The Hakawati

Ten

The Los Angeles Times announced that Elvis was dead. Below the main headline, NEW FLOODS BATTER DESERT, stood a smaller one, ELVIS PRESLEY DIES AT 42; LEGEND OF ROCK ’N’ ROLL ERA. I was reading the paper of the man standing before me in the customs line at the Los Angeles airport. The line was moving quickly as the customs official gave passports a cursory glance and let everyone through. When it was my turn, he didn’t even look at mine, but directed me to two other customs officials, a man and woman, who stood behind a gleaming metal table. The man, a red-haired, mustached guy with an uncanny resemblance to Porky Pig, demanded that I put my bags on the table. The woman, more obese than her partner, pointed to my carry-on. I smiled, careful not to show my teeth. My two front teeth did not match. Porky began poking through my belongings, sniffing around. I wanted to joke that I had no food in there, but I didn’t think he’d find it funny.

“What’s the purpose of your visit?” the female agent asked.

“Just a vacation. I’ve never been to America before.” Anticipating the next question, I answered it. “I’ll be here for ten days.” I hated lying.

Porky was jumbling up what my mother had meticulously packed. Another fat customs official approached with a German shepherd at his side. The dog began sniffing me. He reminded me of my Tulip, who had recently died of a heart attack. I bent down to pet him. “Don’t touch the dog,” Porky snapped from behind the table. “Please put your bags back on the cart and follow me.”

My left eyelid fluttered sporadically. I discreetly covered it with my left hand and followed Porky to a small, windowless office with only a metal table and a wooden chair. The customs official with the leashed dog followed us. The German shepherd sniffed my bags.

“I don’t have anything to declare,” I said nervously as Porky closed the door. “I swear.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. The back of my shirt was wet. The white walls had cement gray showing through the many chips in the paint.

“Please empty your pockets on the table,” Porky said harshly. He used the word “please” often, but his tone suggested otherwise. My hands shook. Out came a packet of cigarettes, a lighter, my wallet, my keys to our apartment in Beirut, two guitar picks, and some Chiclets gum. The German shepherd sniffed my crotch. His owner stood back, lips curled. “Please take off your jacket,” Porky said, taking me by surprise. I handed him my brown leather jacket. He squeezed it and had the dog smell it. “Take off your shoes, please.”

“They’re boots,” I said, “not shoes.” The distinction was important. They were cowboy boots I had bought expressly for this trip. Handmade boots, no less. Handmade in Texas, it said on the tag. I bought them for seventy-five dollars from a street vendor in Beirut. The boots were brown and had a serpent sewn in blue thread. I didn’t want just any old shoes for living in America.

“Please take off your shirt,” he said. Sweat dripped down my chest. I wished that I were bigger, that my chest were more impressive. “And your pants.” Porky and his compatriot went through my jeans, turning out the front pockets, feeling into the back ones, fingering the coin pocket. The dog sniffed the jeans. “Please turn around and face the wall.” I put my hands on the wall and spread my legs as if Starsky and Hutch were arresting me. “No, you don’t have to do that. Just pull down your underwear.” Porky’s tone was nicer all of a sudden. His voice had a touch of discomfort. “Could you please spread your cheeks?”

It took me a minute to realize what he meant by “cheeks.” I figured it out, but I was embarrassed that I hadn’t known that use of the word. I sensed his face approach my anus.

“Thank you,” Porky said, his tone now hesitant. “You can get dressed now.”

Outside, I looked for a taxi. The early-evening light was even, the sky mildly cloudy. The air was heavy, particle-filled. I took shallow breaths as the taxi driver loaded my bags into the trunk. His left hand was darker than his right, and the tops of his ears were sunburned. He drove me on my first American freeway, the 405. I noticed the roads were wet.

We exited on Wilshire Boulevard, straight into heavy traffic. The cabbie cursed. I looked at the car next to me, a black Alfa Romeo Spider with the top down. The driver, in a colorful shirt and Porsche sunglasses, was singing along loudly to the Beatles’ “Oh! Darling,” bopping his head up and down, drumming on the steering wheel. “Please believe me,” I sang along, regretting that I hadn’t brought my guitar.

I wasn’t some hick from the mountains. I had seen hotels before. I had stayed at the Plaza Athénée in Paris and the Dorchester in London, but neither had prepared me for the extravagent sumptuousness of the Beverly Wilshire. The desk clerk, a boy not much older than I, stood behind the counter, with hair the color of desert sand and a glint in his blue eyes, smiling, showing his excellent teeth. “My name is Osama al-Kharrat,” I said. “My father’s already here.”

“Ah, Mr. al-Kharrat. We’ve been expecting you.” His voice was sweet, confident. “Your father left a message saying his party will be back around nine.”

The “party” was my father and Uncle Jihad, who had both wanted to try gambling in Las Vegas. They had decided I should meet them in Los Angeles, where I could look for a school to attend. Beirut was becoming more harrowing. The civil war that everyone had thought would last only a few months had been going on for a couple of years, with no end in sight.

The desk clerk handed me the keys. “Don’t you want to see my passport?” I asked.

“No, I trust you.” His smile widened. “If you’re not Mr. al-Kharrat, then I’ll be in big trouble.” He wore a dark suit and a white shirt, but his tie was bright yellow, with tiny Daffy Ducks running all over the place.

I grinned back at him. “I am who I said I am.”

“The suite is two floors,” the bellboy said, opening the door. I walked in ahead of him, trying my best not to appear overwhelmed. “There are two bedrooms on this floor, and a master bedroom below.” He carried my bags to one of the rooms. I stood by the banister and stared down at the living room. A spherical crystal chandelier hung from the cathedral ceiling to the lower level. The drapes, as heavy as theater curtains, covering windows two stories high, were the same color and pattern as the wallpaper, gold with stylized metallic gray-blue paisley peacocks. The wall-to-wall carpeting was inches deep and avocado green. I was taking it all in when I noticed that the bellboy was still waiting behind me.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, taking out my wallet. My smallest bill was a five. He thanked me and left. One point against this hotel. At the Plaza Athénée in Paris, the bellboys and waiters deliver and leave before you have a chance to tip them. Much classier. I walked into the first room, with the same avocado carpet, the wallpaper in dark rose with a big white floral pattern, matching the bedspread and curtains. The bellboy had put my bags in this room. The bathroom was cream and yellow ocher, with two doors, each opening to one of the upstairs rooms. I walked through the bathroom to the second room, which I assumed to be my father’s, but on the nightstand was a Patek Philippe, rather than one of the Baume et Mercier watches that he wore. The cologne was the black Paco Rabanne, definitely Uncle Jihad’s, too strong for my father. I descended the stairs to the living room and master bedroom. I sat on the bed, caressed the pillow, laid my head down. I usually loved smelling the scents of my parents on their bed, but something here was peculiar. I stood up, looked around, and saw one of my father’s watches.

I went out to my room’s balcony with the newspaper and smoked a cigarette, figuring my father would never come out there and catch me. I saw Beverly Hills and America, the parade of cars along an endless boulevard. Dusk. The clouds in the sky had become more ominous, pewter-colored. I was excited, about to see a summer storm. A neon sign on the building across the street said seventy-eight degrees in bright red. In Celsius, 25.555 into infinity, I thought.

Again I wished I had brought my guitar, but I couldn’t risk immigration officials’ figuring out I was not here for a short tourist visit. In any case, I hoped to buy a better guitar for my new life in America. The Los Angeles Times said Thursday’s weather forecast was more rain, and highs in the mid-eighties. There was an advertisement for chambray “work shirts” with a touch of class. Why only a touch? A bus hijacker had released the seventy hostages he was holding at a Baha’i retreat not too far from Los Angeles. I felt the moistness of the air, a hot, light-smeared night. I stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.

The hospital’s fluorescent light emitted a tiresome buzz. I’d grown inured to it in my father’s first room, but once Tin Can had him moved to the second room, with all the monitors, at my sister’s insistence, I found the interminable hum annoying. I turned off the main lights and switched on a small lamp with a pleated shade that my sister had brought in. I sat on the bed next to my father, focused my eyes on him. I forced myself to look at him, to see him as he was. The image of a younger version kept superimposing itself upon his face. I wasn’t sure that the younger image was accurate, either. My father used to say he looked like Robert Mitchum — the hair, the nose, the mouth. “I’m his brother,” he’d tell us. Of course, he looked nothing like the actor — not the hair, the nose, or the mouth — but you couldn’t argue him out of the resemblance.

Now his skin was slack and spongy. His nose didn’t flare, nostrils no longer nervous: another ineffectual organ added to his collection. His eyelids sagged, unmoving. His hair was all white now, even his eyebrows, and his lips had practically disappeared. I kissed his brow.

How black your hair was.

I should feed his hungry ears, but instead I wept, immodestly and noiselessly.

Guilt, that little demon, gnawing and debilitating, voice thief.

I awoke to the pain of a pinched nerve in my shoulder and the sound of Lina entering the room. “You should have used a pillow and blanket.” The light seemed fuzzy, as if I were looking at the world through grubby contact lenses. Lina walked over to my father. Her hair was matted, sleep-flattened. The strange early light made her seem acutely lonely. “How is he?”

He’s dying, I wanted to say. He seemed fine two days ago, or was it three days ago? I hadn’t wanted to sleep. I’d wanted to spend the night by his side, available. I’d wanted to enchant him. I had wanted so much.

I heard the key turning on the lower floor, made sure the balcony doors were closed, and descended the winding stairs to greet my father. Uncle Jihad was pouring drinks at the bar.

“Osama,” he said loudly. His eyes sparkled, and his lips broke into a delicious smile. He topped his tall scotch with water and managed to take a sip before I reached him. I stood on my toes to kiss his cheek. He wasn’t particularly tall, but at five feet four, I had to stretch to kiss practically anybody. Jolly creases appeared on his chubby face. He looked dapper in a blue suit, jacket unbuttoned, showing his distended stomach, as if he had swallowed a basketball. I heard my father moving about in his room. “Want me to make you a drink?” Uncle Jihad asked.

“I’ll take a Coke,” I said, walking toward my father’s room.

A young blonde woman stood in front of my father’s mirror applying lipstick, burgundy red, on full lips. She smiled, put her lipstick in the handbag on the dresser. “Hello,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Melanie.” My father came out of the bathroom, zipping his pants.

I felt Uncle Jihad’s hand on my shoulder. “Here’s your Coke,” he said.

“Elvis is dead,” my father announced in Arabic. He sat on the large sofa, sipping his scotch. He was his brother’s follicular opposite: he had a full head of wavy, thick black hair that you could lose quarters in. He’d changed into brown shorts and a green Lacoste shirt — a concession to Melanie, the stranger among us. Had she not been here, he would be in boxer shorts and T-shirt.

I glanced at Melanie and hesitated before I replied in Arabic, “I know. I read about it.”

Even in Western getup, my father didn’t look American — too short, too dumpy. When I was younger, my father always wanted me to watch wrestling with him on television. Before the match began, he’d pick a wrestler to root for, and I was left with the other. He wouldn’t let me pick first, or choose the same wrestler he did. His man always won. “Pick the one who looks like a decent man,” he said. “Decent men never lose.” Since I got stuck with the eventual loser, I passed the time comparing my father, in boxers and T-shirt, with the wrestlers in tight trunks. My father had the loose calves of a sedentary man.

“I thought you’d be more upset,” he said. “Rock and roll is dead and all that.”

“I’m not upset.” My voice rose. “I don’t care if Elvis is dead. I don’t like him. He was old and fat and stupid. It’s about time he died.”

My father snorted. “We have an appointment tomorrow with the dean of engineering at UCLA.” He was still speaking in Arabic, completely ignoring Melanie, who sat across the room. “He says that admission is closed for this fall, but he was impressed with your youth and your grades.”

Melanie was reading Time magazine, pursing her lips.

“This isn’t a child’s game,” my father said. “It’s an interview that will determine your future. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, yes. I’m ready.”

“The appointment is tomorrow afternoon at three,” he said, picking up the barricading newspaper, a signal ending the conversation.

Melanie sat serenely in her chair. She looked young, couldn’t be more than twenty-three, but she had a confident manner. She was like a prettier Nancy Sinatra, with full breasts that were about to burst from her décolleté black dress. Her bleached-blond hair fell below her shoulders. Her eyebrows were plucked. I wanted to inspect them and see if they’d been shaved and drawn in with brown pencil. Her nose was dainty, her chin tiny. The most prominent aspect of her face was the makeup. Her thickly applied lipstick was too dark against her skin. Her eyeliner seemed to cover her lids, and the eye shadow was three-toned, mauve, purple, and light blue. She was the opposite of my mother, who applied her makeup judiciously. I knew Melanie was taking my measure as much as I was hers, but she was more subtle about it.

Uncle Jihad was nursing his drink. He still wore his suit, his tie slightly askew. “Why engineering?” he asked me. “You told me a month ago you wanted to study math.”

I looked at the dents and ridges of his bald head. Sweat collected in them, forming miniature pools. Every few minutes he ran his handkerchief over his scalp, momentarily reducing the sheen. Whenever he and my father went gambling, my father kissed the top of Uncle Jihad’s head for good luck.

“I like math, Uncle. It’s what I’m good at. Engineering is applied math, basically.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Of course he is,” my father interrupted from behind the paper. “He can’t make a living with a math degree.”

It was almost one in the morning, eleven in the morning Beirut time, and I had been up for more than thirty-six hours, but I wasn’t ready to sleep yet. I slumped in my chair, my mind racing. “It’s raining a lot,” I said in English, hoping to engage Melanie in conversation.

“It’s been raining all over,” Uncle Jihad said.

“This isn’t normal,” Melanie said. A smooth, melodic voice. “It’s unseasonable. The California deserts are having major floods. It even rained in Vegas.”

“Is that where you met?” I asked.

In the large bed, with the lights out, I lay thinking. My father had gone into his room with her, closing the door. The night was humid.

The dialysis machine chugalugged my father’s blood and regurgitated it back into him. Could a scene be déjà vu if it was truly repeating itself? This was another day. Salwa sat on the bed and held my father’s hand. “This won’t take long,” she told him. “Only another forty-five minutes.” My sister, on the rust recliner, leaned back and covered her eyes with her forearm. The narcoleptic technician’s head rested on his chest. I stood at the foot of the bed, counting off red time with the dialysis machine.

There was a knock on the open door. I was the only one who could see out, and my sister waved for me to send whoever it was away. A beautiful woman of indeterminate age stood in the doorway in an extravagant sable coat and stiletto heels. She wore stylish, heavy makeup, which made her face look as white and pure as a cake of halloumi. Her short bouffant hair was dyed a chestnut brown with precisely equidistant blond streaks. I recognized her after she smiled a childlike smile yet terribly saucy. I hadn’t seen her in over twenty years.

“Nisrine,” I said softly as I walked toward her. I surprised myself by using her first name. How old was she? She kissed me, cheek to cheek, three times. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go in,” I said. “He doesn’t like to be seen when he’s sick.”

She kept her hand on my cheek. “I knocked only to make sure he’s decent.” She strolled in and stopped as if she had encountered an invisible electric fence, as if she were face to face with death’s scythe. A tiny cry escaped her lips, and her face crumpled. Her first tear carved a furrow in her foundation. Nisrine’s hand went to her left eye, and her finger removed one contact lens, then the other. She cried, holding her tiny lenses in the palm of her hand as an offering to the gods of grief.

Nisrine and Jamil Sadek moved into the third floor of the building behind ours in 1967. In no time, they had established themselves as the most popular couple in the neighborhood. She was beautiful, witty, and flirtatious, and he was a delightful drunk. Few remembered she was a mother of three, for she was rarely seen with her children in public. Fewer still could help enjoying the misshapen, congenital liar she was married to. Captain Jamil was the only man in the neighborhood I was able to look down on, literally and figuratively. He was shorter than many children, but not exactly a dwarf. His huge paunch always seemed about to topple him. He canted his side hair like a sheaf over the top of his bald head. And he was no captain.

Stories about him were legion, but none were as famous as the one about his repeated failures at being promoted to full-fledged pilot. He made sure that all called him Captain Jamil. He was the oldest copilot at the airline and flunked every captain exam, but you’d never know it from talking to him. He told tall tales of saving flights from sure disasters, of passengers writing him sheaves of letters detailing their gratitude. He told of the other captains’ looking up to him and pleading with him for flying lessons. None of his listeners believed him, and all pretended they did.

One day, he arrived at our house for lunch. As a gift, he brought a bottle of blended scotch whisky in a yellow box sporting pictures of affluent, well-dressed men. “This whisky is called House of Lords,” he announced. “It’s specifically made for English royalty and nobles. A member of the British Parliament who happens to be the queen’s best friend presented it to me on my last trip to London.” This was the only time anyone unraveled his lie publicly. Uncle Jihad drove to Spinneys, the supermarket, while lunch was being served, and returned within half an hour with another yellow box of the cheap brand. He placed it on the table and announced that the queen herself had given it to him, but on one condition. “The queen told me, in her perfect British accent, of course, that she loved me and considered me worthy of such a perfect bottle of whisky, but that this magnificent brew should be served only to the best of men, to the greatest of friends.” And he poured a glass for Captain Jamil.

It was the captain’s young wife, though, who ensured that the couple received an invitation to every event. She was a bon vivant, and bright, if not too cultured or sophisticated; an uneducated Sunni from Tripoli who realized that she had to rely on her piercing wit and charm to overcome being married to a parody and get ahead in life. And did she ever get ahead. At every gathering, men roamed her summers like fireflies. She amused them, teased and cajoled them. Told the best dirty jokes and the funniest bawdy tales. She was the only woman who could turn our neighborhood militiaman, Elie, into an ogling, trembling teenage boy who desperately tried to cover his excitement every time she walked by. She and Uncle Jihad formed a mutual-admiration society. They would sit in the corner and make fun of everybody else. He once asked her why she married her husband when she could have done so much better. She replied that she’d been young. Captain Jamil had appeared at her doorstep in his sports car. She was blinded by the pilot’s uniform. He spoke to her of flying, what it felt like to be up in the air, the freedom, the glory, the escape from the mundane. She dreamed of magic carpets.

One day, Uncle Akram made the mistake of hinting to my father and Uncle Jihad that he had slept with Nisrine. At an evening gathering on our balcony, as Nisrine delicately puffed her hookah, my father said to her, “Nisrine, my dear, Akram is telling quite a few people that he has bedded you.” She cracked up and crackled, smoke sprouting from her mouth like the sudden eruption of a mountain hot spring. I could see the unadulterated glee in Uncle Jihad’s brown eyes. “Hey, Akram,” she shouted across the balcony. “Come over here and entertain me for a minute.” He hurried over like a child called by his favorite teacher to the blackboard. “Tell me, dear,” she cooed. “I hear you have a wonderful story, and I love stories.” She smiled, batted her eyelashes a few times, and took a long drag from the hookah. She blew the smoke seductively into his eager face. “I hear that you fucked me, and I want to know whether I was good.”

I poured myself a glass of fresh grapefruit juice as my father read the morning paper. Melanie was already dressed in a light-green summer suit. She was standing by the tall windows. “Looks like it’s letting up,” she said. “Might turn out to be a nice day. We can probably walk.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Shopping,” my father said. “I should get your mother something.”

My father went to his room to get dressed, and I sat down and phoned my mother. I had forgotten to call when I first arrived, as I had promised. She wanted to talk. “I miss you already.” I grunted acknowledgment. “Will you make sure to take care of yourself?” I looked around the room. “You will call me once a week?” I watched Melanie light a filtered Kool cigarette and drink her coffee. I used the word “mama” to make sure she knew who I was talking to. Melanie turned around in her chair, crossed her legs. “I don’t care how old you are, you’ll always be my baby.” A lipstick stain appeared on the filter. Melanie used her forefinger to flick the ash dramatically. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you here.” Smoke curled out of her mouth. The lipstick was pink this morning. “You’re your mother’s only son.”

When I hung up, Melanie smiled at me tentatively. “Aren’t you a little young to be going to college?”

“I’m terribly smart.”

“I can see that.” Her laugh included an unattractive snort.

My father wanted to take our rented Cadillac to Rodeo Drive. Uncle Jihad wanted to walk, since it was only across the street from the hotel. The doorman suggested we take the hotel’s car, which dropped us off at Giorgio’s, two blocks away. The four of us must have appeared quite a tableau to passersby, a hodgepodge family of sorts.

The salesman zeroed in on my father, ignoring the rest of us. It must have been the Brioni suit. My father explained what he wanted. The salesman, an attractive young man, looked normal below the belt, but his torso leaned back at an almost unnatural angle, his left arm draped across it, and his right hand seemed to tweak an imaginary string of pearls. All of a sudden, both forefingers pointed at my father. “I have something that may be just perfect,” he said, and scampered across the floor, disappearing from sight. He returned with bundles of cloth in delectable colors, reds, variegated greens, yellows from lemon to ocher. He put them on the counter and spread one out. “Cashmere shawls,” he said. “No woman can resist.” His hand smoothed the fabric in a wide arc. “You just have to pick the color.”

“What do you think?” my father asked. I wasn’t sure which of us he was asking, Melanie or me.

I stepped forward, touching the fabric in the same wide arc. “This is beautiful.”

“I think so, too,” Melanie said.

My father went through the pile, picked a deep-sienna shawl. “You think your mom will like this?” I nodded. He handed the shawl to the salesman. My father kept looking, picked up a blue-green shawl, and held it next to Melanie’s eyes. “And this one, too,” he told the salesman. Melanie blushed.

“I want you to know something,” my father said in Arabic. “She’s not a prostitute.”

I stammered something unintelligible. I didn’t know what to say.

“I’m not paying her.” He was staring at a far corner of the store.

“Okay.” I stared at the other corner.

“She wants to be a singer. I can’t tell if she’s any good. I don’t understand this music. She sings a lot, so listen and tell me.”

It began to rain softly. Uncle Jihad carried a bottle of cologne and whistled a Lebanese tune. He picked up a loud yellow scarf, flicked one end over his left shoulder, examining the effect in a full-length mirror. Melanie looked at a dress on a hanger, fingered the material. “Why don’t you try it on?” my father suggested.

“He is loved,” I said above the dins of the room.

My sister had taken Nisrine to the visitors’ room. Fatima had returned and claimed my sister’s seat. The diminishing red numbers of the dialysis machine entranced her, as they did me. Twenty-two minutes, thirteen seconds. Salwa held my father’s hand.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“It’s so obvious Nisrine loves him,” I replied. “You can’t fake that reaction. It broke my heart watching her.”

“Yes,” she said. “They were lovers once.”

“No,” I blurted. “No. It only seemed that way because they both loved to flirt.” My niece just looked at me, her eyebrows forming the top halves of question marks. “How would you know anyway?” I said. “You weren’t even born.” My voice faltered. “It can’t be. He flirted with her in front of my mother. He wouldn’t have done that if it were for real. They were friends.”

Fatima raised her arms in despair and sighed.

Salwa looked at me with my mother’s eyes, brown and wide. In a steady voice, she said, “She was one of his many mistresses.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked, my voice much weaker than hers. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but all you’re going by is what Lina tells you.”

“He paid for her eldest son’s schooling. You know that.”

“Of course,” I replied. “They were friends of the family.”

“Stop, Osama,” Fatima ordered, loud enough to shock the technician awake. “Take our word for it. If you want me to list all his mistresses, I will. Maybe it’s time you talked to your sister and compared notes.”

Lina filled her lungs with smoke on the balcony. I studied the straight lines of building rooftops. “How could you not know they had an affair?” Lina asked. We both looked out at the calm Mediterranean, which could be seen through a large gap between two buildings.

“God, Osama. You know he slept with other women. You couldn’t have been that blind. Why do you think she finally left him?”

“Please. I’m not stupid. He didn’t hide his womanizing from me. He was proud of it. I just didn’t think he’d do it with Nisrine. I don’t know why. Not her.”

She leaned forward on the railing and took another drag. “Why not her?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I huffed. “Maybe because she was a friend of the family. Maybe because my mother knew her. Maybe because we all knew her. I don’t know.”

She reached out and pulled me to her. I took the cigarette from her hand and noisily smoked half of it. “Bad form,” she said.

“Yes, that’s it,” I snapped. “It’s fucking bad form. That’s what it is.”

I felt her shake before I heard her laugh, a staccato outburst. It took a few seconds for me to join in. I tapped the cigarette ash too hard, and the glowing cinder dropped toward the street below. “I can’t fucking believe it,” I said.

“Fuck yes.”

“But you’re wrong. She didn’t just leave him because of his philandering. You know that. It wasn’t just the women.” I gripped the balcony’s rail, took a loud breath. “He had this way of looking at women he was flirting with, an expressive quality — humorous, even. It was as if his eyes asked them to confide in him, to tell him their stories.”

“His eyes never invited me to share with him,” she said.

“Me, neither.”

We sat at the burnt-orange dinette set, my father, Melanie, and I, waiting for Uncle Jihad to finish his shower. My sister had called and teased me as usual. She said my mother missed me so much she went out and bought a pot of hydrangea, and now no one could tell I was gone. My father smoked, read the paper, and drank his coffee. He made a gurgling sound with each sip. “We have to ask about residence,” he said. “Where will you stay?”

“Don’t know. Maybe the dorms.” I looked around the suite. “Maybe I’ll stay here. This is grand enough for me.”

“It’s nothing compared with the suite in Las Vegas. We had a swimming pool in the room.”

“It’s true,” said Melanie.

“In a hotel room? Why? Did you swim in it?”

“No,” my father replied. “Why should I swim in a pool?”

“I don’t know. You have a pool in your room, you should swim in it.”

“That’s silly.” He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the paper.

“Oh, Dad, you just have no imagination.”

Melanie had to stop herself from laughing.

My father folded his paper. “Why don’t you two go out dancing tomorrow night? You two should go to a dance club and have fun. What’s the name of the place you told us about?”

“My Place,” Melanie said. “It’s the in club.”

“You want us to go dancing?” I asked, to make sure I’d understood correctly.

“Yes. Go out and have fun. I don’t want to go to a dance club. My ears won’t be able to handle it. You two kids like music. Go out and have fun.”

Uncle Jihad came down whistling a polka, his feet keeping time on the stairs. He hesitated for a moment, appearing concerned, and his face blanched. He seemed to lose his breath, but it was only a brief interruption of the polka, a musical hiccup. He descended the stairs happily. My father stood up. “Let’s go,” he said. “We don’t want to be late to the interview.”

In the waiting room, my cousin Hafez leaned over and whispered into my ear, “I must see him. I must.” His moist eyes pleaded, regarded me with such ardor, as if I were a saint and my blessing was what he lived for. Or was it my father’s?

“I’ll ask Lina.”

“Please, don’t. You know she wouldn’t let me.” His hand fell on my knee, like my father’s used to whenever he wanted me to pay attention. “I’m asking you.”

It was as if I were seeing him for the first time. Hello, I’m your cousin Hafez. We grew up together and spent hours and days and weeks and months and years in each other’s company, but you have no clue who I am. Let me introduce myself. I was supposed to be your twin, but …

Hafez hesitated slightly at the door before entering the room with me. My sister smiled at him. I cocked my head toward the balcony, and Lina understood. She gestured a need for a cigarette and stood up. She slid the balcony’s door silently and glided out.

Hafez and I were a study in contrasts, I in Nikes, jeans, and a UCLA sweatshirt, and he in suit and tie and Italian moccasins. My disheveled hair was badly in need of a trim, and his was gelled and styled. He looked more like my father in his prime than I ever did. He was a family man with three teenage children, and I was nothing more than an unkempt teenager, even though only six weeks separated us. He was always more our family than I was.

He stood at the foot of the bed, what had been my space in the room. He looked as if he was about to cry but still wasn’t used to the idea. He stared at my father as if he wanted to tell him something, or wanted my father to make things right. “I guess his heart is tired,” he whispered. He inhaled deeply. He was standing as close as possible without our touching. “I hadn’t expected him to fall before my mother. She has been all right this week, with all the family here for Eid al-Adha, but she’ll begin to get worse when Mona returns to Dubai and Munir to Kuwait. They—” He stopped. His face flushed, and he shut his eyes. The only reason his brother and sister hadn’t flown back to their homes in the Gulf was that they would have to return to Lebanon for my father’s funeral.

The UCLA campus was as big as a whole city. School hadn’t started yet, but the campus was busy nonetheless. My father gave Melanie a couple of hundred dollars to shop at the student store. The engineering department was an entire building. The size of the dean of engineering was proportional. He was six feet six and round, with a ruffle of double chins draped over his starched white collar. He introduced himself as “Dean Johnson, but call me Fred.”

“I understand you’re quite the intelligent young man,” the dean said. He seemed jovial and pleasant, a nice person, with a cheerful, impish expression on his fleshy face.

“I test well.” I had the right instincts for multiple-choice questions.

“Have you taken the SATs yet?” He leaned back in his chair.

“Yes, I have. Everything is in the folder.”

He reached for the folder and perused the papers. “You scored sixteen hundred?” he asked — rhetorically, I presumed.

“We had to have him take the GCE with the British Council,” my father said. “We weren’t sure there would be any baccalaureates this year, because of the war.”

