whatever it is I tell you. Is that understood?”