The Hakawati (88 page)

Baybars handed the letter to Othman, who could not read it. “I can barely read Arabic, my king. Why would anyone send you a letter in this strange language?”

“To test if I am the one,” Baybars said, “and this is not strange. It is my native tongue.”

One of the Uzbeks took the letter. “Shall I translate? This is one of the many languages of the vast province of Khorasan, which means where the sun rises, where bakhshis play the oud and sing the great glory of God. The letter is from Shah Jamak of Samarkand, addressed, he hopes, to his lost son: ‘In the name of God, the compassionate and the merciful. To our son, the prince of believers, sultan of Egypt and Syria, whose name is Mahmoud ben Jamak and whose mother is the Lady Heather. Know, my son, that, from the moment God decreed that you leave us, your mother and I have been unable to enjoy food or slumber. Your mother grieves, and I comfort her and tell her God cannot allow her suffering to go on forever. A few days before this writing, your mother found a coin embossed with your image on the obverse, and she fainted, knowing that her son lived and had become the sultan of Islam. I write to inquire whether this is true. Tell me, I beg you. Are you my son?’ ”

Baybars wept, and his friends joined him. “Deliver a letter to my
parents. Inform them that I will be arriving soon.” He stood up, holding the royal scepter close to his heart. “Tell my father who I am.”

It took me a few minutes to realize what my sister was up to. She wanted me to understand, but I was missing the clues she was throwing out. Breadcrumbs are harder to see along phone lines. She was entertaining herself at my expense and my father’s. We had our trivial talk—I was doing fine, she was as well—before the vicarious seduction began.

“Come home for Christmas,” she said. “We miss you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” It had been eleven months since I had been to Beirut, since my mother’s death.

“Don’t be silly. Of course it’s a good idea. It’s always a good idea.”

She went on to tell me about all the crazy family goings-on: how Uncle Halim had flipped completely, the stories he was telling, the scandals he was unleashing; how Aunt Samia hadn’t talked to her youngest son for a month because she told him she didn’t want a birthday present, and he believed her. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she added.

“Well,” I said, “you always keep me informed.”

“It’s not the same as being here. Come home.”

“I can’t. I’m too depressed.” I sighed, and, as usual, the instant I uttered those words, gloom filled me.

“We’ll take care of you. You need to be with us.”

“I don’t think I can deal with things now.”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted. “Hold on a minute.” She didn’t cover the mouthpiece, and I heard my father pleading in the background. All I could decipher was “Tell him. Tell him.”

I felt the eight tentacles of an octopus squeeze my marrow.

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” my sister said. “We’ll even pay for the ticket. You’re coming home.”

“He’s telling you what to say.”

“The weather has been wonderful. We’re thinking of going to the mountains for a few days.”

“He’s furious with me.” I heard the embarrassing whine in my voice, but I couldn’t stop. “He hasn’t been able to speak to me for almost a year. The last words he said to me were that I’m not his son. I know he didn’t mean it, but still, he shouldn’t have said it.”

“We miss you terribly,” she said. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

“Why is he doing this? This is going to be hell.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, laughing. “It most certainly will be fun. And I’m going to enjoy it.”

Baybars prepared for the trip to Khorasan and Turkmenistan. “It behooves us,” said Layla, “to ask your mother, Sitt Latifah, to join us, my king. Family should meet family.”

“Of course,” cried Baybars. “Brilliant.” He turned to Sergeant Lou’ai. “Ride forth to your hometown, and inform my mother that I am in need of her wisdom.”

The convoy set forth. An impeccably outfitted battalion of the slave army rode the best Arabians of the lands, and a thousand slaves in most exquisite dress accompanied them. The king had filled a hundred treasure chests with textiles from Egypt and Syria, some embroidered with silver and gold, others of pure silk. He brought with him trays of silver, antiques of gold, and brilliant jewels from the southern lands of Africa. They left the land of the Nile and crossed the Jordan, the Euphrates, and the Tigris. They reached the lands of Persia and the mountains of Khorasan. Baybars rested in the holy city of Mashhad and sent Othman ahead to Samarkand. “Ride ahead, my friend, and inform my father that his son is near.”