“This is very impressive,” Fred said, shaking his head. “I wish you had come to me a little earlier. Admissions have been closed for a while.” He kept looking at all my scores. “Are you considering any other university?” he asked, not removing his eyes from my papers. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Let me make a phone call.” He stood up and left his office.

Neither my father nor Uncle Jihad nor I spoke a single word while the dean was out, as if any syllable would bring down a jinni’s curse upon the proceedings. But then Uncle Jihad stood up, went over to my father, and bent his head. I heard the sound of my father’s lips meeting Uncle Jihad’s head. A good-luck kiss.

The dean re-entered the office, obviously excited. He leaned on his desk in front of me. “I may have been able to do something, but I have to ask you some questions. Are you sure UCLA is the right school for you? Have you thought about what we have to offer?”

“Yes. I like the school. I like Los Angeles.”

“And there’s a war back in your country, right?”

“Yes,” I replied, unsure where that was going.

“And UCLA is your only chance right now for an uninterrupted education, right? UCLA will provide you a peaceful setting where you can pursue a degree and continue your record of academic excellence. Isn’t that so?” I nodded. “Good. Then that’s settled.” He laughed heartily. “Here’s what I need you to do, young man. I’d like you to fill out an application for admission to the university. It has to be done right away, so I can take it to the admissions office before they close. That also includes an essay. Do you think you can do that now?” I nodded once more. “Good. Josephine outside will put you in an empty office, and you can get to work. I’ll talk to your father here about logistics.”

“Can I also take music classes?” I asked. I heard my father sigh.

The dean looked at me quizzically. “It’s not the norm for engineering students to take music classes.”

“Shouldn’t it be?” I asked. “In the Middle Ages, the music and mathematics departments were one and the same. You couldn’t study one without the other. They’re complements, really. It stayed that way until the last century. The separation of music from mathematics is recent.”

“You don’t need to study music,” my father said sternly. “You’ve already studied enough music. We won’t discuss this anymore.”

“Filling out the application may take some time,” the dean told my father. “You can wait, or I can send him to the hotel by taxi, whichever is more convenient.”

“Are you sure you can get him in?” my father asked.

“No, I’m not sure. The dean of admissions is willing to look at his records. That’s a very good sign. I’ll find out soon. In any case, here’s the application.” He handed me some forms. “Just take it outside to Josephine, and she’ll find you a quiet place to fill it out.”

I thanked him and got up to leave. “Remember,” he said, “put everything we talked about in the essay. And don’t mention the music-and-math theory, okay?”

As I closed the door, I heard my father say quietly, “He’s just a little immature sometimes. Not always.”

Before she led me to the office, I asked Josephine where the men’s room was. I went in, peed, masturbated, and sneaked a couple of puffs from a cigarette. The essay I wrote elaborated on my theory of combining math and music, and I included a timeline graph as well.

I had just stepped out of the shower when Uncle Jihad opened the bathroom door on his side. I covered myself with the towel. I was starting to hate the idea of a bathroom with doors connecting two rooms. “It’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before,” he said as I wrapped the towel around my waist. He tilted his bottle of cologne and dabbed a few drops on his scalp.

“I see you broke the perfume bottles as well,” I said. He laughed.

Uncle Jihad used to tell a story about a parrot, the pet of an oil-and-perfume merchant. For years, the parrot entertained customers with tales and anecdotes. One night, a cat chased a mouse into the shop, which frightened the parrot. She flew from shelf to shelf, breaking bottles in her wake. When the merchant returned, he hit the parrot with a blow that knocked off her head feathers. The bald parrot was upset for days, until, one morning, a man with no hair entered the shop, and the bird yelled in joy, “Did you break the perfume bottles as well?”

Uncle Jihad washed his hands, building layers of lather. “I think the dean really wants you.” He talked to my image in the mirror.

“Yes. I think I’m in.” I dried myself with a second towel. “My father wants me to take Melanie dancing.”

“He told me. I think it’s a good idea. He thinks you spend too much time studying and reading. Melanie will have fun, and it’ll be good for you.”

“He should take her dancing.”

“He’s not the dancing type.”

He stared at my chest, probably wondering why I hadn’t filled out yet. I went into my room and put on a UCLA T-shirt Melanie had bought for me.

“Where did they meet?” I asked.

“At the baccarat table.”

“Did he stop to think she’s almost as young as Lina?”

“Hey,” he said, shaking an admonishing finger, “I don’t want you to say anything like that. You can’t even think that.” He stood before me in my room, his face an angry red. He looked exhausted, for some reason.

Chain-smoking, Lina had finished three cigarettes on the balcony. She gestured for me to get rid of Hafez, running her forefinger across her throat. She may have left the room, but her specter hadn’t. “I hear you went to the old neighborhood,” Hafez said. “I go there quite a bit these days so I don’t forget. I can take you into your apartment if you want.”

“That might be interesting.”

“Why don’t you play the oud for him?”

I hesitated, surprised. “Hafez, I haven’t played the oud in about thirty years.”

It was his turn to look stunned. “Why? You were so good. What happened?”

“I switched to guitar a long time ago, and then I stopped playing that. I got bored.”

“I don’t understand.” His voice rose to more than just a whisper. He seemed more animated. “Everyone was so envious of you. The family used to talk about your playing. How can you get bored with music? I wouldn’t have.” He smiled at me, and his eyes regained a bit of luster. “I guess I should go now, look in on my mother. Call me if you want to go to the old neighborhood.” I walked with him to the door, four steps. “I would have kept on playing if I had your talent,” he said. “Yes, I would.”

That night, my sister and I were in my father’s room. The lights of the ward had dimmed. She cuddled herself in the recliner, and I sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. She poked me with her foot, once, twice. Go home. Go home. I held her foot with both hands, pressed my thumbs along the heel.

“Hafez isn’t the only one who was disappointed you stopped playing,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven you. No one has. When Salwa was a child, I used to regale her with stories of how amazing you were. She never got to hear you. She tried to take up the oud, but she wasn’t any good. I should blame you for that as well.”

“Blame me.” I pinched her foot. “I only played when I was a child.”

“And I have to admit that I wasn’t as fond of your guitar.”

“You’re the one who made me learn to play.”

She reached for the water bottle on the side table. “I can tell you a strange story about Hafez. If you want, that is.”

“Of course I do. Gossip stokes the fire of my soul.”

“Hah. Well, where do I start? For the last six or seven years, Hafez has been disappearing a few afternoons every week. You know that, right? He swore to his wife that he wasn’t cheating, but he wouldn’t tell her or anyone what he was doing. I knew Hafez wasn’t cheating — it’s Anwar who’s the asshole philanderer. It was just that no one knew what Hafez had been up to. Anyway, a few years ago, Fatima decided she wanted to go to the souk in Tripoli, do the tourist thing, mix with the common people. She dragged me along, and there we were, in the gold market, when we saw him. He was carrying a tourist guide to Lebanon, in English, holding it front side out, so everyone could see. He tried to look bewildered and engrossed, gazing around as if he were seeing everything for the first time. Just as I was about to call him, a woman walked by him and said in English, ‘Welcome to Lebanon.’ His face lit up as if he had swallowed the sun, the moon, and all the stars. Then he saw us and turned as red as a ripe summer tomato. He swore us to secrecy and explained. It turned out his favorite pastime was to stroll around various places pretending to be a tourist. He did it mostly in Beirut, but he hit all the other major hot spots of Lebanon, too. He walked all over the place with a guidebook, desperately trying to be seen as someone other.”

Shavings of light were strewn on the avocado carpet. I had slept late. I heard nothing downstairs. I drew open the curtains on a glorious day, the light clear and merciless. I put on shorts and sunglasses, went out on the balcony for my morning smoke. I lay back on the chair, soaking up sunlight, and hummed “California Dreaming.”

“All the leaves are brown.” A cold gust of panic. I jumped out of my seat and hid my cigarette behind my back. Melanie stood at the balcony door in shorts, her sunglasses hooked into her bikini bra; she carried a tray with a coffeepot and two cups. “Sorry about startling you, but I thought you might want a cup of coffee up here. They went shopping.” She had a touch of roguishness to her smile. “You can take the cigarette out of your butt.” I had to laugh. She sat down, poured us coffee. Her bikini top covered nothing but her nipples. “We don’t have to go dancing if you don’t want. We can go to a movie and tell them we went dancing.”

“It’s just that I hate disco,” I said. “I never go to dance clubs.”

“That’s settled, then.” She lit a cigarette. “What do you like to do? What did you do in Beirut on Friday nights?”

“Planted explosives, shot at pedestrians from balconies, that sort of thing.” She almost choked on her coffee, gave her weird snort. “Mostly stayed home or hung out with a friend,” I said. “Played music. Got stoned.”

“You want to get high tonight?” She gauged me with her eyes.

“Absolutely.”

“I have a friend in town we can go see. He’s got a great record collection and killer weed. We’ll spend the evening there. He’s an honest dealer. Every college student needs one of those.”

I settled back in my chair, drank the coffee. I looked at her hands, perfectly manicured. She was wearing much less makeup. I admired her attractive profile, the chin small yet angular, the European nose, small and tilted up. My mother couldn’t compete with that nose; hers was thin, though long and curved like a bird’s beak. My mother was known for her beauty, but it was an altogether different kind. “Do you ever think of my mother?” I asked.

“I don’t know your mother.”

I looked at the clear sky, a much different blue than in Lebanon.

When my father and Uncle Jihad walked into the living room, Melanie almost spoiled the surprise. She flitted about like a three-year-old girl on a sugar high, unable to keep the smile off her face. She wore black hot pants and a sleeveless denim jacket that reached her calves. I sat on the big sofa, facing the door, my right foot across my left knee, looking all too important. My father began to guess at something peculiar. “You’re looking at a UCLA student,” I announced.

My father’s face broke out in unadulterated joy. He leapt across the room, picked me up, and hauled me over his shoulders. I squealed, unable to control my delight. Melanie was jumping up and down. She was about to embrace Uncle Jihad but pulled back at the last moment.

“I’m so proud of you,” my father said from below.

“Well, put me down,” I said, chuckling. He did, but with a bear hug. I had to push him away, because I couldn’t breathe. “Dean Johnson called. They want me. I can check in to the dorms on Monday, and classes start on Wednesday.”

“Did you call your mother?”

“Yes, I told her. We have to pay tuition on Monday, Dad.”

“Okay. Let’s go open up a bank account for you. And here.” He gave me an American Express card with my name on it. “This is a company account. Use it only in case of an emergency. Do you understand? I’ll give you a monthly stipend. I want you to write down every expense you incur. I want to see a monthly report. Every single penny.”

I hesitated, but this had to be the best possible time to broach the subject. “I want to buy a guitar, Dad.”

“No, absolutely not. No more guitars. I told you that in Beirut. You’re here to study. I don’t want to hear another word about guitars anymore. Find another hobby.”

“But, Dad, I’m really good. I need to practice.”

“No whining and no guitar.”

Melanie’s friend Mike lived in a small apartment on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles. As we walked along an open corridor, I saw the blue light of televisions flickering behind drawn curtains, heard the canned laughter of sitcoms. Fonzie on the tube delivered his bon mot, “Aaay!” The apartments all faced a glittering swimming pool. Melanie knocked on a door with the number seven in tarnished brass. Mike opened the door, wearing gray swim trunks, blue T-shirt, and red flipflops. He was tall and muscular, with wavy black hair, a heavy mustache, long wiry sideburns, and small yellow wire-rims atop a predatory nose. A scar as white as marble ran down his neck. “You must be Osama.” His voice was twice the size of mine. “Melanie has told me a lot about you.”

A light-brown mutt jumped up on Melanie the instant she walked through the door. She shrieked, almost stumbled, and hugged the dog. “Bobsie,” she said in baby talk, “you’re still the cutest dog, aren’t you?”

The apartment had an avocado-green carpet, a cheaper version of the hotel’s. An elaborately framed Patrick Nagel print hung on one wall. I sat on a yellow-green Herculon sofa next to Melanie. Small talk ensued. How did I like America? Land of the big and tall and perfect teeth. Was I looking forward to living in Los Angeles? Better than spending every evening in the bomb shelters of Beirut.

Melanie opened a shoebox on the cable-spool coffee table. “Smell,” she said, holding a sprig of marijuana under my nose. “It’s great stuff.”

“It smells great, but I’m sure it’s not as good as hash. In Lebanon, we throw this out. Hash is the pollen.” I sat back and almost knocked a chrome lamp over.

“I don’t think I want to throw out this grass.” Mike smiled as he walked to his entertainment center and put an Al Di Meola record on. Melanie rolled a joint using a contraption with a Stars and Stripes motif. She lit the joint and passed it to me. “This is good shit.”

The first hit went straight to my head. I petted the dog, who jumped up on the sofa and put his head on my lap. “He likes you,” Mike said.

“I had a wonderful dog called Tulip who died of a heart attack over a year ago.”

“Your dad told me the dog was run over by a car,” Melanie said.

“No, no. She had a heart attack. I was in the mountains, and Tulip was with my parents in Beirut. There was a lot of fighting, and all the noise scared her so much it caused the heart attack. I was really upset that I wasn’t there when she died. But my dad took care of everything.”

I took another hit, feeling high yet slightly unsettled. Loose change nestled in the sofa. Mike poured a bag of tortilla chips into a blue crystal bowl — my first taste of Mexican food. “Were you living in Beirut itself?” Mike asked between tokes. “In the middle of the war?”

“Yes. I was even shot at a couple of times. It’s crazy. You can’t imagine what it’s like.”

He smiled as he rolled another joint. “I can imagine. I did three tours in Vietnam.”

I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. I was already stoned, feeling wonderful. “Did you say you were drafted three times?” Melanie was looking at me with a shit-eating grin. She passed me the second joint, stood up, and danced seductively to the music.

“No, drafted once.” He lay back in his chair, legs wide apart. “I reupped a couple of times.” He looked as stoned as I felt. I stared at his muscled calves.

“Why did you do that?” I slurred my question.

“I really don’t know.” He put his glasses back on, took them off, breathed on his lenses, and polished them with his T-shirt. Melanie walked through the beaded curtain into the kitchen and reappeared with a beer and a Coke in either hand, showing me both. I pointed at the Coke. Mike took the beer. “Who knows why we choose what we choose,” he said, reaching over to open my can of Coke. “Maybe because life in-country seemed to be more real than it was back in the world.” He smiled gently. “You doing okay? You need anything?”

“Tubular Bells” was playing, but I couldn’t figure out when the music had changed. Mike was saying something that sounded like “Plei Me Special Forces Camp.” I wasn’t sure I liked the music, even though I’d heard it numerous times before. “Battle of Ia Drang.” Mike’s left hand massaged my neck. “Beirut must have been horrifying, too.” Minuscule creases appeared on his forehead. “Sex and death, death and sex, or vice versa.” He held another joint to my lips with his right hand, and I took more drags. “M-60 machine guns gung ho.” I started seeing Linda Blair’s head rotating, and I couldn’t stop giggling. I tried to apologize to Mike but was unable to stifle my laughter. How could my father forget how Tulip died? My father told me he held Tulip in his arms as she had a heart attack. Now my father didn’t remember how she died. I wondered if I could forgive my father for that. The Nagel print was ugly. I wondered if anybody in the world had a Nagel original. I took a sip of Coke and stuffed my face with tortilla chips. One of the throw pillows had a honeycomb pattern that made me dizzy. I kept attempting to figure out whether it was a black pattern on a white background or vice versa. I laid my head back on the chair, looked up at the cottage-cheese ceiling. I snapped my head back quickly. “I just thought of Hendrix and got scared,” I said loudly. I was alone in the room.

“Tubular Bells” repeated itself. Crumbs of tortilla chips remained in the crystal bowl. I pushed the bowl until it fell off the table and cracked.

Melanie emerged from the bedroom adjusting her skirt, hobbling on one shoe, the other in her hand. “It’s midnight,” she said cheerfully. “We don’t want to be too late.” Mike followed her out, wearing only boxer shorts.

I stood up while Melanie applied her lipstick, fixed her hair at the mirror. “It was nice meeting you,” Mike said. I walked out the door without replying.

Melanie drove the Cadillac back to the hotel. I pulled down the visor and looked at myself in the mirror. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “Do you think I have ugly teeth?”

“No, they’re not ugly. If you think they are, they can be fixed, but I think they’re cute — sexy, even.”

“Not sexy enough for you to have sex with me,” I said, staring straight ahead. I felt her hesitation. “Don’t worry,” I added. “I don’t want to have sex with you anyway.”

“I know,” she said, shyly and evenly. “I didn’t think you did.”

One minute my sister was talking to me, whispering quietly about nothing in particular, and the next her voice faded. Even in sleep, she seemed tense, her breathing more hamsterish than restful. I slowly lifted myself off the floor. The muscles of my lower back and hamstrings groaned and objected. I walked around the bed toward my father. He seemed to be incrementally imploding, as if his wan skin were unhurriedly devouring his insides, and his body would soon collapse upon itself once the meal was finished.

When it would get to be my time to leave, I hoped I’d go quickly, suddenly and unexpectedly, like Uncle Jihad, not like my father, and not like my mother.

I held my father’s hand and stroked his dry hair, willing myself to imagine a reflex, an indication of responsiveness to my touch. I wanted to believe. I bent down and kissed his forehead, and my shirt grazed the ventilator tube. I felt an urge to take an iron bar, smite the machine, crush it. The pathetic rage of the impotent.

I kept praying for some form of movement from my father. I bent my face into the slit of his line of sight, hoping my dimly lit familiar and familial face would comfort him.

Once, when I was eight or nine, my parents took me to London, my first visit to the brooding city. My mother had wanted to walk in Hyde Park. My father, who never understood why people still walked, decades after the automobile had been invented, said he’d come along because he didn’t want to stay in the hotel by himself. We left the lobby through the revolving doors and were inundated by a weaving multitude of people. My mother turned back into the hotel, but my father stood his ground, mesmerized. He held my hand and watched as a sea of pale skin engulfed him. He looked confused for a moment, and then he smiled and said good morning in Lebanese to a passerby in a suit. The man smiled and replied in Lebanese as well. He bowed his head, and his palm sought his heart in an exaggerated gesture. He nodded toward me in acknowledgment and continued on his way. The Lebanese face, unknown yet familiar, had moored my father. Happy again, he led me back into the hotel.

Uncle Jihad didn’t answer my knock on the locked bathroom door. I walked around to his room, still early-morning groggy. He wasn’t there. I knocked on his bathroom door, then tried it. It was unlocked. Uncle Jihad sat on the toilet, his pajama pants around his ankles, his head slumped, his eyes staring at a spot on the carpet. The bathroom smelled of shit. I suppressed an urge to scream. I rushed over, shook him by the shoulder. His skin felt cold. I recoiled. I bent down to look at his face. His eyes were lifeless. I searched for a pulse on his wrist. None. I broke into silent tears. Shaking, I walked out of the bathroom into the orange corridor, held on to the metal railing for support. My father sat at the dinette table, drinking his coffee and reading the paper. Melanie sat opposite, already dressed and made up.

“Dad,” I said, my voice distorted. “Uncle Jihad is dead in the bathroom.”

He looked up at me disbelievingly. I watched his face gradually change; his eyes grew whiter, his jaw dropped. He ran up the stairs, followed by Melanie. I let them pass me. I heard my father wail. I had never seen my father cry before, never seen him so distraught. He knelt on the floor and rocked Uncle Jihad in his arms. I couldn’t understand a word my father said. I stood in the doorway in shock. My father wouldn’t stop. He wept, the bathroom reverberating with the sound. In between sobs, my father kissed Uncle Jihad’s bald head. Melanie, tears flowing down her face, tried unsuccessfully to calm him. I no longer recognized the man in front of me. I called my mother. “Listen to me,” she said. “Put your father on the phone. Then you go to his room and get his travel pack. In it, you’ll find a pillbox. Take out a Valium and give it to him. Do you understand?”

In the bathroom, Melanie held my father, who held Uncle Jihad. I gave my father the bathroom phone and watched his face as he began to calm down. I ran downstairs and came back up with the tranquilizer. I watched him nod in acquiescence to my mother’s instructions. He handed me the phone. My mother told me to put him to bed and said she would call back in ten minutes, after she called the hotel management.

Melanie and I helped my father down the stairs, his arms draped over both of us. I put him in bed, under the covers. Melanie drew the curtains, darkening the room. I stroked his head, just as I had seen my mother do many times before. He promptly drifted into sleep.

I went back up to check on Uncle Jihad. I didn’t want anybody to see him naked with his pajama bottoms down. When I entered the bathroom, I held my nose and flushed the toilet.

“Do you want to carry him to his bed?” Melanie asked.

I nodded. I was pulling his pants up when I realized his bottom was soiled. I wiped his behind with a damp washcloth. My stomach felt queasy again.

I tried to lift Uncle Jihad from his shoulders while Melanie took his feet, but he was too heavy. We ended up dragging him slowly. The carpet kept pulling his pants down, exposing his genitals. By the time we got him onto the bed, I was dripping sweat. I covered him with the comforter and closed his eyes. His skin already felt leathery.

Uncle Jihad used to tell me an Iraqi story about whom to mourn.

It seems the great Caliph Haroun al-Rashid was traveling among his people when he came across a woman weeping. He asked the cause of her immense sorrow, and she replied that she was mourning her beloved son, who had just died. He asked her what her son did while he was alive. She said he worked for her. She was poor, and her son kept her alive. She no longer had anyone to take care of her and no one to make her a living. “Cry no more,” said the caliph. “I will give you a sturdy mule. He will work hard for you and help you earn a living. You shall not miss your son. You will be as comfortable as you were before.”

Haroun al-Rashid moved on. He came across another woman crying next to the grave of her son. The caliph asked her the same question, “What did your son do while he was alive?”

“My son? He used to gather honest nobles and men of good repute to his feasts. He would serve them the most delicious of meals. He would entertain them with the most ambrosial of music, regale them with the greatest of tales. When these men left his feasts, he would ride with them, keeping them company until they lost sight of his tent.”

“Weep on, O mother of a most gracious son,” said the caliph. “Cry and shed more tears, for no one, certainly not I, can comfort you or make good such a great loss.”

And Haroun al-Rashid wept.

I sat on the bed, crying and stroking Uncle Jihad’s head. My mother called. Just as she said that someone from the hotel would be coming to the room, I heard a knock on the door. My mother had talked to Air France and booked my father on a flight to Beirut. Melanie led three men in suits to Uncle Jihad’s room. “All I want from you is to put your father on the flight this afternoon,” my mother said. “That’s all. Everything else will be taken care of. Once he’s on the flight, Air France will make sure he gets here, but I need you to get him on the plane. After the doctor and coroner do their work, the hotel will ship Jihad to Beirut. Just take care of your father. You can stay in the room till you go to the dorms. It’s dealt with.”

“I’ll get him on the plane,” I promised. I watched more men walk into Uncle Jihad’s room.

“One more thing,” she said. “Make sure she leaves. I don’t want her using the suite after your father’s gone. Don’t let your father know that I know. But remember, after your father’s gone, she’s gone. I don’t want her with you.”

The muffled footsteps sounded odd, quieter than nurses’ rubber soles. Fatima’s tilted head appeared in the doorway, peering into the room. Her hair was loose and framed her face. She grinned and tiptoed in, cradling two pillows and a blanket in one arm and her high-heeled pumps in the other. “How did you get in?” I whispered.

“What do you mean? I just walked in. I waited for you at home and then decided, fuck you, I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.”

“But we’re not supposed to be here. We can’t get a bed in here or anything.”

“Then you should’ve returned home. Lina, too,” she whispered, setting the heels and bedding down by the recliner, where my sister was snoring softly.

Fatima disappeared into the hallway and returned with a gurney. “If we serve food on it, we can sleep on it. I’m certainly not going to sleep on the floor.” Fatima picked up the pillows, fluffed them, and lay down on the gurney. “Come here,” she said.

I lifted myself onto the gurney and squeezed next to her. She wrapped her arms around me and nuzzled my neck. “Your necklace is imprinting itself on my back,” I whispered.

She rotated it around one hundred and eighty. “Is that better?”

“Wearing an emerald necklace to come here doesn’t make sense.”

“I know, but it’s your father’s favorite necklace of mine. He was always complimenting me on it. I thought maybe, you know, if …”

I folded Uncle Jihad’s clothes, put them in his suitcase. I went over his room inch by inch, combing every nook, making sure I forgot nothing.

Melanie and I packed my father’s things while he sat cataleptically in the corner. I knelt before him, held his hand. It took him a while to look at me.

“I have to get you dressed,” I said. “You’re going home.”

I made sure he wore a light cotton shirt. I debated whether to give him his favorite wingtips or his moccasins, which would be easier to take off during the flight. I chose the wingtips, appearance being paramount to my father. He had his best tie on, double-knotted.

“You know where to get hold of me,” Melanie said. “All you have to do is call Mike. He’ll always know where to reach me. If you ever need anything …” Her voice trailed off.

I took my father to the airport in the hotel’s limousine. I waited till an Air France representative arrived to escort him. When she tried to walk him through the metal detector, he refused to let go of my hand. “I want to come along,” I said. “Until he gets on the plane.”

A stewardess came out to escort him to his seat. I stood up and hugged him. He swayed gently back and forth on his heels, but his arms remained at his side. I watched the jumbo jet lift into the shimmering air, taking my father home.

I went to the Guitar Center on Sunset before returning to my suite at the Beverly Wilshire. With my American Express card I bought a Gibson J200, the most expensive guitar I could think of, the same kind that Elvis played.

Eleven

Fatima sweated and the parrots squawked. A servant poured hot water from a ewer into a porcelain basin. Fatima concentrated on the steam rising out of the bowl as it melded into the arabesque turquoise design of the ewer. “Quawk,” bellowed Ishmael.

“Enough,” cried Fatima, gripping the damp sheets. “Be quiet or begone.”

“Breathe,” said Elijah. “Concentrate on your breathing.”

“I am in too much pain.”

Elijah began to breathe loudly, with a military cadence. The other parrots followed suit. “Inhale,” said Job. “Exhale.” And Fatima’s breathing matched that of cockswain Job.

She screamed again. “My back hurts.”

“Turn around,” said Isaac. “It will relieve the pressure.”

The frantic, disheveled midwife’s assistant rushed into the room. She staggered upon seeing Fatima on all fours with three parrots walking along her lower back and the other five breathing in unison. “My mistress asks if you can hold off for a while,” the assistant said. “The emir’s child arrives, and his mother is having trouble. My mistress cannot come right now.”

In spite of the pain and discomfort, Fatima wanted to laugh. “Hold off? Can day hold off night? Tell your mistress she need not worry about me.”

The assistant ran out. The parrots stared anxiously at Fatima. She glanced back at the remaining servant and said, “Leave. You are not needed here.” Fatima winced in pain.

“Should you not return to our world?” asked Adam. “This fornicating palace is not a good place to give birth.”

The assistant re-entered the room. “My mistress says I should deliver your child.”

“No, you imbecile,” yelled Fatima. “I am the one delivering my child.”

The two wails echoed simultaneously. The midwife cut the cord of the emir’s son at the same moment as her assistant cut the cord in the other room.

“It is a boy,” announced the midwife’s assistant.

“I know,” replied Fatima.

“It is a boy,” announced the midwife.

“He is dark,” said the emir.

“He will surely lighten when we wash him.” The midwife handed the boy to a servant, who took him to the assistant to be bathed.

The servant and the assistant opened the doors in unison, wailing bundles in hand. They walked down the corridor to the baths. The boys quieted as soon as they lay side by side. The assistant washed them with light soap and water, rubbed them in olive oil and lavender. She reached for the cotton cloths to wrap them with and stopped midway, astounded by the babies before her. She had been a midwife’s assistant for two years, had seen many babies delivered, but she had yet to see anything resembling this pair. One was the most beautiful child. His hair was the color of yellow fire, of sun-drenched fields of wheat. His skin was as white as calcite, his features tiny perfections. The other was the ugliest child. His hair was the color of soot, and his skin even darker. Big ears, big nose, big mouth, beady eyes, a horrible concoction of humanity.

The assistant wrapped both boys and handed the light boy to the servant and walked out with the dark one. “Here is your boy,” the assistant said. “He seems very healthy.”

Fatima held the baby, and all eight parrots squawked loudly.

“This is not our boy,” said Isaac as soon as the assistant left.

“This is not my nephew,” said Noah.

“This is not your son,” said Ishmael.

“He is my son,” replied Fatima. “Both boys are.” She kissed the baby’s forehead.

The emir’s face brightened when he saw his light-faced heir. His wife extended her arms to take the baby. “He is so beautiful, my husband. The most perfect boy.”

“Yes, it is all my doing. My tale of Baybars worked its magic, and I shall delight in regaling him with the rest of it.” The emir leaned over the mother and child. “He is indeed a worthy son,” he said. “Bright like the day, glorious like the sun, after which he will be named. Welcome into what will soon be your world, Shams.”

In the other room, the imp Ishmael held the baby. “What shall your name be?” He kissed the boy and passed him to Isaac, who said, “Welcome, my master,” and kissed the boy as well.

“In darkness and in light,” said Ezra.

“In devotion and in fickleness,” said Jacob.

“In obscurity and in clarity,” said Job.

