“I must visit,” Baybars said.
“You must.”
“I must ask my mother’s permission.”
“You must.”
Sitt Latifah was not happy to have her son leave, but she realized that he was smitten. “You have an aunt in Cairo,” she told him. “Her husband is an important vizier. I will write my sister so she may care for you. Ask all those who believe in you to follow you there, so you will not be alone. I will pack enough so you will want for nothing in Egypt. And ask God, the merciful, to watch over you.”
And Baybars prepared to meet his destiny.
BOOK TWO
Please tell my story. It is surely as weird as the story of Moses’s staff, the resurrection of Jesus, and the election of the husband of a lady bird to the presidency of the United States.
… stories do not belong only to those who were present or to those who invent them, once a story has been told, it’s anyone’s, it becomes common currency, it gets twisted and distorted, no story is told the same way twice or in quite the same words, not even if the same person tells the story twice, not even if there is only ever one storyteller …
All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them.
Six
So — what do you think of the emir’s story?” Fatima asked Afreet-Jehanam. She was lying in her lover’s arms, on the bed of slithering snakes, relaxing and unwinding. She could feel the changes in her body, but she still did not look pregnant.
The jinni, stroking her sensuously, said, “The emir is a good storyteller.”
She shifted her naked weight onto her elbow so she could face him. The snakes released by her movement rearranged themselves. “Is it a good adventure story?”
Afreet-Jehanam stretched and yawned. “The story of Baybars is many lifetimes old. There are numerous versions.”
“I am loving it,” said Ishmael, who was on his knees scrubbing the floor. The imps busied themselves with their chores. Hither and thither they ran.
“Me, too,” Noah chimed in. “It is a delightful story.”
“True,” said Fatima, “but it sounds to me like many of his other stories, without the sentimental romance. Is this tale adventuresome enough? Will this story, unlike his earlier ones, produce the desired effect, a son to inherit his throne?”
“That was your rule,” said the jinni. “I thought you made it up.”
“I did, but I know it to be true.”
“Maybe fate does not wish them to have a son.”
“Ah, fate,” she said. “Is fate anything more than what man chooses to do? Is fate not our expectations of ourselves?”
“If it is true, they will have a son,” Afreet-Jehanam said, “but since the tale being told is not the most traditional of adventure stories, not enough killing and pillaging, he will not grow to be the greatest of warriors.”
“Then he will grow to be wise,” she said. “But the emir’s tale and its hero are young yet. Let us be patient and see what transpires.”
“Whatever may transpire, we can be sure the son will be different,” said the jinni.
“Wonderful.” Ishmael jumped up and down gleefully. “He will be able to decorate that horror of a castle.”
“Oh, great,” said Isaac. “Just what the world needs, another accessorizer.”
Suddenly all the snakes hissed as one, and the scorpions raised their tails and readied their stingers. The crows and bats descended in droves from above. Afreet-Jehanam sat up, a snarl upon his face. But the snarl remained frozen like that of a once-feared predator after a visit to the taxidermist. A magician in white robes and a long white beard materialized out of nothingness. His hand unleashed a white beam that froze the jinni stock-still. The crows attacked first, but hit an invisible shield around the magician and fell stunned to the floor. The bats followed. The snakes spat their venom from below, but it hit the shield and dripped down slowly to the ground. The traces left by the viscous poisons showed the shield to be egg-shaped. With his other hand, the magician let loose a force upon each imp and sent them all crashing into the walls. And his eyes turned to naked Fatima. He waved his arm and waved it again. Fatima felt the talisman, the turquoise hand with its inlaid eye, grow warm between her breasts. Regaining her senses after the initial shock, she bent down, picked up her sword, and charged the magician. Before she reached him, he began to fade. “Whore,” he called before he completely disappeared. She turned around to find her lover gone.
On a Monday morning in June 1967, near the end of term, Madame Shammas entered our class without knocking, not allowing us time to stand up and greet her respectfully. Businesslike, she marched swiftly to Nabeel Ayoub and announced, “Please get your things, son. Your father is here to take you home.” Voice gentle yet authoritative.
Nabeel stood up, bewildered initially, then looked slyly at his classmates, his seated nonspecial friends. He hurriedly packed his things and left the room behind Madame Shammas.
Our teacher, Madame Saleh, stared at the closing door, outside which a muffled rush of high heels echoed. “I want you to behave yourselves, children,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She walked to the door, stopped, turned around, almost caught me stuffing a piece of paper in my mouth. She addressed the bespectacled girl two seats to my right. “Mira, I’m leaving you in charge.”
My spitball missed Mira’s back. Her chestnut pigtail swung like a pendulum as she walked to the front. The class was atwitter, nervous with pent-up energy. We knew we were supposed to misbehave because Madame Saleh was out, but we didn’t know exactly what to do. We settled on throwing crumpled paper at Mira and hissing every time she yelled, “Shut up.”
Ten minutes later, the class was in an uproar. Madame Shammas announced on the intercom that we all should get our things ready to be picked up. The Israelis had begun the war.
Traffic congealed as parents came to collect their children. Some of the adults were nervous, some angry, a few nonchalant. I saw a tiny bump of an accident and two almosts, because the cars were in a hurry. I waited, but no one came for me. The maid had told Madame Shammas that my mother was at her weekly visit to the hairdresser.
One of my favorite programs was Lost in Space. I thought of the Israelis as space aliens. They’re not like us, people said. They come from all over the place and keep coming. They’re foreigners, people said. Godless.
Finally. “There you are, champ,” Uncle Jihad said. He had walked from his apartment, which was right next to ours, not too far from school — five streets, four turns, three jasmine vines, two jacarandas, and one white-oleander bush away.
“There’s a war,” I yelled, jumping up and down.
“Don’t worry.” Uncle Jihad’s belly shook as he laughed, his bald head glittered in the sun. “It’s very far from here.” I hadn’t thought of worrying.
Uncle Jihad walked in a manner that suggested all was proper in the world. I trotted behind him, my eyes unable to stray from the back of his turquoise jacket. He wore his clothes the way a peacock fanned his tail. “Keep up with me,” he said cheerfully.