The Hakawati (83 page)

“What would they ask? Hey, do you have a crazy hakawati for a father, and does he know the most minute detail of every story ever told, and has he repeated them all to you over and over and over?”

“Harsh woman. Harsh, unforgiving woman. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was lonely. When they told me I was Yassin al-Jawahiri, I couldn’t have been happier. They introduced themselves one by one. ‘I’m your nephew so-and-so, but of course I’m much older now than when you left.’ What did you expect me to do? I was the centerpiece of a magnificent epic. Stories swirled around me. More, I became what I’d always daydreamed of being, a hero whom people looked up to, and I did it without having to display a smidgen of courage. In one instant, I had acquired a new story, a new family, a new identity, and gifts, many gifts. Nothing expensive, but nice things like hand-knit vests and caps, and lots and lots of food. I was invited to their houses for meals. I never had to eat school food. They sent morning pies, savory pastries. They created a space for me in their hearts.”

“And you created a space in your stomach,” my mother said as Uncle Jihad patted his ample belly. “I presume you didn’t horribly abuse their gullibility, since Nasser is still a friend.”

“Abuse? Sweetheart, I was the joy of their lives. Nasser did become a good friend. The Jawahiris loved me. As I said, our family was busy. No one paid much attention to my comings and goings even though I was so young. Things went on like that for about a year and some, until the day Uncle Ma
an discovered what was going on. He was very angry. He put on his best suit and his fez and took me to the Jawahiris to apologize for my bad behavior. I had to sit there and look contrite, head bent, while everyone glared. Uncle Ma
an went on about what a scamp I was. He told them I wasn’t Yassin and there was no way I could be. He explained that I had been born many years after Yassin died—reincarnation is instantaneous. If they could find it in their hearts to forgive me, he would make sure I’d never disturb them again. I wasn’t
a bad boy. I was from a good family. I just didn’t know any better. He actually said I was his favorite nephew, that this was his fault: he’d been busy and hadn’t been paying proper attention to my upbringing. It was Nasser’s mother who saved me. She said that, even though I wasn’t Yassin al-Jawahiri, she’d grown to cherish me, and I was welcome at her house at any time. Things settled down a bit, and a fortnight later, Nasser said that his mother wanted me to come to a big lunch for a nephew who had just gotten engaged. I couldn’t say no. After all, she was an astonishing cook. At the lunch, I felt awkward, and so did most of the Jawahiris. It was a celebratory feast, yet the mood was somewhat gloomy. I missed what we had before. I was among the Jawahiris, but I missed them. I longed for the way I had felt when I was around them, how special I was. I didn’t know how to make things better or what to say. Nasser’s mother served the lamb, and it was almost eerily quiet. There were people talking, but it was relatively hushed. When Nasser’s mother, bless her, offered me dessert, she patted my head and told me not to be too upset with Uncle Ma
an. She said he was a great man but he could be a bit rigid. And this was where I was bad.”

My mother gasped and broke into a wide grin. “No. You didn’t?”

“I’m afraid I did.”

“What?” I demanded.

“Al-Jawahiri is a common family, not titled,” my mother explained. “Ma
an Arisseddine was a sheikh.”

“I wanted to make everyone happy. I told Nasser’s mother that Uncle Ma
an was a great man, honest and honorable. Just as she had said, he was also rigid about principles when it came to his family’s social position and obligations.”

“You didn’t leave it at that,” my mother said. “That would have been too subtle.”

“I didn’t. I added that I’d heard him say that a sheikh should guard his position in society at all costs, that one’s family name is all one ever has. I didn’t make that up, he’d said it often. I just made sure to mention it at the right time. Nasser’s mother stood up straight. Her face lit up. She yelled to the entire room, ‘Of course. That makes sense. The sheikh would never want to admit that his nephew was reincarnated from a commoner. The fact that the boy’s father isn’t a sheikh would make the man even more insistent that his nephew had nothing to do with us.’ The family exploded into a cacophony of joy. Even Nasser’s cousin, the future groom, stood up and shouted, ‘I knew you were one
of us. I always knew. My heart never lies.’ The feast turned raucous. Everyone began to sing. Everyone was happy.”

The cigarette in Uncle Jihad’s hand was more ash than filter. He dropped it on the ground and stomped on it. He had been carpeting the floor with cigarette butts. He lit another, signaling the end of the tale.

“How long did it go on?” my mother asked.

“Quite a while, I’m afraid.”

“You never told them?”

“No, there was never any need. For a couple of years after that lunch, I was back to being family. Then I started to work, and I also got more serious about studying. I didn’t get to see them as much, and I drifted away, but then the relationship changed, and we became friends. Our families are very close. You know that. Hell, they came with us to pick you up for your wedding. We’ve been together for so long that I don’t think anybody remembers who Yassin was, let alone that I’m supposed to be him. We owe them much, and we try to pay our debt.”

I looked at my mother, and she saw I was confused.

“More than half the people who work for the corporation are Jawahiris,” she explained. “Whenever a Jawahiri needed a job, your father found a place for him. Now we know why. I always assumed it was because they were friends of the family.”

“It’s a bit more than that,” Uncle Jihad said. “We don’t usually like to talk about this. We had no money to start the company, and we had to borrow. A lot of people helped. Quite a few, but not the people you would have expected.”

“I know,” my mother said. “Farid calls them the army of angels.”

“Yes, I do, too.” He chuckled, then sighed. “The Jawahiris were part of the army of angels. They didn’t have much money, but I had to ask. I was desperate. If we hadn’t come up with the money, Farid would have killed himself. I went to them, and they all loaned me money, they dug into their savings. I didn’t know at the time, but Nasser’s mother sold her jewelry to loan me the money. I was family. They believed in me. We paid them back, of course. We paid everybody back a lot more than they gave us. If that delightful buffoon Nasser came down these steps right now and said he needed a heart, I would tear mine out and gift it.”

Cairo’s jails were crowded with Crusader kings, and the Crusader cities were returned to the people. The great Baybars had liberated the lands.

The queens of the captured Crusader kings begged King Flavio of Rome to intercede on behalf of their husbands. King Flavio sent an emissary to Baybars offering two treasure chests for each of the released kings. He also asked for Arbusto’s release. “No,” said Baybars. “I agree to release the kings, for they are of royal blood and were deceived into treachery. Arbusto, however, is the father of lies. When he lies, he speaks his native tongue. I will not let him go.”

“Your Majesty,” said the Roman emissary, “King Flavio will free six thousand Muslim slaves in good faith if you can find it in your heart to release the priest.”

And Baybars searched his heart, nodded his assent.

That evening, Layla asked her husband, “Arbusto released? What kind of an exchange rate is that? Is one European life worth six thousand of ours?”