“In sun and in rain,” said Noah.

“In sorrow and in rapture,” said Elijah.

“In profusion and in paucity,” said Adam. “We will follow you and stand by your side.”

“We are family,” said Isaac.

And Fatima whispered to her boy, “As beautiful as an onyx, as dark as the darkest night, after which I name you. Welcome to what has always been your world, Layl.”

“Rise, son,” said Ishmael, “and greet your own.”

And Layl opened his eyes, and in the emir’s room, Shams opened his.

The king’s judge, Arbusto, sent a letter to Khodr al-Bohairi in Giza. “My dear fellow, I wish to inform you of the appearance of a king’s favorite, a much-hated slave who goes by the accursed name of Baybars, upon whom the king has bestowed much power and honor. I ask you, my son, to help me do away with the usurper and rid the people of this slave’s rule. Send your Arabs out to cause trouble, to steal from the people of Giza, to rob travelers and elicit havoc in your area. I will advise the king to send out the slave boy to control the situation, and you will kill him once he arrives. As a reward, I will recommend that you become the mayor of Giza.” Upon reading the note, Khodr al-Bohairi saw bright gold in his future.

That evening, he and his men waylaid the mayor of Giza and killed him. Within a fortnight, the king received news of chaos and upheaval in Giza — a mayor murdered, officials slain, tax collectors ambushed, merchants burgled. Arbusto said, “The only man who can purify Giza and exorcise its evil is the man who purified our Cairo, its mayor, Prince Baybars.”

Giza’s high judge cried, “Help me, Prince Baybars. Khodr al-Bohairi has kidnapped my virgin daughter with the intent of selling her. We have no heroes in Giza who can face him but you. No one has been able to find the criminal or his hideout.” Baybars said, “I cannot rescue her or kill Khodr al-Bohairi if I do not know where they are,” and the high judge moaned, “Ah, my daughter, if we do not find you tonight, your life will be forfeit.”

“We will find her tonight,” Othman said, and Harhash added, “Before the sun rises.”

This story comes from the Bedouin tribes of Arabia. Pay attention.

Once there was a wise and important Bedouin who took his young son with him to the camel market. While the man haggled with a merchant, his boy was abducted. The Bedouin searched everywhere, but could not find his son. He hired a crier, who walked up and down the market shouting, “My patron will pay one hundred rials for the safe return of his son.” Greed blossomed in the kidnapper’s heart. He decided to wait for the price to rise. But the next day, the crier shouted, “My patron will pay fifty rials for the safe return of his son.” The abductor assumed it was a mistake. The third day, the announcement was “My patron will pay ten rials for the safe return of his son.” The kidnapper quickly returned the boy and claimed the reward. He asked the Bedouin why the price had dropped so drastically, and the father said, “On the first day, my son was angry and refused your food. On the second day, he ate a little of what you offered to assuage his hunger. On the third day, he probably asked for the food. On the first day, my boy had his honor and pride, and on the second, hunger bargained with honor. By the third day, when he humbly had to beg his captor for food, his pride was lost and his worth was less.”

By the time the moon rose in Giza, Othman and Harhash had burgled eight houses, broken into five stores, and relieved a money merchant of a large bundle of cash as he returned home with two incompetent guards. They turned the loot over to the high judge and went back at it. By midnight, they had attacked three more stores, including a wine shop, where they tied the owner upside down from the ceiling by his ankles.

“This is ridiculous,” said Othman. “These people are inept.”

“They are bunglers,” replied Harhash. “We have to make more mistakes. I am losing interest.” And Othman said, “Women. The women must be smarter.” They broke into a brothel. Through the window they entered, avoiding the busy main hall, and ascended the back stairs. Half-naked women with drawn scimitars and daggers awaited them inside an upstairs room.

“Most men come in through the front,” said the leader of the women.

“But that is not always satisfying,” replied Othman. “We are finally captured, and stand helplessly before you.”

“News of your exploits this evening has preceded you,” she said. “I certainly did not expect only two of you.”

“We are ambidextrous,” said Harhash.

“And much too clever by half,” she said. “Still, I must play my part in the drama and turn you over to Khodr al-Bohairi. Come visit after you are done with the fool. I am sure we can come up with many mutually beneficial arrangements.”

Khodr stomped and ranted. “I should cut off both your heads right this instant. How dare you come into my city without permission? What made you think you could steal from me?”

“We assumed no one was running the city since the mayor got himself killed,” said Othman. “We have just arrived from Cairo, and had we known you were the chief, we would have come and paid our respects first.”

“You are from Cairo?” Khodr al-Bohairi asked. “What luck. Can you recognize a slave who goes by the name of Baybars?”

“But of course,” said Othman. “He is a mere boy. I have stolen his allowance many times, yet he still trusts me. If you wish, I can deliver him in less than an hour.”

“This is most fortunate,” Khodr al-Bohairi said. “Bring me the boy.”

Othman and Harhash returned to the hideout accompanied by Baybars, the Africans, and the Uzbeks. The ensuing melee lasted all of minutes. The warriors killed forty-three bandits but kept the vanquished Khodr al-Bohairi alive briefly. “Where are you holding the daughter of the high judge?” asked Baybars. The bandit chief pointed to a door, and Harhash escorted the unharmed girl out. “You must pay for the heinous crimes you have committed,” announced Baybars, and cut off the bandit’s head.

Baybars returned the girl to her father the next day, and the high judge restored all the stolen goods to their rightful owners. And the heroic deeds were celebrated.

Fatima felt stronger. She got out of bed, picked up her baby, and visited the emir and his wife. The emir’s twelve daughters made way for her to see their pristine brother, a boy who more than matched their famous beauty. “You look divine,” the emir told Fatima, “as if you had just returned from the baths and had never been pregnant.”

His wife, fatigued, disheveled, and in pain, asked, “How did you lose that weight in a matter of hours?” She felt awkward at being envious of an inferior.

“To you,” the emir said, “we are ever so grateful for our great fortune, and a great fortune shall be bestowed upon you. You are now a free woman. Allow your son to be raised with mine. He shall receive the same training and the same opportunities. Most important, I will regale the both of them with the grand tale of King Baybars.”

“Dear Fatima,” the emir’s wife said, “show us your son.”

Fatima held out her boy, and audible gasps escaped all the lips in the room.

“He is so … hmm …,” said the emir’s wife. “Dark. Yes, dark. What an interesting color. Let me see him. Let me hold the two young warriors. What did you call him?”

“He is named Layl,” Fatima said.

The emir’s wife held Shams in the crook of her right arm and Layl in the left. The boys held each other’s eyes. “Let us make sure they are friends forever.”

“Shams and Layl,” the emir said. “What glorious names. Such sturdy boys.”

The emir’s wife was unable to produce suckling milk, whereas Fatima’s breasts had ballooned to a ridiculous size. “I can feed both,” Fatima said.

Eight imps gazed enraptured at the immaculate scene. Violet Adam, blue Noah, and orange Ezra knelt on the floor, hands and heads resting on the majestic divan. Green Job, indigo Elijah, and yellow Jacob sat on its backrest, their eyes unwavering, looking down at the odalisque. Red Isaac and his brother red Ishmael lounged on either side of a naked Fatima cradling the twins. Shams suckled her right breast and Layl her left.

When the well-wishers began to arrive at the palace, the emir’s wife tried to separate her baby from Layl. The little prince would wail if he did not have Layl’s dark face within eyesight.

“You know me,” the emir’s wife said to her husband. “I am not prejudiced. I do not mind that Shams’s playmate is the son of a servant. But the boy is so repulsive. Kings and emirs, sultans and lords are lining up to pay their respects to my son. I cannot present him to his equals while he is in the company of the monstrosity. I cannot bear it.”

“Oh, my dear,” her husband replied, “how delightful that you are so sensitive. Fear not. Everyone will know the ugly one is our boy’s slave. It will give our son a bit of cachet to have a servant at such a young age. The boys will be good for each other.”

On a glorious, cloudless morning, in the palace’s great hall, all the royalty of the land, all the wise men and judges and poets congratulated the emir and his wife on the arrival of the heir. They offered gifts to the newborn, gold and silver, swords and spears, crowns and jewels, sandalwood and musk, frankincense and myrrh. The baby emir ignored all his suitors and their gifts, for he only had eyes for Layl.

“Praise be to God,” the kings said. “Our master has arrived.”

“Such a beautiful boy,” the queens said. “What lovely parrots, and so colorful. Where on earth did you find them?”

At night, the parrots were imps and circled the family — Fatima, Afreet-Jehanam, Shams, and Layl — as the kings and queens and lords and beasts of the underworld arrived to pay their respects. The jinn of the seven circles, the gondoliers of the rivers of death, the sirens, the harpies, and all the demons and devils bowed before Layl. An ebony column rose from the ground and rose and rose, and it was a giant jinni carrying two chests upon his broad shoulders. The first, a camphorwood chest, the jinni opened and presented to the dark prince; full of gems and gold and incense it was. The second he opened and out shot his gorgeous human wife; like a dazzling sun she was. She genuflected and, from a purse dangling between her creamy breasts, extracted a ring and tucked it in the baby’s swaddling clothes. She whispered so her husband could not hear, “This is one of five hundred and seventy-two I own, but it is my favorite, for it belonged to Shahzaman, the best of all lovers, even under duress. Forget me not when you are older.”

Afreet-Jehanam held Layl up for all to see, and the crowd gasped in reverence. “Such a beautiful child,” the imps sang. Scorpions descended upon the babies from all around and stung them over and over, and the boys cooed. Snakes followed the scorpions, and then mosquitoes bit into their skin. Finally, Fatima held one boy in each arm, and a hush fell over the denizens of the underworld. Her eight imps beamed.

“I think the boys are hungry,” Fatima said. “We thank you for your gifts.”

As if on cue, Layl pursed his lips. Shams mimicked him. Layl opened his toothless mouth and yawned. Soon his gaping mouth almost hid his face. It opened wider, and a mewl escaped and grew in volume, until it reached an uninterrupted crescendo of a roar no human can reproduce. Shams joined in, same tone, same pitch. Fatima looked about her. Isaac and Ishmael had begun their bellow. Noah, Job, and Adam. Afreet-Jehanam growled more loudly still. All the devils, all the demons howled in one voice, and all stopped at the same time. Silence.

Layl and Shams slept.

“Our master has arrived,” cried the demons. “Now our story begins.”

Harhash approached Baybars and said, “My prince, as you know, I have no family to speak for me. I have dedicated my life to your service and consider you my brother. I wish to marry the high judge’s daughter. She is a beauty and an untouched virgin. I would be honored if you spoke to him and proclaimed my wishes.”

Baybars agreed. He met with the high judge and asked for his daughter’s hand for his companion. The high judge replied, “It would be an honor.” And so it was. The company returned to Cairo, and an exultant Harhash rode with his lovely new wife. Othman was envious. “I, too, want to marry a virgin,” he told Baybars. “I want to be happy as well.” And Baybars said, “I want you to be happy. Have your mother find a wife for you. She is your family.”

Back in Cairo, Othman asked his mother to find him a wife, and she agreed to look for one. She put on her robe and walked to the maqâm of Lady Zainab. She entered the shrine, knelt, and prayed to the great lady for guidance in selecting the perfect bride for her once-prodigal son. She opened her eyes, and there, not far from her, knelt a young woman of exquisite beauty. Othman’s mother rubbed her eyes, for she assumed that the kneeling supplicant was an apparition of Lady Zainab, but it was not so. The girl was praying. Her devotion and supplication rendered her face angelic in appearance. Othman’s mother asked, “What is your name, my daughter?” and the young woman told her it was Layla. “And the night, your namesake, struggles to match your beauty. I pray you, tell me to whose family you belong, for I wish to ask your hand for my son.”

Layla said, “I have no family but my brother, and he is the high judge of Giza.”

Othman ran to Baybars. “My mother has found me a wife. She is none other than the sister of the high judge. Will you please speak for me as you have for Harhash?”

Baybars agreed wholeheartedly and sent a letter to the high judge of Giza, telling him of the happy news and asking for his sister’s hand for Othman. The high judge’s reply said, “My lord. I cannot deny you any wish. I will gladly offer my young sister in marriage to your companion. However, I have not seen or heard from her in years. Are you sure she is worthy of such an honorable man? Would he not prefer to marry a woman more devoted to our faith?”

Baybars read the letter to Othman. “More devoted?” he yelled furiously. “My future wife was praying at Lady Zainab’s Shrine. The Lady chose her for me. My wife is most faithful and committed. Write and tell him.”

The high judge’s next letter said only, “My sister?”

Othman’s wedding lasted three days, with King Saleh and his entire court attending. Baybars set up a feast to end all feasts for his friend, and even the Africans and Uzbeks celebrated and congratulated their companion. Finally, when the wedding night arrived, the couple retired to their room, leaving behind a heckling party.

“Reveal yourself to me.” Othman knelt before his wife on one knee. “Show your beauty, my life.” Layla took off her marriage veil, and a dazzled Othman wept. “If I prayed to Lady Zainab every second of my life, I would not be able to show how grateful I am. If I offered my life in gratitude, it would not suffice. You are the most lovely being ever to have graced my miserable life. I am humbled by your charms.”

“And you, my husband, are most eloquent,” Layla said. “Come.”

She pulled him to her and kissed him with a passion that surprised him. She undressed him while he fumbled with her knots. She laid him on the bed, his head on the pillow, and continued kissing him. He tried to remove her robe. “Relax,” she whispered from above. Soon she descended upon him. He unleashed a cry of ecstasy that mingled with the laughter in the halls outside their room. “You are my husband,” she said. “Mine.” And she poked and pinched places he did not know existed. His next cry was of joy mixed with pain.

“Wait,” he shouted, but she did not.

“No,” he said, but he did not mean it.

“But,” Othman said, “you are not a virgin.”

Her face registered surprise. “I never claimed to be.”

“No,” he said. “No. That cannot be. Lady Zainab picked you for me.”

“So?”

“Only the devout pray at the shrine.”

“Do not be foolish,” she said. “I have been praying all my life. What has virginity got to do with it? Do you not remember me?” She pulled up her left sleeve and showed him the brand. “I thought that was why you married me.”

“Oh, no,” he moaned. “What kind of dove were you?”

“Luscious,” she said, affronted. “Please.”

“My life is over. I will be the mockery of every man in Egypt.”

“You will be the envy of every man in Egypt.”

“I was supposed to marry a virgin.”

“And you were not supposed to be one.”

“Do not whisper of it to anyone,” he pleaded.

“You are my husband,” she said. “Your shame is my shame, and mine is yours. I will never betray you, and you will never betray me. We share honor.”

Othman covered his eyes. “I am being punished for all the wrongs I have committed.”

“Punished?” Layla asked, aghast. “You think marrying me is punishment? Keep thinking that and I will show you what actual punishment is. If you ever consider that I am not your ideal partner, even if the thought only crosses your mind, I will turn your life into a nightmare. You will think you are in the seventh circle of hell, married to Afreet-Jehanam. Punishment, bah. I am Layla, your ideal wife, your perfect love. Practice saying it every moment of your life. Lady Zainab offered you to me. She is never wrong. You are the perfect man for me.”

“But you are not what I asked for,” Othman objected.

“What you asked for? Has it occurred to you that the Lady was answering my prayers, not yours? I did not ask for a husband. I prayed for a companion, a partner, someone to share my joy. I had given up my profession, and I was bored. I asked Lady Zainab to point out a friend who could make me laugh, who could tell me stories, who could take me on an adventure. And she appeared before me. ‘Listen to me, my daughter,’ she said. ‘You have served me well and brought me joy. I will reward you with your ideal husband. He is God’s servant, and was one long before his vows to me. He is a trickster and serves to bring a smile to His face. If your future husband can polish the dust off God’s heart, surely yours will glimmer for eternity.’ ”

“She said that?”

“And your mother approached me as the Lady ended her speech. You are the answer to my prayers. I do not know whether I am the answer to yours, but you had better believe that I am, for my prayers require that you love me and make me happy, and it shall be so.”

Othman’s smile appeared slowly, and then the frown returned.

“How can I face the morning with a clean sheet?” he asked.

She closed her cinnamon eyes and shook her head. “You are childish and have much to learn.” She took his left hand. She kissed it, drew her dagger, and held it before him. “They want to witness the blood of a virgin. We can give it to them.” He nodded, gave her permission. She made a shallow cut in his wrist. She kissed him. “Bleed for me, my husband.” She kissed him again. “I mark you as you have marked me.”

The emir’s wife threw a tantrum. She threw every glass item in the chamber at the wall. The emir tried to mollify her. Whiz went a perfume bottle flying across the room.

“Calm down, my dear,” the emir said. “You are not being rational.”

Splash, as another perfume bottle shattered against the scented wall. “Rational?” his wife shrieked. “You expect me to be rational when my son is involved?”

“Well, break something besides perfume bottles. It is suffocating in here. You are overreacting, my dear.”

“He called that woman mama. His first words, and he directed them not to me but to her. My son thinks the servant is his mother. I will not have it.”

“Trouble yourself not, my dear. It is only temporary. Do you think our boy — or anyone, for that matter — could believe that he, a divine creature, sprang forth from a slave? She spends more time with him. Do you want to be the one changing his diaper? Be patient. It will not be long before he begins to understand the way of the world and a servant’s place in it.”

“Even his sisters cannot play with him. He howls whenever one of them approaches. He prefers to play with those infernal parrots. I am going to pluck each one of those birds feather by feather — pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck, pluck.”

“Not yet, darling. You tried to keep them apart for a while, and what happened?”

“He crawled right back to that woman and her baby, shrieking his lungs out until he reached them.”

“And no one could hold the little devil back,” the emir said. “My son takes after me, so strong and powerful.”

“I am going to poison that ungrateful wench and watch her die. A lingering, deliberate poison I shall use, until suffering seeps out of her pores.”

“No, my dear. Wait another year, until Shams is more independent, and then poison her.”

“Pluck me?” screeched Job. “I will pluck her eyes out.”

Shams crawled behind Layl on the carpet, his head almost attached to his twin’s behind.

“Pluck,” said Jacob. “Pluck, pluck. That is what she said.”

Fatima rested. She lounged on the divan, her head settled on three fluffy pillows of ostrich feathers.

“Listen, listen,” said Ishmael. “That was not the best part of the tantrum.”

“She means to poison Fatima,” said Isaac.

Fatima laughed into her pillows. All eight parrots cackled, Job so hard he fell off the backrest onto the floor, his two feet sticking up in the air and his feathers shaking in mirth. The cacophony of merriment surprised and amused the twin boys. They looked around them and joined the laughter.

“I will get rid of her,” said Ezra. “I will transport her to another domain.”

“No need,” said Adam. “An asp will pay her fornicating whoriness a visit tonight. She boasts about poison, and it will be delivered.”

“We will have none of that,” commanded Fatima. “This woman is the mother of my son.”

King Saleh was sitting on his throne in the diwan when a messenger approached, carrying a letter from the mayor of Aleppo to the leader of the Muslim world: “Rescue us, Your Majesty. The evil King Halawoon has raised an army, which at the time of this writing is laying siege a spear’s throw away from the walls of our city. Halawoon and his fire-worshipping army must be defeated. Call your armies, and let the true faith raise its banners in victory once more.”

And Arbusto said, “Send Prince Baybars. Give him an army of fifty slaves. With God to guide his swords, he will vanquish Halawoon in no time and return to Cairo within a fortnight.”

“Fifty?” the king asked. “To fight Halawoon’s army? Is that not unwise?”

“Well, then, make it one hundred. Surely a warrior of Baybars’s caliber could destroy Halawoon by breathing on him. Let us try out the new slaves. They have been trained well and will easily dispatch an army of unbelievers.”

“True. But how big is Halawoon’s army?”

“The letter does not say. Personally, I doubt it can be more than a few hundred or they would have walked through Aleppo. Our slave army will massacre them, and we can keep our main forces in Egypt.”

The king considered this and said, “One hundred slaves will not be enough. Give our Prince Baybars two hundred men.”

“One hundred and fifty.”

“Done,” said the king. “One hundred and fifty. Prince Baybars and his slave army will liberate Aleppo and report back to us.”

Othman’s wife kept repeating, “Are you sure?” Othman kept nodding his head. “The king wants to send one hundred and fifty men to fight an army?” she asked. “Has he gone mad?”

“Who can tell?” Othman replied. “When Prince Baybars asked for more men, the king said they were not needed. The prince thinks we will do just fine. I am calling on my old gang, and so is Harhash. We should be able to raise seventy more men or so.”

“I will call on the doves,” Layla said.

“Absolutely not. I will have enough trouble when I tell the men that my insane wife wants to experience the adventure of war. We do not need more women.”

Baybars, the Uzbeks, and the three African warriors rode to inspect the slave troops on the day they were set to march. Harhash stood with his men, and Othman with his. The ex-brigands were well armed but looked less like an army than a ragtag group of dangerous lunatics. The slaves, on the other hand, were impeccable in manner and appearance. Baybars was pleased.

He decided to divide the leadership of the slaves among the Africans and Uzbeks, but one of the slave warriors interjected, “I beg an audience, my lord,” and Baybars permitted him to speak. “We are two cadres of slaves, my lord,” he said. “Each cadre has trained together for years. Dividing them haphazardly might not be best.”

Prince Baybars stared at the regal slave warrior and said, “We meet again, friend.”

“Yes, my lord,” Aydmur replied. “Our destinies cross once more. This is the cadre I have trained with. We are twenty-five Circassians, twenty-five Georgians, and twenty-five Azeris. We were brought here to be the king’s guard, but we have been forgotten.”

“I, my dear Aydmur, have never forgotten you or your kindness at the baths in Bursa. Without your help, I might still be the Persian’s slave. At one point, I was meant to be a member of your group.”

“In our hearts, my lord, you will always be one of us.”

“Are you fit to lead both cadres?”

“I would be honored, my lord,” replied Aydmur the Azeri.

“This is a most fortunate sign,” the prince announced. “Aydmur, my brother, I ask you to lead the slave army. Let us ride.”

“Who is this man?” Othman whispered to Harhash. “He seems arrogant and pompous.”

“Ask your wife,” said Harhash, trying to stifle a laugh. “She knows everyone.”

Othman attacked Harhash. Layla could not help smiling.

Behold. The reign of the slave kings approaches.

On the day of his second birthday, naked Shams walked up to Fatima, extended his hand, and said, “Look, Mama.” The imps exploded in laughter at the sight. Layl joined in. Proud and beaming, Shams held a turd in his hand.

“Ah,” said Fatima. “I am happy that you are able to do that on your own. However, we do not hold such things on our birthday. The world is here to celebrate. We must be as clean as we can be.” And, as swiftly as a hummingbird’s wing fluttering, Fatima extended her finger, her fingernail elongated into a sharp sword, and she cut her son’s hand off. She bade his arm to replace the hand with a new one. “Now, that is better. Let us get you ready for the feast.”

“I will do their hair,” cried Elijah.

“I do the shoes,” said Ishmael.

Noah conjured a fountain of warm water in the middle of the chamber, and the imps bathed the twins of light and dark. Adam garlanded them with scents. Jacob and Job dressed them in silk and satins. Ezra studded their outfits with jewels, and Isaac crowned them with gold.

Fatima led the glorious twins into the grand hall. The royalty of the land oohed at Shams’s exquisite beauty and aahed at the sight of the colorful parrots circling above him. The emir’s wife snatched Shams and carried him to the center of the room. She held him up for admiration. “Behold my son.” The notables lined up to pay their respects. One by one, they bowed before the baby emir and kissed his hand. And on this day of his second birthday, Shams performed his first miracle. The turban of the seventh person in the receiving line, a prince from a far-off land, intrigued Shams. As the man bowed, Shams removed his turban. Embarrassed, the prince tried to cover his bald head, but Shams was even more intrigued with the scalp. The boy touched it, and the prince jumped back in pain. The emir’s wife began to apologize, though suddenly the prince was no longer listening. He brought his hands before his eyes. Surely he had felt something tickling them. He felt his head, and there it was. The entire room saw a full head of hair growing on the once-bald prince.

A man ran to the front of the line, pointing to his bald spot. “Touch me,” he called. “Touch me.” Another bald man joined him, and then there were three and four. The line was no more. A woman shoved through. “Can you do moles?” she yelled. Another held her infant son and shouted, “Cleft lip.”

The emir’s wife tried to retreat, but she had no place to go. The mob of notables surrounded her on all sides. Shams began to wail.

“Everyone will have his turn,” pleaded the emir’s wife.

“No, they will not.” Fatima held her hand up, and the green parrot, Job, flew above the melee. She raised her hand again, to stop the violet parrot, Adam, from joining his brother. Suddenly, the royalty of the land were frantically scratching their skins. Fleas gorged themselves on noble blood. Elijah descended from above and lifted Shams. As soon as Shams joined Layl in Fatima’s arms, the fleas disappeared.

“Be not afraid,” the emir’s wife said, still scratching her arms. “Please stay. The fleas are gone, and we will burn sage to make sure they remain away.” Her arms turned redder and redder. “Do not leave. My son will heal you all. He will perform the great miracles. He is the chosen one. I am his mother.”

“I think we have had enough excitement for the day.” Fatima led her sons and her parrots out of the hall.

Al-Awwar whinnied, pranced, and quickened his trot. “Yes,” Baybars told his horse. “We approach home.”

When Commander Issa, the ruler of Damascus, heard the news of the approaching slave army, he was forced to march his troops out of the city to greet the new leader of the king’s army, his nemesis, Prince Baybars. Issa paid his respects, but his heart was engulfed by flames of hatred and envy. “And when will the rest of the troops arrive?” the commander asked, and Baybars replied that none were forthcoming. Joy cleared a place for itself in the commander’s heart. “I am much impressed. The king must consider you a great hero, Prince Baybars, to assign you so few warriors to battle Halawoon’s thousands of men.”

Prince Baybars said, “Perchance, my commander, you will be so generous as to lend us troops to help us defeat the fire-worshippers.” Commander Issa said he would be more than happy to oblige the prince, but his men were needed to police his city.

Sitt Latifah waited at the gates of the city for her much-loved son to arrive. As her eyes alit on the prince astride his warhorse, she ran to him. Baybars jumped off his horse, knelt before his mother, and kissed her hand, which had two tiny age spots that had not been there when he last kissed it. She kissed his hair. “Look,” she announced to the city’s denizens. “See my glorious son, the great warrior Baybars. My child returns home leading an army, just as my dream foretold. Bask in his brilliance.” Sitt Latifah held a banquet that night for Baybars’s army. “My son,” she said, “in my dream you led a powerful army and vanquished God’s enemy, Halawoon. It is bound to happen. I do not doubt the courage and valor of your fighters, but I expected a larger number of men to be under your command.” Prince Baybars explained that the king felt more troops were unnecessary. “I do not wish to disagree with kings,” Sitt Latifah said, “but I refuse to send my son into battle lacking. I will call the archers. From far and wide they will come to pay their debts to our family. A thousand of the finest bowmen you will have.”

Othman and Harhash excused themselves from the feast. They kissed Sitt Latifah’s hand and said, “Pardon our rudeness, but the moon is high. It is our time.”

The following day, Othman and Harhash returned accompanied by one hundred disreputable-looking men. Othman told Baybars, “These men will fight for you, my lord.” Baybars asked if they had repented. “Surely, one and all,” Othman replied. “They agreed to repent if I performed a miracle. Yesterday I showed them the way into Issa’s secret coffers. They were duly impressed, and all have repented this morning.”

All one hundred said, “God be praised,” and patted the bags of gold on their belts.

“And so our army grows,” said Baybars.

One thousand archers on horseback arrived to join the slave army. Sitt Latifah greeted them. “You are men of honor. This is my son. Follow him and I will continue to provide your sons with the finest bows for generations to come. We are grateful.”

Baybars bade Sitt Latifah farewell, and the slave army marched out of the city. They were scarcely a league away when they noticed dust rising behind them. A Damascene troop of a thousand men was trying to catch up. Their leader rode a glorious roan. “I will follow you, my prince,” said Sergeant Lou’ai. “My men and I will fight the infidels.”

Baybars said, “Your honor knows no limits, my sergeant. By saving my life once before, you paid your debt to me a thousand times.”

“We are almost twenty-five hundred men,” Othman said to Harhash. “I am now an honest man, but the blood of greed still runs through my veins. The more we have, the more I want.”

Harhash replied, “Greed for a just cause is justified. I ride with you.”

“Greed?” exclaimed Layla. “Wanting more men is a sign of sanity. The women in Damascus are knitting mourning shawls. Halawoon’s army is thought to be at least thirty thousand strong.”

The slave army stopped in Hamah for a rest. Layla told Othman, “I do not wish to spend the night here. It is much too hot and the accommodations are lacking. Take me to the shore. We can spend the night in the Fort of Marqab near Latakia.”

“Fort of Marqab?” cried Othman. “That is out of our way. We are heading to war.”

“Accommodations?” scoffed Harhash.

“I am glad you approve, dear Harhash,” Layla said. “Tell our master we will rejoin you in two days, before you reach Aleppo, after I have had a good rest and breathed gentle sea breezes.”

