The Hakawati Read Online Free Page A

beast, desire. He became the subject of gossip, a notorious story in the harems, a news item in the diwans. His reputation became the object of derision. He lost his standing, his honor, his respect.
    “The young musician had not wanted his indiscretion revealed, and Bader’s loss of social standing made him a less desirable partner. The object of his passion ran away from him altogether, and refused ever to see him again.
    “Had Bader valued discretion, had he folded his secret in his heart, couched his desires, he would not have lost everything. He would have worn the robe of well-being, and the garment of respectability would not have become threadbare. He would have been able to keep both his honor and his lover had he chosen a more circumspect style. Allow me a modest approach.”
    “Modesty is dull,” Fatima said.
    “So was the story,” Jawad said.
    “So true. Didactic stories should only be told to children and to the faithful.”
    “I weep for the poor children who have to listen to such stories.”
    “Are you seduced, my dear Jawad?”
    “I am sleepy.”
    “Ah, at least the night passes. I pray that we will be gifted with a better seduction tomorrow. And a good night to all.”

    My father’s face told a different story. He looked wan, haggard, and old—very old. And thin. His wedding band danced upon its finger like a shower-curtain ring. He had spent an hour telling Lina and me that he felt grand. He was happy that I had flown in to spend Eid al-Adha with him, but we should spend it at our home. He wasn’t ill anymore. He sounded better. He moved around better. He laughed better. He wanted to go home.
    The cast of light in the room was disturbing, slightly nauseating. The antiseptic white walls. The fluorescent lights. It was midmorning, but the sallow curtain diffused a pale gray-green glow. Lina had been going out to the balcony to smoke, always making sure the curtain was drawn so my father wouldn’t see her and crave a cigarette.
    “I’m doing so much better,” my father announced. “I feel formidable.”
    I pulled back the curtain to let some genuine light in, opened the sliding door for air. It was pitch-perfect weather, two clouds maculating a clear sheet of blue, an early spring in February. I stood for a moment with my back to the room, enjoying the play of the flimsy breeze upon my face. I considered for a moment returning to the waiting lounge to relieve Fatima and Salwa, my sister’s daughter, who were entertaining the visitors.
    “I know you think I don’t know what I’m talking about,” my father went on, “but I feel better, and I don’t want to spend another night in this godforsaken place.”
    The Chinese say prolonged illness can make one a doctor. My mother used to say prolonged illness made one a curmudgeon. My mother was wiser. I turned around and looked at the high nightstand, made sure that her framed passport-sized photo was still there, next to her silver locket, which my father insisted brought him luck.
    “We have to wait and find out what Tin Can has to say.” Lina regarded my father with soft eyes. When she was younger, my sister took after my mother, but as she matured, my father’s softer features overcame her face. Lina curled up on the recliner, laid her head back, imitating a Henry Moore sculpture. Her heels poked into the chair’s plastic upholstery.
    “Talk to him, darling,” my father whimpered. He grasped the bed rail, pulled himself onto his side in order to face her. He scratched the small protrusion in his chest where the pacemaker and defibrillator were. I turned around again and watched the sky.
    My father could afford the best medical care in the world. Lina had dragged him to Johns Hopkins, to the Cleveland Clinic, to Paris, to London. Yet he always returned to the just-competent Tin Can. He didn’t have any illusions in that regard. My father was the one who had dubbed him Tin Can, because he was about as effective a doctor as a tin can.