And the grand army coalesced, the Berbers from the Sahara, the Africans from Sudan, the tribes from Hijaz, and the Arabs from Tunis. The infidel Mongols were celebrating in Gaza, drinking, whoring, and carousing. Having never lost a battle, they were not expecting anyone to be foolish enough to attack. And attack them the army of innocents did. The Mongols had their first taste of fear. The slave army hit with ferocious force, shattering the Mongol illusion of a conquered world at their feet. The barbarians retreated, and the slave army followed, killing more and more of the straggling invaders. The Mongols stood their ground in the plains of Bissan; they dug in and waited for the attack, but they were in for another surprise. From Anatolia to Persia, from the Caucasus to Andalusia, soldiers and armies arrived heeding the fatwa. The archers of Damascus, the horsemen of Kandahar, the pikers of Baghdad, and the swordsmen of Shiraz joined the slave army. The war of all wars erupted. Dust storms swirled. Swords clashed with shields, spears pierced armor, and many a hero fell. The Mongols were hit from all sides, but amid all the chaos, Hulagu Khan and his generals noticed that certain of the battalions of Islam never broke rank, never faltered. The Mongols, who had nurtured bedlam and anarchy in war, were encountering their opposite, an army of impeccably trained slaves. Order vanquished disorder. The barbarians had sown fear wherever they trod, and now fearless slaves trod on them. The invaders ran away in terror and were cut down, their dead and dying discarded on the battlefield as feast for the hyenas of the plains.
The slave army suffered great losses, and none as great as the loss of the king. An errant Mongol arrow killed Qutuz the indefatigable. Prince Baybars took command of the slave army and routed the Mongols at Ain Jalut (the Spring of Goliath). He killed scores of the invaders, and their blood dried on his hands and fingers, causing them to stiffen and ache with the pain of triumph. Othman, ever his servant, heated a bowl of water for the hero, who soaked his hands and released the blood and pain.
Prince Baybars led the victorious army back to Cairo. The entire population of the city poured out of the gates to greet the hero before he entered. Feasts were served in every hall, every house, every corner. The celebration lasted for three sleepless days.
At the diwan, everyone nominated the only truly worthy king. He was crowned al-Zaher Baybars. Finally, fate aligned with history, fact shook hands with storytelling. The great one had reached his destiny. The hero of a thousand tales, the shining example to all the faithful, the lord of lords, had become sultan at long last.
You have before you the greatest hero the world will ever know. This is the famous tale of King al-Zaher Baybars. Now our story begins.
Listen.
BOOK FOUR
Man is eminently a storyteller. His search for a purpose, a cause, an ideal, a mission and the like is largely a search for a plot and a pattern in the development of his life story — a story that is basically without meaning or pattern.
Nay, say they, these are but muddled dreams;
Nay, he hath but invented it;
Nay, he is but a poet.
Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.
Sixteen
The best stories always begin with the appearance of a woman. The story of the family corporation does, and the woman in question is, of course, my mother. What did my father tell Hovik that day? How did he win my mother?
He saw her for the first time while she was walking with a friend on Bliss Street. He was twenty, working as a clerk in an import-export company on Bliss, and my mother was eighteen, attending the American University. He’d been hearing about the two girls, the blonde and the brunette, from his co-workers, who wouldn’t stop blathering about the pair of pretty university girls. The brunette was lovely, but the blonde was so lusciously sexy. My father had to endure his co-workers’ descriptions, in full, striking detail and with gestures, of what they’d like to do to the blonde. He heard how the rascally wind had blown her blouse open to reveal a spectacular cleavage. The brunette was pretty, really pretty, but the blonde showed mind-bending curves.
My father saw my mother, the brunette, and was smitten.
But wait. This is not that kind of fairy tale. He was smitten. Of that, there could be no doubt, but was it love at first sight? Was it love at all? Cynics dismiss love at first sight, saying that one person cannot possibly know another in an instant.
My father knew a number of things when he saw my mother. He knew she was a classic Lebanese beauty. That was obvious. He knew she was from an upper-class family — the way she dressed and carried herself was a giveaway. He knew that if he married her he would gain access to a world he could only dream about. He also knew that she would never give him a second look, not unless he became someone else, someone better, someone important.
My father also understood that my mother was smarter than all his co-workers combined. He instinctively knew that she wasn’t a woman who relied on accident or luck. Her choice of companion was well thought out. She and her blonde friend would certainly attract attention, and a lot of it. One of my father’s co-workers actually felt sorry for my mother because her beauty couldn’t match the blonde’s. He was terribly stupid.
The blonde’s beauty made you want to bed her. My mother’s beauty made you want to introduce her to your mother. That was precisely the contrast that my mother intended. The blonde distracted the riffraff and took them out of my mother’s way.
Years later, in 1992, one of the major newspapers ran various historical pictures of Beirut in hopes of inspiring readers to remember how good things were before the war. One picture was of the blonde and the brunette, wide smiles on their young faces, eyes brimming with dreams and curiosity, buns high atop their heads, stepping in unison. The caption said: “Madame Layla al-Kharrat (nee Khoury) in 1950 with unidentified woman.”
Upon seeing my mother that first time, my father became intoxicated.
The poet Saadi, my mother’s favorite, once told a charming personal tale of love and intoxication.
When Saadi was young, he cast his eyes on a beautiful girl who appeared briefly on a balcony as he was walking down her street. The day was torrid, dried the mouth, boiled the marrow in the bone. Unable to withstand the sun’s harsh rays, Saadi took shelter in the shade of a wall. Suddenly, from the portico of her house, the girl appeared. No tongue could describe her loveliness: an impossibility, like the dawn rising in the obscurity of deep night. In her hand she held a cup of snow water sprinkled with sugar and mixed with the juice of a grape. Saadi caught the scent of roses but was unsure whether she had infused the drink with the blossoms of the flower or those of her cheeks. He received the cup from her comely hand, drank from it, and was restored to healthy life. Yet the thirst of the poet’s soul was not such that it could be allayed with a cup of water — the streams of whole rivers would not satisfy it.
He who is intoxicated with wine
Will be sober again in the course of the night; But he who is intoxicated by the cupbearer