Aleppo rose before the slave army. Baybars saw Halawoon’s troops laying siege to the great city, one division on each side, east, west, north, and south.

“That is a large army,” said Baybars.

“Too large,” added Othman.

“It behooves us not to fight them in the plains,” said Aydmur. “We must enter the city. Attack the southern division ahead of us, break their ranks, and clear a path to the gates. The other divisions will not have time to come to their rescue. Once inside, we choose when and whom to fight, and our archers will have more luck from the towers.”

“We do not need luck, sire,” one of the archers said. “God guides the flight of our arrows.”

“Pardon me for interrupting,” said a refreshed Layla, “but this one division is approximately eight thousand men. By what means do you plan to defeat them?”

“The slaves will create a wedge,” said Aydmur.

“And this slave will be the wedge’s foremost point,” said Baybars.

“And these slaves will be with you,” said the Africans.

“I will ride the second wave,” said Layla. “I prefer my death less certain.”

“And I must protect my wife,” said Othman.

And when the historians sat down to write the story of the great reign of the Mamlukes, the slave kings, before they could elaborate on the rule of two hundred and fifty years, before they could talk about the first defeat of the Mongol hordes, before they could tell how the slave kings crushed the Crusaders, they had to record the first battle, what became known in the books as the Battle of al-Awwar, the greatest warhorse that ever was.

The tales of Shams’s healing powers spread across the land, from east to west, from deserts to mountains, and hopeful believers trekked for leagues and leagues to witness and partake of the miracles. After his second birthday, he began to heal many complaints of his supplicants, but his specialty remained primarily hair-related. His ability to seduce bald heads into growing hair became legendary. There were some logistical restrictions to his powers, though. His constant companion, Layl, and at least one of the parrots had to be present. Best results — soft, smooth, and untangled — were achieved when the two red ones were around. Timing was essential as well; Shams could only cure for an hour before naptime.

The emir’s wife wished her baby were more pliant. If only she could make him comprehend the magnitude and importance of his talents. If only she could separate him from his dark attendant. The time limitations were hard on the attendees as well. The waiting line to be touched by the One was interminable — and constantly changing as titled devotees went ahead of commoners. After an hour of touching, Shams would close his eyes to nap, and the parrots would instantly fly him out of the hall.

When he reached the age of three, Shams’s powers were still chiefly cosmetic. The emir’s wife preferred to call his new specialty “breast perfection” instead of “breast enhancement,” because “When he touches a pair of unnaturally small breasts, they inflate to an ideal size. The Chosen One does nothing haphazardly, but is guided by the Infallible Wisdom of the Divine.” Later that year, he developed the ability to adjust people’s weight: his touch increased a thin man’s heft and reduced that of a fat man. Tailors were ecstatic, their work made much easier by the miracles, for almost all the residents of the emir’s land soon had the same measurements, and all began to wear no color but ecru following the trend set by Shams’s mother. “My son inspires me to seek simplicity,” the emir’s wife said. “I have no more need for the spices of life.”

By his fourth birthday, Shams was able to cure the common cold and sexual impotence. The last increased his devout following a hundredfold, from thousands to uncountable.

“My son the body-enhancement specialist,” Afreet-Jehanam snorted to his lover as she watched the two boys happily playing with slick, slithering snakes. “His devotees are imbeciles, and the ecru woman is insane.” He squeezed Fatima’s shoulder, his arm around her. “And it is not good for him to be called a prophet.” Layl stood up, covered in asps, and reached for the crows flying playfully above him. “I have always had trouble with prophets. They never understand nuance or subtlety. They cannot grasp irony if it slaps them in the face.”

Shams grabbed a black scorpion with both hands and tried to bite its glistening tail off.

“No, darling,” said Afreet-Jehanam. “You must not do that.” He kissed Fatima’s hair. “I would like to see more of them. I miss the boys, and I miss you even more. Promise me you will bring them below more often.”

At the age of five, Shams cured two of the major illnesses, insanity and leprosy. The names Shams and Guruji — the epithet bestowed upon Shams by a small group that had traveled all the way from Calcutta — blossomed on praying lips throughout the known world, from the backwaters of Ireland to the steppes of Siberia to the swamps of China.

And rivers of ecru rushed toward the prophet.

Al-Awwar surveyed the scene before him, gauging the best point of attack. He raised his head, shook it, and snorted. He neighed loudly, announced his intentions to his surprised enemies, and charged. The infidels rushed to take up defensive positions. A giant melee erupted. And before al-Awwar reached the first disorganized line, a thousand arrows soared above him and landed in the hearts of a thousand infidels. And when al-Awwar trampled the first soldier, another thousand arrows felled another thousand. Steel arrow-tips projected from the throats of Halawoon’s soldiers, and the feathered shafts stood quivering in the soldiers’ napes. And the slave army entered the fray, and a great wedge was formed.

“Leave some for us,” cried Lou’ai as he led the second wave through. Othman rode close to his wife in order to protect her, but she shoved him away. From her belt she whisked out a leather whip with multiple strands, each with a sharp metal hook at its end, and unleashed her fury against the enemy. Skin and blood burst forth along her path.

“You frighten me,” exclaimed Othman.

“I would never wish to don your robes,” Harhash bellowed.

When al-Awwar reached the walls, the gates opened to welcome him, but he did not enter. He turned in mid-stride and returned to battle. Like rushing water hitting a wall, the wedge separated at the gate in two directions and rejoined the fray. And in less time than it takes a master archer to shoot an arrow into the sky above him and wait for its return, the slave army had massacred one division of Halawoon’s army and entered Aleppo’s gates as glorious heroes. The city’s populace poured out of their homes, garlanded the warriors with jasmine and roses, and bowed before their rescuer, Prince Baybars.

From the city’s eastern parapet, the mayor of Aleppo showed Baybars and his companions the enemy’s lines and positions.

“See Halawoon there,” Othman said. “He doesn’t seem too happy.”

“The sight of his flag of fire burns my heart,” said Baybars.

One of the archers cocked an arrow and unleashed it; the flag was torn in two. The stunned mayor applauded the archer and asked how he could shoot so much farther than any of the city’s archers. “We have Sitt Latifah’s bows,” the archer said, “and none are better.”

Othman’s wife climbed the stairs to the parapet, carrying a swaddled bundle. “If your arrow can hit the flag,” she said, “should you not aim for a few of the fire-worshippers before they figure it out?”

“Get the archers up here,” Baybars ordered. “Hit them before they retreat.” The archers hurried forth, and the first hail of arrows descended upon Halawoon’s troops. A hasty retreat was called, and disarray ensued. Halawoon could be seen cowering behind one of his officers. Slaves picked up the royal red tent, and he ran beneath it out of the line of fire. The archer shot his arrow and snapped the main pole. The tent collapsed upon its occupant, and Halawoon scuttled like a scarlet ghost. Aleppo’s people cheered. “That hit the mark,” exclaimed Prince Baybars.

Saadi, the great Persian poet, once told a story that went like this: Not long ago, a king in the divine city of Shiraz held an archery competition for the amusement of his friends. He had a jeweler forge a ring of pure loveliness, upon which was set an emerald of inestimable value. The king caused the ring to be fixed high on the dome of Asad. A barker announced that whoever sent an arrow through the ring could claim it as a reward for his impeccable skills. One thousand of the best archers in the land shot at the ring with no success. It so happened that a young boy on a roof was amusing himself with a small bow. One of his arrows, shot at random, penetrated the jeweled ring. A great cheer erupted from the rapt audience. The ecstatic king offered the ring to the young boy, who took his great prize and wisely hurried home to burn his bow, so that the reputation of his immaculate feat should never be impaired.

Layla uncovered her bundle, a small gilded cage within which a red dove cooed at the sight of her owner. She opened the door, and the pigeon perched on her finger. Her husband said, “You carried a pigeon all the way from Cairo?” and she replied, “Two.”

“Where is the other?” Othman asked.

“We are calling him now. He will join us soon.”

Baybars told his companions, “We have to decide when to attack our enemy. It is true they outnumber us, but we have courage in our hearts. With the city’s troops, we now number five thousand men.” And Aydmur added, “Our enemy has twenty-five thousand men left. Determination and the right plan of attack will compensate for the unevenness in numbers.”

Layla raised her hands in the air, and the dove fluttered its wings in joy. “He comes,” Layla said. A splendid red cock appeared in the sky, circled, and landed upon Layla’s outstretched arm.

“Where did he come from?” asked Othman.

“Not from too far, I hope.” She set both doves upon the cage and removed a message from the cock’s foot. “Forsake your planning,” Layla told Baybars and the warriors. “The army of the sons of Ishmael arrives and seeks to redeem the kingdom’s honor. They number five thousand men as well, and they lust after infidel flesh. If you desire a taste of your enemy’s blood, tarry not, for Halawoon’s army will not last much longer.” On the far horizon, a large swirl of sand bloomed.

“Get the horses,” commanded Prince Baybars.

The emir’s wife paced her chambers, irate. “There are too many of them. They are coming from all over, and the line gets longer every day. I cannot get to our garden anymore without passing through the reeking rabble. Not only that, but some of our friends no longer wish to be healed, because they do not wish to mingle.”

“If you do not want the people to see our son,” the emir said, “we can deny access. We will make an announcement, and the seekers will return home soon enough. Frankly, I am not happy with the situation, either. It was grand and entertaining to help the needy, but years and years of incessant lines is enough. So much pleading, so much begging, does a soul no good. I thought it made you happy, but now that I know, we will stop the insanity.”

“No, we will not. We will move the people away from our home. We will build a shrine, a glorious building with columns the thickness of twenty men and soaring arches and at least two minarets that reach the sky. Shams will receive visitors in the temple, and the masses will pray for him while they wait. Will that not be lovely?”

The slave army rode out of the western gate with Baybars at its head, reached the enemy lines before the army of the sons of Ishmael. The ringing of swords, the war cries of heroes, rose on the battlefield. Fire-worshippers fell and were felled. Al-Awwar paid them no mind; he searched for the red specter of the fire king. The coward cowered behind his slaves. Al-Awwar lurched forward, pushed one steed out of his way, then another.

The sons of Ishmael crossed the battle’s threshold. Upon hearing their war cries, Halawoon the vile mounted a horse and bade his minions protect him. He ran away with his royal slaves and a squadron of his guards. Al-Awwar trotted after him, but the battle lay behind. He turned around, angry with himself for allowing the cowardly escape, and bulldozed his enemies, trampled them with the ferocity of a lion mauling an oryx. The slave warriors triumphed. Their enemies were slain or enslaved. The victorious fighters met in the field, amid the dead and defeated. Prince Baybars congratulated his troops on the victory. “A most valiant triumph it was,” said the leader of the sons of Ishmael. “I am called Marouf ben Jamr. I am the kingdom’s chief of forts and battlements. My people and I are at your service.”

“I thank you, my chief. Your arrival was most opportune. How did fate encourage you to meet our enemies on this auspicious occasion?”

“We were inspired by an eloquent letter from one of your subjects, a staunch dispatch which called us to arms to stand by loyal Prince Baybars, the defender of the faith.”

Othman cried, “Where does the chief of forts reside? Pray tell me it is not the Fort of Marqab.” And Marouf replied, “It is precisely there.”

“Where is my faithless wife?” Othman demanded.

“Faithless?” his wife asked, as she penetrated the circle of men. “You call the writer of that letter faithless? I play my part in God’s theater. Do not revile what you do not understand.”

“You asked my leave to visit lady friends in the fort, not the chief of forts.”

“But I did visit my lady friends. They happened to dwell in the harem.”

“You mock me,” Othman said. “I am bereft of honor, naught but a shell of a man.”

“Judge not your wife, or yourself, too harshly,” Marouf interrupted. “I long ago made the acquaintance of your lovely dove. The kingdom was in need, and your wife’s actions were heroic. A wife’s valor demeans not the honor of a husband.”

“I do not know how to live with such shame,” said Othman.

“Practice,” replied Layla.

The army began its journey back to Cairo. “Ride with us to Damascus,” Baybars told Marouf. “You will be my guest. Allow my mother’s eyes the glorious sight of our army. It will please her to find her dream come true.” And so the great army arrived in Damascus and was fêted. Sitt Latifah was elated. The army celebrated for three days, and separated. The sons of Ishmael returned to their homes, and the slave army left for Cairo, where they were fêted once more as the liberators of Aleppo and the great defenders of the kingdom. The king gifted Baybars with new robes.

And that was how Baybars became the commander of the king’s army.

The first public kiss occurred on their seventh birthday during the ceremony at the temple of the sun with the two minarets. The emir’s wife had planned the event for months, and worshippers had begun lining up, laden with presents, at the same time. The emir’s wife had hoped that Shams, the sun prophet, would behave in a more prophetlike manner on his birthday. The eight parrots had been noisier than normal, giving the emir’s wife a terrible migraine.

The light and dark twins sat shoulder to shoulder on the ostrich-feather cushion, and Shams touched the head of each worshipper genuflecting before him. When the worshipper offered a gift, Shams in turn offered it to Layl, who tore into the package. When Layl found a delightful miniature wood carving of a horse, he showed it to a thrilled Shams, who kissed him. Not a friendly kiss, not a brotherly kiss, but a full mouth-to-mouth, indecently lasting kiss.

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.”

“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 wool: 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.”

“I’ll take care of things now. Don’t worry.”

“You won’t tell my father?”

He mimed running a needle and thread through his lips. He covered my knee with a Band-Aid and began to examine my elbow.

“What’ll I tell them when they see me like this?” I asked.

“Tell them you fell.”

“You’re telling me to lie to my parents?” I stared at him.

“I’d never do such a thing,” Uncle Jihad replied in mock seriousness. “Never, ever lie to anyone, let alone your parents; lying is bad. But being discreet is good. You fell, right? Maybe they pushed you, but still, you fell. That’s what we’ll say. We’re not going to tell your parents everything, for their own good. We don’t want them to worry unnecessarily.” I flinched as he dabbed hydrogen peroxide on my elbow. “Wait here,” he said. “I think we’ve earned some fruit juice.” He went to his kitchen and returned with two tall half-filled glasses of pomegranate juice.

“Are you going to tell me what happened to you that day?” I asked.

“I was watching the village boys. It was cold but clear, so all the boys that weren’t working were sledding down the hill. Snow had fallen for three straight days, so it was perfect. They didn’t really have sleds, of course, only broken wooden boxes. I saw Farid with his friends, but before I could reach them, four or five big boys jumped me. They were Wajih’s friends, so they couldn’t have been less than fifteen or so. They lifted me up and put me in a box and pushed it downhill. They were amusing themselves. I was too frightened to scream and had no idea what to do. My feet and hands were inside the box. The sled picked up speed. Even the laughter of the other boys stopped. I finally heard Farid screaming for me to use my hands to slow the box. I tried but couldn’t. Farid was running down the hill, but I was sliding too fast and toward a cliff. It was a small cliff, mind you, but a huge drop to fly over in a wooden box. Everyone, including me, thought I was a goner. And I was. I hit the edge and flew with my box, higher and higher, until a large pine tree bent its hand and picked me up out of the sky.”

“The hand of a pine tree?”

“Imagination, my boy. Cum grano salo. The branch of a pine tree, it was. It felt like a hand because the tree caught me while I was flying. The hand of God came down and took the form of a pine branch. By my coat it caught me, while the box kept soaring higher and shattered when it hit the ground. I was saved.”

“How did you get down from the tree?”

“It took forever.”

The Chinese magnolia trees were covered with divine pink-and-white blossoms, practically the only beautiful sight anywhere near my classes. Unlike the rest of the university, the science campus was unsightly, mostly built in the ugly sixties: large cubes of concrete whose windows opened upward, as if the buildings were sticking their collective tongues out at the world and saying, “We’re ugly and we don’t care.”

A voice shouted, “Hey, champ.” I walked over to a table occupied by my fellow Lebanese. Four of the six were playing cards, and one was eating a hamburger even though it was still morning. No matter what time of day you arrived at the Bombshelter, the burger bar in the Court of Sciences, you were almost guaranteed to find at least one of the Lebanese students there. A card game was sure to sprout as soon as there were two. I was probably the only Lebanese at UCLA who didn’t care for cards.

“Where’ve you been?” cried Sharbel. He was by far the oldest and biggest guy in the group, towering over everyone. He was in three of my classes.

“Where is it?” he asked. He was trying to sound jovial, but his voice betrayed his anxiety.

I handed him my folder, and he immediately began copying the math assignment into his own notebook. He was so large he took up almost half the table by himself, and the other boys had to adjust their card game to accommodate.

“How can you live in the dorms?” Iyad asked. “Isn’t it too crowded?”

“You have to live with strangers,” Joseph said. He was in two of my classes. All the Lebanese students at UCLA were in engineering school, no exceptions. The only variation was which discipline within engineering; mine was computers.

“I’m not living with strangers,” I objected. “I have my own room.”

“Well,” Sharbel said, “it’s not like you’re living with a friend. That makes a difference.”

Iyad banged his hand on the table and yelled triumphantly. All the Americans stared at our table with disapproving eyes. I turned my back, moved my chair slightly, hoping that anyone who looked our way would think I wasn’t part of the group.

Two Americans, engineering students, nodded at Iyad as they passed by. He completely ignored them. When he was with the group, which was more often than not, he showed disdain toward all non-Lebanese. He had once called his American girlfriend his sperm depository while she was sitting in his lap as he played cards. The group spoke Lebanese, even or maybe especially around people who didn’t understand the language. They would have been speaking English or French had they been in Lebanon, but in America, they spoke Arabic. We were all misfits.

The morning after God, the miraculous tree, saved her youngest, my grandmother put on two black sweaters and covered her head and torso with a diaphanous mandeel that dropped almost to the ground in back. In Druze white and black, she left her house and trudged up the hill through the snow to the bey’s mansion. It was official visiting hours. Petitioners and supplicants were going in and out of the main entrance, so my grandmother went in from the side. She greeted everyone in the women’s hall, sat down, and inquired whether she could have an audience with the bey. Yes, the bey himself, not his wonderful wife. She knew he was busy, very busy, but if he could spare a few minutes, she would be grateful. No, she would not mind waiting. She had all day. She drank coffee with the other visitors, chatted with the women. She had the chance to have a second cup of coffee. “I know he will see you,” the bey’s wife said. “Forgive him, but he’s very busy, what with the world preparing for its next big war.”

“His generosity knows no bounds,” my grandmother replied.

Finally, one of the attendants whispered that the bey would see my grandmother. She and the bey’s wife went to a smaller room, where the bey was deep in discussion with another man. The bey used my grandmother as an excuse to terminate the conversation. “A delicate matter,” he told the man. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

Alone with the bey and his wife, my grandmother had to ask after the children, the grandchildren, the cousins, the house, the meals, the vacations, before the bey inquired what she wanted. “You’ve been very generous to our family,” she said. “May God keep you above us to guide us, protect us, and be the shining example for us to follow. Your father educated my father and uncles, and your kindness extended to my brothers. We are ever in your debt.”

“You are most kind,” the bey’s wife said, and the bey added, “You are most eloquent.”

“Our family is thriving because of your liberality, and I am embarrassed to bring this up. As you probably know, my two youngest sons are going to the local school. They are doing very well, too well. I’m not sure the school is providing them with enough opportunities.”

The bey’s wife coughed. “Are you saying the school isn’t good enough for your boys?”

“No, of course not. It’s a good school. My other boys went there, but the young ones are special. My youngest loves to read, and there aren’t any books at the school.”

“Have you talked to your husband about this?” The bey leaned back in his chair, no longer feeling the need to listen. “You want them in a better school?”

“That would be ideal, but it would cost a lot more money. I’m willing to work. My older children no longer need me in the house. I’ll pay everything back.”

“The best schools are very expensive. Have you asked your brothers for help?”

“They have children and worries of their own.”

“As do I, and a lot more children, and more charities and more obligations,” the bey said. “The greatest happiness is accepting one’s life for what it is.”

Stories of the beys abound — their origin, valor, heroism, gallantry, generosity, wit or lack thereof. Uncle Jihad’s favorite origin story:

In the thirteenth century, maybe the fourteenth, maybe the fifteenth, a brigand, an escaped black slave from Egypt, wreaked havoc in the Bekaa Valley and Mount Lebanon, and neither the local authorities nor the Ottoman government could do anything to stop him. A bounty was placed on the brigand’s head. The man killed the innocents, raped the virgins. The Ottomans declared that anyone who captured or killed the slave would be given the title of bey. (In some versions of the story, the title offered was pasha, and a further heroic act was needed to receive a full bey’s worth of plot and adventure.) The brigand passed through the village and raped two women, one of them the sister of the first bey-to-be and the other his betrothed, his first cousin. After slaying his sister and ensuring that his fiancée was honorably killed by her brother, the soon-to-be-bey searched the village and mountainside for the nefarious slave, but to no avail. That evening, despondent and intending to drown his sorrows, he descended to his basement to partake heavily of his secret cache of red wine. Lo and behold, he found the black slave prostrate, facedown in a shallow pool of spilled wine. Livid, he cudgeled the limp slave’s head and split his skull, causing blood to pour into the wine puddle.

He was honored and glorified and became our bey.

Wait. One more. Not a story of origin, but one of wit. On a night in the eighteenth century, maybe the beginning of the nineteenth, the bey commanded one of his minions to deliver a letter to a sheikh in Hasbayya, a town a few hours’ ride by horseback. The man asked if he might wait till daylight to ride. The bey wanted him to leave instantly, saying, “Do not fret, for the moon is bright, and I will command it to follow you and light your way.”

The man set off on his horse, and every few minutes he looked up at the sky and the moon was still there. No matter how far from the village he rode, the moon followed. He entered Hasbayya and woke all its citizens. “Long live our wise bey,” he shouted. “He bade the moon follow me, and it surely did. Look upon the sky and admire the wonder, the bey’s gift to your village. Rise, rise, and behold the mystery.”

The townsfolk rose and beat him and went back to sleep.

“You know,” my grandmother said, “it’s not as if I brought up whether any of his grandchildren attended the local school.” She was slicing white cheese for sandwiches.

Uncle Jihad held a book in front of his face and pretended not to listen. My great-grandmother clucked her tongue. She waited for the kettle to boil.

“Why did you approach him?” my great-grandmother asked. “What did you expect the simpleton to say? ‘Take my money, because I care about your problems’?”

“He helps other people. Why not our family?” My grandmother stopped slicing, sighed. “I had no choice.”

“Of course you did. We’ll ask Maan.”

“He has enough to worry about.”

“Everyone has enough to worry about. This is family.”

One more story from the lore of the beys. This one was about a woman.

In the late eighteenth century, the bey married a woman of great prominence. As usual, she was much smarter than he was. Her name was Amira, which means “princess,” and it was a most appropriate name, not in the sense of a pretty girl waiting to be rescued, but in that of a woman destined to rule directly and not by proxy. Her husband was a fair bey, as fair as a feudal lord could be in those days, but there was never any doubt as to who governed. Internecine fights were all but eliminated during his years in power, taxes were paid on time, bandits disappeared from the mountain, all because he had begun executing people who didn’t follow his commands. His wife was merciless. The bey died suspiciously early, leaving behind three sons. Sitt Amira informed the elders and sheikhs that she would rule until her sons were of age. The elders and sheikhs judiciously agreed, even though records showed that her eldest son was nineteen. Sitt Amira was the bey for twenty years. She sat with the sheikhs and village officials and commanded them, though when supplicants paid her a visit she followed tradition, more or less: she sat behind a gossamer curtain and settled disputes with her voice alone.

She was not well liked. It is said that half the people dislike their ruler, and that’s when the ruler is just. She was not just. She played the various factions in Lebanon off against each other. She lured the Ottomans into a war with the pasha of Egypt. She allied herself with the winner of every battle, but only after the battle was won. She disposed of anyone who displeased her. By 1820, she had become so powerful that the Ottoman Empire had to take action, sending an army to depose her. Sitt Amira was a superb politician and as wily as a jackal, but she couldn’t fight a whole army. She fled into the mountains and disguised herself as a shepherdess to await the army’s departure. Unfortunately for her, shepherdesses of the mountains walked around barefoot. On the first day, a shepherd boy saw her creamy white feet, returned to his village, and boasted of having seen the most beautiful feet in the whole world, not one callus. The Ottomans arrested her on the spot, and she was never heard from again.

My grandmother and great-grandmother rode a jitney to Beirut and arrived at Maan’s house unannounced, as usual. For my grandmother, the choice of which brother to approach wasn’t complicated. Neither of the two was terribly well off, so that wasn’t an issue. Jalal was the more respected, the better educated, but he was also more aloof. My grandmother also felt that his household was less stable, because his writings were creating a stir. Since the French were losing control over events in Europe, they were exerting it on their colonies, and Jalal was paying the price. She was closer to Maan. She trusted him.

My grandmother laid out her tale. Briefly, sticking to the essential points, she informed her brother that her youngest sons needed to attend a better school. If they remained in the village, they would have no future. It wasn’t because they were her sons that they deserved better. It was because they had potential. My great-uncle agreed without equivocation, allowing her to keep the rest of her practiced arguments in her breast. “Do not come seeking aid, my sister,” he said. “Assume it. I should have suggested it myself. That scamp of yours, the youngest, should be sent to the best schools. He’s much too smart for his own good.”

And my grandmother broke into fountains of tears.

Within two weeks, my father and uncle were separated from their parents and siblings. Maan had the boys move in with his family and attend a boarding school in Beirut. The agreement at first was that the boys would go up to the village on Saturday afternoons, after school, and return on Sundays, but it was honored less and less as the boys found more and more excuses to stay in the city. My father and Uncle Jihad would never again consider the village their home. They spent a week or a month there from time to time. During the civil war, when Beirut flayed itself, my father even stayed in his summer home in the village for a while. And Uncle Jihad — Uncle Jihad considered the village “quaint and authentic, without any of the usual tourist traps. Or even tourists, for that matter.”

The bedroom was dark and quiet, except for the desultory sounds of cars passing below and the momentary reflection of their headlights on the window curtain. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. I had smoked a joint and was delightfully numb.

There was a whispery knock on my door, so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard correctly.

“Are you asleep?” A voice asked softly from behind the door.

“Everybody is asleep,” I replied, “but Jardown is awake.”

“Say what?”

I jumped off the bed. I recognized the inquisitor when I opened the door, acne-faced Jake or Jack or John or Jim from three rooms to my right. He said he had noticed the ephemeral yet distinctive smell seeping from under my door. He and his roommate had run out of dope, and they wondered whether I was willing to share. I was invited to their room, to hang, as he called it, and they would return the favor somehow.

Their cramped and cluttered room was lit by a desk lamp only, and they must have run out of dope recently, because the room reeked. The stoned roommates, in identical jeans and T-shirts, sat on one bed, their backs leaning on the wall, against a poster of the three Charlie’s Angels and one of a tall basketball player. Jake or Jack or John or Jim lit the joint I gave him. They were both smiling stupidly, and I probably was as well. We couldn’t start a conversation successfully. Jake’s roommate asked if I wanted to listen to any music. I shook my head and picked up the guitar lying on the second bed. I played “Stairway to Heaven.”

“He’s good,” Jake told his roommate, who took another drag. In the dark, the joint seemed ablaze.

“He plays so well, but it’s cold and distant,” his roommate said, in a voice that seemed to emanate from a haze. “It’s as if the playing is there, but he’s not.”

I sat up. “What was that?” I asked, but I couldn’t get either one of them to repeat what was said. Their eyes were glazed, far away lost. They did not seem to recognize I was there at all.

“I was born in a time when lands had fewer borders,” Uncle Jihad said. “There were many nationalities in Beirut, and boys came to our school from all over the world. The change was almost too much for me, but your father, he took to the school like a gourmet to foie gras. He befriended three other boys, and they became inseparable. They’re still friends to this day. Me? I was lost for a long time. I didn’t make any friends for a few years. You can say I made friends with two trees, two big trees in the middle of the school, a carob and a Kermes oak that couldn’t have been any less than four hundred years old. I spent all my free time up in those trees. Everyone called me Tree Boy for the longest time. I called the carob tree Chacha and the oak Charlemagne. I preferred trees to people. After that I preferred pigeons, but it was trees first.

“My father has his pigeon stories and I have mine, for life, like a good tale, repeats itself. I noticed my first flock of pigeons in the skies of Beirut when I was a boy of thirteen. They were always there, but, like most people, I’d been oblivious. Notice their existence once and you begin to see them everywhere, all the time. I had no idea at the time that my father had been a pigeoneer when he was young, and apparently a terrible one. My father told us very little about his growing up. I guess he was embarrassed about his background, or maybe he was saving his best stories for you. I saw my first flock, and ten minutes later I saw my second, and then my third and fourth, and all of a sudden my skies brimmed with pigeons. One afternoon, atop Charlemagne, while admiring a flock in flight, I began to guess at the presence of magic. I was able to discern the art, as well as the logic, of flight patterns. The realization was both gradual and instantaneous. Magic. And as soon as I had my epiphany, my eyes understood where to look for the locus of the sorcery. Though I couldn’t see him, the wizard himself must have been on the roof of the old three-story building below the school.

“The following afternoon, I ran to the building and asked about the pigeons. The shopkeeper on the ground floor told me to go up to the roof. The pigeon fancier, an aged man, realized I was a smitten boy. He allowed me to walk around and look at his prize collection.

