The Hakawati (47 page)

When my father was wheeled in for the operation, my mother asked me to take my aunt out to lunch, since the procedure was going to last for at least four hours. Three hours later, we returned. From the window of the cab, I saw my mother crying behind the hospital’s glass door, her hands covering her face, her body shaking. My sister had her arms wrapped around my mother. My heart dropped to my testicles. Aunt Samia bounced out of the black cab before it came to a stop, jiggling muscles and fat on heels. “My brother,” she wailed. “They killed you, my brother.” I flew out of the taxi behind her. My mother, her face still wet, was tying to calm my aunt, who was sitting on the floor in the hospital entrance, her legs splayed before her. “Samia,” my mother said, “he’s going to be fine. I’m crying with relief, not grief. The operation was a great success. The doctors just came out. We’ll be able to see him within the hour.”

It took a moment for Aunt Samia to register the information and change the expression on her face to one of unbridled fury. “You scared me,” she hissed. “You’ve just taken ten years off my life.” My mother shrank back as if slapped. It was rare to see her at a loss. Lina stepped in front of her, steely eyes glaring down at my aunt. Aunt Samia looked appalled. “I’m so sorry,” she said, tilting her head to look at my mother’s face behind my sister. “Forgive me. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.” She tried to stand up, and Lina didn’t help her. My mother moved forward and lifted her by the elbow. “That was inexcusable.” Aunt Samia began to weep. “I was frightened.”

My father had to recover in the London apartment for two weeks. My aunt cooked and was in charge of the household. My father felt guilty that she had to work so hard and asked me to take her to the Playboy casino, using his membership card. Like most Lebanese, my aunt loved to gamble, and her face sparkled at the news. My father thought I could easily pass as him, since no one ever asked to see anything but the card whenever he went to the club. He was wrong. I handed the card to the receptionist, and he asked if I was Farid al-Kharrat. Realizing that there was a problem, my aunt bounded off like a tiny tank, through the swinging doors and into the casino. When I was allowed in after explaining who I was, I found her already at the blackjack table, sipping a gin and tonic, pointing with her finger for the dealer to hit her.

“And so,” Jacob began, “by the time the parrot had finished his story, the hour was late and the lady could not meet the prince.”

Fatima felt a contraction and heard the scream of the emir’s wife in the other room. She held her palm up and interrupted the story. An excited servant rushed into the room. “The emir wishes to inform you that the mistress is giving birth,” she said. She halted, marveled at the wonder of eight colorful parrots in the room.

“My nephew arrives,” said the parrot Ishmael.

“Wait,” said Fatima. “Wait. There is still time. Tell me how the story ends.”

“The master comes,” announced the parrot Isaac.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Fatima. “The story. The story.”

“I wanted to tell the story of the dervish and the three coins,” said the parrot Job. “It is most exquisite.”

“For me,” said the parrot Noah, “I would have told my favorite, about Aladdin and the lamp. It is most sublime.”

The parrot Adam said, “I would have told the story of Abraham entering cursed Egypt, how he hid his beautiful Sarah in a chest.”

“Behold the wonder,” said the parrot Elijah. “The master comes.”

“No,” said Fatima, “I have time. Finish.”

“The parrot tells ninety tales,” said Ishmael.

“Maybe more,” said Isaac, “maybe less. And the merchant finally returns home. He notices that the magpie is no more and asks the parrot what happened. The parrot tells him about the prince, about his wife, and about the stories.”

Jacob said, “The merchant, in a fit of temper, slays his wife for her duplicity, and wrings the parrot’s neck for being a witness to his shame.”

“Ooof,” said Fatima.

“Observe the marvel,” said the parrot Job.

“Behold the wonder,” said the parrot Elijah.

“The lord arrives,” said the parrot Isaac.

“Tremble,” said the parrot Ishmael.

“Aiee,” said Fatima.

BOOK THREE

And as to poets, those who go astray follow them.

Koran

If you cannot climb a tree that your father has climbed, at least place your hands upon its trunk.

Ahmadou Kourouma,
Waiting for the Wild Beasts to Vote

A life in which the gods are not invited is not worth living.

Roberto Calasso,
The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony

Ten

T
he
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.