And when the shah heard of his son’s arrival, he said, “What glorious news. Let us ride out and greet the sultan. Announce to my wife that her son arrives.”

When Baybars saw his father’s convoy approach, he and his companions climbed on their horses and set out to meet it. The great warhorse al-Awwar trotted toward the shah, and father and son hugged while still atop their steeds. The men in both convoys were touched by the unfolding scene before them, father and son brought together again, and expressed their appreciation by raising their swords, shouting, and cheering at the sky.

My father didn’t stand up to greet me, nor did he utter a word. He simply nodded in acknowledgment. I said hello and asked how he was doing. He nodded once more. He slouched a bit and extended his fingers to stare at them. “Hope you’re feeling better,” I said.

He nodded. I looked at my sister and arched my eyebrows. She led me into my room, where my suitcase was already open on the settee but not yet unpacked.

“He’s very happy to see you,” Lina said. “He’s just sleepy.”

“He couldn’t even look at me,” I said.

“Don’t be daft. Of course he looked at you. He doesn’t want you to know he did.”

In the palace of Samarkand, Queen Heather ran to Baybars and nearly toppled him. She kept hugging him and squeezing him and kissing him. “You are Mahmoud, my son. I would swear to it on Judgment Day, before God the Divine.” She kissed him so many times that she grew dizzy. “Wait. Let me rest.” She sat on her cushions. “My eyes have seen the impossible sublime. My son, the sultan of Islam. While I carried you, I knew God had great plans for you.” Baybars knelt before her and kissed her hands. “A mother knows,” she added. “The king of kings even I did not imagine, but I knew you were chosen. I was pregnant with destiny.”

“Be joyful, Mother. Your son bows before you. To help assuage your past sorrows, I offer you this.” And Baybars opened the chests of dazzling gifts. “More important, this is the honorable Sitt Latifah. She adopted me when I had nothing and offered me all that is hers. She raised me and taught me to care for God.”

The queen leapt to her feet and kissed Sitt Latifah. “My son has two mothers, further proof that he is blessed. Come sit beside me and regale me with stories of what he was like away from me.” The two women talked of their son and told stories of former times.

“I, too, had two mommies,” said Queen Heather. “My mother had a twin sister, and no one could tell them apart, not even my father. They raised me as one.”

I tried to force myself back to sleep. Not a dash of light penetrated the rolled-down shutters. The nightstand clock read four-eleven. I shut my eyes and hoped. I rolled over, but the mattress didn’t seem to want to readjust, as if it knew what was best for me and was waiting for the end of my silly experiment. I resigned myself to its will. In the silent
apartment, I could hear the movement of warm air within the heating system. The vents would expel the air with a sound like the long harrumph of an ogre. I could also hear my niece’s aged hamster running its wheel in her room—a hamster that had been around forever, apparently immortal.

I rose with the emergence of first light and had to remind myself to put on shorts and an undershirt. I left my room, not having to tiptoe—bare feet on marble barely made any noise—and walked through the corridor, the den, the main living room, and into the kitchen. I opened the fridge and couldn’t figure out how anything was arranged. Soft light suddenly seeped from under the maid’s door. I heard faint rustling before Fely opened the door, still adjusting her uniform, which looked like polyester pajamas.

“Please, sir,” she said in Filipina English, smiling as if her life depended on it.

I smiled back. “I’m trying to get juice.”

“Please, sir,” she repeated, and turned on the kitchen lights. “Orange juice, coffee, every morning, five minutes.” She brushed past me and reached for an untouched crate of freshly picked blood oranges, her fingers navigating the fleshy globes, choosing the best ones. The air burst with orange perfume. “Please, sir.”

Fely had been the family maid for at least ten years, trained by my mother. The soft, smiling exterior belied a willful, controlling woman who ruled her domain, exactly the kind of maid my mother, and my sister, grew to love. The kitchen belonged to her. She would do all the work. I was to return to my place and would be taken care of. I went back to the den, turned the television to the satellite news, and waited. Fely came in with a silver tray, Turkish coffee, kettle and cup, large glass of red juice, and two madeleines. “Good morning, sir,” she said, and retreated before I could reply. I heard the toilet flush in my father’s bathroom.