The Hakawati by Alameddine Rabih Read Free Book Online

prisoner in the jail of your obsession. By God, I will never leave the sanctuary of my home; neither day nor night will I sit on my own stoop.’
    “The poet called on his friends, confessed to everything that had happened.
    “His friends asked, ‘Have you lost your chickens and eggs?’
    “Despair descended upon the poet, leaving him ill and bedridden. A friend, Muhammad ben al-Hassan, paid a visit to the poet, saw him looking ashen and feeble. ‘Why are you not being seen by a doctor?’
    “ ‘My cure is not a mystery, and doctors cannot heal me.’
    “ ‘And what will cure you?’
    “ ‘A glimpse of Aslam.’
    “Pity took root in Muhammad’s heart. He paid a visit to Aslam, who greeted him as a gracious host would. After the tea was served, the poet’s friend said, ‘I beg a favor of you. It is about Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi.’
    “ ‘That man has made me infamous, the object of salacious jokes. He has besmirched my name, my reputation, and my respect.’
    “ ‘I do understand, but allow the Almighty to be the final judge. Allthat he has done can be forgiven if you see the state he is in. The man is dying. Your visit would be merciful.’
    “ ‘By God, I cannot do that. Do not ask it of me.’
    “ ‘I must. Do not fear for your reputation. You are but visiting the sick.’
    “Aslam begged off again and again, but the friend kept insisting, reminding him of honor, until Aslam agreed. ‘Let us go, then,’ the friend said.
    “ ‘No. I am unable to do it today. Tomorrow.’
    “Muhammad made him swear and left him to return to the poet, told him of the next day’s visit. Light returned to the poet’s eyes.
    “The next day, Muhammad arrived at Aslam’s house. ‘The promise,’ he said as he greeted his host. And they left for the poet’s house. But when they reached the door, Aslam stopped, blushed, and stuttered, ‘I cannot. I am unable to move my foot forward. I have reached the house, but I cannot enter.’ And, swift as a racehorse, he ran away.
    “The friend ran after him, grabbed Aslam by his cloak. Aslam kept running, and a piece of cloth remained in Muhammad’s hand.
    “One of the poet’s servants had seen the guests approaching the house and had informed his master, so when Muhammad entered the house alone the poet was gravely disappointed. He snatched the piece of cloth. He insulted Muhammad, cursed at the world, swore at fate, yelled in anger, wept in sorrow. His friend withdrew to leave, but the poet grasped his wrist.
    “ ‘Go to him,’ the poet said. ‘Tell him this:
Surrender, O lovely one ,
On the sick, have pity .
My heart desires your visit
More than God’s own mercy.’
    “ ‘Do not stray from the Faith,’ Muhammad admonished. ‘What is this blasphemy?’ He left the poet in anger, but had barely reached the street when he heard the wails of mourning. The poet, Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi, had died, clutching torn wool in his bony fingers.
    “And this is true: years later, on a horribly rainy day, when only ghosts and jinn could walk unprotected, the cemetery warden recognized Aslam, who by then had become a grand poet himself, sitting onthe grave of Ahmad ben Kulaib al-Nahawi, paying his respects, visiting the dead, utterly drenched. Rain streaked his face like tears.”
    And Fatima’s face was wet as well. “That is a cheerless tale,” she said.
    “I feel sad for the poets,” Jawad said. “My heart is in pain. I am touched.” Jawad looked mournfully at his companions. “But I am not seduced.”

    The bey made small talk, tiny talk, and my father replied with monosyllables or grunts. He was saved by my niece and a nurse entering the room. I knew for a fact that Salwa disdained the bey and all the traditions he represented, but from the look she gave him, the bey would have thought her an acolyte. Far along into her pregnancy, her wavy black hair forming a halo about her beatific, motherly-to-be face, she announced that my father needed some