The Hakawati (5 page)

“Conceit,” said Jawad.

“Quite,” added Fatima. “As an eighteen-year-old, he was imprisoned and tortured for his heresy. When he was released a few years
later, he was once again penniless, powerless, and homeless—the poet in eternal exile. He had nothing to sell but his words, and he was willing. But who would be willing to buy? Most of the city-states were ruled no longer by Arabs, but by Muslims from all over whose native tongue was not Arabic. These princes, whom he wanted to praise, did not fully understand his words. So al-Mutanabbi, full of pride and arrogance, attached himself to the only Arab ruler in the area, Sayf al-Dawlah, the young prince of Aleppo, who was making a name for himself by protecting the northern borders from the evil Byzantine Empire.

“And al-Mutanabbi fought at the young prince’s side and praised him, immortalized him in verse so eloquent it has been known to make roses wilt in shame for not matching its beauty.

“But then al-Mutanabbi discovered he had a problem. The young prince, like most Arab rulers throughout the ages, fancied himself a poet as well. He began to compose puerile poems praising himself and belittling the great poet. And al-Mutanabbi could not answer back.”

“That is what being a servant is all about,” said Jawad.

“The situation did not improve,” Fatima went on. “Al-Mutanabbi left Aleppo for Cairo, attached himself to a different ruler, a king by the name of Kafur. The king promised the poet a province if he would sing the king’s praises. But Kafur never kept his promise. He was warned by his vizier, a smart man who recognized the poet’s genius, that if the king went back on his word he would live eternally as a mocked man, a historical joke. And the king was known to have said, ‘You want me to assign a province to this power-hungry poet? This man who claims prophecy after Muhammad, will he not claim the kingdom after Kafur?’

“And al-Mutanabbi left Kafur’s court and mocked him, immortalized him in verse so expressive it has been known to make snakes recoil in horror for not matching its venom.

“He wandered to Shiraz, in Persia. He then attached himself to Adud al-Dawlah, but this ruler, too, was unable to satisfy the poet’s needs. So the poet tried to return to his Iraq, but was waylaid and killed by brigands along the way. He was the man who in his prime said:

The stallions, and the night, and the desert know me
,
And the sword, and the spear, and the paper, and the pen
.

But had to say before his death:

I am nothing but an arrow, shot in the air
,
Coming down again, unheld by its target
.

And he was killed just north of Baghdad, where all poets go to die.”

My aunt looked as if she were awaiting a barium enema. Her frail frame didn’t settle completely in the chair, and her eyes wouldn’t settle on anything. Because of her age and ill health, her fretfulness exhibited itself in erratic slow motion. She opened her handbag, and her bony fingers took out a cigarette.

“What’s the matter with you, Samia?” my father asked. “You know you can’t smoke in here. One would think you’ve never been to a hospital before.”

“I’m just worried about you.” She spoke slowly, gulping for breath. Her speech pattern had changed drastically since her last petite stroke. “I’m afraid that you’re hiding things from me. Just tell me, tell me the worst.” She forced the cigarette back, crushing it into its box. “My heart is weak, but it can deal with any bad news if it’s about my only remaining brother.” Lina kept trying to catch my eye. “Don’t hide things from me.” Lina lifted her eyebrows, grinned conspiratorially. “It’s as if I’m not part of this family anymore just because I’m old.” Lina mouthed the exact words as my aunt said them: “No one tells me anything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” my father said. “I’m doing just fine.”

I stood up so my aunt wouldn’t see me giggle. “I should go to the waiting room. I think the hospital has a two-visitor rule in this ward. I’m surprised the guard hasn’t said anything yet.”

“Stay here.” My sister put her hand up, a border guard stopping an immigrant attempting to cross. “Your aunt’s here to visit you as much as your father. Sit back down and tell your aunt all about what you’ve been doing since she last saw you.” My aunt looked bewildered, if not bewitched. “Your aunt would love to hear about your life, I’m sure. Tell her what it’s like to work as a computer programmer in the great city of Los Angeles.”

When I was a young boy, my aunt used to say that she would be the
first of the five siblings to die. She had made that pronouncement to her children, other family members, and random strangers. “Just do as I say,” she would tell me when I was seven. “I’ll be the first to die, and you’ll regret having aggravated me.” She was the oldest of the five, born in 1920, and even as a young woman, she wore infirmity like an itchy, gaudy shawl around her shoulders. She stopped saying she would be the first thirty years ago, when Uncle Wajih died.

“How many tranquilizers have you taken?” Lina asked my aunt.

“Have you gained weight?” Aunt Samia replied.

My aunt’s eyes almost shot out of their sockets. Her lips and the skin around them seemed to have suddenly been invaded by a thousand lines. The noise in the hallway was that of an approaching army, a police team rushing in for a bust. The bey entered the room, followed by a flock of suits. You would think that in 2003, in post-feudal Beirut, one would have little use for clan chiefs and titled nobles, but traditions are not easily erased in our world. The bey no longer collected taxes, tributes, or royalties, but favors and loyalties were still his to claim. Though this latest incarnation of the bey was thirty, he looked like a boy of seventeen trying on his father’s favorite suit. All smiles, he attempted to appear official and officious. He greeted us all perfunctorily, though his eyes never left my father, whereas it was my cousin Hafez, one of the bey’s entourage, who held my father’s attention.

