“Because we have to get ready for dinner,” my mother said. “Don’t worry, dear. The war is far away.”
“Are you going to fight?” I asked my father.
“Me?” He laughed. “Why would I do a thing like that? This war doesn’t concern us at all, has nothing to do with us. We’re a peaceful country.” He ran a hand across his perfectly trimmed hair, used both palms to check for any stubble on his freshly shaved face.
“Don’t we want to crush our imperialist enemy?”
“Not tonight, dear.” My mother stood up, towered over me. She smoothed her dress, examined the mirror once more. “Now, tell me, don’t I look beautiful?”
“You’re beautiful,” I said, dazzled by her blue lamé evening dress.
“Does your father think so?” She picked up her small silver handbag and stuffed her lipstick inside.
“I do,” my father said. He held her in his arms and kissed her cheek. “You’re stunning.”
“Let’s just try not to make fools of ourselves tonight. Can we keep our hands off our hostess? I know it’s difficult, but we can try, can’t we?”
“It’s just flirting, dear,” he said as he walked out the bedroom door. “Only flirting. All women love it. It’s a compliment.”
My mother rolled her eyes to the ceiling lights. She patted my head and left the room, the clack of her high heels on smooth marble reverberating in the foyer, out the door, until she reached the elevator.
The following day, the concierge painted the windows of our apartment blue so the Israelis could not see the lights at night.
“Why would the Israelis want to bomb us?” I asked my mother.
“They don’t. It’s just a precaution. Everyone’s doing it.”
“How will we get the paint off?”
“Nail-polish remover, I think.”
“The army of light — the white army, or whatever they call themselves these days — will lead you to him,” Bast said. “But be careful. Like all bright things, he is deceiving. I doubt you will find him in his first house or his second.”
“The third,” Fatima said, “it is always the third.”
“Seek the highest, for that is where his power lies, in the skies, in the air, up north.”
“How will I defeat him?”
“That I cannot tell you. Each warrior must find her own way.”
“How would you defeat him?”
“Easily,” Bast cackled. “I would entice him into my world. In my mud and muck, he would be lost. But you cannot do that.”
“I have no means to entice him.”
“Be not obtuse,” the healer said. “You have enticed males more powerful. You seduced the one you want to rescue, which is why you have to meet King Kade in his realm, not yours.”
“I need your wisdom. Help me crush him. How can I do it?”
“By opening your eyes. I will offer you a final bit of advice. King Kade is unbalanced.”
“I gathered that from our brief interaction. He called me a whore.”
“There you have it,” Bast said, “and you still refuse to see. Although that is not the kind of unbalanced I meant. King Kade is very strong, much stronger than you or I. Strength, however, is misleading. Anything extreme is unbalanced and must turn into its opposite.” Bast began to search her pantry. With her back to the seeker, she added, “I can see you are disappointed. You were hoping for something else. I will give you this.”
An ecstatic Noah appeared next to Fatima, accompanied by a tiny popping sound. “Take it,” he yelled. “Take them.”
“You have a bright one here,” Bast said. “Too bright. Can you turn a darker shade of blue?” And Noah changed into a dark-blue tabby and jumped onto Fatima’s lap. “Much better,” Bast remarked. She handed Fatima three leather pouches. “This is mud: holy mud, sublime mud, and profane. You have to determine which is which and when to use it. One is from a source in France, one is from a spring between the two hills Safa and Marwa, and the third is from one of the seven mouths of the Nile.”
A meowing Cleopatra appeared at the door. Noah’s hair bristled under Fatima’s hand. Cleopatra jumped onto the table and coyly approached Isaac and Ishmael, who scampered off and out of the cottage. The shocked eyes of Cleopatra followed their trail, then turned toward an obviously frightened Noah, who disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Oh, Cleo,” Bast said, “they are the wrong species for you, and you are the wrong gender for them.” She studied Cleopatra’s hackled fur. “And on this note, my dear Fatima, kindly emulate your helpers and vanish.”
Istez Camil’s liver-spotted hand shook as he puffed on his cigarette. He seemed uncertain how to sit on the burgundy divan in the living room, didn’t know where to put his arms. From his seat, he could easily see the upright piano in our dining room, and his eyes darted between my mother and the instrument. My mother stood up, took a cup of Turkish coffee from the silver tray brought in by the maid. “You said you wanted it sweet?” she asked as she placed the cup on the coffee table before him and moved aside a vase overflowing with a profusion of cut flowers — lilacs, lilies, and tuberoses.
He nodded, stuttered, a nervous smile on his face. My mother moved an ashtray toward him. She retrieved the other cup from the tray, dismissed the maid, and sat down. She crossed her legs, right knee on left, adjusted her skirt to make sure it fell evenly. She waited until he had had a couple of sips of coffee. “So how long have you been teaching the oud, Mr. Halabi?” She smiled. “Should I call you Istez Halabi? Is that more respectful?”
“No, madame, there is no need,” Istez Camil said. “I’ve been teaching for over twenty-five years.” His gray hair had been recently trimmed; his neck mottled raw from shaving. “I’ve backed up a number of singers and have played professionally since I was thirteen years old. I haven’t been playing much lately. Semi-retired, you see. I’m concentrating more on teaching.”
“That’s nice,” she said. She placed a cigarette in a silver filigreed holder and lit it. “I’ve never really considered the oud for my son. I was thinking piano. Such a delightful instrument. If not that, then I thought the violin. But he seems to be infatuated with the oud.” She looked at me, her eyes gleaming, then back at Istez Camil. “I don’t understand it, really. Don’t you think piano is better at his age? If he plays the piano, he can shift to oud easily if he cares to. But vice versa would be difficult. Don’t you agree?”
“The piano is a wonderful instrument.” Istez Camil stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, his hand no longer shaking. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to answer your questions, though, madame. I would always choose the oud over the piano. Always.”
“Me, too,” I chirped.
“Oh, you.” My mother laughed and slapped the air in front of her, pretending it was me. “Tell me, Istez Camil, why would you not choose the piano?”
Istez Camil looked at the floor, his face flushed like a peony. “It is cold, madame. It’s a cold instrument. Distant, no soul. Whereas the oud — the oud becomes part of you, your body. You engulf it, and it engulfs you.” He lifted his head. “There’s also the idea of tarab to consider.”
“See, that I never understood. I always thought tarab was overrated.”
“What’s tarab?” I asked.
“Hmm, let’s see,” my mother said. She scrunched her face. “I’m not sure I can explain it. It has to do with Arabic music. How would you describe it?”
“Is my boy asking about tarab?” Uncle Jihad entered the room, his voice booming. He wore a dark suit and a linden-green paisley ascot. He lifted me by the waist and kept me up until I kissed the top of his bald head. “Tarab is musical enchantment. It’s when both musician and listener are bewitched by the music.”