The brothers took their nephew to a cave and kept him roped, intending to slay him after they received the ransom. They left Mahmoud by himself while they went out to hunt and forage for food. Once they were gone, the prince cried for help. A Persian dervish happened to be passing by, and he rescued the boy. The Persian decided to take Mahmoud to Bursa, where he could sell him for a good price. The prince grew very sick, and the Persian took him to the baths and sold him to a slave-trader who happened to be there because of the fine management of fate.
The king thanked the Uzbeks for their story. He turned to the prince and said, “My son Baybars, you are not a slave.” And Baybars said, “Praise be to the Almighty.”
And that was how Prince Baybars became a free man.
It was the first time I had seen Istez Camil since my grandfather’s funeral. He had shown up for the first day of condolences, but I had been at school. No music was played during the mourning period. Istez Camil seemed more jittery than normal, tired and haggard. He was dressed in a white shirt with moon-shaped sweat stains under his arms, and a pair of thin gray cotton slacks, short at the ankles and chafed at the knees.
Whatever I played seemed easy. Notes flowed from my fingers with a newfound skill. Istez Camil shook his head. His lips were pale, the whites of his eyes unusually flat. “You’re not getting it,” he huffed.
“Not getting what?” I stopped playing, stared at him. “I think I’m playing well, very well, no mistakes.”
“Cascade of grace, remember? This is a cascade of grace no more.” He wouldn’t look at me. “You’re hitting the right notes, but there’s more to this than that.”
“It, this, that,” I snapped. “I’m playing well.” I refused to look at him, too, now. Shocked at my fledgling audacity, I lowered my voice. “You say I’m not but won’t tell me exactly what it is you want, what it is I’m supposed to do. More feeling, more feeling. I’m feeling it now. How can you tell whether I’m playing with feeling or not?”
“I can tell,” he said slowly, “and you can tell.” He stood up, turned his back to me again, and stared out the picture window. “You have to be more honest with yourself. You have to.”
“I’m playing well,” I insisted. I whispered to my shoes, “This is who I am.”
The resumption of my oud lessons wasn’t enough for my sister. She waited for the day when my father began whistling again while shaving in the morning. That afternoon, she shut the door to her room and resumed blasting her insufferable music at full throttle, as my father called it. He would ask her to lower the volume, and she would for a few minutes, before reclaiming the air.
Except I no longer found the music insufferable. I began to discern its simple charms. I also began to discern Jimmy Page’s solos, to guess at Eric Clapton’s peculiar handiwork.
One afternoon, I opened her door without knocking, and found her experimenting with colored eyeliners. She glared at me through her vanity mirror. The space was pregnant with tension and the acidic scent of many perfumes. I lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t say anything. The rustle of my blood coursing through its veins echoed the rhythm of the base. My head buzzed. “Play something weird,” I said when the song ended.
“Kiss my ass, stupid,” she said over her shoulders. “Be like furniture and shut up.” When she stood, I noticed she was wearing tight mauve shorts that clung to her curves like a wet bathing suit.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” My head was propped up on her pillows, and I followed her with my eyes. “You know your father won’t like it.”
“I’m not going to wear this to school. It’ll be all right.”
I didn’t argue. She walked to the closet. For the previous few years, it seemed to me she had been growing taller with each step she took. I remained uncomfortable with the size and shape of her shorts, which made her look unnatural and unfamily. On the floor, next to her feet (in laced-up knee-high black boots), was an album with the face of a man wearing more makeup than she was. “Play that,” I said.
“Shut up,” she replied. “If you want to be in here, you can’t talk.”
The next afternoon, I was back on her bed. She played David Bowie. I was like furniture.
The October War started a few months later. We were winning, yet few seemed to believe it. The Syrians and the Egyptians surprised the Israelis. Radios once again unequivocally blared the Arab victory. “Wait,” my father said. “The Americans won’t let this happen.”
At school, the Palestinian boys beamed, a manifest bounce in their step. They believed it. The student council called for a strike in support of the war. There were supposed to be speeches, but I went home. I saw Lina smoking a cigarette at the mouth of the building’s garage. Elie straddled his idle motorcycle and talked to her. I wondered whether the mauve shorts were to impress him. From afar, Elie, like the Palestinian boys, looked as if he believed.
I lay on Lina’s bed and listened to Deep Purple. She arrived angry, carrying a guitar. “I need you to learn to play.”
“There’s a war going on,” I replied because I had to say something.
“Who cares?” she said. She handed me the guitar as she stormed to her album rack. “You have to play, and you have to play well, and you have to make it look easy, and you have to do it by Saturday night. We have two days. Two days to figure out what you’re going to play and how you’re going to play it impeccably.” She rifled through her collection and picked out Abbey Road. She scratched the Deep Purple album as she quickly removed it from the turntable without replacing it in its cover. “This is what you have to learn. It’s impressive.”
The opening notes of “Here Comes the Sun.”
I had to take the guitar to school. While various student leaders gave speeches, I played in a corner of the cafeteria’s outdoor terrace. Oblivious to anything else, I didn’t hear the Israeli plane until it was right above me, flying low, its noise deafening.
Two seniors sat on the floor next to me, startling me. “Don’t mind us,” one of them said. I knew of him, but never imagined that he’d talk to me. He was the son of a Lebanese woman and a Kuwaiti prince, although he didn’t look it. He was never seen in anything but dirty T-shirts, sweats, and jeans. He had only one pair of sneakers. I guess he desperately wanted to look more like an American than an Arab prince. He didn’t smell as awful as his friend, though.
“Go on,” his friend said. “We can listen.”
“Better than those dumb speeches,” the first added.
I replayed the opening. The Kuwaiti started to sing, and his friend joined him. I was surprised, since I hadn’t considered vocals. I had memorized the song, but hadn’t thought of actually singing it. I wasn’t sure I wanted the song enunciated. I stopped playing. The Kuwaiti raised his eyebrow. “I’m not very good yet,” I said. “I’m just learning.”
“I can tell,” he said. I paused. “That’s not a guitar pick.”
“It’s for the oud. That’s what I play.”
“The oud is for old-fashioned Arabs,” he said. I no longer wished to be an old-fashioned Arab. He extended his hand toward my modern guitar. “Here, let me play.”
He didn’t use a pick, sang a folk song in an American or Australian accent. His playing was bad, and his friend shook his head to an inconsistent beat. The Kuwaiti prince asked me if I liked the song as he handed me the guitar. I told him I did, and his face relaxed, looked grateful.