The Hakawati (99 page)

“And what shall we do with the odious one?” asked Baybars.

“Let me kill Arbusto,” said one of the Africans, “for all the pain he has caused.”

“I will cut off his head,” said one of the Uzbeks, “for his betrayals.”

“I will hang him,” said Aydmur, “for all the deaths he has caused.”

“I will burn him,” said Othman, “and leave not a trace of him on this earth.”

“And what would you do?” asked Baybars.

“I?” said Layla. “I would whip the skin off his body and crucify him in the harsh desert, so that his ignoble soul departs in agony.”

“So it shall be,” decreed Baybars.

The skin around my sister’s eyes was slate-colored, and streaks stained her cheeks. Her world seemed to include not one inch more than my father on the bed, a reverse pietà. Her breathing was a tobacco-raspy susurration.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

She nodded an indifferent assent. Fatima, on the other side of the bed, whispered, “No, she’s not.” My sister looked at us finally, and infectious desperation and pain flared out of her eyes. “I can rest after,” she said, and then, more softly, “It won’t be long.”

“Go out on the balcony,” my niece said. “Smoke. Get out of here.” She crooked her head in my direction, then toward the glass door.

“I’ll come with you.” I took my sister’s hand.

Layl opened his eyes.

“My love,” cried Majnoun. Layl moaned. He took a deep breath, and his face turned pale. He rolled on his side and began to retch, nothing but spittle leaving his mouth.

“Are you all right?” asked Majnoun, holding Layl.

“Calm yourself,” said Fatima. “Take your time.”

“I am in pain,” Layl said. “I do not belong here.”

“Of course you do, my darling,” Majnoun said. “You have been away for a while. It will take some getting used to.”

“I do not wish to be here.”

“Have patience.”

“I should not be here,” said Layl.

“Of course you should. I have brought you back. Your place is with me.”

“No.” Layl lifted his head off the floor, and then his torso. He paused on all fours, could not raise himself any more. “I must go.” He crawled seven paces in one direction, turned around, and crawled back.

“He is not himself,” said Ishmael.

“He will get better,” replied Majnoun. “He has to.”

Layl crawled in a widening spiral. Majnoun walked behind him step by step, his arms reaching out. Fatima’s hands covered her mouth. “I want you,” said Majnoun.

Layl crawled and crawled until he was suddenly atop the naked corpse of his mother. “What?” he asked.

“Beloved,” Majnoun begged, “you will get used to life.”

Layl bent his head and kissed the emir’s wife’s lips. “Wake,” he told her. He kissed her once more. He ran his hand across her forehead, smoothed the hair off her face.

“No,” cried Majnoun.

And Layl made love to his mother.

“No,” cried Majnoun.

And Layl gave himself to his mother.

“No,” cried Majnoun.

The emir’s wife opened her eyes, and Layl closed his and died once more.

A solitary pigeon settled on the railing of a balcony a floor below us. Lina lit her cigarette. She looked glum and dignified. She coughed and cleared her throat.

I waited for her to say something. The morning sun bathed our skins in tawny hues.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking of funeral arrangements all morning.” She began to cry. “I don’t want to go through this now. Not
now.” She shook her head, wiped her tears with a used tissue. “I’m at a loss. What should we tell people? He’s not going to make it through the day. Should we tell Samia? Should we bring her in to see him?”

I grabbed her cigarette pack and lit one. “Let’s wait.”

“He’s not responding to anything. He seems weaker than even an hour ago. He looks like he’s in a deeper sleep. We have to talk to him.” She sighed. Her hand traveled to my neck and drew me closer. “We have to say goodbye. You should do it. You didn’t get to talk to Mom, and you know how that made you feel.”

“You do it,” I said. I couldn’t remember what my father’s last words to me were. “I wouldn’t know what to say. You’re better at this than I am.”

“What makes you think I’m better at this?” Lina smiled weakly, childhood shimmering on her mouth for a moment. “You don’t have to say the perfect thing. You just … just … just tell him you’re here, that you care for him. It’ll be good. Come on. Let’s do it now.”

After a day in the ripe sun, even moonlight scorched Arbusto’s skin. Yet hope entered his heart when he realized that the guards assigned to him were gone. If only he could disentangle himself from the cross, he would have a chance, but the nails dug too deep, and the ropes were too snug. He prayed for rescue, and his prayers were answered.

A trader appeared in the night, riding a pale horse abreast of seven camels, his beasts of burden, who carried their weighty loads with dignity and grace. “Help me,” cried Arbusto. “Rescue me and I will cover you with more gold than you can imagine.”

The trader contemplated the suffering man. “I have a wild imagination.”

“And I deep gratitude and pockets,” replied Arbusto.

“Then this is a most promising night.”

The trader dismounted and climbed the cross. He cut off the binding ropes.

“Be careful with the nails,” said Arbusto.

“I will be ever careful with you.” The trader used both hands to pry out the first nail.

“But …,” stammered Arbusto, “but you are not hanging on to anything.”

“Have you still not recognized me? I have been looking for you, and you have not been easy to find.”

“You are not human,” gasped Arbusto.

“Is anyone?”

“O jinni. Do not take me. I can make you the richest demon in the world.”

“That I already am. I am so rich I can afford to unburden my camels, laden with the souls of all those whose deaths you have caused.”

“You are Afreet-Jehanam.”

“I am known by many names. Jehanam is my domain, and it is where I will take you.”

“Hell will be my home.”

“Most assuredly.”

“Death, the scourer, has come for me.”

Majnoun held his head and wept. Fatima embraced him and tried to comfort him. The imps surrounded mother and child.

“I cannot bear it,” Majnoun said.

“I cannot, either,” said Fatima. “Yet we will manage.”

“We are with you,” said the imps.

“I feel refreshed and rejuvenated,” the emir’s wife said to herself. “I am so alive.”

“Even among you,” said Majnoun, “I am so alone.”

“Grandfather,” my niece said, “can you hear me? We’re here.” Four of us surrounded his bed. I sat on his right, Salwa and Fatima on his left. Lina stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder. The machines were still going strong. The ventilator inhaled at the same clip. Lina gripped my shoulder.

“Father,” I said, “it’s me, Osama.” I was disappointed, unreasonably so, by the absence of any reaction. I glanced back at my sister, who was crying and smiling at the same time.

“Grandfather,” my niece said, “can you squeeze my hand?” She shook her head, then glanced at me. “Grandfather,” she said, “do you remember how Osama used to tell me stories when I was a girl? I was talking to your sister a few minutes ago, and I remembered. Do you?
During the war, I used to get so nervous, and he told me stories about your father.”

Fatima was trying to cry silently, and failing. Lina kept nudging me. “Yes,” I said. “I used to tell her stories. I was there.”

“They were wonderful stories,” Salwa said. “I always felt that I knew your father, that I was alive when he was. The same for Uncle Jihad. They were odd characters, but I knew them. I’m going to make sure my son gets to know everybody just as well. Do you hear me?”

“The whole family is odd,” Lina said, squeezing my shoulder once more.

“I remember a lot,” Salwa continued. “I remember that Osama used to say you never listened to your father’s stories. Do you know how he came here? It’s a wonderful story. Osama should tell you. Let him tell you.”