The Hakawati (90 page)
King Kinyar’s guards drank wine as if it were cool water, and Othman helped them along their journey by adding opium to the vat. Soon the guards were swimming in the intemperate sea of drugged sleep. Othman sneaked into the king’s chamber and found Kinyar snoring in his canopy bed. Othman unsheathed his sword and whispered, “For all the suffering and anguish you have caused an honest man.” He raised his sword and struck not flesh but another sword, in the hand of a
young warrior. Othman thrust at the young man, who parried easily. “I do not partake of wine,” he said. “Your unmanly wiles are worthless against me.”
Kinyar opened his eyes to see swords clashing above his head, and his mouth dried up and would not release his voice. He pulled the covers up and groaned. The warrior’s blows were heavy and insistent, and none of Othman’s sword tricks were working. “Kill him, my son,” said a suddenly vocal Kinyar. “Avenge the effrontery upon my person.”
Taboush, the warrior who was not Kinyar’s son, redoubled his attack, and his sword cut Othman’s arm. And Kinyar commanded, “Finish him.”
The sound of a whip sliced the air, and the sword flew out of Taboush’s hand. Layla’s second strike forced Taboush to retreat a step, but he drew two daggers from his belt.
“Kill them,” yelled Kinyar. “I want both of them dead.”
“Run,” said Othman. “We cannot defeat him.”
“But we can delay him.” Layla struck the bedpost, and the canopy came tumbling upon the king’s head. She and Othman escaped as Taboush was forced to untangle the screeching king from under the covers, canopies, and falling drapes.
I lay on the couch reading, engrossed in
The Quiet American
. As the afternoon light faded, I switched on the lamp behind me. I felt myself sinking into both the novel and the couch. My father, up from his nap, walked into the den and sat on the opposite couch. He didn’t say anything. I expected him to turn on the television, but he just sat there silently, his head bowed, his hands folded.
I couldn’t concentrate on the novel. I lay on the couch pretending as the treasure-colored light of afternoon deepened. I kept sneaking looks and catching him averting his eyes. He sat before me, a despondent thinker, involved and disengaged.
In an older time, in a different room, my grandfather used to sit that way. When he was lost and the world befuddled him, when life refused to bow down before his desires and kowtow to his wishes, when my father and Uncle Jihad dismissed him as inconsequential, he sat among us separate and mute, downcast and downhearted, like a punished little boy facing the corner.
I sat up and fiddled with the lamp, a relic once belonging to my grandmother, once adored by my mother. I shifted it back and forth, pretending to be concerned with its inadequacies. I shut my book, stood up, and went out to the veranda. I leaned on the railing, admired the tangerine hues of the sky, watched the sun wilt into the sea, which was dotted with an archipelago of small motorboats and smaller row-boats searching for fish. The sun’s sultry reflection on the water triggered all kinds of emotions. I got lost in myself, the Mediterranean as my madeleine.
My father came out on the veranda. He stayed behind me and sat on the deck chair. I didn’t look back, but I felt the skin on my neck prickle. My hands were restive, and my sweatpants had no pockets to moor them. I waited a few uncomfortable minutes and slowly walked into the living room, turning on the stalactite lights of the chandelier. I lay on the big couch, my socked feet burrowing under the tessellated cushion. I reopened my book and counted the minutes. Four and a half and my father mutely settled in the living room, across from me.
Over my twelve days in Beirut, my father joined me in every room, moving when I did, following step for step, irate and cheerless, sluggish and pensive, and not speaking.
Othman, Harhash, and Layla returned with Ma
rouf to the forgiving lands, much to the joy of the great sultan and his people. But back in Thessaly, there were angry calls for revenge. “I will destroy their lands,” cried Kinyar. “This is all Baybars’s doing. I will not rest until he lies dead beneath my feet. I will call on the French, the English, the Genovese and the Venetians, the Spaniards. We will create a new world order. I will lead the invincible army—no, my son, Taboush, the great champion, will command, and I, his father, will follow. He is a man now.”
The calls went out, promises of incredible riches were made, fighters swarmed from all across the continent, and an army of fifty thousand hungry men was birthed. An army that size could never escape the notice of the invidious Arbusto, and he traveled for days to reach it. He sought King Kinyar, who treated him with the hospitality and respect the evil one was used to receiving from fools. As soon as Arbusto saw Kinyar, he understood that Taboush was not his son, for
no loaf of such sturdiness could have risen from the king’s yeast. Arbusto said, “I wanted to offer my help, for I have spent years in the land of false believers.”
Kinyar invited him to ride to war as his companion and counselor.
Taboush saw great minarets rising in the distance and ordered his army to halt for the day. “What city is this?”
“This is the city of Aleppo,” Arbusto said. “Not only are we going to thrash them here, we are going to Damascus and Homs and Hamah, and we are going to Baghdad and Mosul and Jerusalem, then we are going to Cairo to take back the sultanate. Yeeeeaaaah.”
“We camp here,” announced Taboush. “Send a letter to the ruler of this city and inform him that we declare war upon the sultan. If he opens the city’s gates, none will be harmed. If not, we will besiege the city until the sultan arrives.”
Baybars received the news within three days and set out with the slave army to Aleppo. The heroes arrived to find the foreign army encircling the great city. Marouf entered the sultan’s pavilion and bowed down before his lord. Baybars begged his friend to sit beside him. Marouf said, “My king, the warrior who leads this army is none other than my son, Taboush.”
Baybars said, “Glory be. May God gift him with wisdom to help us against His enemies,” and he dictated a letter to Taboush: “It has come to our attention that you are not the son of infidels. Your father is Marouf ben Jamr, a hero and the epitome of nobility and courage. Leave your enemies and ours and return to your father’s house and ask for his blessing.”
Taboush read the letter and passed it to Kinyar and Arbusto, who said in one voice, “The man is a liar and says these things because he fears you. Reject his deceit and call him to battle.”
“I will take the field at dawn and throw down my challenge,” Taboush said. True to his honest word, Taboush’s sword greeted the rising sun upon the field of battle, and his cry sent a shiver through all who listened. One Uzbek warrior rode out to meet him. The fight lasted for two hours, until Taboush finally landed a blow and the Uzbek fell to the ground. On his back, he looked up at the great Taboush, who said, “You fought well. Return to your sultan, and tell him to send out someone stronger.”
The Uzbek mounted his stallion and sought Baybars. “That warrior is not the son of the king. A hyena begets not a lion. He is inexperienced in the art of battle because of his youth. If he gains the wisdom and wiles of age, he will be indestructible.”
Baybars called on the best fighter of all. “Aydmur, my friend and conqueror. This boy is a great warrior and must be dispatched. Rid me of him so I may launch this war.”
Marouf knew that his son would not do well against a veteran hero like Aydmur. With each joust, his son would get stronger and smarter, and he would mature to be Aydmur’s equal if not his superior, but he was not yet. Marouf approached Aydmur as he prepared for battle. “I beg you, friend,” Marouf said. “Cede your place to me. I fear for my son and wish him not to suffer.”