“You didn’t leave it at that,” my mother said. “That would have been too subtle.”
“I didn’t. I added that I’d heard him say that a sheikh should guard his position in society at all costs, that one’s family name is all one ever has. I didn’t make that up, he’d said it often. I just made sure to mention it at the right time. Nasser’s mother stood up straight. Her face lit up. She yelled to the entire room, ‘Of course. That makes sense. The sheikh would never want to admit that his nephew was reincarnated from a commoner. The fact that the boy’s father isn’t a sheikh would make the man even more insistent that his nephew had nothing to do with us.’ The family exploded into a cacophony of joy. Even Nasser’s cousin, the future groom, stood up and shouted, ‘I knew you were one of us. I always knew. My heart never lies.’ The feast turned raucous. Everyone began to sing. Everyone was happy.”
The cigarette in Uncle Jihad’s hand was more ash than filter. He dropped it on the ground and stomped on it. He had been carpeting the floor with cigarette butts. He lit another, signaling the end of the tale.
“How long did it go on?” my mother asked.
“Quite a while, I’m afraid.”
“You never told them?”
“No, there was never any need. For a couple of years after that lunch, I was back to being family. Then I started to work, and I also got more serious about studying. I didn’t get to see them as much, and I drifted away, but then the relationship changed, and we became friends. Our families are very close. You know that. Hell, they came with us to pick you up for your wedding. We’ve been together for so long that I don’t think anybody remembers who Yassin was, let alone that I’m supposed to be him. We owe them much, and we try to pay our debt.”
I looked at my mother, and she saw I was confused.
“More than half the people who work for the corporation are Jawahiris,” she explained. “Whenever a Jawahiri needed a job, your father found a place for him. Now we know why. I always assumed it was because they were friends of the family.”
“It’s a bit more than that,” Uncle Jihad said. “We don’t usually like to talk about this. We had no money to start the company, and we had to borrow. A lot of people helped. Quite a few, but not the people you would have expected.”
“I know,” my mother said. “Farid calls them the army of angels.”
“Yes, I do, too.” He chuckled, then sighed. “The Jawahiris were part of the army of angels. They didn’t have much money, but I had to ask. I was desperate. If we hadn’t come up with the money, Farid would have killed himself. I went to them, and they all loaned me money, they dug into their savings. I didn’t know at the time, but Nasser’s mother sold her jewelry to loan me the money. I was family. They believed in me. We paid them back, of course. We paid everybody back a lot more than they gave us. If that delightful buffoon Nasser came down these steps right now and said he needed a heart, I would tear mine out and gift it.”
Cairo’s jails were crowded with Crusader kings, and the Crusader cities were returned to the people. The great Baybars had liberated the lands.
The queens of the captured Crusader kings begged King Flavio of Rome to intercede on behalf of their husbands. King Flavio sent an emissary to Baybars offering two treasure chests for each of the released kings. He also asked for Arbusto’s release. “No,” said Baybars. “I agree to release the kings, for they are of royal blood and were deceived into treachery. Arbusto, however, is the father of lies. When he lies, he speaks his native tongue. I will not let him go.”
“Your Majesty,” said the Roman emissary, “King Flavio will free six thousand Muslim slaves in good faith if you can find it in your heart to release the priest.”
And Baybars searched his heart, nodded his assent.
That evening, Layla asked her husband, “Arbusto released? What kind of an exchange rate is that? Is one European life worth six thousand of ours?”
“Will they ever stop?” my mother said. The shelling had been going on and on, and we were all getting tired. “This infernal night is never ending. Make it pass, Jihad. Make it pass or make those bombs stop. Those are your options.”
“Shall we play cards?” Uncle Jihad asked.
“No. Tell me another story. Entertain me once more.”
Uncle Jihad turned to me and winked. “Why don’t you tell us a story, Osama? It’s time you contributed to our lore.”
“Yours are so much better,” I said, “and she asked you.”
My mother stretched her back. “I’d love to hear a story, Osama. Really, my dear, any story is good. Anything is better than this boredom.”
“I can tell the story of Baybars,” I said. “It used to be one of Grandfather’s favorites.”
“Baybars?” My mother turned to Uncle Jihad. “The Mamluke? Is there a story about him that I don’t know about?”
“The story is a classic,” Uncle Jihad said. “One of the standards.”
“Why?”
Uncle Jihad laughed, and I said, “Because he’s a hero.”
“Actually, Osama, that’s a great question,” Uncle Jihad said. He took a deep breath, searched his pockets for a cigarette, which basically meant that he was going to tell a tale, not I. “I’m laughing because your mother has a talent for getting to the crux of an issue. I’m assuming she knows who the man is.”
“Of course I do.”
“What she’s asking is why there’s a story about him. You see, the story of the story of Baybars is in some ways more interesting. Listen. Contrary to what my father and most people believe, the only true event in that whole story, in all its versions, is that the man existed. Everything else has been distorted beyond recognition. Al-Malik al-Zahir Rukn al-Din Baybars al-Bunduq-dari al-Salihi owes his fame to his talent for public relations, without which his reign might have been reduced to a historical footnote.”
“Wait,” I said. “At Ain Jalut he—”
“Listen and learn, Osama,” my uncle interrupted. “Though it’s true that Baybars defeated both the Mongols and the Crusaders, it actually was a victory for the Mamlukes. He wasn’t the best general among them by any means. And his victories over the Crusaders, like Saladin’s, were temporary, for whenever ferment spread in Europe, nervous kings and popes called for new crusades. There were so many crusades. You know, when the knights of the First Crusade landed on our shores, they massacred the entire population of Beirut without showing mercy on a single soul before heading toward Jerusalem — all of Beirut, every citizen was killed. And after the Great War, in 1918, when the French arrived with their fleet of innumerable warships, the first governor, General Henri Gouraud, announced upon landing in Beirut, ‘Saladin, we have returned.’ Believe me, Baybars did not defeat the Crusaders. No one did. But he also wasn’t a decent ruler. His subjects despised him, because he was a ruthless, fork-tongued megalomaniac who rose to power through treachery and murder. Quite a few sultans followed his mentor, al-Saleh, but their reigns were shortened when the ambitious slave killed them. He murdered two openly, Touran Shah and Qutuz; the death of Qutuz was Baybars’s springboard to power, since he insisted on applying an old law of the Turks stipulating that he who killed the ruler should take his place. He was also despised because he was born with blue eyes and developed cataracts in one. One blue and one white meant an evil eye.”
“So he wasn’t a hero?”
“He was in a way,” Uncle Jihad went on. He laughed when he saw my face. “Don’t be so disappointed. He was definitely a marketing hero. Baybars consolidated his power and created a cult of personality by paying, bribing, and forcing an army of hakawatis to promulgate tales of his valor and piety. These days, few can discern historical accounts from the stories of the hakawatis. He was the precursor to all the Arab presidents we have today.” He reached out and stroked my chin, lifted it up so my mouth closed. “Here’s a fun fact, in almost all the remaining versions of the story, none of them are about Baybars. You see, the hakawatis’ audience is the common man who couldn’t really identify with a royal, almost infallible hero, so early on the hakawatis began to introduce characters that their audience could empathize with. The tale, even during its inchoate years, was never about Baybars, but those around him. The story of the king is the story of the people, and unfortunately, to this day, no king has learned that lesson.”