Fatima, looking furious and threatening, viperlike, followed them into the room. The entourage must have sped past the visitors’ lounge or she would have stopped them.

“How are you doing, dear uncle?” the bey said.

My father didn’t reply. My sister did, loudly. “How did you all get in here? We can’t have this many visitors. There are rules.”

Everyone stopped moving. The very air seemed to perspire. A couple of men ahemmed. “It’s quite all right, Lina,” Hafez said. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. “The guard won’t report us. We’re here because we care about my uncle.” He was a few weeks older than I, but he had the face of a boy.

“Then care outside, in the visitors’ room. The guard shouldn’t have let you in. I won’t allow it. No more than two visitors at a time.”

All the men stared at her. Hafez’s hands moved from his sides, trembling, up and down. His eyes were those of prey about to be swallowed.
“You’re overreacting, my cousin. We won’t overstay. I’m sure my uncle is happy to have the bey here.” He looked to my father for support.

“Only two visitors. Everybody follow me to the waiting room.” Lina, with Fatima’s help, directed the confused crowd to the door. Fatima actually pushed one of the men out. “Come out with me,” my sister said to my aunt. “Help me be a good hostess. You, too, Hafez. Unless you want to be one of the two. Just two people. Everybody else has to leave.”

“But I’m not a visitor,” Hafez mewled. “I’m family.”

Lina turned to me. “Stay.” She got closer, bent down to pick up her handbag, spoke softly so no one else would hear. “Make sure he doesn’t get excited or emotional. And if the bey asks for money again, come out and get me.”

My aunt was still sitting, not comprehending what was happening. Lina helped her up. “Why am I leaving?” my aunt asked.

“I need your wit,” Lina replied.

After setting up camp on the fourth night, Khayal began: “I am a poet. By the age of three, I was able to astonish all who heard my eloquent use of our illustrious language. I learned to read and write. I memorized the greats, the not-so-great, and the horrid. I have won more poetry wars in the Syrian countries than anyone has before me. I know panegyric poems, I know love poems. I can recite the entire
Muallaqat
, the qasidas. I am familiar with ghazal poems and khamriyas, the Bacchic songs.”

“Tonight the poet offers bravado,” Fatima said. “How delightful!”

“I am in awe, but I am not seduced yet,” Jawad said.

“I am a lover. Boys from Baghdad to Tunis remember me in their dreams. I am the one whose exploits are recalled fondly by every lad, no matter how many he has had after me. I am the one who has left behind a trail of conquests as long as the Nile itself.”

“Boasting and fireworks.” Fatima applauded. “Every poet needs to show off.”

“I do not find what he said particularly enticing,” Jawad said. “I appreciate the technique, but my soul is unmoved.”

•   •   •

And on the fifth night, Khayal said, “I must beg your forgiveness. I have been doing this all wrong. I implore you to forget what has come before and allow me a new beginning.”

“Go on, please,” said Jawad.

“No need for apologies,” added Fatima. “You may not have seduced us, but you have certainly entertained us on this long journey, and for that we are grateful. Proceed.”

And Khayal began:

“My love for you, Jawad
,
Leaves me no health or joy
,
You are the moon that has taken on
The shape of a boy.”

“Oh, how scrumptious,” Fatima cooed. “Back to Abu Nawas. We are going to have an evening of love poems. You will enjoy this, Jawad.”

“Your face reveals a down so light
A breeze might steal it, or a breath;
Soft as a quince’s bloom that might
Find in a finger’s touch its death
.
Five kisses and your face is cleared
While mine has grown a longer beard.”

“Ah,” sighed Fatima, “that must be Latin.”

“I am pleased,” Jawad said, “but if my suitor finds me beautiful, does that necessarily mean that I should find him so in return? This form of poetry is fun, delicious, but my soul remains untouched. It only increases my longing for the ineffable.”

“Your name means ‘horse.’ My name means ‘horseman.’ We were meant to ride together. Can you not see?”

“I can see that I still do not feel seduced. My heart flutters not.”

“Your daughter is a strong woman,” the bey said. His mustache twitched when he spoke, and paralleled his thick brows. He dragged the chair closer to my father’s bed. My father refused to look at him,
kept his eyes fastened on Hafez, who hovered, unable to control his nervous energy, and seemed torn between opposing overseers. My father followed his every movement disapprovingly. My father’s father had been employed by successive beys, treated as one of their many servants. I didn’t think my father ever forgave his for that, and it was going to take quite a bit of time for him to forgive Hafez for becoming a toady by choice. “What are you doing here?” my father asked him. “Why didn’t you come when you heard I was hospitalized?”