“There were five cages on the roof, each of them bigger than my bedroom. One cage had young pigeons of different breeds, another had only coupled pigeons. One was empty because the birds were being flown. I walked around and fell in love. I wanted to say something clever, so that the pigeoneer would like me and I’d be able to visit again, but my mind was numb. He was obviously a gentleman, but I wondered whether he’d let me come up a second time, or a third. Wouldn’t he quickly tire of a young boy who wanted to spend time with pigeons? I got scared and stuttered, ‘Can I work for you?’

“The pigeoneer looked me up and down. He smiled and shook his head no. He said I was too young and obviously from too good a family to work for him. I went from taciturn to loquacious in less than a second. I told him that I could come every day after classes, he was only a few meters from the school, and I was a fast learner, and would do whatever he asked and never complain, and that I looked like I was from a good family because I was going to a good school, but I was from the mountains, and my family was still up there, and I really wanted to make the pigeons fly, and he should try me out. It became obvious that he was trying his best not to laugh out loud. He said he could only afford one lira a week — which was a fortune, and he knew it. Had I walked away when he told me he wouldn’t hire me, I would have failed the first test of a pigeoneer. He always said he knew the instant I came to the roof that I would end up a pigeoneer, that he saw it in the obsessive twinkle of my eyes.

“The man’s name was Ali Itani. He was a Shiite, and he owned the old building — which had no elevator, I should add. I showed up to work the following afternoon and found him arguing vociferously with Kamal Hourani, a man who looked like his identical twin except he was a Catholic. ‘You brother of a whore wouldn’t know what honor was if it smacked you on the side of the head,’ one would say, and the other would reply, ‘Honor? You lowlife want to talk to me about honor?’ They were both seventy-one at the time, and they wore the exact same clothes, except for the shoes: checkered navy-blue shirts, and tailored pants that were worn and frayed. Ali’s shoes were black moccasins, whereas Kamal’s were burgundy, both pairs comfortably kneaded by years of wear. Though their insults were getting worse and worse, they were standing close to each other in a relaxed posture. My Sherlock Holmes mind reasoned that their arguing was a common occurrence. It turned out that Ali Itani and Kamal Hourani had been best friends since they were six years old. They both swore to me that they had been insulting each other nonstop since 1898. They had lived through schooling, work, marriage, family rearing, widowhood, two occupying powers, one Great War, numerous small wars, religious conflicts, and independence, without ever thinking of ceasing their rude insults. I felt I had entered the Garden.

“That was my first interaction with the great city of Beirut. Of course, I had been living there for over seven years, since I was five, but it seemed that I had only been a tourist. Like all cities, Beirut has many layers, and I had been familiar with one or two. What I was introduced to that day with Ali and Kamal was the Beirut of its people. You take different groups, put them on top of each other, simmer for a thousand years, keep adding more and more strange tribes, simmer for another few thousand years, salt and pepper with religion, and what you get is a delightful mess of a stew that still tastes delectable and exotic, no matter how many times you partake of it. Those men seemed to have been together for eons, and since they’d run out of conversation long ago, all that was left was ribbing and mockery and repeating the great tales to each other.

“At the first lull in the faux shouting match, Ali noticed me standing there, pointed at me, and said, ‘This is the young man I told you about.’ Without even allowing him to finish the sentence, Kamal yelled, ‘Run away, young pup. Run as fast as your legs can take you. Stay away from this invertebrate of a man, whose only intention is to worm his way into the life of his betters and feed on their loves, for he has none of his own.’ See? I told you I had found home.

“Of course, Ali told me to ignore Kamal and began to explain my duties. I had assumed I’d be cleaning up after the pigeons and feeding them, but he already had another boy for that. No, he surprised me. He wanted me to seduce the birds. A confounding task, if I say so myself. ‘Make them fall in love with you,’ Ali said. ‘I want the pigeons to want to return home for you.’ I had no idea what he was talking about. I must have stood there staring at him like a fool, which elicited gales of laughter from the two old coots. ‘Don’t worry, young pup,’ Kamal said. ‘You’ll soon understand Lazy Brain’s speech. He wants you to go into the cages with the birds and get them used to you. It’s another one of those easy tasks that Lazy Brain can’t master.’

“So my job was to be with the pigeons, spend time in the cages, hold them and pet them if they let me. That’s what I understood, and that’s what I did for the first few days. I’d show up after school. The elderly twins would be chatting up a storm and arguing about little things and big things. I thought at first that there was nothing they could agree on, but I was wrong, of course. They could both agree that it was a lot of fun to tease me.

“ ‘Are you loving those two Tumblers enough?’ Kamal would ask, and Ali would add, ‘Look at that Lemon. She seems to be moping because you’re not paying attention to her.’ I’d get so flustered that I’d walk to the pigeons they were talking about, and the pigeons would move out of my reach. I thought I could never get them to love me. Yes, I was that gullible.

“There was a wonderful pair of Istanbuls that I admired a great deal. Beautiful to look at, dark-gray feathers speckled with white, and an orange chest that seemed to have been inflated with an air pump. They’d grown to an immense size, as big as chickens. They were inseparable, and the cock seemed totally smitten with his mate. He’d coo to her, and she loved it. Four or five days after I had started, I was watching them, and my world seemed to shrink to the size of those lovers. She strolled on the ground, jerkily pecking at seeds, and he followed her every step, cooing and engrossed. She stopped and turned toward him, and he nuzzled her neck. Then he started to stroll, and she followed. ‘You’re beautiful,’ I said to them. I realized that I had spoken out loud to a pair of birds. I looked around, and the twins seemed bemused. ‘You do know how to pick your boys,’ Kamal said to Ali. It was the first time I’d heard one address the other without a slur.

“After that, the volcano released its pressure, and I began to talk to the pigeons incessantly. I talked to them about everything. I told them how lovely they were. I warned them of the dangers of the world, complimented them on their choice of partners. I talked and talked, and Ali and Kamal had found the boy who was going to entertain them for a long time. The pigeons did respond. They may not have understood a word I said, but they began to enjoy the sound of my voice. When I ran out of things to say, I’d just prattle. And you can probably figure out what happened. I talked and talked, and one day I started on what I do best. For my audience, pigeons and humans, I began to tell stories.”

Sharbel sat on my right and Ziad on his, third row from the front, far enough from the proctor, but not back in the suspicious rows. As I received the exam from the student in front of me, my hand shook so hard that I had trouble separating my sheets and passing the rest. I put the exam on my desk but didn’t look at it. That was my ritual. I had to calm myself before every test. If I didn’t settle my nerves, my handwriting would be illegible. Once I had myself under control, I rolled quickly, so I never worried about the time it took me to relax, though today I needed more time, because of the cheating. Sharbel had assured me I wouldn’t get in trouble, because I could swear that I didn’t know someone was copying off me, but I knew he lied. If I made a mistake, Sharbel, and then Ziad, would copy it. I didn’t think any of us could use innocence as an excuse, and I also didn’t think either of them would be gallant enough not to finger me if they got caught. They were Lebanese, after all.

I closed my eyes, breathed in and out. I concentrated on moving my breath to my arms and then to my knees. I imagined myself writing smoothly. As I visualized myself smiling triumphantly, walking outside, lighting a victory cigarette, a hard poke on my right shoulder almost knocked me off my chair. Sharbel’s eyes were those of a lamb about to be slaughtered. He raised questioning eyebrows, terrified because I wasn’t even reading the exam.

I began the first problem. I glanced Sharbel’s way. He was pretending to work, his unmoving pen to the paper, but he did nothing until I finished the first sheet and slid it aside. Then he began writing furiously. I finished another sheet, and he nudged me. I looked up. I’d covered the previous sheet before he was ready. When I tried to move it, I was slammed forward. The American student sitting behind me saw us cheating and kicked my chair violently. I looked around and pretended blamelessness. Why did he kick my chair and not Sharbel’s? Size, it was always size. Sharbel was at least one foot taller and eighty pounds heavier. I tried to collect my papers about me, but Sharbel nudged me again. I was sure the kicker would rat on us. I began to shiver. I worked fast, struggling to control my pen, submitted my exam, and ran out. I had twenty-five more minutes to spare. I could feel Sharbel’s glare boring into the back of my neck.

“Not to brag,” Uncle Jihad said, “but I was good even then. I remember the first story I told the pigeons. I was in one of the two better cages, where all the Rashidis, Sharabis, and black Bayumis were. Those were some of the birds that Ali would hate to lose, so I told them this story from the Tales of the Homing Heart.

“There was once a poor shepherd from a village in the mountains. He was so poor he couldn’t feed his children, and the family slept hungry more often than not. One night, he was so hungry that he dreamed of Beirut, the city of prosperity and bread. He decided he’d go to the city and make his fortune. He didn’t even wait a minute, but packed a small satchel and walked all the way to Beirut. He looked for work, talked to every merchant, builder, baker, cook, and watchmaker in the city. He begged to be hired, but no one wanted him. He tried the following day, and the following, but he couldn’t find any work. How was he to make his fortune? A week later, and he still had found nothing. He was hungrier than he had ever been, and lonelier than he could have imagined. He was tired, and when night fell, he went into a mosque and lay down on the carpet to sleep. But in the middle of the night, policemen woke him up and beat him and took him to jail. He stood before a judge, who asked why he broke into the mosque. The shepherd told about the dream, but the judge was not impressed and sentenced him to three days in jail. ‘Dreams are for fools,’ the judge said. ‘Only last night, I dreamed of a treasure buried in the mountains, in a field where two sycamores, two oaks, and a poplar cast shadows that moved like dancing men. Do you see me leaving my job to chase after the treasure of dreams?’ The shepherd spent three nights in jail. When released, he ran all the way back home and sought the familiar field where two sycamores, two oaks, and a poplar cast shadows that moved like dancing men — the field where he had been allowing his sheep to graze for all those years. He dug out the treasure and became rich and fed his family and was able to sleep every night sated and content.”

Jake or Jack or John or Jim and his roommate asked me over a week later. They brought the weed, I brought my guitar. We smoked so much, so quickly, we were floating in bliss in minutes. “Let me see your guitar,” Jake said.

I was so stoned that I could barely stand up, but I managed. I sat next to him with my guitar, and he looked at the instrument with awe, stroked the neck with his hand.

“That’s so beautiful,” he cooed.

“It’s a J200.”

“What’s that?” Blank eyes looked up at me.

I wanted to tell him it was a brand, a name, but words wouldn’t leave my lips. I played a note; it plunked, because his hand was still on the neck. I moved away from him and played a few chords. The roommate asked to borrow my guitar. He held it briefly, and then strange sounds shot out: fast strums of inexplicable chords that had no rhythm or reason. He shook his head punkishly, like a pendulum on methamphetamine. He sang hoarsely, off-key. “I like to play with passion,” he said. “And I love your guitar. I felt great playing it. I felt real.”

“Real,” I repeated. I tried to think of something to add, to make an impression.

“Where are you from?” said Jake.

I wondered if he was making fun of me, but he was too stoned. “I’m from Beirut,” I said.

“Beirut.” Jake closed his eyes. “That’s in Latin America, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Can you play something from your country?”

“Tango or salsa?” I chuckled at my own joke. I took a long drag and allowed the smoke to percolate in my lungs. My brain was grateful. “How about something from Baghdad?” I began a maqâm for the first time in years, clumsily in the first few bars. The guitar’s sound proved awkward, and my pick had to strum harder. My fingers still remembered how to play, but the frets got in the way. I had to improvise. I slowed down, allowing myself more time to adjust. Count Basie and not Oscar Peterson. I switched to Maqâm Bayati, which had the fewest half- or quarter-notes. Images of the great desert seared the back of my eyelids. The notes seemed so naturally logical. My fingers played with a tarantulan languor.

I opened my eyes to see Jake gawping, his expression tinged with shock and wonder. His roommate looked dazed. “That was different,” Jake said.

“You shouldn’t play anything but that,” the roommate said. “It had soul.”

The hairs on my arms rose for an instant. I began another maqâm, trying to lose myself in the essence of the music, in its passion. Played for about ten minutes before I paused and noticed that my discriminating audience had passed out. I resumed the maqâm, but I couldn’t make the guitar produce the sounds I was hearing in my head. Finally, it came to me. I knew what was wrong. I walked out of the room and into the common kitchen. I unstrung my guitar and put it on the Formica counter. I searched the drawers for the right tool, but could come up with nothing better than a steak knife to defret my J200. The steak knife was too flimsy, so I tried a bread knife. Without its frets, my guitar would sound better, more me. The bread knife didn’t work, either. I plugged in the carving knife, and the current jerked it into life. I went to work. The sound of the knife’s tiny motor grew deafening, but I persisted. I went too deep with the first fret, not so much with the second. I’d figured out how to operate by the third and fourth, but I stopped at the fifth. I stared at the dying instrument before me and left it. I returned to my dorm room and lay down, my head buzzing.

“I was with Ali for years, through school, through college,” Uncle Jihad went on. “And you should know, those wonderful pigeoneers had a lot to do with our family being where it is today. There was another one as well. Let me explain. Ali abhorred this one pigeoneer, Mohammad Beaini. They were mortal enemies, and not simply because the Beainis were Sunni and the Itanis were Shiite. It seemed that Ali’s father had once insulted Mohammad’s, and the bad blood festered. Ali and Mohammad had never actually spoken to each other. They grew up with the feud, and each assumed the other was evil. One day, two or three years after I started with Ali — maybe it was 1948—one of Mohammad’s pigeons landed on our roof. Ali recognized it immediately and held his tongue. The bird seemed lost, so I approached it from behind, netted it, and carried it to the small cage, but Ali said, ‘No. Wring its neck. Mohammad won’t ask for it, and I won’t return it.’ I was flabbergasted. I refused to do it. ‘It’s for the bird’s own good,’ Ali said. ‘It’ll suffer away from home. We can’t keep it. It’s the humane thing to do.’ I held it out to him. If he wanted it dead, then he’d have to kill it. Kamal came to my rescue. ‘You can’t make the young man do your work. Either kill it yourself or return it.’

“ ‘I won’t return it,’ insisted Ali. I told him I would, and he replied, ‘He knows you work for me. I won’t have it.’ Well, I knew about saving face. ‘I’ll take it back and tell him you weren’t here when it landed.’ And relief blushed Ali’s face. Even Kamal smiled. I walked the bird to Mohammad Beaini’s. The look on his face was priceless when he recognized me. I told him that Ali hadn’t been there, but he didn’t believe me. He took the bird back and thanked me.

“Now, in a great story, Ali and Mohammad would become great friends, and their grandchildren would marry each other, and they would have offspring that were family, but that wasn’t the case. Mohammad simply stopped talking badly about Ali and refused to be anywhere near anyone who would. And whenever someone complimented Ali on his magnificent coop, he said, ‘I wish my pigeons were as lovely as Beaini’s.’ They both passed away without having spoken a word to each other. So, you ask, why am I telling you a story without a great ending? Because, as in all great stories, the end is never where you expect it to be.

“Mohammad Beaini didn’t become a close friend of mine, either. But when I graduated from college and Uncle Maan put your father and me up in our first apartment, I started a small coop on our balcony. Ali offered me three pairs, a Rashidi, a Turkish, and a Zahr al-Fool. Two days after my coop was up, a young boy knocked on my door with a priceless gift from Mohammad, a pair of gorgeous Yehudis. We hadn’t seen each other since that first day, so I paid him a visit and thanked him.

“I was able to repay him quickly. Pigeons loved me, you see. They bred for me. At one time, I was probably the best pigeon breeder in all of Beirut. My Yehudis were all prize pigeons. I gifted Mohammad with a wonderful pair. I also gave him a stunning pair of speckled Zahr al-Fool. Of course, I gave Ali similar mates. So, you see, Mohammad and Ali did end up having offspring that were family after all. I had become a well-known pigeoneer. By then my father knew, and he wanted me to stop, because he hated pigeons. He considered the profession demeaning. Did you know that a pigeoneer’s testimony isn’t accepted in a court of law? You know why? By law, a pigeoneer’s word can’t be trusted, because he spends his time on roofs and is therefore a Peeping Tom. People are naïve. Of course, that’s why most muezzins are blind. They may be high up, but they can’t see.

“Your father wanted me to quit, too. Fairly or unfairly, society considered pigeoneers contemptible, and he wanted reputable men to respect him. More important, what decent woman would marry him if his brother was a pigeoneer? Your mother certainly wouldn’t have. I had to quit and start a company with him. When it came time for me to give everything up, I sold my pigeons for a tidy sum, the seed for our corporation, but we still needed a lot more money. Both Ali Itani and Kamal Hourani gave me everything they could spare. Neither was rich, but they held nothing back. They were in their eighties by then. They both passed away before I could repay them. Kamal died first, and of course Ali couldn’t bear it and followed him not ten days later. I can tell you, I spent those ten days with Ali. His grief was unbearable, and death surely rescued him. I repaid my debt to their families.

“But since I was desperate, I had also asked Mohammad Beaini, and he didn’t hesitate, either. It turned out he was wealthier than anyone I knew. He ended up being the biggest contributor of the army of angels.”

I was lucky that I was sober when my mother called. She asked about school. How was I doing with finals? Was everything going as well as it should? Yet I could hear the anxiety in her voice. “Listen,” she said, “I wanted to tell you this before you heard it from someone else. Your sister’s getting married next week. It’s not going to be a big wedding, just the family and close friends. We’re not making a big deal out of it.”

I watched my hand clench the phone. My mouth felt dry and cottony. My head hurt. “What do you mean?” I asked.

“What do you mean what do I mean? Wedding, marriage, your sister.”

“Who’s she marrying?”

“Elie, of course. The wedding’s next week. They’re in love. They’re happy. They’re getting married.”

“I don’t understand. Why does she want to marry him? Why so quickly?”

I heard her sigh on the other end. “Listen, darling,” she said, “you have to be an adult now. You don’t need to have everything explained. Think about it.” She paused for an instant. “Why would there be a wedding so soon after Jihad passed away? It’s not a shotgun wedding, but an AK-47 one.” She paused again. “Why would I allow her to marry that fucking bastard with half a brain?” Another pause, a long breath, quieter. “Now, darling, don’t ask me any more questions. I’m just telling you that Lina is getting married and then I’m going to kill her.”

She hung up without saying goodbye. I figured there were many reasons for her to be angry in this situation, but, knowing her, the fact that she was going to be a grandmother at her age might top the list.

I decided I would leave for Lebanon on the Saturday after finals. I could get a plane to New York, then Rome, then Beirut, and arrive just in time. Civil war or not. It had been calm for about six days. I could go to the wedding, spend some time with the family, and return before classes began again. The wedding would be in the mountains. Nothing was happening there. There had been no bombs, no shootings, at least for the last little while.

Thirteen

One day, a messenger entered the diwan carrying a letter from the mayor of Alexandria: “A majestic galleon waving the flag of peace entered our port and dropped anchor. A nobleman emerged and announced that he is the vizier of the king of Genoa and brings a letter to the sultan of Islam and bears many gifts for Your Majesty. He wishes an audience at the diwan.” King Saleh dispatched a reply asking the mayor to allow the vizier entry. The vizier of Genoa sailed the Nile and sought the diwan upon arrival in Cairo. He genuflected before the king and offered a letter from his liege. King Saleh asked his judge, Arbusto, to read the letter, which stated that the king of Genoa had made a vow when his daughter, Maria, was sick. He had promised God that if He healed his daughter he would send her on a pilgrimage to Holy Jerusalem. Now his daughter was well again, and the monarch wished to fulfill his vow. He begged permission for Maria’s pilgrimage, and asked King Saleh to ensure her safety by assigning loyal and courageous soldiers to protect her. The king of Genoa would pay the guards five thousand dinars.

The customs of protection were under the jurisdiction of the chief of forts and battlements, Marouf ben Jamr, and so King Saleh commanded Prince Baybars to carry a letter asking the chief of forts to assume responsibility for the princess’s protection.

Prince Baybars traveled to the Fort of Marqab and was greeted effusively by Marouf. After Marouf read the letter, he kissed it and touched his forehead. “For you, my loyal friend, and for the sultan, I will protect the princess myself. I do not require payment. Distribute the money among the needy, among the widows and orphans.”

Marouf waited for five days in Jaffa before the Genovese ship dropped anchor in port. The princess and her companions disembarked and set up camp. Marouf paid the princess a visit. When Maria saw her protector enter, she stood up and greeted him. His demeanor and grace impressed her eyes, and love tumbled into her heart. Maria asked, “Are you my escort, dear sir?” and he answered in the affirmative. She bade him sit and join her. She asked her attendants to serve her guest. The following day, Marouf led the convoy to the Holy City. The princess rode on a litter borne by slaves, and the chief of forts and his men surrounded it on all sides. The princess entered the city with Marouf. She visited the holy sites of Jerusalem, distributed alms to the poor, admired the wonders. The Mosque of al-Aqsa astonished her. She asked Marouf if she could enter, and he replied that she could if she went in with him, unaccompanied by her servants and attendants. Maria and Marouf marveled at the Aqsa’s architecture. As she wandered inside the mosque, she saw a wise imam reading to young students. Maria asked Marouf, “Would this exalted teacher be able to interpret a dream?” and Marouf asked the imam, who said, “Tell me your dreams, young maiden, and God will guide my interpretation.”

And Maria began, “In a desolate valley, I thirsted. I walked until I reached a river whose water was as white as milk and as sweet as honey. I cupped my hand and took a sip that quenched the heat of my thirst and cooled the aching fire in my heart. A black fly fell out of my lips onto the ground. A white fly entered my mouth and settled in my throat. Upon the river sailed a boat, and I rode it until I reached new land, another valley, which was verdant, filled with springs and brooks, resplendent with songbirds and fruit trees. I slept under a willow, and a white bird pecked my head, from which escaped a small bird that I loved very much. A black bird attacked the small bird and carried it away. I wept for my kidnapped little bird and woke up.”

And the wise imam said, “The desolate valley is where you came from, and God guided you to the verdant valley that is Islam. The black fly was the darkness, and the white fly that nestled in your throat is the Shahada, the Muslim profession of faith — I witness that there is no god but God, and that Muhammad is the Prophet of God. The boat is the vessel of life. The white bird is the honorable man who will marry you and love you. Your joining shall produce a viable seed that will flower away from you. God has shown you the way. Surrender to His will.”

“I will become a Muslim,” Maria said, and she uttered the Shahada in faith. She kissed the imam’s hand, and he blessed her. She told the imam, “I cannot return to Genoa as a Muslim. I must marry a valiant man of faith to protect and defend me in my new life.” The imam asked her to bring him the man of her choice, and he would marry them. “The man of my choice is here,” Maria said. “There is no one more worthy.” Marouf’s heart blinked and fluttered.

“And what would be her dowry?” asked the imam.

“I will offer ten thousand dinars,” answered Marouf, “on my honor, upon my return to the Fort of Marqab.”

“So be it.” The imam married the ardent couple, signed the documents. He wrote a fatwa stating that the girl had surrendered to the faith and married of her own choice. “God be with you, my daughter. Wrap your shawl about you. Do not exit as you entered.”

Boarding hadn’t been announced yet. From a phone booth, I called Fatima to shock her. I was in Rome — Da Vinci Airport in Fiumicino, to be precise — and I wasn’t going to see her. I was flying to Beirut, surprising everyone. “Why is your stupid sister marrying that idiot?” she spoke loudly into the phone. “She won’t talk to me. She’s avoiding everybody. It doesn’t make sense.”

“They’re in love,” I said lamely.

“Don’t be stupid. That bastard doesn’t know what the word means, and Lina is just being brainless. He’ll ruin her life. Your mother wants her to get an abortion. Your sister won’t listen. She wants his child and doesn’t want to raise a bastard. She’s nuts.”

I didn’t say anything. The receiver felt heavy. “They’re boarding,” I said.

“And if you ever come here again without visiting me, I swear I’ll roast you in a big Italian oven.”

On the journey out of Jerusalem, Maria lay within her litter, but she relaxed the curtains and smiled at her husband, who was riding beside her. Happiness made Marouf sit up in his saddle. He rode close to his bride and beamed. Marouf led the entourage past the turnoff toward Jaffa, and the vizier of Genoa inquired where they were going. “To the Fort of Marqab,” Marouf replied, “so you can be my honored guests.”

A feast was held in the Fort of Marqab upon their return. And on the wedding night, Marouf visited his princess. The following morning, he left her chambers and took his usual seat among his men. The Genovese vizier said to Marouf, “You have been most kind and generous to us. We are grateful. And now we must be on our way.”

“Return to your home, and tell the king of Genoa that his daughter has become a Muslim and has married Marouf, the chief of forts and battlements.”

The vizier blanched. “Have you entered her chambers?”

“I surely have. She is my wife.”

The vizier moaned, slapped his face, and beat his breast. “Kill me now, sire. I cannot return to Genoa without her.”

The king of Genoa heard the wails and lamentations of Maria’s attendants before they walked into the court. The vizier, haggard and pale, announced, “Your Majesty, the princess has given up her faith and married a Muslim. She did not wish to return.”

The king turned wrathful. “Send a letter to King Saleh and kill this messenger.”

Back at the diwan, King Saleh’s judge read him the letter. “This cannot be, Your Majesty,” Arbusto said. “The king of Genoa trusted God and you with protecting his daughter’s honor. You entrusted Baybars, and he and his good friend Marouf betrayed you. A scandal of this magnitude I have never witnessed.” The king called Baybars to the diwan and demanded an explanation. Baybars said, “I have received a letter from Marouf saying that the princess chose the true faith and was not forced into it. God gifted her. Marouf has a fatwa from the imam of al-Aqsa confirming the gift of God and the princess’s choice of Marouf for a husband.”

King Saleh said, “That is a true story. Islam is a bequest from the Almighty. My judge, send a letter to the king of Genoa explaining what happened. Be gentle. His daughter’s choice to live so far from him will surely be difficult to hear and bear.”

The king’s judge was not gentle. “King Saleh has allowed his protégé, Prince Baybars, to kidnap your daughter,” the letter said, “and sell her to Marouf’s harem. If you send me a ship to Jaffa, a full money chest, and a battalion of men in disguise, I will return your daughter to Genoa myself. The king is ill in the mind, and I do not wish to remain here and witness the realm’s demise under his successors.” The king’s judge sent the letter to Genoa by messenger. He packed his belongings and all the goods he had stolen through the years. Arbusto discarded the robes of judge and abandoned the fair city of Cairo.

Maria woke up ill, and Marouf called in the doctor. “Heal my wife, surgeon,” he said. “I beg of you. Make her well.” The doctor examined Maria and said, “The change in climate is not doing her good. Take her to Deir ash-Shakeef, and have her rest for three months. I cannot identify the symptoms, but a three-month rest should cure whatever ails her.”

Marouf took his wife, accompanied by one squadron, and sought the healing air of Deir ash-Shakeef. Within a few weeks, she began to feel better, if slightly heavier. “My husband,” she said. “I am not ill, unless being with child is a disease.” Marouf jumped with joy.

Some while later, Arbusto paid a visit to Marouf in Deir ash-Shakeef. The villain presented himself as a rich merchant and offered Marouf a number of opulent textiles for his wife. “A glorious gift, honest merchant,” said Marouf, “but what have I done to deserve such generosity?” Arbusto said he only wished for one thing, a letter from the chief of forts and battlements authorizing the bearer to travel the lands without interference. “Your reputation for honesty and valor is well known,” Arbusto said. “If I have such a letter, no one will dare accost me.” Marouf obliged.

Arbusto slept the night outside Deir ash-Shakeef. In the morning, he tore his garments, washed his hair with sand, and hit his face with rocks. He called on Marouf, who exclaimed in shock, “What has become of you, honest merchant?” Arbusto said, “Twenty leagues north of town, I was waylaid by a band of ruffians. I showed them your letter, and they spat on it. ‘The chief of forts and battlements is a limp braggart and a toothless house-cat that professes to be a lion,’ the scofflaws said. They overwhelmed me and stole all my belongings.”

The hero stood up and yelled at the ceiling, “I, a house-cat?” He stormed off to retrieve his sword. “Stay here,” he told the merchant. “I will return with your valuables and the valueless heads of your attackers.” He and his men headed north, leaving his wife with two guards.

Arbusto paced before the soldiers, pretending to be anxious. He removed bonbons from his left pocket and stuffed them in his mouth. One of the guards asked what he was eating. “Date bonbons,” Arbusto replied. “Would you like some?” Out of his right pocket, he retrieved a bunch and gave them to the guards. Within a half hour, the sedative had coursed through their veins and the guards lay unconscious. Arbusto broke into the princess’s chambers, covered dormant Maria in a large burlap bag, and bore her away.

Beirut Airport’s arrival lounge seemed fuzzy, like the imprecision of settings in dreams. The space itself hadn’t changed, but the air was off-kilter, reeking of camphor, cigarettes, and humanity. Dust motes scurried across the stone floor, terrified of being stepped on. The ubiquitous posters of the unsmiling Syrian president forced me to stare ahead. His secret-service men, in polyester civilian, were only slightly less numerous than his pictures.

