By the time my tea — strong, sweet, served in a glass — arrived, the café had grown quiet. A boy, a couple of years older than I, turned the transistor on, and the music began. “You are about to hear the goddess,” Uncle Jihad whispered, and placed his forefinger on his lips.
The introduction began as a simple melody played by violins. The percussion, one derbakeh and two daffs, provided a steady rhythm. The violins repeated the melody, over and over, inducing a hypnotic effect. Most of the men had their eyes closed. Ten minutes passed before the band began to wind the melody down. Applause could be heard from the radio. “She’s onstage,” Uncle Jihad whispered. “She has arrived.” Silence. I could hear some of the men in the room breathing. One second. Two seconds. Ten seconds.
Her voice came on, clear, strong, powerful. The room sighed in unison at her first utterance, then quieted again. A man wearing dark eyeglasses held together with a gray piece of tape leaned back on his chair as if he were about to be showered with rose petals. Another man conducted an imaginary orchestra with both hands, exhibiting a grace that belied his big frame. Gentle pulsations were visible around his temple, large veins following the beat of their own metronome. Umm Kalthoum carried the melody, sang of love in Egyptian dialect, and the words of longing made sense. I had heard the band repeat the melody many times, yet now it seemed the tune was created only for her delivery of these words. She repeated each line, once, twice, three times, more, until it vibrated within me. I listened, ears open, mouth open, eyes wide. When she finished the melody, the room shook. Men applauded, stood up, yelled at the radio.
“Long may you live!” “Again. One more time.” “May God keep you!”
“It didn’t happen,” a man said to the radio. “You have to do it again.”
She did. She began the song again, from the beginning. Now the men talked to the radio after each line. Over the radio, I could hear the men in her audience shouting encouragement to the singer. The leader of the imaginary orchestra repeated an elongated “Ya Allah” after each verse; his eyes rolled up, looking at the tobacco-stained ceiling as if asking Him to come down and listen. Each line became a tease. Will she repeat it? Will she take it further?
When she finished the melody the second time, the audience erupted, the room was in an uproar. A short man stood on a table and shouted, “Allah-u-akbar.” Uncle Jihad looked radiantly happy. She began the same melody again. I was in ecstasy. The room shook in delight.
When she finished, and her audience and the café went still, she waited a little and then launched into a new melody. Same song, same key, a slightly different track, further elaboration of her longing. She repeated this version only twice, then went back to the first, after which she launched into a third melody, did not repeat it. Then first melody again, third, first, second, first. By the time she was done, a full hour into the song, the room was utterly exhausted and hoarse.
We drove home in slow traffic, Uncle Jihad excited, tapping on the steering wheel.
“ ‘Umm Kalthoum’ is a stupid name to call someone,” I said. “ ‘Mother of Kalthoum’—what does that mean? And how could they call her that when she was a girl? She’d have been too young to be a mother.”
“Umm Kalthoum is the quintessential Arab,” Uncle Jihad said. “She’s probably the one person whom all Arabs can agree to love. Ever since they lost the last war, she’s been on a never-ending tour trying to raise Arab morale. Not that it will do any good, but I think it’s wonderful she’s so dedicated. I love people who are passionate about lost causes.”
“Rest for a minute,” Isaac said. “You will be fighting him alone, and you will need your strength. As long as King Kade is alive, we cannot break the spell. We cannot accompany you.”
The imps sat cross-legged in a circle around her, shoulder to shoulder. They had folded two carpets, and were floating below the clouds on the remaining one.
“The most powerful weapon you have is your courage,” Ishmael said. “Yet the line between courageous and foolhardy is hazy at best.”
“Be patient,” said Job.
“Be wary,” said Jacob.
“Be amazing,” said Adam.
The imps stood. Each placed his left hand upon his brother’s shoulder and his right upon Fatima’s body. “We are with you,” they said in unison. “Once and forever.” And they vanished.
“Come sit next to me,” Mariella said, laughing, mischievous, and coquettish. She sat on the faded yellow concrete wall that surrounded the building next to ours. Her legs dangled above the seven tiles in a single pile. She crossed her legs, which hiked her skirt a little higher.
Lina bristled. “Aren’t you going to hit the damn tiles?” she asked Hafez, who held the tennis ball and stared agog at Mariella.
“It’s a stupid game,” Mariella said. “Come sit here and let the children play.” She leaned back, tried to look as adult as possible.
“Can’t you sit somewhere else?” Fatima said. “We’re playing here. You’re right above the tiles.”
“I sit where I please.”
“Go sit with her,” Fatima told me. “If that’s what you want, just go.”
“We don’t need you,” Lina said. “And you’re too slow anyway.”
I joined Mariella on the wall. “Aren’t you going to come and play the oud for us?” she said. “My father keeps asking about you. You should visit.” The ball came hurtling six times in a row, but the tiles remained standing. Mariella pretended to be completely unaware there was a game anywhere in our vicinity. Then the tennis ball, seemingly from out of nowhere, smacked her left thigh. She shrieked.
“Sorry,” Fatima said. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Good shot,” Lina said. The other kids were all laughing.
“You’re a whore, Fatima,” Mariella said. “You’re nothing but a whore.”
I heard the roar of Elie’s motorcycle before it appeared. He turned the corner onto our street, his sunglasses reflecting the afternoon sun. All the kids stopped to stare. Dressed in militia fatigues, he looked much older than he was but still much too young to be driving a motorcycle. He stormed by us without a glance, got off his bike in front of our building. His mother ran out of their apartment to greet him. She hesitated, then slowly, wordlessly, stroked his hair with her right hand, and held it out gently, as if pointing out to him that it was a bit long.
I slid forward to jump off the wall and run over to Elie. Mariella gripped my arm and dug her fingernails into my skin, almost drawing blood. I looked back at her, but she was watching Elie. His father came out, shouting. “Where’ve you been, you son of a dog?” Elie strode past him into the building. His mother stared at their backs.
She felt him. Of that, at least, she was sure. Fatima steered her carpet into the thick clouds. Inside, blinded by white, she ascended slowly, through viscous sky instead of moist, through oleaginous instead of damp. As she approached the topmost layer, as sunlight began to seep in, she felt as if she was slogging through mud. Her progress slowed to a crawl. Breaking through, she saw the castle of mist in the distance. It seemed solid at first glance, but it changed its shape unhurriedly. A tower would shrink, a window appear, a ramp vanish, the whole ever shifting, with a mind of its own. She alit at the gate. As she had expected, she was able to walk on the clouds. The gate slid open for her, and she entered King Kade’s domain. Inside the unfurnished castle, she felt vulnerable, unable to get her bearings. The hall changed with every step. Warily, she moved toward the door, which disappeared when she attempted to open it.