“The vizier was apoplectic. The next morning, he told the king, ‘The boastful boys have been at it again, saying that if they were the keepers of your treasures not one ring would ever be lost or stolen. Put these vain boys to the proof, Your Majesty. Throw your daughter’s ring into the river, and order them to find it.’ The foolish king believed the vizier once more and ordered the ring thrown into the river.”
“Why do people always believe liars?” I asked.
“We all need to believe. It’s human nature. So the king told the princes, ‘I understand that you boys are fond of boasting. I’ve thrown the princess’s ring into the river. I’ll be in my diwan for an hour, and when I come out, I expect you to have found the ring. If the task is done, you’ll be the keepers of my treasures, and if it’s not, I’ll cut off your heads.’ The princes sought the river. The younger prince walked up and down the bank, and the older prince waded in, but neither could find anything. A duck floated down the river and asked, ‘Why are you sad, my princes?’ and the older prince explained what the king had ordered them to do. ‘Be not concerned,’ said the good duck. “I am the king of ducks, whose life you spared. I’ll repay my debt.’ The duck flew away and returned with a million ducks. They swam up and down the river, diving underwater in teams, duck heads bobbing and weaving, until the ring was found. When the king returned from the diwan and saw the ring, he made the boys his keepers of the treasures.
“Seeing that his efforts had been foiled once more, the vizier hatched his master plan. He knew the king had tried to learn sorcery and necromancy and had failed and failed, so the vizier said, ‘The boys have not ceased their boastful ways. They have said that an exceptional child shall be born in the palace this night, the brightest child in the universe, the most beautiful, the most delightful, but not only that. These vain boys were not satisfied with a child of such exceptional qualities. They said they asked the jinn to make the boy even more special and the jinn complied. They said the child will be the best oud player in the world, and boasted that if Your Majesty hears the child play the instrument, Your Majesty will weep. Such bluster will never do.’ Since the king had never been able to communicate with the jinn, he boiled with rage upon hearing this news. ‘If this miracle doesn’t happen tonight,’ he threatened the princes, ‘I’ll cut off both your heads, and I’ll bury your bodies without prayers in unclean soil, and you’ll meet those demons you’re communing with.’
“In their rooms, the princes huddled and hugged. At least with the first two tasks they had known how to begin, even if they couldn’t have accomplished much without help. But how could one find a child?”
“A stork.”
“Of course. The stork tapped at the windowpane, and the princes opened the window. The older prince explained about the miracle. ‘Be not concerned,’ said the good stork. It flew away and returned carrying a bundle swaddled in white cotton. The stork gently placed the bundle on the floor, and out of it crawled the most beautiful baby in the world, and the princes fell in love with him right away and knew that they would cherish this boy forever and ever. The baby crawled over to the oud lying next to the bed and began to play an exquisite melody.”
“A maqâm?”
“But of course. The melody was so charming that everyone in the palace began to wake, wanting to know where this music was coming from. They all rushed to the room and saw with their own eyes the miracle of this most special baby playing the oud. The king heard the song, and his heart expanded, and he wept. The beautiful princess loved the baby and she said, ‘This boy will be my son, and this prince will be my husband.’ The older prince married the princess, and their son was the most special boy in the world.”
“What happened to the nasty vizier?”
“He went to France, where all the jealous people are.”
“That’s not a good story. I wasn’t born playing the oud. I learned how to.”
“You’re simply remembering how to play, my dear boy.” Uncle Jihad drained his glass completely. “You’re claiming what you’ve always known.”
“What about Lina?”
“Hers is a different story,” he replied.
“How can that be? She’s my sister. We can’t have different stories.”
“Who says?”
“It doesn’t make sense,” I said. “A family has one story.”
And my grandfather said, “The next evening, when the pigeon battle was over, I cleaned everything as fast as I could and ran back to the Masal. But I had arrived late. The hakawati was well into his story and had resolved the cliffhanger.
“ ‘Please,’ I interrupted, calling to him from outside. ‘How did Antar escape the deadly trap? It would seem impossible. I must know how,’ I said in broken Turkish. I must have confounded him. He glared at me, unblinking. The owner of the café came at me. ‘Get out of here, you dirty scoundrel,’ he yelled. ‘Get back to where you came from, you unbeliever.’
“Now, mind you, insults meant nothing to me. They bounced off me like iron bounces off a magnet. No, I mean like two magnets or something like that. After all, Barbara and Joan used to insult me every day, and the other assistants at work said horrible things. I felt bad that he thought I was dirty, so I said, ‘I’m only dirty because I’ve been cleaning shit, and that’s why I was late, and if I went home to clean up I’d miss more of the story.’ It obviously didn’t impress the owner, who waved a threatening cane in my direction. ‘If you don’t scram, I’m going to tan your behind,’ and I said, ‘That’s not fair. It’s not my fault I have to work. I want to hear the tale.’ The owner raised his cane, and I was about to flee when I heard a horsy guffaw. A fat man, most respectable, in an expensive fez, suit, and tie, sat laughing at a table outside. Hookah smoke erupted out of his wide mouth. ‘Why are you insulting a future customer, my man? Let the boy stay and listen to the tale,’ he said, and the owner replied, ‘His kind will never be a customer, effendi. He’s a street boy.’ Before I could contradict him, the effendi said, ‘He’s a working boy, not an urchin. How can you turn away a boy who wants to hear a story? Come, my boy. Sit at my table, and open your ears. I don’t mind the smell of shit. And bring this boy some tea and something to eat. We have a story to listen to.’
“And that was how I was taken under the wing of Serhat Effendi.
“I was in paradise. I hardly spent any time at home anymore. Each day, as soon as the battle was over, I hurried to the Masal to hear the hakawati. I sat at Serhat Effendi’s table every evening. I was served a highly sweetened glass of hot tea and a cheap sandwich, which was still better than anything I was getting at home. The effendi was nice to me. He didn’t mind my stink, and he treated me with the utmost respect. Once, when I asked how I could repay him for the daily meal, he replied that my job was to keep him company, because he didn’t like being by himself at the café. But we hardly ever talked, except for the times I arrived a bit late and he’d whisper in my ear what I had missed. On my ninth birthday, he bought me a delicious lokum.
“The hakawati enchanted me, that much I know. Yet I began to notice that the effendi wasn’t as impressed. One night, after the storyteller had left us with another cliffhanger and Serhat Effendi was preparing to leave, I asked him whether he liked the story. You have to remember, he was showing up six nights a week to listen to this. He replied, ‘The story I like very much.’ I realized that what he had said was incomplete and hoped he would elaborate. ‘I have heard it woven more lusciously.’ He realized I didn’t understand, because he went on, ‘The story of Antar is one of the standards. This man tells it well, yet it seems that romance is not his forte. He does wonderfully with the travails and triumphs of the poet but seems to consider Abla, his enchantress and beloved, a trifle. We’re getting half a story. Don’t worry, though. It is very near the end, and we’ll get someone else next week.’