The Hakawati (82 page)

“I had to,” Othman said. “Arbusto could not persuade King Bohemond of Tripoli to declare war, so he is recruiting brigands to cause trouble and force the sultan to attack. I hoped to come across Arbusto if I joined them. But why did you ride with my wife?”

“She needed protection,” Harhash said. Layla and Othman stared at him. “Well, I was bored. One battle, two battles, they all begin to look the same. I prefer your adventure. I was crushed that you left Cairo without me. Shame. I thought I meant something to you; I thought I was your friend.”

“We wanted to be together,” Othman said, and Layla added, “This is our honeymoon.”

We wished for a bigger storm, more powerful, more destructive, strong enough to get the combatants to take a break from the fighting. In the winter of 1976, the rain was soft, the shelling wasn’t. The underground garage muted the sound of the bombardment. The fighting was in a different part of town, but my mother was worried enough to take us to the shelter. Light from a couple of kerosene lamps and infinite candles threw flickering shadows across the unwashed walls. My mother lit a cigarette. “I’m dying, Jihad, dying of boredom.” She
turned off the transistor radio, interrupting the voice of the BBC anchorwoman in mid-sentence. “Entertain me or suffer the consequences.”

“Me?” Uncle Jihad said. “Why don’t you tell us a story? Tell your children about the greatest love, how you picked their father out of all your suitors.”

Lina picked up the transistor and moved two plastic chairs away to Uncle Akram’s parking space. His car must have been leaking for quite a while, since there was a large oil stain resembling the dark continent of Africa. Lina sat down, tuned the radio to a rock station, and put her legs on the second chair. Her butt hovered over Libya and Tunis, and her feet dangled over the southern tip of the horn. “Lina seems to be entertaining herself,” said Uncle Jihad. “Wouldn’t it be nice to tell your son about you?”

“You’re supposed to entertain me,” my mother said. “Don’t fail me, mister.”

“Relentless woman.” Uncle Jihad laughed. “All right. I’ll tell you a story about my mischievous youth, but I don’t want you to get any ideas, Osama. Let’s see. Where does one start? In the early days, before I was born, that’s when we’ll start.” He tapped out a cigarette and took his time lighting it, had two long puffs before beginning a third. “During the early 1900s, there was a Druze brigand, Yassin al-Jawahiri, who terrorized the mountains. Well, ‘terrorize’ might be too harsh a word. He was a card who fancied himself a Druze Robin Hood. He stole from the Ottoman Empire and its officials and shared some of his bounty with the Druze villages, and in return the villagers sheltered him, even against the wishes of their leaders, the princes and sheikhs of the mountains. He was a hero to the Druze, this Yassin al-Jawahiri.”

“Al-Jawahiri?” my mother interrupted.

“One and the same.”

“This isn’t fair,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know the Jawahiri family,” my mother said. “Jihad is going to tell us how they became our friends.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because it’s a great story,” Uncle Jihad said. “Now, let me tell it. This Yassin was a clever fellow and became so popular that there was a song written about him. It went like this:

Ya Yassin, Ya Jawahiri
Your rifle slung on your shoulder
,
becomes snug on that shoulder
Before your enemy blinks
.
Vultures and foreigners behind you
Turn, turn, and shoot them
.
Ya Yassin, Ya Jawahiri
Return to us our hero
.

“That’s a stupid song,” I said.

“I learned it as a little boy. You know my father. He probably knew every song sung in the mountains. When he told the Yassin story, I remembered the song. Anyway, Yassin caused havoc for many years, but then the First World War started and the French arrived. Well, the French were more ruthless than the Ottomans. They caught Yassin and executed him.”

“How does one capture a villain as wily as Arbusto?” asked Harhash.

“How does one woo evil?” asked Layla.

“We set a trap,” said Othman. “We seduce his greed.”

“We seduce his ego,” added Harhash.

“And top it with lust,” said Layla. “A powerful brew indeed. We send a message that a luscious dove has arrived in Tripoli, enamored of his infamous reputation, infatuated by his power. She wishes to be his slave and answer his bidding, do anything he desires.”

“She will help him bring the sultanate to its knees,” said Othman. “She is able to seduce any man, including the virtuous King Baybars.”

“She is able to relieve men of their reason,” said Harhash. “She can open any door.”

“He will come running. I will spread the rumor among the city’s thieves.”

“I will inform the pleasure-givers,” said Layla.

“I will take the bandits and highway robbers,” said Harhash.

And Layla vowed, “I will drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid.”