I negotiated the fare with the taxi driver, a man as old as my father. He asked for an exorbitant sum. His Mercedes was restored and revamped. Look. See? Not a scratch, not one bullet hole. “Look at me,” I said. “Do I look like a guy who cares what kind of car I get in?” He came down twenty. I went up two. He said our village was far, at least forty minutes. I said I could find another taxi.

Banks of ominous slate clouds hovered as we drove along the mountain road. Trees seemed sparser. “Kindling,” the driver explained. The car spasmed with every pothole. “At least this area is safe for now,” the driver said. “For your people at least. You’re Druze, right?”

“Half,” I said.

He turned to me questioningly, as if the concept was utterly foreign. He waited for me to elaborate, and I didn’t. “Why did you come back? People don’t return anymore.”

“Wedding.”

“And you’re arriving empty-handed?”

“My bag will be here tomorrow.”

“It used to be that emigrants returned with sacks and sacks of beautiful things, money and jewelry. They struck gold abroad and returned home to be men. Everyone leaves now, but no one returns. If I were you, I wouldn’t have come back, not even for a wedding.”

“I’ve only been gone a few months.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “It sure looks like you’ve been away longer.”

I wanted to look in a mirror, examine my face. Did I look like a foreigner?

King Saleh breathed the ill winds of infirmity. The doctors advised a month’s rest in a moderate climate. The king and his courtiers moved to al-Mansoura, where the fresh breezes had healed many a disorder. He regained his health and returned to Cairo, only to relapse. He heard the knells.

“Bring me my son,” the king said. Baybars rushed to his king’s bedside. “You built a neighborhood for me once, my son,” the king whispered. “Give me a mosque that will bear my name for eternity.”

Baybars called on the architects, builders, and artisans. “I will not know sleep and neither will you until this stately mosque stands in honor of our sultan. Begin.” A mosque of unequaled grandeur was erected in one month. On the Friday after it was finished, the king visited the mosque, helped by his attendants. “I am a happy man,” he said. He returned to the diwan and tried to sit, but was unable. He was carried to his bed. “Turn me toward the Qibla,” the king said. “We belong to God, and to Him we return.” He lay facing east. “I witness that there is no god but God and that Muhammad is the Prophet of God.” The king died.

Our village sparkled at sunset. A guard in a dark suit and frayed white shirt, with a machine gun hanging on his shoulder, stopped the taxi at the gate to my father’s house. He bent his head to peer through the driver’s window. “Who’re you?” he asked.

“Who’re you?” I replied.

He cracked up. “Who’re you? You’re not dressed for a wedding.” Another machine-gun-toting, cheap-suited man joined him and bent to check me out. He grinned, obviously having begun his libations early.

“If the groom was worthy,” I said, “I’d have dressed better, but since he’s no more than a silly communist betraying the great cause, I can’t be bothered.”

Both men broke into tipsy laughing fits. The second man exclaimed, “I know you.”

I tried to sound grave. “Go tell your leader that such frivolities are beneath him. I’m here to give him a tongue-lashing.”

“Spare the poor man,” joked the first. “He doesn’t know the trouble he’s getting into.”

More men gathered around. The floodlit house was about twenty yards from the gate, and the entire front garden was overfilled with fighters desperately trying to pass for wedding guests. The bey’s guards alone numbered more than thirty. Ever since the civil war started, he’d begun to pick up protection the way a stray bitch in heat picked up studs.

“I know you,” the second guard repeated. “We met a year ago. You’re not here.”

“I certainly am not. I’m a figment of everyone’s imagination. Now, make way. Don’t make me get out of the car.”

The men guffawed. One shouted, “The brother of the bride is here.” Another corrected, “The brother of the new boss has arrived.” A machine gun was fired into the air, momentarily shocking any merriment out of my system. It was followed by another and another. A few yards away, the bey’s guards followed suit, joining Elie’s militia in an ecstatic firing orgasm.

After the machine guns stilled, the diesel generator took over, an old one that sounded like the chugalug of a steam train. The electricity in the village was off. My father had built this house as a summer home, but the fighting had forced the family to move into it temporarily. Though it was comfortable enough as a vacation house, it was neither spacious nor adequate for full-time family living. It was definitely not grand enough for a wedding.

My father came out of the house when he heard the machine-gun welcome. Guests hadn’t begun to arrive yet. When he saw me emerge from the taxi, he looked as if someone were speaking to him in a language he couldn’t grasp. The expression on his face was worth all the trouble I had gone to. I could see him wanting to move toward me. I imagined the muscles beneath his suit tensing, waiting for a release that had been long in coming. I climbed the five steps toward him. His eyes wore a moist film of my face. As soon as my lips kissed his cheeks, his arms engulfed me. I allowed myself to melt in his arms.

Another round of machine-gun fire shocked us apart. The men, touched by the unfolding scene before them, father and son brought together again, expressed their appreciation by firing at the sky.

My father led me into the house. A cursory glance showed the family and close friends getting set for the arrival of guests, a raucous flurry of activity. My cousin Hafez was the first to notice me, from across the hall. He was sipping a scotch as he pushed a table to one side with his thigh. Shock bloomed on his face, then a smile. He mouthed, “What, my brother?” I smiled back.

My mother emerged from the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Whenever she felt pressured, whenever she felt she was fighting alone against the world, the first thing she did was make sure she looked her best. Even had I not known much about the reasons for this wedding, I would have guessed she didn’t approve, because she looked striking. Farah Diba would have killed the shah to look like her. My mother wore a high chignon, pinned randomly with a number of single cream pearls. The front of her black hair was pulled tight, with a part in the middle. Her ears wore four pearls each, a black surrounded by two creams and a large teardrop cream dropping below the others. Her strapless dress was cream-colored as well, fitted and tight, studded randomly with the same pearls. “Tell the idiots to stop shooting,” she snapped at my father. “It’s a wedding, not a bacchanal.” She stopped, stared at me, aghast. I smiled. Her hand covered her mouth. She shivered, swayed, and dropped to one knee. I heard the faint rip of material. My father rushed to her. Soon practically everyone in the house surrounded her.

“Make room,” yelled Aunt Wasila, rudely pushing people aside. “Don’t crowd her. She needs to breathe.” The bey, who was bending to help my mother, was unceremoniously shoved aside with the others. “Clear out. Guests will be arriving soon.”

“I thought he was a ghost,” my mother told my father.

“He’s not, my dear. He’s all real.” His concern made his smile seem wistful. “Are you all right?” He helped her stand.

“She’ll be fine. Just give her a few minutes.” Aunt Wasila took my mother by the hand and led her back toward the corridor. “You,” she called to me, “come in and speak to your mother while she recovers.” On the floor, a fallen pearl gleamed in her wake.

Maria awoke in dimness. She felt woozy and disoriented until she realized that the bed was swaying gently. She asked, “Where am I?” and Arbusto, covered in darkness, said, “At sea. Toward Genoa.” Maria tried to guess at what had happened. She considered what had befallen her, such humiliation after such glory. She wept in silence and surrendered her fate to God. For three days and three nights, tears were her lovers, her intimates. And on the third day, a storm erupted.

The sky unleashed its waters, filling the sea beyond its brim. The only light to lead the way was lightning, and thunder called the boat in every direction. A fateful gale broke the mast. Storms and squalls battered the lonely ship for days and weeks and months and months. Sailors lost their sanity, and their captain lost control of his vessel. On the day the storms abated, Arbusto climbed to the deck of the ship, which was moored on the shallow shores of an island.

“Where are we?” Arbusto asked the captain, who replied that the island was called Tabish. A neglected monastery peeked above the woods blanketing the island. The captain sent the passengers ashore with his men, who had to cut wood to repair the ship’s battered ribs of oak.

Upon the deserted island, Maria felt even weaker, and labor overwhelmed her. “I must relieve myself,” she informed her kidnapper, and walked into the woods. Arbusto did not object, nor did he accompany her, for he knew the island presented no possible escape. Into the forest she marched and marched, concentrated on one step followed by another, did not dwell on her hopelessness. She reached the monastery and climbed upon the abandoned altar, where she delivered a baby boy as beautiful as the new moon. Maria covered her son in her robe, kissed him, and said, “Your fate, food to hungry fish, is certain if you accompany me. I leave you in God’s house, to His mercy.” She closed her wet eyes, knelt on her weary knees, and prayed. “Promise me, O servant of this holy site, in the name of God and all His illustrious prophets. Guard this boy, and protect him from any evil that may prey upon his soul.”

She left her boy and returned to the ship. A week later, she was brought before her father in Genoa. Arbusto realized that, if he could pass as a king’s judge, why not as a priest. He donned the apparel of a man of God and led Maria to an audience with the king, who asked his daughter, “Have you abandoned your faith?”

“I have abandoned more than that.”

“You must be punished for marrying a Muslim,” her father said. “You will be a prisoner in your quarters for the rest of time.” And a weeping Maria spent her days gazing out her window, waiting for God’s redemption.

The tear was on the left hip of my mother’s dress, minor but conspicuous. Aunt Wasila knelt and examined it. My mother swiveled sideways before the full-length mirror, her hand smoothing the rent fabric. “Let’s try to tape it from the back,” she said.

I wondered why Aunt Wasila was being so helpful. She had always kept her distance from the family, and all the more since Uncle Wajih had passed away four years earlier.

“Tape is tacky,” Aunt Wasila said. “It’s a small tear. Where’s your sewing kit?”

“You look great,” I murmured.

“You don’t,” my mother said. “Go change.”

I explained that my bag hadn’t arrived yet. She asked if I was having any problems in Los Angeles. Dissatisfied with my simple no, she asked about school. Aunt Wasila pulled a long thread through the rip.

“I thought you’d need me,” I said.

My mother relaxed visibly. “That’s sweet. Now, comb your hair. You’re wearing jeans to your sister’s wedding. What’s this world coming to?”

My cousin Mona knocked and entered, paying Aunt Wasila no mind. “Lina wants to know why her brother hasn’t gone in to see her,” Mona said, and laughed. “Although she didn’t exactly call him her brother.”

Lina kicked out all our girl cousins when I entered her room. “They fuss so much that I end up trying to soothe their nerves instead of the other way round.” She sat on a taboret, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. Her makeup was done, and she already had on her wedding dress. All that was left was pinning the veil. “Are you trying to steal my thunder?” she asked.

“When have I ever been able to do that?” I sat down on the bed. My feet hurt. “How can I compete when you look so grand?”

“You’re being so nice. How come? Are you sober?”

I stretched out on her bed, sank my head into her pillow, breathed in her perfumes. I fervently wished that we could lie there and listen to David Bowie or be howled and moaned at by Led Zeppelin, the two of us. She stood up, and I tried to see if she’d gained weight. She stood taller than anyone in the family. My mother was tall as well, but she was thin and bony. Lina wasn’t fat, but she could fill a dress, which made it difficult to gauge her weight. She sat on the bed, leaned back on her arms. “I wish I could lie down, but my hair would be a disaster if I did.”

I got on my knees, crushed two pillows together, and placed them at the foot of the bed. “Lie this way,” I said. “Trust me.”

She lay back gently, her neck held up by the pillows, and her hair floating in air. She patted the bottom half of her dress, which seemed to rise like a soufflé once she was prone. “Take my shoes off. Ah, that’s much better.”

I lay back down and had a close encounter with her white-stockinged feet. I scrunched my nose. She wiggled her toes. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said. “And I’m so happy that you’re not asking me stupid questions.”

“There are too many. I didn’t know where to begin. Where are you going to live?”

“Don’t start,” she said.

“I’m not asking why, I’m just being practical. I’m not asking if you love him or anything like that. Where are you going to live? You can’t go to the barracks, or wherever he’s holed up these days. He certainly can’t live here with you as long as he’s fighting.”

“We’ll buy a place when the war is over. Until then, we’ll keep going like this. It won’t be for long. We’ll make do.”

“How will he support you? You quit school. Why? You’re the smartest person I know.”

“I’ll finish later. Look, I’ll make it work. Shut up. I’m resting.”

Marouf and his men could not find any bandits or brigands. He inquired at every village along the way whether anyone knew of a band of scoundrels who had waylaid an innocent merchant. Soon he began to guess at the merchant’s mendacity. Marouf returned to Deir ash-Shakeef to discover his wife gone. “I am a vain and daft man,” he declared.

He sent out parties to search for the deceitful villain. One party followed Arbusto’s trail to the city of Jaffa, where it was discovered that he had sailed on a ship bound for Genoa. Marouf called his men. “I will set sail and retrieve my wife and butcher everyone involved in this perfidy. Return to the Fort of Marqab, and perform my duties until I return.”

In Genoa, Marouf set forth toward the king’s palace. He unsheathed his sword and prepared to attack the gate, but a fork-tailed swallow circled his weapon twice and flew before him. Marouf followed the swallow’s flight and reached one of the palace’s towers, which was covered with a blooming canary vine. He heard faint weeping, which pinched his heart, for he recognized the sounds of his beloved. “I hear you,” he called.

He climbed the vine, clinging to nooks and fissures in the stones, until he reached the topmost window. Inside, he saw his wife sitting before a still loom.

“Who goes there?” Maria asked.

“I am Marouf, your husband.”

Maria whimpered and mewled. “You, Marouf, search for me, but you will not find me yet. I am as alive as this wrecked loom, and as empty as this dispirited yarn. Without my son, I do not exist, and without your son, you are not a man. He is on an island called Tabish. Bring me my son or I will not leave this mausoleum.”

Marouf joined his wife in weeping. He climbed down the tower, returned to the port, and sailed for Tabish. He searched the island. He scaled its hills, unseated its rocks, uprooted its trees. He tore up its monastery brick by brick, log by log. He could not find his son. Marouf knelt before the uncompromising sea and cried again, bemoaning the capriciousness of fate. “By the life of my father, and his father before him, and his father before all, I swear upon their blood that pulses through my veins, I will find my son, my blood, my life.”

“It’s almost time,” my mother said. She made Lina stand up and display herself. My mother, Aunt Samia, and the girls made sure that nothing was left to chance. No one seemed satisfied with the dress. It wasn’t store-bought, but it was definitely designer-rushed.

“You’re so beautiful,” Aunt Samia said. “You make us proud.” Lina looked perplexed, as if she weren’t sure the conversation was about her. “Look at her,” Aunt Samia told Mona. “Look how she carries herself. This is how a bride should be on her wedding night.” What I had never thought I would see, a blushing Lina, manifested itself before my eyes. “Learn from her, my daughter. Her head always high, beaming, full of confidence. If only my mother could see you now. She would be proud, just as I am.”

My mother took my sister’s hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.

“Get the veil,” Aunt Samia said. “You don’t want your father to have to wait when he gets here.” She held the fabric in her hand and examined it like a tester at a textile factory. “Are you using it as a train? Come on, girls. Make yourselves busy.” She turned to me. “What are you doing in this room, my boy? Get out of here. We have to talk about the honeymoon, and you shouldn’t be hearing this.”

“There won’t be a honeymoon yet,” Lina said. “He doesn’t have time. We’ll do it when the war ends.”

Aunt Samia’s face twitched. It seemed for an instant that her energy was about to crumble, but she caught herself in time. “That’s a great thing, if you ask me. Why go on a honeymoon and leave your loved ones behind while a war is going on? I didn’t have a good time on my honeymoon, so I don’t recommend them. My husband slept for the whole week in Cairo. You don’t believe me? Go out and ask him what was the best thing he saw in Cairo and he’ll tell you the pillow at the Hilton. You’ll probably have to wake him up to ask him, but he’ll tell you. Honeymoons — honeymoons are not for our family.”

“Are you ready?” my mother asked. She shooed everyone from the room. “If you want to see the bride come out, you had better be out yourselves.”

I looked at Lina, and she shook her head for me to stay. At the door, my mother announced, “I’ll send your father in a minute.”

“Mother,” Lina called. My mother stopped and turned around. She waited for Lina to say something, but Lina couldn’t speak. My mother closed the door and walked toward her.

“I want to kiss you,” my mother said, “but it’s not a good idea. Air kisses, however, won’t harm the makeup.” My mother held both of Lina’s hands, and they air-kissed three times. My mother walked toward the door. “You’d better be ready.”

My father, dapper and lordly, held his hand out to my sister. Lina hesitated, snatched one last glance at her reflection, and moved toward him. Arm in arm, they took one step and faltered. “I’m leading,” my father joked. They recommenced, but the march still looked off-kilter, as if my father had practiced for this moment all his life and life decided not to cooperate.

I had expected my father to be more subdued, but I had underestimated his resilience. He didn’t appear to be a man who had just survived the death of a second brother, his best friend at that. I lagged behind, stopped, and watched them as they passed down the darkened corridor into the light of the living room. Cheering, applause, whistles, and ululations broke out loud enough to obliterate Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March” piping out of the speakers. Someone, I assumed Uncle Akram, began drumming the derbakeh. A woman burst into the mountain wedding song, a paean to the beautiful bride. By the time I reached the end of the corridor, my father had handed his daughter to Elie, who was desperately trying to look confident in a suit instead of his usual fatigues. Elie looked around at the crowd before quickly kissing Lina — a brief peck to signify eternal commitment. Uncle Akram, visibly upset with Mendelssohn’s discordant competition, knocked the record player with his thigh. A scratch was heard, and then the strings stopped, and Uncle Akram banged the drum harder, with a faster syncopation.

The newlyweds carved the cake. Elie tried to put his arm through Lina’s, but the fork kept getting in the way. A piece of cake fell on her sleeve and to the floor. She laughed. My mother shook her head. A couple of kids reached for the fallen morsel. The bey’s grandson, bundled up in two sweaters despite the room’s heat, stuffed the cake into his mouth. Our future bey looked up to Lina, opened his mouth wide, extended his tongue, and showed her the piece of extra-moist cake in his mouth.

Everyone seemed in a festive mood, but it wasn’t just the wedding. Wartime parties are always inhibition-loosening, euphoric affairs. I tried to talk to Elie, but he seemed to be avoiding me — and the rest of the family, for that matter. It was disconcerting to see a militiaman with dozens of fighters under his command, a killer of men, desperately avoid making eye contact. When I cornered him to offer best wishes, he interrupted by blurting, “It’s not my fault. It was supposed to be just fun,” sounding like a terrified four-year-old, his eyes expanding to encompass the top half of his face.

• • •

My feet were sore, my arches throbbed. The last of the guests were filing out, but it wasn’t yet time to break up the receiving line. Lina looked the most tired of all, whereas Elie seemed to be gaining strength as the festivities wore on. Aunt Wasila and her children left with the guests, as did Uncle Halim and his family. Aunt Samia took off her heels and began to help the servants clear the tables, until my mother asked her to stop.

“Give me twenty minutes to freshen up and I’ll be ready to go,” Lina told Elie.

He cleared his throat. “It’s probably best if I go back to Beirut with my men.” He could not lift his gaze from his shoes. “They have to be there just in case, and — uhmm — I don’t think it’s right if there’s a fight and I’m not there. We might get attacked.”

“On your wedding night?”

“Well, the enemy bastards don’t care about my wedding night,” he stammered.

“I guess you should go, then,” Lina said.

“Yes, I guess I should.” He backed away with slow, irresolute steps. “Thank you, everyone. That was a great wedding.” He looked briefly at my mother. “I wish my family could have been here. Thank you.” He walked out, hollered at his inebriated men. They got in three battered Range Rovers and sped down the hill toward the city. In the distance, Beirut, enveloped in utter darkness, swallowed the red rear lights whole.

“I guess I should change anyway,” Lina said.

“Yes,” my mother replied. She sat on the sofa and propped her feet on the small ottoman. “Change into something more comfortable, and I’ll make you a good scotch.”

As soon as Lina went into her room, my father allowed his rage to conquer his face. He dumped his body next to my mother. His heat and intensity radiated across the room. I knew that if he said one thing he would explode.

“I’ll make you a good scotch, too,” my mother said.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Aunt Samia said. “Maybe they will get attacked tonight.”

“Ha,” my mother snorted. “You shouldn’t have said that.” She shook her head. “Ha.” She asked my father, “Is there anyone we can call?” My father chuckled.

You might have asked yourself what happened to the boy. You might have wondered why his father did not find him. Listen. Another storm brewed the waters of the Mediterranean and forced a ship carrying Kinyar, the king of Thessaly, to the island of Tabish. The king and his crew explored the island and discovered the monastery. “This is the cuddliest child my royal eyes have ever seen,” announced Kinyar. He reached out to pick up the son of Marouf and Maria, but a powerful slap knocked him on his behind. He looked around in terror. His men drew their weapons. They saw nothing. “Why do you smite me?” Kinyar asked the monastery. “I am the father of this boy, come to deliver him to his mother.” He reached for the infant again, and this time he was not felled. He ran out with the boy, and his men rushed after him, fumbling and stumbling. They stole away on their ship.

The galleon from Thessaly stopped a pilgrim ship heading toward the Holy City. The king boarded the captured ship and declared, “I seek a volunteer, a wet nurse to feed my child. I will slay you all unless you give me what I want.”

A young nun said, “I have given my life before and I will give it once more. There is no need for all of us to die.” Kinyar took her to his ship and allowed her companions to go their way. The nun exposed her breast to the hungry boy, and milk miraculously flowed. “The baby will live,” the nun said, and Kinyar said, “I will call him Taboush, after the island that offered him to me.”

We had an early breakfast the morning following the wedding. My father had a piece of bread stuck in his throat. He coughed, smacked his chest, and reached for his glass of water. My mother kept watch, with a mild concern, from across the table. He cleared his throat, lit a cigarette, and sipped his coffee. “I’m going to check on our home,” he announced.

“There’s nothing to check on.” My mother spread butter on her toast. She was the only one in the family who buttered her bread. “We took everything that’s of any value.”

“I have to check on the building. Unless we make our presence felt, we’ll have squatters moving in.”

“The reason we don’t have squatters is that the neighborhood is still dangerous. Be reasonable. It’s not worth the risk, and your showing up once a month isn’t going to stop refugees from taking over.”

“I’ll be careful,” he said.

A bit later, I told my mother I was taking a long walk and sneaked into the car with him. If my mother didn’t approve of my father’s going to the old neighborhood, she certainly wouldn’t have wanted me to tag along. “Onward to our next adventure,” he said. We passed many checkpoints along the way, crossing from one militia zone into the next, and none gave us any trouble. You could probably encounter every militia and every denomination driving from our mountain village to the neighborhood in Beirut.

We arrived, and I felt off-balance. Our neighborhood hadn’t been hit as badly as others, but it was scarred. It was also Twilight Zone uninhabited.

My father checked each apartment. In ours, the furniture was shrouded with dusty linen, but anything that would fit into a car had been moved. Only one window was broken. I went to my room. My bed, bookshelf, and dresser looked like giant misshapen children dressed as ghosts for Halloween. My father gave Uncle Jihad’s apartment a cursory inspection. He didn’t wish to tarry there. I lingered. I walked around the living room and dining room. The coverings in this apartment had a palpable finality.

Uncle Jihad’s numerous obsessions were notorious. He was a devoted Italophile, a Brueghel aficionado, a film buff, a lover of folktales, and a collector of rare stamps, movie magazines, miniature crystal sculptures, matchboxes, restaurant menus, and Lebanese earthenware. His apartment used to be full of his essence, knickknacks and whatnots all over the place. Everything had been cleared out. Almost everything. Discarded on the floor I found a postcard of a Brueghel painting, Mad Meg, one of his favorites. Two things I could never forget about the painting, the determined look of Mad Meg herself, the I-will-get-what-is-rightfully-mine-in-this-hellhole attitude, and the giant freak using a poker to empty his butt of its contents while the crowd below him eagerly waited for the about-to-fall treasure. I picked up the card and examined the browns and ochers and reds, the weird creatures in hell, the spears and shields and misplaced heads, the animals and half-ships and battlements, and the woman, seemingly the only full human, an unsheathed sword in her right hand, a basket of goodies in her left, a filled bag tucked in at her waist, walking with a helmet and a steely determination. She got what she came for and it was time to leave. Just as I remembered. I pocketed it.

I walked into the den, and the movie wall was still up. It could not be moved. Through the years, Uncle Jihad had cut out images from movie magazines, particularly Italian ones, and had pasted a collage onto the whole wall. A window had been broken in the den, and a piece of glass had embedded itself in a picture of the Ferris wheel in The Third Man. I pulled it out and cut my index finger. I shoved my finger in my mouth and sucked on my wound.

I began to see the wall with Zen eyes. Movie stars stared back. At least three Marilyns, one in which she sat in a director’s chair, looking back. Jane Fonda in Klute and Barbarella, Bette Davis in Jezebel and Now, Voyager, Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Warren Beatty as Clyde lay on top of Faye Dunaway as Bonnie. Marlon Brando sat next to Jack Nicholson. Sophia Loren broke down on her knees in Two Women, Anna Magnani broke down in any one of her movies. Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour, Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago. Hedy Lamarr in a long evening gown, her left arm behind her back, the hand encircling the right elbow, the poster saying “Il piu grande film per la stagione 1948–49, Disonorata.” Katharine Hepburn shared a scene with John Wayne, Glenda Jackson got off a train, Shirley MacLaine looked astonished. Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer performed with the von Trapp kids. A horrified Joan Crawford, subtitled So che mi uccidrerai! Shirley Temple, Cary Grant, Clark Gable, Jimmy Stewart. Three-quarter view of Sissy Spacek and Shelley Duvall. A shirtless James Dean. A shirtless Sean Connery. Three versions of a mustached Burt Reynolds. Natalie Wood running joyfully toward her youth-gang boyfriend. Maria Callas sitting in an alcove in Pasolini’s Medea. Olivia de Havilland, Twiggy, and Ingrid Bergman. All the colors faded except for Marlene Dietrich’s lipstick, which seemed to have been touched up, her cigarette interrupting the red. A shark, Robert Shaw, Roy Scheider, and Richard Dreyfuss advertised the film Lo squalo. Gene Kelly dancing, Johnny Weissmuller as Tarzan. Beach scenes from Dr. No and From Here to Eternity. Dustin Hoffman with a woman’s thigh and on a horse surrounded by Indians. The Oscar in multiples. The delicious underarm of Rita Hayworth in Gilda, the sumptuous eyes of Elizabeth Taylor in A Place in the Sun. Mae West, belle of the nineties. Franco Nero, gorgeous with a five-o’clock shadow, Robert Redford and Paul Newman, Steve McQueen in Tom Horn, William Holden and Kim Novak, Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. Ursula Andress, Romy Schneider, and Dalida. Judy Garland, Judy Garland, Judy Garland.

But in the lower right corner, one image was scraped away, with the wall’s plaster showing through. I didn’t have to be told who scraped it off or what picture it was. After Uncle Jihad’s death, my father wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see the image of Alan Bates and Oliver Reed kissing fiercely. My father must have spent quite a bit of time scraping.

My finger still bled. I dabbed the blood around my lips and kissed the forlorn space. The red imprint of my lips matched Marlene’s.

Fourteen

Adam was bored. The Garden was lovely, but he wanted someone to talk to. “Dear God,” he prayed, “I need company.” God gave him a mate. Out of his tail, a woman was created, but Marwa turned out to be as mischievous as a monkey. Adam was not happy. “Dear God, I need better company.” Eve was brought forth from the thirteenth rib of his right side. Decent women can claim Eve as their ancestor. All giddy girls are descendants of Marwa.

This legend has a Jewish counterpart in that of Lilith, who was created at the same time as Adam, of the same dust. “I am your equal,” she said. “I will not lie helpless beneath you. I, too, seek fulfillment.” Adam was not happy. God made Eve from his side, to stand by him, to support him, to submit to him.

And Lilith? Lilith coupled with demons on the shores of the Red Sea. God forsook her.

I cannot tell you whether Fatima is a descendant of Lilith or Marwa, but I can tell you she had little to do with Eve.

In her part of the world, Fatima was famous — infamous, if you prefer, but not in the Western sense. She wasn’t a film star, her face didn’t appear in magazines, her name wasn’t bandied about in professional journals. She was famous in Arab terms, in discreet terms: she was talked about. No story was juicy enough if Fatima wasn’t on the gossiper’s tongue. Fatima didn’t couple with demons. She preferred short, filthy-wealthy Gulf Arabs, and “coupling” wouldn’t be the right word to use. Her reputation was solidified with her first marriage — solidified, mind you, for she’d already developed one by simply being Mariella’s little sister.

Story of her first marriage: June 1981, I had just graduated from UCLA and was hired as a computer engineer and programmer by Ellisen Engineering, the only company I’d ever work for. Fatima was studying psychology at the University of Rome and was due to graduate. She didn’t. Like my sister before her, she got married. Unlike my sister’s, her marriage lasted longer than her wedding, but not by much. He was an inordinately rich Saudi prince, a young one, one of numerous siblings, not in any line to rule, maybe a ministry one day. He met her in Rome and was besotted. He had never known anyone like her, he claimed, and probably would never again. “I liked him all right” was what Fatima would always say. His family wasn’t too happy but didn’t disapprove. The boy was Saudi, after all, and he had at least three more chances to improve his selection. The trouble began at the wedding, which I couldn’t attend because of work. It seemed the prince’s mother and his homely sisters kept good-naturedly pestering the bride, joking and demanding that she get pregnant. “Shouldn’t we finish the wedding first?” she replied. Two months later, when her mother-in-law inquired if Fatima might be pregnant, Fatima rolled up a newspaper — a Lebanese Al-Nahar—and smacked the princess on the nose three times: Don’t — smack — put your nose — smack — in my business — smack. As horrifying as that was, puppy-training her mother-in-law wasn’t the reason for the divorce. Horror of horrors, the prince took his wife’s side. When, finally, the prince’s father asked his son if Fatima had ever laid a hand on him, the prince turned crimson, and the nature of the couple’s sexual relationship was discovered. Even that could have been hushed up — this was the Arab world, after all — if the prince hadn’t admitted, much to his humiliation, that, even though they had been having sex since they met, he had yet to earn coitus. Straw, meet camel.

