The soccer captain was right — she was crowned Miss Lebanon, but she was shot before she could make it to the Miss Universe contest. By the time she entered the Miss Lebanon competition, her reputation was such that a vote against her meant a judicious end to a judge’s life. She won even though she wasn’t a Lebanese citizen. More astonishing, she won even though she had bypassed the talent competition.
It is said that she retained her temper and her tantrums. The story of her death became infamous. She had survived dumping power-hungry militia leaders; she had survived crossing from east to west and vice versa; she had survived a lover’s discovering her in bed with his underling. (The underling was more respected and promptly replaced the jilted man. Was Mariella an expert at leadership assessment, or was the mere fact that the underling bedded his superior’s girlfriend a cause for immediate respect? One wonders.) What proved fatal was accusing her last lover in front of other fighters of having an inadequate dick.
Over the years, Fatima had expended great energy in debunking theories that she was who she was in response to her older sister. She called all such talk psychoanalytic psychobabble, and irrelevant to boot.
But once, when we were kids, Mariella showed me a pendant she’d received for her birthday. “It’s a real emerald. My birthstone, and it matches my eyes.”
Brown-eyed Fatima had an indecent fondness for emeralds.
The boys began to spend more time in the world. They played in the grand garden, accompanied and watched over by the colorful parrots. The emir’s wife could see them throwing stones at an old elm tree’s trunk. She called to Shams from her balcony, but he pretended not to hear. She, on the other hand, could hear their joyous shrieks quite well. She called again, but her son only glanced up at her and returned to his playing. He threw a stone at the trunk, and from out of nowhere, a devotee jumped in front of the target and the stone struck her forehead. She covered her wound with both hands, bowed down before her prophet, and repeated, “Thank you, thank you,” before running away with the injurious stone in her possession.
The green parrot squawked a warning, and the boys left the garden quickly. Three ecru-clothed devotees popped out from behind the hedges, too late to catch a glimpse of their adored.
And, for the seventh time that morning, the emir’s wife wished her son’s dark slave an ignominious death. Tear him into a hundred pieces and roast the parrots and eat them all. One of the handmaids cleared her throat, interrupting the sumptuous reverie, and offered a letter once her presence was acknowledged. “Who is this from?” asked the emir’s wife.
“I do not know, mistress,” the servant replied. “The letter appeared on a silver tray placed upon your bed.”
The emir’s wife blanched upon reading the unsigned note: “What you desire can be accomplished with patience and my help. If you wish annihilation of the dark one, seat yourself beneath the third willow at midnight of the seventh night of the moon’s pregnancy.”
• • •
Under the third willow, the emir’s wife sat anxiously, her head covered with her cape. She glanced at the moon for the umpteenth time to make sure this was the proper night. Why was she always early? Royalty should make others wait. The night was still, not a breath of wind, yet the willow’s leaves rustled with a will of their own. She inhaled deeply and felt faint. The world shimmered, and a cloaked woman of manly size sat facing her beneath the second willow. Though the mooned night was bright, the cloak’s shadows hid the stranger’s features.
“Royalty deigns not to speak to a supplicant with a hidden face,” the emir’s wife said.
The woman chuckled and released her cloak, revealing a head and face wrapped in an unnatural haze. “What are you?” the emir’s wife asked. “Trickery does not impress me. I command you to show me your face.”
“Which face would you like to see?” The woman’s voice was as deep as her laugh, throaty and rough. She snapped her fingers and the haze thinned. Her face was atrociously ugly and deformed.
“Do I have a choice?”
“Of course you do.” The woman snapped her fingers once more and her face transformed into that of the emir’s wife.
“You are a witch.” Horrified, the emir’s wife covered her own face. “Remove that visage at once.”
“As you please.” The woman changed her face into that of an ordinary peasant with unexceptional features.
“Are you a witch?”
“Of a kind. Are you interested in what I am or what I have to offer? I can help you get rid of your nemesis and mine, in time.”
“I do not see how. I have tried everything. I have tried poisoning him, at least a hundred times, used every poison known to man, but the boy does not get so much as an upset stomach. I have hired killers to get rid of him and his mother, bird catchers for the parrots. They mock me. Last month, I had ten archers shoot at Fatima, and the arrows fell short of their target, who simply laughed.”
“Mortal schemes will not injure her, and none will wound him, for he is a demon.”
“Oh, come, come,” the emir’s wife scoffed. “He is an ugly brat, but a demon?”
“He is not just a demon; he will rule their world. He is the king of jinn. Killing him will not be easy, but it can be done. Is it what you desire?”
“Of course it is. Kill him and I will reward you with whatever you wish. My son must be freed from his shadow.”
“I cannot kill the dark one without your help. Throughout the ages, it has been so. To obliterate a demon king, his mother must destroy his life organs.”
“Fatima could never hurt him.”
The woman stared at the emir’s wife and hesitated. “But you can. Consider this: since he and your prophet are inseparable, fate considers him your son. When the time comes, will you have the courage to follow through?”
“Yes. I will destroy his heart.”
“Not his heart. He is a jinni. To kill him, his mother must destroy his testicles.”
“Oh my.” The emir’s wife turned ashen. “He is still only eleven. They are not even functioning yet.”
“Then we must wait until they are.”
More on Fatima: Fast-forward to October 1990, I was twenty-nine, employed, a productive member of society, and Fatima was thirty, on her third marriage, a citizen of the world. Comparing her with my sister once more: After Elie, Lina gave up on marriage, or, really, never thought about it. She actually never thought about Elie, either, never saw him again after the wedding, which she claimed woke her up. On the other hand, after her first marriage, Fatima chose a different track. She upgraded, traded husbands in for better models.
That October, Fatima and my sister decided to visit me in Los Angeles at an inopportune time. Four of us from work were scheduled to attend a self-improvement workshop at the Asilomar Conference, near Carmel. Our boss, a devotee of the seminar’s facilitator, suggested that our attendance would help team-building. I would have been away from Los Angeles for only four days, but neither Fatima nor Lina wished to remain in the city without me.
Lina said she’d come along and stay nearby. The coast was gorgeous. She could take walks on the Asilomar grounds, hike in the rolling hills, shop in Carmel. Fatima — Fatima decided she had to attend the workshop. She would stay in the same hotel as Lina but would spend her days observing the strange rituals of lost souls.