“Let us begin,” said Othman. “When shall we three meet again?”

•   •   •

Layla waited in her room. When the knock came, she lay on the divan while Othman and Harhash hid behind the curtains. “Come in,” Layla called. “Come sit next to me. I have admired you from afar for so long, and I yearn to see you up close.”

Arbusto entered the room wearing his best robe and a scent of jasmine, trying to appear magisterial, but his nerve failed him. He sat at the end of the divan, beside her bare feet. “I thought your kind had repented.” He pulled his miter to make sure his clipped ear was covered.

“I retired from public service, not private.”

“That is a good distinction in your profession,” Arbusto said.

“I have waited for this moment.” Layla kept her eyes fastened on her prey, whose gaze darted about to avoid hers. “Every time I heard stories of your exploits, I shuddered in secret joy. I was first intrigued, then enchanted, then infatuated. I kept hearing more and more stories. You have done some terrible things.” She winked, and he flushed. “You have been a bad boy.” She rose from the divan slowly, making sure her curves were highlighted. “Have you not?”

“Yes, I have.” A nervous laugh escaped his lips.

“And you must be punished. Give me your hands.”

Arbusto extended his hands meekly. She tied them and secured him to the divan. His lustful eyes followed her every movement. She turned her back on him, and an astonished Arbusto heard her talk to the draperies, “Do you want him awake or unconscious?”

“Is that it?” asked Harhash, coming out. “The evil Arbusto captured so easily? I had expected more twists and turns, more excitement.”

“I would have dragged it out had I known,” said Layla.

Harhash slapped Arbusto’s face. “You disappoint me. You are a bad boy? You need to be punished? You fell for that?” Smack. “You did not even make her work. Come sit on my divan and let me tie you up? Shame on you. I had expected so much more.”

“The important thing,” said Othman, “is that we have captured this villain.”

“True, but there are conventions,” replied Harhash. Slap. “This thief has stolen the thrill of capture from me.”

“Oh well,” said Othman. “Reality never meets our wants, and adjusting both is why we tell stories.”

“Hmm, so I was ten,” Uncle Jihad said. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but I was still a fairly reticent child. Beirut and the school proved to be overwhelming. I wasn’t unhappy by any means, but I was a lonely boy. I spent all my time reading books and watching the world. Uncle Ma
an and his family tried to draw me out at first, but their hearts weren’t in it. And after all, they had enough troubles of their own. Uncle Jalal was spending more time in jail than out of it. In 1942, the war was raging in Europe, and the streets of Beirut were boiling. The Arisseddines had time for nothing but Uncle Jalal’s problems with French rule. My grandmother was spending most of her time in Beirut, but I hardly ever saw her. I rarely saw any of the family. Only after independence, the following year, did the family return to anything resembling normal.

“My blossoming began one day when I was standing under the oak tree Charlemagne, trying to understand how a yo-yo worked and singing the Yassin al-Jawahiri song to myself. A boy asked me how I knew the song, and I replied that I’d known it since I was born. I boasted that I knew everything there was to know about the man.”

“Was that boy Nasser al-Jawahiri?” asked my mother.

“The one and the same. Nasser went home for the weekend, and on Monday a horde of Jawahiris descended upon the school. There were about a hundred of them, men and women, geriatrics and children, religious and secular, all one family. It was a big commotion, and I was surprised to discover they had come to talk to me. I was taken to a hall and interviewed. They asked if I was Druze and were very happy to find out my mother was an Arisseddine. They asked me about Yassin al-Jawahiri, and I answered. My father had told me the story, so I knew quite a bit, and I could see the astonishment on their faces with each of my responses.”

“Tell me you didn’t,” my mother said.

“I was as innocent as a lamb of God. I swear. In any case, it took me a while to figure out what was happening. I didn’t understand, so you can’t blame me for the beginning. I was answering their questions. I loved the attention. I knew each correct answer would get more.”

“Oh, Jihad,” my mother said. “You bad boy.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Tell me.”

“The Jawahiris would have come to the conclusion that your uncle was the reincarnation of Yassin al-Jawahiri,” my mother said. “The family had come to investigate, and Jihad was a very bad boy.”

“And your mother is a harsh judge,” Uncle Jihad said. “They didn’t come to investigate, but to confirm. If it had been an investigation, a much smaller number would have come. They wanted to meet the great Yassin. I simply answered their questions.”

“You could have told them where you got the information,” my mother said.

“They didn’t ask. They never once asked how I came to know. They believed.”