During his eighth-birthday celebration, Shams and his disciple were having laughing fits. It began innocently enough. The royalty and notables of the land lined up to offer the young prophet gifts and receive his blessing in return. Shams would whisper into Layl’s ear, and the two of them would giggle. The emir’s wife could hear what they were whispering, and she realized that the worshippers could as well: This one had a big nose. That one had body odor. The two red parrots were perched atop the throne, and the violet parrot, the one the emir’s wife hated most for his frequent use of obscenities, had settled atop the sun altar. All three were chuckling. But then the dark slave boy began to whisper into the prophet’s ear, and the prophet blushed and covered his mouth.

“Give us a funny face,” Shams commanded the genuflecting matronly princess.

“Funny face?” the confused princess asked. She nervously adjusted the sheer scarf covering her hair.

“Yes,” said the prophet, grinning. “Give us a funny face. A good one.”

“Now, dear,” the emir’s wife interjected, trying to appear calm, “you cannot ask such things of your wonderful supplicants. It is not mannerly.”

“What is the point of being a fornicating prophet,” Adam said, “if you can’t command the faithful?”

“No funny face, no blessing,” decreed the prophet.

“I do not understand, my lord,” said the princess. “I will offer any gift that pleases you. I do not know what a funny face is, or else I would gladly offer it.”

“This is a funny face.” Layl stuck his tongue out and pushed his nose up.

“This is better.” Shams pulled his mouth wide and stretched his eyelids with his fingers. “You better give us your funniest face. No blessing if it is not your best face.”

“You desire and I obey, my lord.” The princess jammed two fingers up her nose, stuck her tongue all the way out to the left, and surprised everyone by crossing her eyes. The boys screeched and buried their heads in the throne’s big pillow, their legs scissoring the air in delight. The princess smiled, proud of herself.

“Wait,” said the beautiful prophet, settling down. He placed his palm atop the princess’s head, squashed the scarf into her jewel-adorned hair. The whole room saw her body shudder with ecstasy and glow with joy. After she kissed the prophet’s hand and stood up, everyone gasped. Ten years had disappeared from her face. The emir’s wife thrust a mirror at her, and the princess yelped. She turned back to the prophet and kissed his feet over and over. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she mumbled.

• • •

On his eleventh birthday, the beautiful prophet and his faithful companion faced the adoring horde. Every year, the number of pilgrims had increased, and when the emir’s wife spread the word that the prophet would be giving his first sermon, thousands upon thousands of devotees arrived from the four corners of the earth. They sat, they stood, they covered the land to the horizon, buzzing with anticipation and good cheer.

“Blessed are you, my people,” Shams began. “Blessed are those of you who have traveled for weeks on your pilgrimage. I am grateful and not worthy of such devotion.” Shams hesitated, and Layl whispered into his ear. “Blessed are you who pray to God, but He demands more. From now on, you must pray eight times a day at least.” He nodded at his audience. “Yes, it is true. You must pray every three hours. Worry not. You will get used to sleeping in two-hour shifts. It is much healthier. Rejoice and be exceedingly glad. Oh, and bathing. You must bathe before each prayer, eight times a day. If we bathed more often, we would not smell so bad when there are a lot of us. Exult.” Layl nudged his twin, who rambled on. “And no farting.” Layl turned his head to hide his snickering. “I decree that if you have to fart you must fart downwind. Before you fart, make sure to gauge the wind’s direction. I decree further that silent farts are to be banned. Others must know who the guilty party is. And hear this, for I have a warning. If you fart silently upwind, a double transgression, there will be no absolution. You will not be able to wear my colors.”

“Unless you get a doctor’s note,” chimed Layl.

It took one devotee to laugh heartily before a few others hesitantly joined him. The emir’s wife chided her son: “You promised to stick to the script.”

“Blessed are the poor,” Shams announced. “They do not have much.”

The laughter rippled through the crowd. Devotees cheered and applauded. “What about marital decrees?” someone shouted.

“Well, you cannot marry your mother — or your father, for that matter. A wife must be no taller than her husband, and no more than a hand shorter. You must never use the word ‘ambidextrous’ when your spouse is in the room, or ‘hair.’ That is much more challenging. You can use the word ‘hair’ with strangers or with friends, but never with your wife.”

“What about diet restrictions?” another devotee yelled.

“Yes. You cannot cook a lamb in its mother’s milk. You cannot mix fruits in savory dishes, only in dessert.”

“And no broccoli,” said Layl.

“I am the prophet of these lands, and I am not going to eat any more broccoli.”

As the masses cheered, the emir’s wife pleaded with the prophet to end his sermon.

What was the reputation of Fatima’s sister? Who was Mariella, the great Mariella?

Rewind to January 1975, a few months before the civil war erupted. My class and the senior class took a ski trip to The Cedars. To break the monotony of the three-hour drive from Beirut, our bus stopped at Hilmi’s, a lemonade shop in the town of Batroun. It was a Sunday at six in the evening, and the shop was busy, filled with skiers on the way back to the city. With the influx of all the students, there was hardly a place to stand.

A threesome of seniors, the most popular boys in school, cut in before Fatima and me. One of the boys was the captain of the varsity soccer team. Fatima decided that maneuvering around a crowd for lemonade was too much trouble, and she walked outside. Her exit was fortunate, because she missed running into her sister. I heard Mariella’s laugh before I saw her. She held a translucent cup of lemonade with a lipstick-smeared straw sticking out. “If this place was such a secret,” she said loudly, “how come there’s an infestation of people?”

Her companion didn’t look amused. Tall and dark, he wore a grim face and a soldier’s uniform, but it was not that of the regular army. “So it’s not a secret, but it’s the best lemonade.”

“You obviously haven’t been to Rome.” Mariella walked toward the exit; she didn’t have to squeeze through the mob, which parted like Moses’s sea to make way for her. Her red wool dress would have been short on a ten-year-old. She noticed me in the crowd, and her eyes smiled an instant before her lips spread into an unequivocal grin. “Osama,” she squealed. “My darling.”

She tousled my hair and kissed my astonished lips. Esmeralda stunned Quasimodo. She winked to let me in on the silly game. “Where have you been hiding, you pretty thing?” she asked. I doubted anyone would believe her charade, but I assumed that wasn’t the point. “Will you come see me soon?” Her voice was coy and disarming. “I miss you terribly.” She walked away, still looking at me, and blew me a kiss once she reached the door. “Call me,” she yelled. Her companion glared. He was a good head and a half taller than I.

The soccer captain quickly positioned himself beside me. “You know Mariella Farouk?” His voice was surprisingly low and hesitant. “She’s hot, isn’t she?” His eyes were a light brown, possibly hazel, with three random flecks of maroon stationed differently in each. “Do you know her well?” he asked. “Umm, are you good friends? Have you known each other for a while? She’s going to compete for Miss Lebanon. I’m sure she’ll win.”

One of his friends jumped in. “They say she gives the best head, which is remarkable in a way. You’d think a girl who looks like her wouldn’t have to. You know, an ugly girl should try harder and all that, but, no, she’s gorgeous and she likes it. You can’t beat that.”

I shuddered and felt my face flush. “She’s Fatima’s sister,” I exclaimed.

The soccer captain shoved his friend. “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Let’s get some lemonade.”

As the bus climbed the mountain to the ski resort, a confused Fatima, in the aisle seat next to me, tried to make sense of why the soccer captain had rushed to a seat across from her and was trying to engage her in small talk. It took all of two minutes for her to grow bored and feign sleep, her head nestled on my shoulder.

A few months later, when the battles erupted in Lebanon, Mr. Farouk asked his wife to take their two daughters back to Rome, where she was from, to remain until the events in Beirut stabilized. Mariella refused to leave. She was having too good a time. She was an adult at nineteen. She had a life. No silly skirmishes were going to interfere with her plans.

Mr. Farouk was killed first, in 1976. He was kidnapped by one of the militias, tortured, and slain. His mangled body was found in a ditch on Mazra Street. He was the first person I knew who died because of the civil war. His death completely overwhelmed Fatima, but not Mariella. He was well loved and respected, which meant that quite a few people, including my father, worked for many a day and sleepless night to get him released, but it was for naught, since no one could figure out which militia had kidnapped him and for what reason. He was ostensibly an apolitical Iraqi Christian with no known enemies. Fear of the irrational, of the random, caused stories to bubble up in explanation. Mr. Farouk was actually a CIA operative. He was an Israeli spy. He was a Syrian spy. He was a journalist writing the only true story exposing the conspiracy of the great nations against Lebanon. He was an Iraqi royal. He was a once-famous Latvian actor who ran afoul of the Soviet propaganda machine. His death had meaning.

Even though her father’s murder should have offered Mariella an inkling of the dangers that could befall her, she was too involved to notice. Mariella would never have seen herself as a victim; she was a player. Like a lesser-stage Evita, she moved up the ranks, from one militiaman to another (Elie had been a practice run, a steppingstone). She was able to switch sides and back again a few times. The insignia on the uniform didn’t matter, the size of the gun did. Any other woman would have been terminated, but her talent made her untouchable, at least for a while.

Mrs. Farouk called my mother daily from Rome. She begged, whimpered, and pleaded with my mother to help Mariella, make her call Rome, make her stop the lunacy. Mariella didn’t want or need my mother’s help. In fact, she helped us. Once, when our family got trapped in Beirut, Mariella sent a jeep to pick us up and ferry us to the safety of the mountains — safe for us, but risky for the driver and the accompanying bodyguard. Fatima would call her sister constantly, but Mariella had stopped listening to anyone.

The soccer captain was right — she was crowned Miss Lebanon, but she was shot before she could make it to the Miss Universe contest. By the time she entered the Miss Lebanon competition, her reputation was such that a vote against her meant a judicious end to a judge’s life. She won even though she wasn’t a Lebanese citizen. More astonishing, she won even though she had bypassed the talent competition.

It is said that she retained her temper and her tantrums. The story of her death became infamous. She had survived dumping power-hungry militia leaders; she had survived crossing from east to west and vice versa; she had survived a lover’s discovering her in bed with his underling. (The underling was more respected and promptly replaced the jilted man. Was Mariella an expert at leadership assessment, or was the mere fact that the underling bedded his superior’s girlfriend a cause for immediate respect? One wonders.) What proved fatal was accusing her last lover in front of other fighters of having an inadequate dick.

Over the years, Fatima had expended great energy in debunking theories that she was who she was in response to her older sister. She called all such talk psychoanalytic psychobabble, and irrelevant to boot.

But once, when we were kids, Mariella showed me a pendant she’d received for her birthday. “It’s a real emerald. My birthstone, and it matches my eyes.”

Brown-eyed Fatima had an indecent fondness for emeralds.

The boys began to spend more time in the world. They played in the grand garden, accompanied and watched over by the colorful parrots. The emir’s wife could see them throwing stones at an old elm tree’s trunk. She called to Shams from her balcony, but he pretended not to hear. She, on the other hand, could hear their joyous shrieks quite well. She called again, but her son only glanced up at her and returned to his playing. He threw a stone at the trunk, and from out of nowhere, a devotee jumped in front of the target and the stone struck her forehead. She covered her wound with both hands, bowed down before her prophet, and repeated, “Thank you, thank you,” before running away with the injurious stone in her possession.

The green parrot squawked a warning, and the boys left the garden quickly. Three ecru-clothed devotees popped out from behind the hedges, too late to catch a glimpse of their adored.

And, for the seventh time that morning, the emir’s wife wished her son’s dark slave an ignominious death. Tear him into a hundred pieces and roast the parrots and eat them all. One of the handmaids cleared her throat, interrupting the sumptuous reverie, and offered a letter once her presence was acknowledged. “Who is this from?” asked the emir’s wife.

“I do not know, mistress,” the servant replied. “The letter appeared on a silver tray placed upon your bed.”

The emir’s wife blanched upon reading the unsigned note: “What you desire can be accomplished with patience and my help. If you wish annihilation of the dark one, seat yourself beneath the third willow at midnight of the seventh night of the moon’s pregnancy.”

• • •

Under the third willow, the emir’s wife sat anxiously, her head covered with her cape. She glanced at the moon for the umpteenth time to make sure this was the proper night. Why was she always early? Royalty should make others wait. The night was still, not a breath of wind, yet the willow’s leaves rustled with a will of their own. She inhaled deeply and felt faint. The world shimmered, and a cloaked woman of manly size sat facing her beneath the second willow. Though the mooned night was bright, the cloak’s shadows hid the stranger’s features.

“Royalty deigns not to speak to a supplicant with a hidden face,” the emir’s wife said.

The woman chuckled and released her cloak, revealing a head and face wrapped in an unnatural haze. “What are you?” the emir’s wife asked. “Trickery does not impress me. I command you to show me your face.”

“Which face would you like to see?” The woman’s voice was as deep as her laugh, throaty and rough. She snapped her fingers and the haze thinned. Her face was atrociously ugly and deformed.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course you do.” The woman snapped her fingers once more and her face transformed into that of the emir’s wife.

“You are a witch.” Horrified, the emir’s wife covered her own face. “Remove that visage at once.”

“As you please.” The woman changed her face into that of an ordinary peasant with unexceptional features.

“Are you a witch?”

“Of a kind. Are you interested in what I am or what I have to offer? I can help you get rid of your nemesis and mine, in time.”

“I do not see how. I have tried everything. I have tried poisoning him, at least a hundred times, used every poison known to man, but the boy does not get so much as an upset stomach. I have hired killers to get rid of him and his mother, bird catchers for the parrots. They mock me. Last month, I had ten archers shoot at Fatima, and the arrows fell short of their target, who simply laughed.”

“Mortal schemes will not injure her, and none will wound him, for he is a demon.”

“Oh, come, come,” the emir’s wife scoffed. “He is an ugly brat, but a demon?”

“He is not just a demon; he will rule their world. He is the king of jinn. Killing him will not be easy, but it can be done. Is it what you desire?”

“Of course it is. Kill him and I will reward you with whatever you wish. My son must be freed from his shadow.”

“I cannot kill the dark one without your help. Throughout the ages, it has been so. To obliterate a demon king, his mother must destroy his life organs.”

“Fatima could never hurt him.”

The woman stared at the emir’s wife and hesitated. “But you can. Consider this: since he and your prophet are inseparable, fate considers him your son. When the time comes, will you have the courage to follow through?”

“Yes. I will destroy his heart.”

“Not his heart. He is a jinni. To kill him, his mother must destroy his testicles.”

“Oh my.” The emir’s wife turned ashen. “He is still only eleven. They are not even functioning yet.”

“Then we must wait until they are.”

More on Fatima: Fast-forward to October 1990, I was twenty-nine, employed, a productive member of society, and Fatima was thirty, on her third marriage, a citizen of the world. Comparing her with my sister once more: After Elie, Lina gave up on marriage, or, really, never thought about it. She actually never thought about Elie, either, never saw him again after the wedding, which she claimed woke her up. On the other hand, after her first marriage, Fatima chose a different track. She upgraded, traded husbands in for better models.

That October, Fatima and my sister decided to visit me in Los Angeles at an inopportune time. Four of us from work were scheduled to attend a self-improvement workshop at the Asilomar Conference, near Carmel. Our boss, a devotee of the seminar’s facilitator, suggested that our attendance would help team-building. I would have been away from Los Angeles for only four days, but neither Fatima nor Lina wished to remain in the city without me.

Lina said she’d come along and stay nearby. The coast was gorgeous. She could take walks on the Asilomar grounds, hike in the rolling hills, shop in Carmel. Fatima — Fatima decided she had to attend the workshop. She would stay in the same hotel as Lina but would spend her days observing the strange rituals of lost souls.

Fatima unclasped her hair, and it bubbled like an inchoate oil well, gushing and falling behind her head. She leaned back in her Adirondack chair, covered her eyes with sunglasses, and adjusted her necklace, making sure that every passerby noticed both the necklace and her bust.

“Why are we here?” she said. “I’m bored. Have you seen the people in that workshop? They’re all healthy as mutts and they’re all complaining. Oh, help me, great fucking guru, I have a hangnail, and I don’t sleep well on nights with a full moon.”

“You keep pushing your bust out like that,” I said, “and everyone will know you’re a tramp.”

My sister, unsure what to make of the California fall weather, walked toward us in a soft cotton dress and a wool cardigan. Her hair was held atop her head with a childish barrette. She seemed fully contained, without needs or trouble, her step light and buoyant.

I found myself between the women, a position I had grown accustomed to.

“Your brother thinks I’m a tramp,” Fatima announced.

“That’s not exactly true,” Lina said. “You’re a whore.”

“I’m not,” she said, distracted and bemused. “I may not be the most virtuous of maidens, but whores do it for money.”

“Oh God,” huffed Lina. “You’ve gotten a hundred times richer with each marriage. Have you ever fucked a guy who wasn’t wealthy?”

“Fucked?” Fatima sat up in her chair, looked around her, pretending shock. “Moi?” Her fingers touched her chest. “You really do think I’m a cheap whore. I don’t fuck my men.”

“And you certainly aren’t cheap. Have you told the boy about your emerald necklace?”

“Not yet. I haven’t had the chance, with all the meditations and healings.”

“She hasn’t told me,” I said, “but she has been brandishing that thing all day.”

“That’s not the one, silly boy,” Fatima said. “Can’t you tell one emerald necklace from another? That one is exquisite.”

“Gaudy,” added Lina.

“Stunning,” said Fatima. “Should I tell him the story?”

“Do,” said Lina.

“Okay. Listen. This is how I found out I liked my husband. He’s ever so sweet. This was in April. We’d been married for a few months. I was in Riyadh because he couldn’t get away and couldn’t be without me. I’m bored and antsy. I get a call from my ex-husband in Doha. He misses me. Tough, I say. He must see me. Boring. He can’t live without me. Practice, I say.”

“Sensitivity is part of her charm,” interrupted Lina.

“Shut up,” Fatima went on. “So he says he regrets running away from me.”

“And leaving behind just a few millions in change,” added Lina.

“It’s my story. Let me tell it. Anyway, I’m not impressed. But he begins to whimper, and you know what hearing a man whimper does to me. He says he’s been to New York, to London, to Berlin, he even went to Thailand, but no one understood his needs the way I did.”

“That would have touched me deeply as well,” Lina said.

“I think why not. I told him to get his ass on a plane and meet me in Rome.”

“But she’s not a whore, mind you.”

“I tell my husband I need a break and I’m going home. He says that’s a wonderful idea, he’ll join me. What could I do? I remind my husband of my rules. No one stays in my house in Rome. It’s my sanctuary in this horrible world. He says he’ll rent a hotel suite. I figure I can leave him in the hotel every now and then and tell him I need to be at home. We’re in Rome. I meet my ex at the Spanish Steps. Not my fault. He’s a tourist. He begins to whimper again: Take me to my room. Take me to my room. I decide to take a walk. Make him beg some more. We go down Via Condotti, a pleasant spring day.”

“You get a full-fledged weather report gratis.”

“Shut up. I’m enjoying this. We’re walking, and it’s not my fault that Bulgari has a great store there, with the most magnificent picture window display. I stop. What woman wouldn’t?”

“Yo,” Lina answered.

“What intelligent woman wouldn’t? In the window, calling my name loudly and repeatedly, is a lovely emerald necklace. My jaw drops. My ex asks me if I like it. Of course I do. He walks into the store. I have to follow him; I can’t stand in the street by myself. He asks to see the necklace, places it on my neck — a match made in heaven.”

“Otherwise known in the holy books as Bulgari in Rome.”

“He buys it for me. One hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. So, of course, I take him to his room.”

“And he’s still in the hospital recovering.”

“He had fun. Anyway, I’m back in my husband’s suite, and I’ve forgotten that I’m wearing the necklace. He asks me about it. I tell him I was taking a walk and saw it in the window and just had to have it. He asks how much it was, and I tell him. And he says no wife of his will ever pay for her own jewelry. He takes out his checkbook and writes me a check for one hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars. Isn’t he sweet?”

“You know, you’re right,” said Lina. “ ‘Whore’ is not the right word. It sounds trite.”

“True,” Fatima said. “It says little about talent.”

“Demimondaine,” I said.

“Yes,” Fatima exclaimed. “That sounds so much more encompassing. I’ve found myself. And here I thought this workshop was a puerile assignment in psychological masturbation. I didn’t even have to endure a dark night of the soul. It’s a bargain. I stared deep into my being and saw my true self. This is who I am. I’m a demimondaine.”

A doe appeared, and two others followed her. Slow, hesitant steps.

My sister yawned and stretched. “You didn’t tell me what she did today.”

“Let her tell you,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy bragging.” Fatima only smiled. I sighed. “One of the women in the workshop showed up with a lot of different crystals, and this one over here asked what they were for. The woman said one was for healing, another was for dreaming, and so on. The grande dame said, ‘Oh, how sweet. My people have quite a bit in common with your people. You collect crystals, and I collect emeralds.’ ”

Lina guffawed, and the startled does ran away terrified.

“Are you getting anything out of the seminar?” my sister asked me. “It doesn’t seem to be work-related, so I can’t figure why your boss is asking his employees to do this.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Misguided, perhaps. If nothing else, it’s a social event, something for us to do outside work. It would have been easier without Fatima giving grief to so many.”

Fatima sat up and faced my sister. “Can you imagine if you asked any of your workers to do something like this? You’re the president of al-Kharrat. Send a memo to all your dealerships. I, Lina al-Kharrat, capo di capi, ask that you attend a self-improvement seminar and meditate. Bring your tarot cards.”

“Shut up.” My sister smiled at me. “Is there something I can do to make up for this one’s behavior?”

I sat up. “You can tell the big whore not to seduce the workshop leader. Everyone was aghast.”

“Me?” Fatima said. “I didn’t do anything. Is it my fault if he spent the entire morning ogling me and showing excitement? No, no, no, shorty. You can’t pin that one on me.”

“Excitement, you say?” Lina asked.

“The whole morning session,” I said. “You know her. Three hours of stretching lazily, readjusting her butt every few minutes. In the middle of the session, she interrupted to suggest that the floor wasn’t very comfortable and asked for a fauteuil. The guy was a goner. The group couldn’t concentrate on anything but the bulge.”

“Was the guru gargantuan?” Lina asked.

“Please,” Fatima replied. “God, when are we leaving?”

A lovely spring day, and nightingales sang in the bushes, and golden finches competed from trees. Gardenias tossed their scent into the air, and narcissi preened. And from her balcony the emir’s wife was shocked at the scene in the garden before her. Her twelve-year-old son lying on his stomach without a stitch of clothing, his white behind saluting the sky, his head nestled between his dark twin’s spread thighs. The dark one, naked and hairless, lying on his back, his head cradled in one hand and his other hand curled into the prophet’s golden strands as Shams licked his testicles, an effortless indulgence. The boys formed a calm, sinewy interlacing of alabaster and onyx. When Layl opened his eyes and noticed the emir’s wife aghast, a devilish grin appeared on his face.

Last Fatima story: Fast forward once more to March 1996. I was depressed; my mother had passed away two years earlier. Fatima took me on a vacation of sorts to lift my spirits.

Liquid heat rose off the asphalt in waves. It was springtime, but the temperature in Riyadh hovered in the hellish. Buildings shimmered and swayed as our car sped by. The tinted glass made them appear sickly and subdued, about to faint from fatigue. The air-conditioning slapped my face and made me shiver. Fatima began putting on her black abayeh, covering an obscene amount of flesh. She didn’t struggle, concealed her body with professional experience. Her head and face remained revealed.

“You’re fucked up,” I said.

“Blah, blather, blah. You’re here, so stop your complaining.” She took a compact from her purse, applied scarlet lipstick, and winked. “Can I help it if you still trust me?”

I floated in the back seat of the Mercedes, its black interior luxurious and gloomy. “You’re fucked up,” I said again.

“Mind your language.” She put away the compact, extricated a brush, and ran it through her hair. “He doesn’t speak English, but I’m sure he knows the word ‘fuck.’ ”

The driver was in full Saudi uniform — headdress and Gucci sunglasses. He intermittently glanced back in the rearview mirror, but we didn’t sustain his interest.

“Tell me you’re not getting married again,” I said. “Please.”

“Oh, no. Fuck that. Enough is enough.”

“Then why are you back here?”

“Diddling,” she said.

“And I’m here as your Sancho Panza.”

“Ta-da! You’re wising up.” She leaned over and impressed a moist kiss on my cheek. I moved my hand to wipe it away, but she held my wrist. “Don’t. Leave it.” She replaced everything in her handbag and zipped it. “Don’t be so petulant. Have I ever failed you? You’ve been sitting alone in that godforsaken joke of a country, grieving your losses and moping. I know it’s hard, but you’ve been at it for too long. I couldn’t cheer you up over there. I thought a real change in scenery would do you good. This is a great place to spend your vacation. It may look ever so dull on the outside, but the stories, darling — the hidden stories are fucking incredible. Watch, listen, and learn. Trust me.”

On cue, the car stopped at the entrance of a grand shopping mall. I grabbed the door handle, but she stopped me. She covered her head, and the veil dribbled over her face. A mysterious woman was birthed before my eyes. The driver opened the door, and I exited. Fatima slid over on the seat and held out her hand, the only skin exposed. Two emerald rings bewitched my eyes. She gently pulled on my hand, helped herself out of the car, and strolled ahead of me, a billowing, flapping black ghost. The clack of her high heels on the pavement, the head held aloft, made her seem like royalty traveling incognito.

A group of three veiled women turned their heads as she passed them. Two men ran to check the license plate of the car, and one of them dialed his cell phone. Fatima walked through the glass doors of the mall seemingly oblivious, but I knew better. I hurried in after her.

She didn’t slow her step inside, didn’t look right or left. The black abayeh was not as formless as it first appeared, its finely sewn lines and folds accentuating her buxom and indolent body. Shoppers whispered in hushed tones as she passed. Men looked utterly confused, their faces showing naked lust and fear. They had no means to approach her. Faltering and off-balance, they ogled. She got on the escalator.

“Am I just supposed to follow you?” I asked.

“Of course, dear, if it makes you happy, but you can walk alongside me, too. I do provide options.” She entered a record store, looked around, moseyed from section to section, and finally headed toward the Arabic compact-disc racks. “Come along.” She ran her graceful fingers through a stack of discs, some of traditional Arabic vocalists, others more contemporary.

“I didn’t know you liked that stuff,” I said.

“I certainly don’t. I’m here for you, dear. This is all for you.” She held up an Umm Kalthoum disc. “Look.” The top of the plastic wrap had been sliced delicately with an X-acto knife. She tore through the wrap with her impeccably manicured fingernails, extracted a handwritten note from the disc box, and read it to me. “ ‘If you like the music of Umm Kalthoum as much as I do, we probably have even more things in common. I’m a good man, twenty-four, gentle, educated, and very respectful of ladies. Let’s talk. Here’s my cell phone number.’ ”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I could only imagine her face as she looked at me, smug, bemused, probably laughing.

“There are others. Look. Kazem al-Saher. Three different discs have notes. These boys are so desperate. So many of them.” She took out another note, different boy, same request.

“That’s sad.”

“It is,” she replied quietly, and sighed. “Damn. Once upon a time, I thought it was amusing.” She chucked the discs onto the rack, crumpled the love notes, and turned around. “Let’s go.” She took out her phone. “I’m ready,” she told her driver.

I followed her down the escalator. “Whenever I feel blue,” she said, “which is not very often, I try to come to Riyadh. I feel so wanted.” She paused. “I’m inspired by the braves.” She marched toward the exit. The automatic doors burped in noxious heat. No fewer than twenty men, Saudis clad in expensive desert robes, waited in the scalding temperature. As soon as the identifying Mercedes reached the curb, they twittered; she was the bell to Pavlov’s dogs.

A tall, handsome man walked quickly toward her. He slipped between us, and his hand touched her ebony abayeh, leaving a small yellow Post-it note on her back, with a handwritten phone number. I squinted, trying to read it, but another man blocked my view as he stuck on another note. Only two braves.

The Post-it notes glimmered in the sun as she walked toward the open door of the Mercedes. Two lonely gold islands in a sea of oil black.

The emir’s wife had an ominous premonition that the prophet’s thirteenth-birthday celebration was going to be a disaster. It was not an unqualified premonition, for she had been witnessing the horrific changes in her son for the previous month. He had become moodier and crankier. His healing powers seemed to be fading, if not disappearing completely. His rebellious heart no longer cared. He would touch the supplicants and no change occurred. He could only pretend to heal for about ten minutes before giving up in a huff and returning to his room.

