And the emir’s wife’s face turned as red as the color of the chuckling parrots, Ishmael and Isaac, perched atop the throne.
“He kissed him,” the emir’s wife said. “In front of all, a shameful kiss. I would not have been surprised if they had undressed each other right then and there.”
“They are only seven, my dear,” the emir said. “Boys are expressive at that age. It is nothing. He is a prince and can do as he pleases. Most do worse things with their slaves.”
“Not kissing. I do not understand why the dark one has to be around him at all times. I cannot see my son alone. And what is with the damn parrots? They hover over him perpetually, as if our guards are not good enough. That Fatima woman has ruined my son. Why can I see him for only an hour a day? I demand to visit with him, but if it is not my allotted time, my own son refuses, throws a tantrum until I relent and allow him back to his rooms. I hired a tutor, but he told me he could teach Shams nothing. He told me my son was born educated.”
“Are you complaining that our son already knows how to read and write?”
“No, of course not. He has inherited our finest qualities. What I cannot stand is the company he keeps. That woman runs her own fiefdom within mine. I cannot bear it.”
“Then get rid of her.”
“I tried. I told her I would not be needing her services, and she laughed. I sent the guards to kick her out, and Shams threw a hysterical fit. He thinks she is his mother, not I. Oh, my husband, I am at a loss.”
“What can I do to ease your suffering? Would you like me to continue the tale of Baybars?”
Twelve
I woke up confused, unsure where I was. It had been two months since I moved into the dorm room, but I still couldn’t envision it as my home. Each morning I woke up feeling anxious. I had expected to be ecstatic finally living on my own, independent, away from family, but that was not to be. I had a roommate the first week, which at the time I had considered to be bad luck — I had asked for a single. He was morose, rarely said a word or listened to any, and was so homesick that he packed his bags and dropped out of school the second week. I missed him.
I wished I could pack my bags as well, but there was nowhere for me to return to.
The phone rang, and I hesitated before picking it up. I had paid extra to have my own phone in the room, but still wasn’t used to receiving calls on it. It was from Rome. “I wasn’t sure you’d be in,” Fatima said. “I thought you might be in class.” She had moved there with her mother in 1975, when the war in Lebanon started. When we were in Beirut, not one day passed without our talking, but we were unable to keep the schedule since we separated. We tried to call each other at least once a week.
“I should be,” I said, “but”—I couldn’t think fast enough; was there a good reason for missing classes? — “I’m tired, so I took the morning off.” I stared at the small bouquet of silk ocher lilies strewn haphazardly under the couch, waiting to be thrown out. They belonged to the old roommate, who forgot to take them with him when he returned to Fresno. I should also throw out the chair, itchy brown plaid upholstery atop fake wood.
She asked if I was still unhappy. I rattled off my grievances. I told her how I didn’t understand anyone who lived on my floor, and there were so many of them, how hard I tried to get to know these Americans, and how amicably impenetrable they were. The Lebanese students weren’t any better. I didn’t belong with them, either. I told her how much I hated my room. “But you know,” I went on, “I’ve seen the places of some of the other Lebanese boys here, and they’re much worse.” I imagined her in her splendidly lit apartment in Rome, probably lying on her stomach, as she usually did, legs bent at the knees, her ankles crossed in the air. Her phone would be nothing like the cheap Princess I was using.
“You’ll get used to being alone,” she said. “We all do.” She told me how much she missed the neighborhood; she even admitted to missing her vain, self-centered, irresponsible, and uncaring sister, who had refused to leave Beirut. “With Mariella not being here, I have no one to hate on a daily basis,” she added. “She’s having sex with every militia leader in Beirut, but I can no longer call her a whore. I miss that. I’m worried about her.” I heard her pause and hesitate. “Your sister is fooling around with a militia leader as well.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Lina is enjoying Elie’s company,” Fatima said. “She had always fancied him. I don’t know why. I mean, he was a lowlife before the war, and now he’s a killer.”
We all knew Elie would grow to be a military man; he moved up quickly in the militia when he was a boy. Since none of us had considered there would be a civil war, no one ever thought he would someday actually matter. “She didn’t mention it to me,” I said.
The joint in the ashtray had extinguished itself. I had a deep-boned urge to relight it and inhale for a long time. I reached for the pack of Gauloises.
“Of course she wouldn’t,” Fatima said. “You’re her family. I’m her friend.”
The story goes like this.
A day of great beauty; snow covered the entire village, and a sky of unequivocal blue towered above. It was January 1938, and Uncle Jihad, all of five years old, vied for his mother’s attention. He poked her thigh with his finger, until she finally slapped his hand.
“Put your coat on and go play with the other boys,” my grandmother said. “Don’t interrupt adult conversation.”
“I’m not interrupting your conversation,” Uncle Jihad said. “I’m interrupting your work.” My great-grandmother Mona, my grandmother Najla, and my seventeen-year-old aunt Samia were knitting around the iron stove. “I don’t think my sister should be working on my sweater,” he added. “She doesn’t know how.”
“Stop meddling in what doesn’t concern you,” my grandmother said. She was the only one among the three without a mandeel. My great-grandmother wore hers around her hair; Aunt Samia’s was on the coffee table in front of them.
“It does concern me.” Uncle Jihad poked his mother again. “I’m going to be wearing it.”
“Shhhh, my boy.” My great-grandmother covered my uncle’s mouth. “So much energy. Settle down. First, you’re not going to be wearing it. This one is for Farid. And your sister may not be as good as your mother and me, but we weren’t as good as she is when we were her age. That’s the point. She’s learning. She’s only doing one sleeve. So be quiet and let us work.”
“Why do you always explain things to him?” Aunt Samia asked. “Why is he treated differently from other children? Tell him to sit still and be quiet.”
“Sit still and be quiet,” my grandmother said.
The women resumed their task and their conversation. My great-grandmother expressed her concern for her son Jalal. “He’s causing trouble. I can’t understand why he’s doing it. He writes these awful things in the newspaper, and the French warn him to stop or face the consequences. Everyone is giving him bad advice. The bey goads him on, but he’s not the one who’s being threatened. He’s always kissing European hands, yet he wants Jalal to stir the pot. The French want to put Jalal in you-know-what.”