“Yes, I have.” A nervous laugh escaped his lips.
“And you must be punished. Give me your hands.”
Arbusto extended his hands meekly. She tied them and secured him to the divan. His lustful eyes followed her every movement. She turned her back on him, and an astonished Arbusto heard her talk to the draperies, “Do you want him awake or unconscious?”
“Is that it?” asked Harhash, coming out. “The evil Arbusto captured so easily? I had expected more twists and turns, more excitement.”
“I would have dragged it out had I known,” said Layla.
Harhash slapped Arbusto’s face. “You disappoint me. You are a bad boy? You need to be punished? You fell for that?” Smack. “You did not even make her work. Come sit on my divan and let me tie you up? Shame on you. I had expected so much more.”
“The important thing,” said Othman, “is that we have captured this villain.”
“True, but there are conventions,” replied Harhash. Slap. “This thief has stolen the thrill of capture from me.”
“Oh well,” said Othman. “Reality never meets our wants, and adjusting both is why we tell stories.”
“Hmm, so I was ten,” Uncle Jihad said. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but I was still a fairly reticent child. Beirut and the school proved to be overwhelming. I wasn’t unhappy by any means, but I was a lonely boy. I spent all my time reading books and watching the world. Uncle Ma
an and his family tried to draw me out at first, but their hearts weren’t in it. And after all, they had enough troubles of their own. Uncle Jalal was spending more time in jail than out of it. In 1942, the war was raging in Europe, and the streets of Beirut were boiling. The Arisseddines had time for nothing but Uncle Jalal’s problems with French rule. My grandmother was spending most of her time in Beirut, but I hardly ever saw her. I rarely saw any of the family. Only after independence, the following year, did the family return to anything resembling normal.
“My blossoming began one day when I was standing under the oak tree Charlemagne, trying to understand how a yo-yo worked and singing the Yassin al-Jawahiri song to myself. A boy asked me how I knew the song, and I replied that I’d known it since I was born. I boasted that I knew everything there was to know about the man.”
“Was that boy Nasser al-Jawahiri?” asked my mother.
“The one and the same. Nasser went home for the weekend, and on Monday a horde of Jawahiris descended upon the school. There were about a hundred of them, men and women, geriatrics and children, religious and secular, all one family. It was a big commotion, and I was surprised to discover they had come to talk to me. I was taken to a hall and interviewed. They asked if I was Druze and were very happy to find out my mother was an Arisseddine. They asked me about Yassin al-Jawahiri, and I answered. My father had told me the story, so I knew quite a bit, and I could see the astonishment on their faces with each of my responses.”
“Tell me you didn’t,” my mother said.
“I was as innocent as a lamb of God. I swear. In any case, it took me a while to figure out what was happening. I didn’t understand, so you can’t blame me for the beginning. I was answering their questions. I loved the attention. I knew each correct answer would get more.”
“Oh, Jihad,” my mother said. “You bad boy.”
“What happened?” I asked. “Tell me.”
“The Jawahiris would have come to the conclusion that your uncle was the reincarnation of Yassin al-Jawahiri,” my mother said. “The family had come to investigate, and Jihad was a very bad boy.”
“And your mother is a harsh judge,” Uncle Jihad said. “They didn’t come to investigate, but to confirm. If it had been an investigation, a much smaller number would have come. They wanted to meet the great Yassin. I simply answered their questions.”
“You could have told them where you got the information,” my mother said.
“They didn’t ask. They never once asked how I came to know. They believed.”
“What would they ask? Hey, do you have a crazy hakawati for a father, and does he know the most minute detail of every story ever told, and has he repeated them all to you over and over and over?”
“Harsh woman. Harsh, unforgiving woman. I didn’t do anything wrong. I was lonely. When they told me I was Yassin al-Jawahiri, I couldn’t have been happier. They introduced themselves one by one. ‘I’m your nephew so-and-so, but of course I’m much older now than when you left.’ What did you expect me to do? I was the centerpiece of a magnificent epic. Stories swirled around me. More, I became what I’d always daydreamed of being, a hero whom people looked up to, and I did it without having to display a smidgen of courage. In one instant, I had acquired a new story, a new family, a new identity, and gifts, many gifts. Nothing expensive, but nice things like hand-knit vests and caps, and lots and lots of food. I was invited to their houses for meals. I never had to eat school food. They sent morning pies, savory pastries. They created a space for me in their hearts.”
“And you created a space in your stomach,” my mother said as Uncle Jihad patted his ample belly. “I presume you didn’t horribly abuse their gullibility, since Nasser is still a friend.”
“Abuse? Sweetheart, I was the joy of their lives. Nasser did become a good friend. The Jawahiris loved me. As I said, our family was busy. No one paid much attention to my comings and goings even though I was so young. Things went on like that for about a year and some, until the day Uncle Maan discovered what was going on. He was very angry. He put on his best suit and his fez and took me to the Jawahiris to apologize for my bad behavior. I had to sit there and look contrite, head bent, while everyone glared. Uncle Maan went on about what a scamp I was. He told them I wasn’t Yassin and there was no way I could be. He explained that I had been born many years after Yassin died — reincarnation is instantaneous. If they could find it in their hearts to forgive me, he would make sure I’d never disturb them again. I wasn’t a bad boy. I was from a good family. I just didn’t know any better. He actually said I was his favorite nephew, that this was his fault: he’d been busy and hadn’t been paying proper attention to my upbringing. It was Nasser’s mother who saved me. She said that, even though I wasn’t Yassin al-Jawahiri, she’d grown to cherish me, and I was welcome at her house at any time. Things settled down a bit, and a fortnight later, Nasser said that his mother wanted me to come to a big lunch for a nephew who had just gotten engaged. I couldn’t say no. After all, she was an astonishing cook. At the lunch, I felt awkward, and so did most of the Jawahiris. It was a celebratory feast, yet the mood was somewhat gloomy. I missed what we had before. I was among the Jawahiris, but I missed them. I longed for the way I had felt when I was around them, how special I was. I didn’t know how to make things better or what to say. Nasser’s mother served the lamb, and it was almost eerily quiet. There were people talking, but it was relatively hushed. When Nasser’s mother, bless her, offered me dessert, she patted my head and told me not to be too upset with Uncle Maan. She said he was a great man but he could be a bit rigid. And this was where I was bad.”
My mother gasped and broke into a wide grin. “No. You didn’t?”
“I’m afraid I did.”
“What?” I demanded.
“Al-Jawahiri is a common family, not titled,” my mother explained. “Maan Arisseddine was a sheikh.”
“I wanted to make everyone happy. I told Nasser’s mother that Uncle Maan was a great man, honest and honorable. Just as she had said, he was also rigid about principles when it came to his family’s social position and obligations.”