The emir’s wife could no longer lie to herself about what the twins were doing in that room. She had caught them frolicking in the garden on more than one occasion. And when she tried to reason with him, Shams told her to perform unnatural sexual acts upon herself.

At her wit’s end, she tried to talk to Fatima, her nemesis, who only said, “All boys go through this stage. Leave him be. He is no longer the same person he was as a child. The powers he possessed then have transformed. Guruji has died. Mourn for him, but let him go. None of us is the same person in each stage of our life.” And the emir’s wife hated Fatima even more and promised to dedicate her life to the eradication of that woman.

The largest crowd of all appeared on the morning of the thirteenth-birthday celebration to witness Shams becoming a man. Their prophet and his companion stood before them, drunk on wine, and laughed. And the prophet yelled, “Eat my shit, you dimwitted bastards. Have you nothing better to do? Go home.”

The horrified emir’s wife heard the woman’s voice echo in her head. “It is time.”

Fifteen

I stood before the hospital vending machine and contemplated the latest existential crisis: Was drinking insultingly horrible coffee better or worse than spending the morning decaffeinated? I allowed the machine to slurp my money. Dark, viscous liquid poured out of a crooked funnel. I picked up the paper cup and almost spilled the coffee on Aunt Wasila and her daughter, Dida. My free hand settled above my heart to calm its startled beat. Dida kissed me. I tried not to stare at her nose, which she had recently had cut and reshaped to Anglo-Saxon.

“I won’t kiss you,” Aunt Wasila said. “I know you hate fake sentimentality.” She shoved a baker’s box into my chest, and I could feel it was still warm. “Fresh croissants. And better yet.” She took out a thermos out of her Prada handbag. “Better than that gunk in your hand.” I could have kissed the tiles beneath her feet. “I was hoping that if I arrived early I’d get a chance to see him briefly,” she said. “I know he doesn’t like anyone to see him infirm, but he won’t know I’m there.” I looked from mother to daughter. “Just me,” Aunt Wasila said.

I showed Aunt Wasila to my father’s room, and she stood rigid before his bed, examining and measuring. It was impossible to believe she was his age. Her look, posture, and demeanor did not speak the language of the aged. A momentary fear startled me; I was afraid the aroma of fresh croissants would disturb my unconscious father. My sister poured three cups of coffee out of the thermos. She handed one to Fatima and took a sip. Aunt Wasila nodded at them and turned to leave. I walked her back to the visitor’s room.

Aunt Wasila was our family’s lightning rod. She was to our family what Israel was to the Arab world, the one who could unite everyone in hating her. As soon as she married Uncle Wajih, she embarked on a prolonged war against the family, at times clandestine, at other times overt. Only my mother was spared. Aunt Wasila didn’t consider her an enemy, because she figured out early on that my mother cared not one whit about the family — or about her, for that matter. Both women were outsiders. My mother cherished the role, for she had no wish to belong. Aunt Wasila did, and sought revenge for her exclusion.

On August 6, 1945, the day the Americans dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, our family — my grandfather, my grandmother, their five children, my great-grandmother, and even my great-uncles Jalal and Maan — walked to Aunt Wasila’s village, literally a stone’s throw away, to inquire about the availability of her hand in marriage. According to Uncle Jihad, who was thirteen at the time, everything ran smoothly. Aunt Wasila was surrounded by her mother and numerous aunts. It became obvious that Uncle Wajih was impressed with Aunt Wasila, and the feeling was mutual, because she began to smile, converse, and engage with our family. She would suddenly stand up, grab a tray of refreshments, and run up to the guests, her head snapping right and left, depending on whom she was talking to. Aunt Samia, already twenty-five, wasn’t forgiving of the sixteen-year-old girl. “What does he see in her?” she asked her mother softly. “She moves like a cornered lizard.” Unfortunately, Aunt Wasila’s nephew, who was too young to welcome the guests, was hiding behind the old couch. He heard Aunt Samia’s comment. The next day, our family was informed that Aunt Wasila had chosen another suitor.

It’s hard for me to envision Aunt Wasila as that young village girl. By the time I came into the world, my father’s siblings had all relocated to Beirut, the company was up and running, and Aunt Wasila was never seen in anything but pants except at funerals and weddings. The idea that she was once quasi-innocent, forced to be demure and wear traditional Druze dress, was incomprehensible to anyone who knew her. Compared with her, Margaret Thatcher and Golda Meir were blushing maidens.

Aunt Wasila eventually changed her mind about Uncle Wajih, and they were married in 1946. She moved into my grandparents’ house. That was an arrant family mistake. Aunt Samia believed it was Aunt Wasila who persuaded her husband to ask his parents to move out of their bedroom, which was bigger than the newlyweds’. The bitter internecine war between my aunts erupted. In years to come, many would try to broker a peace between the two women. All attempts were unsuccessful. Aunt Samia felt that her nemesis had committed the most dastardly of sins: she had treated my saintly grandmother with disrespect. As for Aunt Wasila, she could never forgive because she was a congenitally hateful woman.

When I was born, Aunt Wasila had been married for fifteen years and had had enough of the family. Though she lived in the same building, she and her children hardly interacted with us, much to the consternation of my father and Uncle Wajih. By 1974, when Uncle Wajih passed away, the breach was complete, and that shook my father. He tried rapprochement many times and failed abysmally. Once, in 1996, he dragged himself to her house and begged her to relent.

“I’m an old man,” he told her. “I don’t want to go to my grave with my family scattered. I’m not asking that you fall in love with the family, only that we don’t remain so distant. People mock us.”

“I show up to the important functions. I haven’t abandoned the family.”

“I’m asking you to forgive,” my father said.

“Some things can never be forgiven.”

“It was so long ago,” my father pleaded. “It’s almost fifty years now.”

“Some things can never be forgiven.”

On the fortieth day after King Saleh’s death, the king’s council met at the diwan to elect a new leader of the faith. “I should be king,” said many a council member. King Saleh’s widow, Shajarat al-Durr, sent a note with one of her attendants that said, “I am fit to rule.” Some demanded, “The new king must be Arab,” but others came back with “The king should be Turkoman.” The Kurds refused any such suggestion. “There shall be no king who is not a descendant of the king. King Saleh has a son in the city of Tikrit called Issa Touran Shah. He must be king.” The council agreed and dispatched Kurdish envoys with a letter informing their kinsman Issa Touran Shah that he was the new sultan of Islam.

The envoys found the new king drunk in Tikrit, his face buried in the generous breasts of an Ethiopian slave girl, his lips devouring her supple skin. “What can I do for you?” he muttered in between grunts. The messenger handed him the letter, and Issa Touran Shah in turn gave the letter to his girl. “Read it to me,” he said. “My eyes have a higher priority.”

“The world is not everlasting,” read the slave girl. “Your father has passed away.”

“That is bad,” followed by what sounded like the squeal of a piglet.

“You are now king.”

“That is better,” followed by what sounded like the snore of a sated glutton.

King Issa Touran Shah left Tikrit and headed toward the great city of Cairo. In the great city, the king visited the tomb of his father, where he kissed the ground, read the Fatiha, and asked God to guide His servant. God may have guided the king, but wine complicated the directions. In the diwan, he teetered upon his chair, and Prince Baybars whispered in his ear, “Fear God and cease your drinking. Your subjects deserve a sober ruler.” The king promised to drink no more, but he appeared sheepish and even more inebriated the following day.

Prince Baybars complained to Othman, “Alcohol should not influence the decisions of the ruler of Islam. We must open his eyes.”

“My wife believes she can persuade him to stop drinking,” Othman said, “but I do not trust him. I have seen the way he looks at women. It is not natural.”

“If she can inspire him to wisdom,” Baybars said, “we must seek her help.”

Layla informed Othman that she needed to get into the king’s chambers. “I will not have you in his room,” Othman objected. “No respectable woman enters a man’s chambers unless they are her husband’s.” Layla replied, “I will take some friends.”

Layla and three companions, retired luscious doves, waited for the king to fall asleep. They hid behind the largest curtain, joined by Harhash and Othman, who refused to have his wife in the room without him. When the muezzin called the faithful for the prayers of dawn, Layla shook King Issa Touran Shah out of his slumbering stupor. “Wake,” she said sternly. “It is time for prayers.”

The king rubbed his heavy eyes and sat up. “My prayers have been answered. Show me your breasts.”

Layla slapped the king so hard his neck almost swiveled full-circle. Behind the curtain, Harhash whispered, “I do not think you have to worry about your honor.”

“Why did you hit me?” cried the king. “You are my subject. Behave accordingly.” Layla double-slapped him, palm out and back of the hand. “Stop that,” he yelped. She raised her hand to strike him again, and he cowered. “I am the king.”

“You are a dog.” Layla threw the terrified king to the floor and pulled his hair. He tried to move away but recoiled when he saw the other doves emerge from behind the curtain. They slapped him in order, one by one.

“You are an embarrassment,” the first admonished.

“You are lower than human waste,” said the second.

“Your father is suffering in heaven.”

“Who are you?” asked the king.

“Remove the drapes of drink from your eyes,” yelled Layla. “Can you not see?”

“You are the leader of the kingdom of Islam.” The first dove kicked him.

“We are here to protect our faith.” The second dove threw him at the wall.

“No,” whined the king. “This cannot be. God’s women are gentle and kind.”

“Be quiet.” Slap.

“God is rarely kind,” said the third dove.

“And neither are we,” added Layla. “We are here to guard our own. Follow the word of God, Issa Touran Shah. Do not equivocate. Our eyes follow you. Falter and we will return. If you have even one sip of wine, you will think we were kind on this visit.”

“Not one sip. Do not fail us.”

“Fear us.”

“Tremble.” Each luscious dove smacked the sobered king before leaving the room.

In Paris, King Louis IX saw sparkles and glitter in his dreams and decided to invade the kingdom of the faithful, following in the footsteps of many a foreign king before him. “The Muslim king is an inept drunkard,” King Louis said. “My dreams speak of untold treasures in the fool’s coffers. I will be wealthy beyond my wildest imaginings, all for the glory of God. And God, ever so benevolent, does not require that I pay for His army out of my assets. Inform the faithful that donations are needed to pay for the soldiers of God, troops to force Arab tongues to speak His name. We ask for money to spread His word in the inhospitable desert. Praise be.”

Louis raised a great army and promised them riches. They sailed across the Mediterranean and landed in Egypt, where they laid siege to Damietta. Greed coursed through King Louis’s veins, and he split his army in two. He kept the siege going and sent half his army to al-Mansoura. Need I remind you that greed is always fatal?

The day after the doves’ visitation, King Issa Touran Shah appeared in his diwan weary and clearheaded. Baybars and the kingdom’s viziers were pleased. The king whispered in Baybars’s ear, “I have followed your counsel and have eschewed vice.” The king ruled justly for seven days. On the eighth, a messenger arrived with a missive from the mayor of Damietta: “O Prince of believers, morning prayers were interrupted on this day and the air darkened. A king of the foreigners has landed on our shore and crawled inland with his army. Help us and guide us, leader of the faith, and may God guide you in eternal victories.”

“What am I to do?” asked the king.

“I will lead the first wave of your army into battle,” said Baybars. “The infidels are attacking us. Declare jihad and call on all the armies of Islam. Follow me with the second wave, and together we will destroy the army of foreign locusts.”

“Brilliant,” exclaimed the king.

Baybars had the peasants of Egypt divert the waters of the Nile toward King Louis’s army. The foreign horses drowned, and the exhausted soldiers struggled to extricate themselves from the great river. This time, al-Awwar wasted no time, heading straight for King Louis. The hilt of Baybars’s sword struck the foreigner, and he fell unconscious. Baybars marched toward Damietta, where he met King Issa Touran Shah and the army of Islam, led by the slave general, Qutuz the indefatigable. The army of believers attacked, and the foreigners were killed left and right. Touran Shah watched the battle from a promontory. Prince Baybars rode up the hill to inform the king of his glorious victory. Our hero saw the king bringing a cup of wine to his lips.

Baybars chided, “Shame on you, my king. You had repented.”

The king replied, “Forgive me. In the joy of victory, I forgot my oath.”

He dumped the contents onto the rock before him and threw the goblet up into the sky. But fortune was not with him that day. The cup hit a solitary falcon in flight. Dazed, the bird fell and touched down on the back of the unsuspecting king’s turbaned head. When the frightened king tried to shoo the falcon off, the bird dug its claws in. Fluttering wings obstructed the king’s view. He tumbled forward, and flew off the hill to his inglorious death.

My niece’s belly left the elevator before her. She waddled toward the patient rooms, not looking in our direction. I waved my arm. She saw me and smiled. She had a much better poker face than I did, not registering any surprise at the sight of Aunt Wasila and Dida so early in the morning. “My feet are killing me,” she said.

I told my aunt I’d be back and walked Salwa to the room. “You don’t have to stay with them,” she said. “Hovik is parking the car and will be right up. He actually likes them. You don’t want to be there when Aunt Samia arrives and realizes she’s not early enough to beat her rival.”

“You want to spare me the stress but force it on your husband?”

“Hovik finds the family fascinating. He’d want to be there. He considers being around our family an anthropological study.” She stopped and looked at me. “You enjoy it as well, don’t you? You’re like Hovik, an inveterate watcher.” I shrugged, smiling. She resumed her waddle.

“I got you something,” she said. “Hovik is bringing it up. Don’t argue with me, and I don’t want any shit from my mother, either. I’m warning you.”

“Argue with you about what?”

Salwa went up to my father and touched his hand. “Grandfather,” she said, “I saw Aunt Wasila outside, and she was asking about you. Isn’t it funny that she’s here? Can you hear me?”

Hovik and Salwa met in February 2000. She had a stomachache and was running a high fever. She went to the emergency room and was seen by the resident, Hovik. The diagnosis was simple, since a few cases of Helicobacter pylori had been reported recently, but it took long enough for the young doctor to fall in love while taking her case history. Cupid struck Hovik’s heart with the gold-tipped arrow, whereas it was the one with a tip of dull, blunt lead that pierced my niece to the marrow. He was smitten at first sight, and she recoiled in disgust. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter, weaned on the bitter stews of love’s folly.

When asked why she was repelled at that first meeting, my niece said, “Well, look at me. What the hell did he see? I’m not that pretty under normal circumstances, and at the time I looked and felt horrible. I had been throwing up all morning and had severe diarrhea to boot. Fever was burning me up while the fool’s heart caught fire. I thought the man was a pervert. I had no doubt. I felt nauseated and nauseating, and the doctor asked me for a date? A yucky, weirdo pervert, unprofessional, and too handsome for his own good.”

Yes, he was handsome — terribly handsome. He was so handsome that women would develop imaginary aches and pains, palpitations, colic, and severe distress, yet he was captivated by the only one who had no interest in him whatsoever. He called her on her mobile phone; she yelled at him and hung up. He called again to apologize, she threatened to call the hospital and get him fired. He sent a note of flowery apology with a dozen roses. My niece told her mother, who drove to the hospital and announced in front of everyone that she would dissect his internal organs one by one if he didn’t leave her daughter alone. Hovik came to his senses. He stopped.

But you don’t trample upon fate. In May, my father had to have an updated pacemaker installed. As my sister and niece were returning to the hospital from lunch, Lina noticed a couple of young doctors in the lobby. One appeared stunned, rooted, mouth agape, eyes following Salwa’s path. My niece walked on, oblivious, and Hovik remained oblivious to anything but my niece. Maybe it was the look of despair upon his face, maybe it was the look of adoration, but it certainly was a look my sister recognized well. She saw herself in the young doctor. He’d won a silent convert. My niece was smack back in his narrative.

“I can see your problem,” the other young resident told Hovik. And that young resident, trying to impress, told the doctor in the cardiac unit that Hovik was infatuated with a relative of one of his patients. He had no idea that Tin Can was family. Tin Can told my father, who of course demanded a confrontation with the ill-bred lackey. Tin Can informed him that the lackey had done nothing wrong and that he would talk to the young man himself.

Hovik was embarrassed when Tin Can confronted him. He waited until my father was alone and paid him a visit in his hospital room, that fateful day a few years ago. Hovik introduced himself, asked about my father’s health, and finally begged my father’s forgiveness. “I’ve made a grave mistake,” Hovik said. He made my father promise to listen to his whole story. He would appear the cad, he was guilty, but if my father listened to his entire tale, he might understand.

Hovik explained how he met my niece. He admitted how badly he had behaved. He was possessed by the demon of love. How else could he explain it? He could have destroyed his career. How could he have called her when she specifically warned him not to? But he had stopped. He was in control. It was the shock of seeing her once more that had confounded him. He would disturb her no more. He was not wanted.

“You mean to take my granddaughter away from me?” my father asked.

“Meant,” Hovik replied. “That is no longer the case, I assure you.”

“Fool.” And my father told Hovik how he had won my mother, how much he loved her, how he had wooed her, how much he missed her. “Fool,” he repeated. “You tried to win Salwa with clichés? Who sends roses anymore? My granddaughter hates roses. It’s spring. Send her crocuses, hyacinths, and narcissi. Her favorite color is yellow. Daffodils. You’ll have to woo her with her poetry — not yours. Polish up on your R’s, Rimbaud and Rilke — they’re her favorites. She hates movies. Don’t even try. And you’re too pretty. Get a bad haircut. Wear clothes that don’t match. And don’t, and I mean don’t ever, suggest a walk on the beach or a candlelit dinner. She would as soon slit your throat. Listen to her. Always listen to her.”

The mourning army returned to Cairo with little fanfare. Forty days after the burial of the king, the council met to elect the new prince of the faithful. The Kurds still argued for the king’s lineage. The Turkomans nominated a vizier by the name of Aybak. They fought the entire day and drew their weapons three times before Shajarat al-Durr, King Saleh’s widow, sent her servant to the diwan once more to announce that she was fit to rule. The Kurds and Turkomans decided she would be an acceptable compromise.

The coronation of Shajarat al-Durr, an exquisite affair, lasted only a little less time than her reign. Once the news of her ascent to the throne reached the land of Hijaz, the sharif of Mecca wrote to the council berating them for not following the traditions of the faith. He warned that if the queen’s reign continued, the tribes of Hijaz would no longer heed the calls of Cairo. The queen read the letter and announced, “I will step down, for the good of the kingdom.”

The diwan reconvened. Every side argued. Antipodal positions were assumed. The council was exhausted. Finally, the vizier Aybak was elected in a straw vote. To ensure that his reign would last longer than Shajarat al-Durr’s, he married her.

Aybak’s plan, joining the lines of two claimants to the throne, worked, but only briefly. All supported his rule and heeded his commands. Not everything, however, was aligned with Aybak’s ambition. Fate had no use for him, could not bear him, and dismissed him rather cruelly, by gifting him with the source of every man’s fall from grace: the great desire.

He saw her while promenading with his courtiers. She was a young Bedouin girl of a beauty that pierced his heart. He called to her, “O most glorious, whose daughter are you?”

The king sought out her father, received his permission, returned to the diwan, and called on his engineers to build a magnificent palace for his new betrothed. The king spent one month in bed with his beloved. He did not show up at the diwan, and he never once visited Shajarat al-Durr or his first wife, Umm Ahmad. Prince Baybars paid the king a visit and said, “You have been neglecting your duties. You must return to the diwan and handle the affairs of state.”

The king replied, “Queen Shajarat al-Durr is furious with me, and unless someone calms her down, I will not venture out of these chambers to be nagged and berated by that harpy.”

Baybars went to the queen and begged her to forgive her king. He spoke honeyed words to her, he lauded her generosity, he praised, until she finally relented. “Tell him to pay me a visit,” the queen said. Baybars sent a message to the king that the great queen had forgiven him.

The following morning, the king made his appearance at the diwan, and that evening, he visited Shajarat al-Durr. She greeted him warmly and fawned over him, and the happy king said, “Let us relive the good times. Bathe me.” Shajarat al-Durr led her husband to the bath. She undressed him and began to undress herself.

“Does your Bedouin girl have hair more luxurious than mine?” The queen smiled flirtatiously. “Skin more white? Lips more full?”

“My wife, you are beautiful, tribes from the deserts to the seas sing of your loveliness, but you are old. The girl is fourteen. Do you expect to compete with that?”

Shajarat al-Durr, who once ruled the world, knelt down and washed her husband’s hair. She soaped it thoroughly, until lather built. She took out a dagger and slit the king’s throat from carotid to carotid. She watched disloyal blood flow upon the bath’s marble before she plunged the dagger into her own heart.

And the Kurds said, “The kingdom should return to the line of true kings. King Issa Touran Shah had a boy. He is seven and goes by the name of Ala’eddine. He shall be king.”

The boy was made king and one of his Kurdish cousins was elected regent. Fate had no use for this king, either, and sent him the Mongols.

Hovik’s face was that of a man who hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in quite a while. His mustache needed a trim. His distress was comforting. Apparently, he genuinely loved my father; then again, perhaps his concern was for his pregnant wife and coming son. He tiptoed into the room, carrying Salwa’s handbag, her coat, and a gray chamois sack that might seem amorphous to an untrained eye. Mine recognized the danger. Nothing was in that bag if not a small oud.

I felt the veins in the back of my hand pulse.

My sister recognized the bag and raised questioning eyebrows.

“I don’t want it,” my niece said softly. “I couldn’t play it. I tried so many times.”

“But it’s a memento,” my sister replied.

“It’s a constant reminder of how talentless I am.”

My sister asked Hovik to stay in the room and led her daughter and me to the balcony. She lit a cigarette, expelled the smoke toward the sky. My niece took the cigarette from her mother’s lips and threw it over the balcony. “I’ll get you a patch,” Salwa said.

“This isn’t the right time,” my sister said.

“This is nothing if not the right time.”

“Listen. Are you sure you want to give Osama the oud? It’s not as if he’s going to pick it up and start playing after all this time. I’m not sure the instrument is playable. We all have a family heirloom, and this one is yours. She wanted you to have it.”

“Who wanted her to have it?” I asked.

“Our grandmother,” Lina replied. “I thought you knew that. She gave it to me on her deathbed to give to my daughter. How old was I then, seven — eight? I couldn’t even conceive of the idea that I’d have a daughter. This is our great-grandmother’s oud.”

“My god,” I gasped. “I didn’t know this thing existed. Does it still play?”

“Check it out,” Salwa said. “I had it restrung. It plays adequately, considering that no one has played it in over a hundred and twenty years.”

“A hundred and fourteen,” my sister and I said in unison.

I delicately removed the oud from the chamois bag. The workmanship was beyond anything I had seen in years and years — the inlaid ivory carved in miniature arabesque detail, wood of invaluable cedar, splendid tear-shaped mother-of-pearl (genuine, not sister-of-polystyrene) lining the neck. And my great-grandmother gave up this exquisiteness for the love of her husband. “A sultan’s gift,” I said.

“Literally,” my sister said. “From a sultan to us.”

“I can’t take it,” I told my niece. “You could send your son through college with it.”

“I’d trade it for a foot massage right now.” She tried to lift her foot off the floor as Exhibit A, but could barely get it high enough to slip a sheet of paper underneath. “Look, if I ever need it, I’ll take it back. I was just hoping you’d play for him.”

“I can’t play. I haven’t played in so long.” I plucked a string, and then another. The oud’s sound was disappointingly bad. “You don’t just pick up an instrument after all these years and start strumming. This isn’t a fairy tale.”

“He always talked about how well you played,” Salwa said. She stared at the balcony’s glass door, at my father’s bed behind it.

“He didn’t like my playing,” I objected. “He never did.”

“You’re crazy,” my sister snapped. “Did you just say that?”

“It would take me months to be able to play a simple maqâm. Should I force him to go through the torture of listening to me practicing scales again?”

The oud was out of tune. I tightened the top string, and my fingers hurt. The sound was actually atrocious, the wood having aged beyond repair. I pressed my ring finger for an easy note, and the skin at the tip felt like it was about to break. Would my fingers ever relearn what they had forgotten? Would my hands remember what had been consciously erased? My fingers asked questions I had no answer for. They ached. My whole body ached; my eyes felt as if they were about to shoot out of my head. I slid along the railing and sat on the floor and cried. My sister hesitated, but then slid next to me and burst into tears. Together, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we bawled. If only the gorgeous oud didn’t sound like a ukulele.

A letter arrived from the mayor of Aleppo, announcing that an army had appeared on the horizon, Mongols, as numerous as locusts, as destructive as termites, as methodical as ants, as cruel as African wasps. A few days later came a letter from Damascus saying that the locust army had conquered Aleppo, Hamah, and Homs and was heading toward Damascus. From the refugees that poured into Egypt the council discovered that the land of Islam was being completely overrun by the foreign hordes. The Mongols reached Gaza.

“They have conquered the cities of my people,” said a Persian. “Shiraz fell, as well as Isfahan.”

“The barbarians burned Baghdad to the ground,” cried an Abassid. “The armies either surrendered or dispersed.”

“King Hethum of Armenia helped the Mongol Hulagu,” said a Syrian. “The Armenian set the great mosque of Aleppo afire himself, and the Mongols encouraged him.”

“Ah, a pox upon Armenia,” said a Turk.

The counsel deliberated for hours. The only army left in the lands was the army of Egypt. The Franks had either sided with the Mongols or chosen to remain neutral. From Baku to Edessa, from Basra to Damascus, the Mongols ruled.

“I will never surrender,” Layla told Othman. “I am Egypt.”

“We will not surrender,” announced the African and Uzbek warriors. “We are Egypt.”

“Why are they deliberating?” asked Aydmur the slave warrior. “Our course is clear,” said the twenty-five Circassians, the twenty-five Georgians, and the twenty-five Azeris.

“I will choose death before surrendering to the fire-worshippers,” Baybars told the diwan. “You have heard the reports of what has happened to our lands. Our enemies kill those who fight and those who surrender indiscriminately. You cannot willingly give Egypt up to this. I will not allow it, and I am Egypt.”

The king’s regent said, “We cannot fight them. Even God cannot count their numbers.”

“If you cannot trust God to count, you are not fit to rule,” Qutuz the indefatigable spat out. “I will fight even if I am the only one on the battlefield. Shame on any man who chooses life without God over death with Him.”

“You will not fight alone,” Prince Baybars said. “I will follow you.”

“We will follow you,” cried the council.

“I will not serve a baby king,” said the slave warrior Qutuz. “Dethrone him.”

The diwan stripped the boy of his title and elected the great General Qutuz the indefatigable as sultan of Islam, prince of the faithful, the first Mamluke.

Behold. The reign of the magnificent slave kings has begun. Rejoice.

The great jihad was called. The high sheikh of Azhar University wrote a fatwa. Anyone who could wield a weapon and did not fight the enemy was an infidel whose burial would not be in a Muslim cemetery. Anyone who had money and did not spend it to ensure the victory of the army of God was an unbeliever.

And the grand army coalesced, the Berbers from the Sahara, the Africans from Sudan, the tribes from Hijaz, and the Arabs from Tunis. The infidel Mongols were celebrating in Gaza, drinking, whoring, and carousing. Having never lost a battle, they were not expecting anyone to be foolish enough to attack. And attack them the army of innocents did. The Mongols had their first taste of fear. The slave army hit with ferocious force, shattering the Mongol illusion of a conquered world at their feet. The barbarians retreated, and the slave army followed, killing more and more of the straggling invaders. The Mongols stood their ground in the plains of Bissan; they dug in and waited for the attack, but they were in for another surprise. From Anatolia to Persia, from the Caucasus to Andalusia, soldiers and armies arrived heeding the fatwa. The archers of Damascus, the horsemen of Kandahar, the pikers of Baghdad, and the swordsmen of Shiraz joined the slave army. The war of all wars erupted. Dust storms swirled. Swords clashed with shields, spears pierced armor, and many a hero fell. The Mongols were hit from all sides, but amid all the chaos, Hulagu Khan and his generals noticed that certain of the battalions of Islam never broke rank, never faltered. The Mongols, who had nurtured bedlam and anarchy in war, were encountering their opposite, an army of impeccably trained slaves. Order vanquished disorder. The barbarians had sown fear wherever they trod, and now fearless slaves trod on them. The invaders ran away in terror and were cut down, their dead and dying discarded on the battlefield as feast for the hyenas of the plains.

The slave army suffered great losses, and none as great as the loss of the king. An errant Mongol arrow killed Qutuz the indefatigable. Prince Baybars took command of the slave army and routed the Mongols at Ain Jalut (the Spring of Goliath). He killed scores of the invaders, and their blood dried on his hands and fingers, causing them to stiffen and ache with the pain of triumph. Othman, ever his servant, heated a bowl of water for the hero, who soaked his hands and released the blood and pain.

Prince Baybars led the victorious army back to Cairo. The entire population of the city poured out of the gates to greet the hero before he entered. Feasts were served in every hall, every house, every corner. The celebration lasted for three sleepless days.

At the diwan, everyone nominated the only truly worthy king. He was crowned al-Zaher Baybars. Finally, fate aligned with history, fact shook hands with storytelling. The great one had reached his destiny. The hero of a thousand tales, the shining example to all the faithful, the lord of lords, had become sultan at long last.

You have before you the greatest hero the world will ever know. This is the famous tale of King al-Zaher Baybars. Now our story begins.

Listen.