The Hakawati

“Does the sultan mock me by sending out an old man?” Taboush asked Marouf.

“Look. Open your eyes, see with your heart. Before you stands your father.”

“You are the father of lies. My father is Kinyar. Draw your sword and fight.”

Marouf sighed. “Do you believe cowardice could beget courage? Kinyar hides in his pavilion and risks your life. Shed my blood and you shed the blood of your father, and your grandfather, and your great-grandfather before him.”

Taboush raged and struck with his sword, but the old warrior was ever quick and parried with his sheathed sword. “Wait,” Marouf said, holding out his palm. “If you are to fight, you must learn the skills. I face you because the sultan wished to send the Azeri. You are strong but inexperienced, not yet a match for the slave general. The first blow should never be predictable. How you open a fight is of utmost importance. It must surprise your enemy, frighten and worry him. Begin.”

Taboush stared at his father. He struck.

“No,” said Marouf. “Still unsurprising. Try again. You rely much on your muscle.” And father began to teach son the art of survival. Both armies watched in amazement at the sight before them, lessons being taught and learned. Taboush landed a fierce blow across his father’s sword. “Much better,” said Marouf, pulling himself off the ground and remounting his horse.

“You are fatigued,” said Taboush.

“And you are not yet ready for Aydmur. I will not have my son unprepared.”

“Stop,” Taboush commanded. “You are my father.”

Marouf wept in joy at hearing his son’s words.

“Wait for me,” Taboush said. He went back to Kinyar’s army and stood face to face with his false father. “I am returning to my family,” the hero announced. “I will fight alongside my people. Go home, or be prepared to die at my hands. Pack your meager possessions and leave. You are not welcome on our lands.”

Taboush returned to his father and accompanied him back to a grateful Baybars.

Marouf told the warrior Taboush about his mother. “She is a Genovese princess. Her father had her kidnapped and brought her back to that cursed city, where he holds her prisoner. She refused to be set free until the day I found you. I will sail today and bring her back.”

“You will not sail alone,” said the son, and the two heroes sailed to Genoa.

Taboush and Marouf faced the king of Genoa in the royal hall. The king inquired who they were. “I am your son-in-law,” said Marouf. “I intend to reclaim my wife.”

“You are not part of my family,” snapped the king. “Whatever wife you seek does not reside here, for I do not recognize your marriage.”

Marouf’s face and ears colored with rage. “I have come for my wife, not for your permission or approval.”

“You insult us in our court? Not only an unbeliever, but an obnoxious and dimwitted one. Your breath shall leave our port city before you do.” The king turned to his guards. “Throw these imbeciles in the dungeon. I never want to hear of them again.”

The soldiers took a step toward the heroes but stopped upon hearing Taboush’s voice. “Any man who comes within the range of my sword will have to search for his head, after which my sword will divide him in two. Save your life and save our time. Release my mother.”

“Are you afraid of one man?” the king berated his soldiers. “Are my guards cowards? This man is nothing but—” He stared at Taboush, his eyes widening. The king saw the brow and cheeks of his father, and his father’s father. “This man is nothing but my blood. Be afraid. My grandson. Why was I not informed my daughter had a son? Prepare a banquet. Light the lamps of Genoa. Light the fires of joy.”

“Release my mother,” commanded Taboush.

The virtuous Maria entered her father’s royal hall, her head high and proud. She refused to bow before the king. “Why do you call for me after all these years?”

“My grandson asked for your release,” replied the king, gesturing toward the hero.

Maria stared at the visitors. “Time has been unkind to both of us, but still I know you, my husband.” And Marouf said, “I bring you the end of your sorrows, my wife.”

“How do I know he is my son?” Maria approached Taboush. When she stood before him and saw his eyes, she said, “It is you,” and fainted.

Taboush did not allow his mother to fall. He caught her and carried her to a divan.

Baybars offered Marouf, Maria, and Taboush a royal welcome upon their return. The sultan decreed, “Taboush is a king descended from kings. Let all who know him accept this.” A tired Baybars lay on his outdoor divan, surrounded by his friends, and watched the youngster disarm every rival he faced. “A magnificent warrior,” Baybars said. “You should be proud.”

“I am,” replied a glowing Marouf. “A son that brings joy to any father’s heart.”

And Taboush became a hero of the lands.

Twenty

Sitting on the recliner close to my father’s bed, Lina was crying so much she seemed almost happy, relieved to be discharging her sorrows temporarily — in the midst of swimming across the ocean, a few minutes on a raft. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Not really.” She sighed wistfully. Fatigue hunched and curved her. “Why don’t you go home and rest for a bit?”

“I think I will, but when I come back, you’ll take a break. You’ll go home and take a bubble bath. I’ll take a drive. I need to see the old neighborhood again.”

“Why now? There’s nothing there.”

I shrugged. “It was Hafez’s idea. I want to remember.”

“And I want cigarettes,” she said.

Once upon a time, I was a boy with potential. I roamed the streets of this neighborhood. Once upon a time, this was a neighborhood with possibility. Now it lay decrepit, dying. A couple of buildings were being erected. A few people walked here and there. Hope, however, was nowhere to be found. Once upon a time, I used to play in these streets, scamper between these buildings. This used to be both my sanctuary and my mystery zone. Under garden shrubs, in concrete nooks, behind ivy-covered metal railings, I hid and observed the world around me. Now everything seemed wide open. The neighborhood had developed new habits. Still, I wanted to find my way home. I wanted to walk through the lobby, take the stairs — not the unreliable elevator — go up past the apartment with the fig tree to the fourth floor, and be there, exist.

But my knees were weak. I stood outside the building leaning against my father’s black car, as I had been a few days earlier, staring, lost in a world I knew nothing of. I was a tortoise that had misplaced its shell. The same old man was sitting on the same stool in the same spot. His white hair was still upright, and he still stared through me as if I didn’t exist.

I always imagined depression as necrotizing bacteria, and I felt flesh-eating gloom approaching. Think pleasant thoughts.

The tangy, sweet taste of freshly picked mulberries on my tongue.

Maqâm Saba.

Fatima holding me. The light on Lake Como. Fatima in a veil.

The noise on Via Natale del Grande. Beirut in April.

Uncle Jihad walking into a room. Uncle Jihad telling me stories. My grandfather drinking maté next to his stove.

Mr. Farouk in the bathtub, the oud on his dry, round stomach, playing his homeland’s maqâms because the acoustics were delightful in the bathroom, playing them by the light of candles floating in the tub, playing them to seduce me into playing again.