It was undoubtedly the Night of Fate, because God heard my father’s pleas.
That evening, my mother met the man who would sweep her off her feet, dazzle her, bewitch and charm her. She met the man who would love her and adore her, who would become her steadfast partner. A man whose wit and light would dim her fiancé’s star, stub and extinguish it by the time dessert was served. Love at first barb. That night, my mother met Uncle Jihad.
A Swiss man with a ponytail who claimed to be Jean-Paul Sartre’s good friend offended almost everyone at the dinner party. The ponytail alone was shocking enough, but because of Sartre-said-this, Sartre-would-have-done-that, the party broke up into smaller groups to avoid him. Uncle Jihad inched slowly from group to group until he sat next to the bewitching girl who had been pretending not to notice his advance. Looking at the Swiss, whose audience had been systematically reduced to her earnest fiancé, she leaned toward my uncle and whispered, “I wonder why that braggart has to wear his hair like that.”
“So they can pull his head out of Sartre’s ass,” Uncle Jihad said.
My mother had found her soulmate.
He had no idea she was my father’s infatuation, and, surprisingly, they hadn’t met before, although they attended the same university, were in the same department, and were the same age. They had similar interests but took classes at different times. Uncle Jihad didn’t mix in her social circle. He wouldn’t have had the time in any case, since he still managed both his and Ali’s pigeon coops. My mother and uncle talked and talked, and grew so engrossed that my father’s heart filled with hope and her fiancé’s filled with panic. Nick sidled to my mother, put his arm around her. My mother closed her eyes for a moment so as not to show her frustration. When she opened them, she noticed Uncle Jihad’s face momentarily and impolitically express shock.
“This is my fiancé,” my mother said.
“I figured,” Uncle Jihad replied.
My mother, knowing that his smile belied his disapproval, shuddered. She tried to banish the color of embarrassment from her cheeks.
That was one story my mother loved to tell, but her version of the events of the evening was slightly different from Uncle Jihad’s. According to Uncle Jihad, my mother fell in love with him, but he knew instantly that she would be a wonderful wife for his brother. My mother would smile and shake her head when the story was told in her presence. She said that she adored him that evening but she wasn’t in love. She didn’t believe in love at first sight.
The last time the subject came up, I was with my mother during a healthy respite about six months before she died. She lay propped against her pillows, and I was sitting on her bed. She had been quite ill for a week, but suddenly she looked rejuvenated. Gauntness and pallor had temporarily departed, and the wrinkles of strain had been filled with new flesh. Hope, the great deceiver, seduced her that morning. “I remember that evening as if it were yesterday,” she said. “The candles, the guests, the foreigner with a horrible ponytail. Can you imagine how appalling that was in those days? How insufferable that man was, and how embarrassing that the only one who fell for his asinine chatter was poor Nick. That evening, I was horrified that I didn’t know who this man I was supposed to marry was. The scrim that had been hanging before my eyes was raised. The look on Jihad’s face when he realized that I was with Nick rattled me. He probably would’ve been less surprised had I told him I was engaged to the water closet. He disapproved of my choice, and I realized I did as well. What was even more terrifying was that I didn’t have the courage to admit my mistake. I knew that night that I’d never go through with the marriage, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit it to anyone, not even poor Nick. But my epiphany had nothing to do with being in love. Do you think for a moment that Jihad fell in love with me or I fell in love with him? Please. No matter what Farid and Jihad might have ardently wished to believe, no one was ever fooled. I recognized — oh, what shall we call it? — his special ability to be best friends with women, the instant I saw his impish grin from across the room. My God, how could I not, given the way he crossed his legs or what he did with his hands? No one would talk about it, but that didn’t mean anyone was fooled.”
• • •
Nick wouldn’t leave my mother’s side for the rest of the evening, and the Swiss was forced to follow his remaining audience across the room. The two men’s discussion bored my mother and uncle until the Swiss asked a question: “Will there ever be an Arab Sartre?” My mother rolled her eyes, and Uncle Jihad tried to control his chuckling. Nick commenced a monologue explaining the impossibility of such a phenomenon: the subordination of content to the aesthetics of language in Arabic literature, the dominance of panegyrics and eulogies as an art form, etc. “All you have to look at,” said Nick, “is the deification of a loser like al-Mutanabbi. Writers try to emulate him, penning pretty little verses that mean nothing and affect nothing. He sold his services to the highest bidder, and his poems ended up being paeans to corrupt rulers. Things haven’t changed much. Until the day arrives when we’re no longer dazzled by glitter, we’re stuck with the banal beauty of al-Mutanabbi.”
My mother’s groan startled her fiancé. Confounded, he stared at her, mouth agape.
“Beauty is never banal,” my mother said.
“Al-Mutanabbi is one of my heroes,” Uncle Jihad said. “Such a romantic fool.”
“Romantic?” my mother said. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of Antar? I’ve never heard of a love story associated with al-Mutanabbi.”
“No, no. It isn’t a love story. It’s a death story. A glorious death story.”
“Do tell,” my mother exhorted.
“You want me to tell you the story? Here? Now? I’m not sure I can.” My mother arched her eyebrows. “You must ask again.” My uncle cracked a grin. “Please, make me feel important.”
My mother’s hand went to her chest. She batted her eyelashes. “Please, sahib. Tell me a story and enliven my evening.” She smiled. “How was that?”
“Just the right touch,” Uncle Jihad said. “Let’s see. In the glorious days when poets were heroes and men were valiant, when the sun shone brighter and lies were never spoken, there lived, and died, the greatest of all poets. I’ll leave the stories of his tragic life for another sitting, for tonight I’ll relay the story of his death. Al-Mutanabbi died on his way to Baghdad, but he didn’t die alone. He wasn’t what one would call a well-adjusted individual. He knew he was a genius and was obsessed with his immortality. Few put anything down on paper in those days. All poems were memorized, all stories, even the Koran. Well, al-Mutanabbi would have none of that. He wasn’t going to rely on others’ memories when it came to his work. He wrote everything down, every single word, leaving nothing to chance. We’re talking papyrus, large rolls of papyrus. He rode to Baghdad with his son, two slaves, and eight camels loaded with his life’s work. Of course, you cross the desert with laden camels and you’ll attract the attention of brigands. Thieves attacked the convoy thinking they were about to strike the mother lode and would soon be in possession of treasures. The poet died defending his work, and with his last breath begged his killers not to destroy it. The only one who escaped was the poet’s son. He saw his father expire and rode away, but he didn’t get far. Guilt over abandoning his father’s poetry overpowered him, and he returned to the scene to fight. But the robbers were enraged at finding nothing of value, and they tortured the son and killed him.”