“What’s you-know-what?” asked Aunt Samia.
“Prison,” Uncle Jihad replied. “The French think Uncle Jalal is a bad man because his writings are provocative.”
“Provocative?” asked Aunt Samia. “What does that mean?”
My great-grandmother and grandmother looked at each other. My great-grandmother smiled. My grandmother shook her head and bundled Uncle Jihad in wooclass="underline" coat, hat, scarf, and gloves. She walked him out the door. “Play.” She pointed toward the sloping hill at the edge of the pines. “Farid is there. You can’t stay indoors all the time. Go.”
“It’s cold,” Uncle Jihad replied.
“It’s not that cold.” She gestured to her long black skirt and black sweater. “Look. I’m not even wearing a coat.”
“You’re going to talk about a husband for Samia.”
“That’s none of your concern,” my grandmother said. “Go play, and don’t come back until it’s time for lunch.”
Ah, so many stories begin with three women knitting and talking. My favorite …
One evening, a king explored his city, walked the alleys, and listened to his subjects through the open arched windows. He passed by a house where three sisters knitted around a fire.
The eldest said, “I wish I would marry a baker. I would be able to eat fresh bread every day. And cakes — I would be able to eat wonderful cakes.” The middle sister said, “I wish I would marry a butcher. I would be able to eat meat any time I wanted.” The youngest said, “I wish I could marry our king. I would love and cherish him, take care of him, ease his worries so he can govern even more fairly.”
The king appreciated what he heard. He sent for the three girls, and when he saw the youngest girl, he decided to make her wish come true. He married the eldest to his baker and the middle sister to his butcher. He commanded the two bridegrooms, “Treat your wives with utmost respect, and feed them whatever they desire.” And, in a grand ceremony that lasted many a day and night, he married the youngest sister. The king lavished his wife with gifts and luxuries, which planted the seeds of envy in her sisters’ hearts. The new queen grew with child, and the king was ecstatic. The eldest sister said to the second, “If our sister provides her husband with an heir, the king will love her forever. We cannot allow that to happen.” They offered the midwife gold if she would get rid of the queen’s child. The young queen delivered a healthy baby boy, but before anyone could see him, the midwife sprinkled magic water and spoke an incantation. The baby turned into a puppy. The king asked to see his child.
“This is what your wife gave birth to.” The midwife held the puppy up. The apoplectic king said, “I refuse to be the father of this,” and with his own sword he cut off his son’s head.
The queen became pregnant once more, and when she delivered, the midwife changed the boy into a piglet. “This is what your wife gave birth to,” the midwife said. The livid king said, “I refuse to be the father of this,” and killed his son.
The midwife changed the third son into a white calf. The calf looked up at his father just as the sword was about to fall, and the king held his hand. “I refuse to be the father of this,” the king said. “Inform the butcher I want this calf’s heart for dinner.”
The queen wept and asked, “What happened to my children?” The king spoke to her. “I have offered you everything and received pain and disdain in return. I can bear no more. I refuse to be a husband to you.” He forbade his queen to leave her chambers, and he stopped visiting.
The butcher received the calf and thought to himself, “This is a majestic specimen. It would be a shame to kill it for a fleeting meal. I will kill another calf and save this regal animal for breeding.” The calf proved that the butcher understood his beasts, for he grew to become a white bull of unparalleled size and beauty. The great bull matured among the rest of the king’s cattle until, one day, a new milkmaid appeared, and he fell in love. The young maiden flinched and blanched when the great white bull approached her. She ran away from him, and he did not chase her, for he did not wish to frighten his beloved. She joined the other girls as they milked the cows, but her eyes kept surreptitiously moving back to the magnificent beast.
The following morning, the white bull led the cows to a meadow where a profusion of spring flowers bloomed. Joy blossomed on the milkmaids’ faces upon seeing the flowers, and they set forth picking narcissi, roses, hyacinths, violets, and thyme. The bull cooed a lover’s call, and the maiden went up to him, garlanded his broad neck with gardenias, his silver horns with violets, hyacinths, and thyme. The bull sighed in pleasure and slumped down on the grass before his beloved. The maiden climbed astride the great bull, and he rose and carried her away. The other milkmaids blushed at the sight of a virgin astraddle the great bull. He carried her for leagues and they came across an old crone resting on a large rock. The maiden greeted the crone who asked, “Is he your husband?” The girl said he was not, and the crone asked, “Is he your brother?” The maiden swore that he was not. “Then why are you not veiled?” the crone wondered.
“He is but a beast.” The maiden stroked her bull’s neck.
“He is a boy in love. A witch had changed him into a bull.”
“That is awful,” cried the maiden. “He would have been such a handsome man. Is there anything we can do?”
“There always is. Changing one species to another is difficult, requiring magic, skill, and elaborate potions. Regaining its original form is easy, requiring nothing more than the pure, true love of one of its kind.”
The maiden asked, “Are you suggesting—” But when she glanced up, the crone was no more. The bull lay on the grass once again, and the maiden climbed off his back. “I will love you,” she told him, and kissed him. They made love in the meadow, and when the maiden finally opened her eyes, fulfilled and filled, she saw above her the perfect prince.
The milkmaids heard of the miracle and informed the butcher, who wanted to see for himself. The butcher told the boy, “You look familiar, almost as if you are family.” His wife trembled, and her face flushed, so the butcher beat her until she told the truth.
The king listened to the story and ordered the two sisters and the midwife beheaded in the public square. He visited his queen for the first time in years and apologized, but she said, “I had offered you everything and received pain and disdain in return. I will bear no more. You have killed my sons. I refuse to be your wife.”
The king said, “I was wrong. How can I make up for it?”
“Die,” the queen replied.
And so it was. Guilt and sorrow did the disloyal king in. The queen witnessed her son’s rise to the throne, and the milkmaid wore the crown of the betrothed.
I was trying to stop crying. My knee hurt, my elbow hurt, and the bruise on my left upper arm was turning darker by the second. Uncle Jihad knelt before me, calming and shushing me. He had put his first-aid kit on the dining-room table and me on one of its chairs.
“They were older than me, too,” he said. “They were Wajih’s friends. That’s what drove my mother crazy. Wajih didn’t do anything, but he didn’t stop his friends. He was too scared. He just watched. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. These boys don’t hate you. They’re scared of you. You’re much smarter, more talented.”
“And much smaller,” I snapped. “And there are a lot of them.”
“I know that.” He swabbed mercurochrome on my knee. “But this won’t last long. Soon you’ll be running these stupid boys in circles. Soon they’ll be shining your shoes and picking up after you.” He tickle-poked my stomach. “You’d like that, right?”
“But what’ll I do now? I can’t wait till soon.”