“Usually, I kill my victims instantly and relieve the corpses of their possessions,” said the leader, “but I have never encountered beauty unprotected on these roads before. I could be persuaded to delay your death.”
“Oh, how silly.” Layla unleashed her nail-studded whip, striking from nine paces away, and the brigand flew forward off his horse and landed dead at her horse’s hooves. She turned to one of his men, who looked less stunned than the rest. “What are you doing here?”
“What? How did you recognize me? I am in disguise. I just infiltrated this group.”
“Infiltrated?” asked one of the brigands, but that was the last word he uttered, for Othman struck him down. Harhash shook his head in confusion. “Why would you want to infiltrate an incompetent band of amateurs?”
“Amateurs?” asked another of the brigands, but Layla had only to feign a whipping motion and the brigand turned and fled in terror, followed by his companions.
“I had to,” Othman said. “Arbusto could not persuade King Bohemond of Tripoli to declare war, so he is recruiting brigands to cause trouble and force the sultan to attack. I hoped to come across Arbusto if I joined them. But why did you ride with my wife?”
“She needed protection,” Harhash said. Layla and Othman stared at him. “Well, I was bored. One battle, two battles, they all begin to look the same. I prefer your adventure. I was crushed that you left Cairo without me. Shame. I thought I meant something to you; I thought I was your friend.”
“We wanted to be together,” Othman said, and Layla added, “This is our honeymoon.”
We wished for a bigger storm, more powerful, more destructive, strong enough to get the combatants to take a break from the fighting. In the winter of 1976, the rain was soft, the shelling wasn’t. The underground garage muted the sound of the bombardment. The fighting was in a different part of town, but my mother was worried enough to take us to the shelter. Light from a couple of kerosene lamps and infinite candles threw flickering shadows across the unwashed walls. My mother lit a cigarette. “I’m dying, Jihad, dying of boredom.” She turned off the transistor radio, interrupting the voice of the BBC anchorwoman in mid-sentence. “Entertain me or suffer the consequences.”
“Me?” Uncle Jihad said. “Why don’t you tell us a story? Tell your children about the greatest love, how you picked their father out of all your suitors.”
Lina picked up the transistor and moved two plastic chairs away to Uncle Akram’s parking space. His car must have been leaking for quite a while, since there was a large oil stain resembling the dark continent of Africa. Lina sat down, tuned the radio to a rock station, and put her legs on the second chair. Her butt hovered over Libya and Tunis, and her feet dangled over the southern tip of the horn. “Lina seems to be entertaining herself,” said Uncle Jihad. “Wouldn’t it be nice to tell your son about you?”
“You’re supposed to entertain me,” my mother said. “Don’t fail me, mister.”
“Relentless woman.” Uncle Jihad laughed. “All right. I’ll tell you a story about my mischievous youth, but I don’t want you to get any ideas, Osama. Let’s see. Where does one start? In the early days, before I was born, that’s when we’ll start.” He tapped out a cigarette and took his time lighting it, had two long puffs before beginning a third. “During the early 1900s, there was a Druze brigand, Yassin al-Jawahiri, who terrorized the mountains. Well, ‘terrorize’ might be too harsh a word. He was a card who fancied himself a Druze Robin Hood. He stole from the Ottoman Empire and its officials and shared some of his bounty with the Druze villages, and in return the villagers sheltered him, even against the wishes of their leaders, the princes and sheikhs of the mountains. He was a hero to the Druze, this Yassin al-Jawahiri.”
“Al-Jawahiri?” my mother interrupted.
“One and the same.”
“This isn’t fair,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know the Jawahiri family,” my mother said. “Jihad is going to tell us how they became our friends.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it’s a great story,” Uncle Jihad said. “Now, let me tell it. This Yassin was a clever fellow and became so popular that there was a song written about him. It went like this:
Ya Yassin, Ya Jawahiri
Your rifle slung on your shoulder,
becomes snug on that shoulder
Before your enemy blinks.
Vultures and foreigners behind you
Turn, turn, and shoot them.
Ya Yassin, Ya Jawahiri
Return to us our hero.
“That’s a stupid song,” I said.
“I learned it as a little boy. You know my father. He probably knew every song sung in the mountains. When he told the Yassin story, I remembered the song. Anyway, Yassin caused havoc for many years, but then the First World War started and the French arrived. Well, the French were more ruthless than the Ottomans. They caught Yassin and executed him.”
“How does one capture a villain as wily as Arbusto?” asked Harhash.
“How does one woo evil?” asked Layla.
“We set a trap,” said Othman. “We seduce his greed.”
“We seduce his ego,” added Harhash.
“And top it with lust,” said Layla. “A powerful brew indeed. We send a message that a luscious dove has arrived in Tripoli, enamored of his infamous reputation, infatuated by his power. She wishes to be his slave and answer his bidding, do anything he desires.”
“She will help him bring the sultanate to its knees,” said Othman. “She is able to seduce any man, including the virtuous King Baybars.”
“She is able to relieve men of their reason,” said Harhash. “She can open any door.”
“He will come running. I will spread the rumor among the city’s thieves.”
“I will inform the pleasure-givers,” said Layla.
“I will take the bandits and highway robbers,” said Harhash.
And Layla vowed, “I will drain him dry as hay. Sleep shall neither night nor day hang upon his penthouse lid. He shall live a man forbid.”
“Let us begin,” said Othman. “When shall we three meet again?”
• • •
Layla waited in her room. When the knock came, she lay on the divan while Othman and Harhash hid behind the curtains. “Come in,” Layla called. “Come sit next to me. I have admired you from afar for so long, and I yearn to see you up close.”
Arbusto entered the room wearing his best robe and a scent of jasmine, trying to appear magisterial, but his nerve failed him. He sat at the end of the divan, beside her bare feet. “I thought your kind had repented.” He pulled his miter to make sure his clipped ear was covered.
“I retired from public service, not private.”
“That is a good distinction in your profession,” Arbusto said.
“I have waited for this moment.” Layla kept her eyes fastened on her prey, whose gaze darted about to avoid hers. “Every time I heard stories of your exploits, I shuddered in secret joy. I was first intrigued, then enchanted, then infatuated. I kept hearing more and more stories. You have done some terrible things.” She winked, and he flushed. “You have been a bad boy.” She rose from the divan slowly, making sure her curves were highlighted. “Have you not?”