The Hakawati Read Online Free PDF Page A

was even taller, bigger. Boucher instructed his pupil Fragonard to paint women as if they had no bones. Fragonard could have painted Lina. She was the antithesis of straight lines or angles. Graceful, like my mother.
    I, on the other hand, inherited my teeth from my mother, not her height. We both had two crooked upper front teeth. She never fixed hers, because they accentuated her beauty, the flaw making her appear more human, accessible, more Helen than Aphrodite. She didn’t fix mine, thinking it would also work for me. It didn’t. Alas, unlike her, I had quite a few other flaws.
    “Tin Can gives him three months at most,” Lina said.
    “Tin Can said the same thing four years ago.”
    “You have to be with him to notice the difference. He’s not going to make it, and he knows it.” She sighed and flicked her cigarette onto the street below. “I don’t know what to do.”
    The old house across the street must not have been abandoned. A pile of plastic chairs stood outside the door. A stray electric wire, long and lax, stole power from the main city lines. A pigeon settled on the wire, which drooped and seemed about to snap. The pigeon did not last more than a second or two before flying off.

    “Shall we begin?” Fatima asked on the second night. She sipped her cup. Sated, with full stomachs, the three travelers sat around the small fire.
    “We shall,” Khayal replied. “Would my beloved care for a cup of wine to help smooth the rough edges of this evening?”
    Fatima raised her eyebrows; her eyes asked if Jawad was interested. He nodded. “One cup only for tonight,” she said. “Until you get used to it.”
    And Khayal lifted his cup. “May my beloved get used to much.” He gulped, smacked his lips, paused for dramatic effect. In a sonorous voice, he began to recite:
A woman once berated me
Because of the love I feel
For a boy who huffs and struts
Like an untamed young bull
But why should I sail the sea
When I can love grandly on land?
Why hunt for fish, when I can find
Gazelles, free, for every hand .
Let me be; do not blame me
For choosing a road
In life that you have rejected ,
Which I will follow till the day I die .
Know you not that the Holy Book
Speaks the definitive truth:
Before your daughters
Your sons shall be preferred?
    “Magnificent,” Fatima cried, applauding enthusiastically. “One can always rely on the brilliance of Abu Nawas for entertainment. Who would have thought that a desert dweller would be able to quote the city poet? I am impressed. Are you not, my dear Jawad?”
    “Does the Holy Book really say that a man should choose his sons before his daughters?”
    “In matters of inheritance, my boy, but the poet took some liberties. More, more, our master reciter. Tell us more.”
I no longer wish to sail the sea
I prefer to roam the plains
And seek the food that God
Sends to all living creatures .
    “A delight,” Fatima said. “How lovely and bawdy that Baghdad poet was. I would have loved an opportunity to drink wine and match wits with Abu Nawas. Was that not marvelous, Jawad?”
    “It surely was,” Jawad replied. “I, too, am duly impressed. My suitor is learned and sensitive, but his poetry speaks nothing other than his preference for a certain kind of love. That he likes boys does not make him more desirable to me. It simply means he has good taste. His poetry is entertaining but does not move this listener. I do not feel seduced this night either, but I do feel sleepy.”
    “So true. So wise. We have been dutifully entertained this night, but not seduced. Let us hope for a better temptation tomorrow. And a good night to all.”
    On the third night, Khayal poured wine into Jawad’s cup. He stood before his audience. “I am a vessel filled with contrition. Forgive me, I beg you. Allow me to begin anew.”
    “There is no need for forgiveness,” Jawad said.
    “Please,” Fatima said, “favor us with your seduction. We sit here, parched earth awaiting