Free The Hakawati by Alameddine Rabih Page A

grew. She still behaved herself, but the look on her face was no longer that of a slave. It was more graceful, more self-assured, the look of someone who belonged. The slave had quickly gotten used to salvation.
    “You are responsible for the wrong I am suffering,” Sarah informed her husband. “I put my servant in your arms, and now that she is pregnant, she despises me. May the Lord judge between you and me.”
    “She is your slave,” Abraham replied. “Do with her what you think best.”
    “We should call the midwife,” the doctor’s wife said. “We don’t want people to talk.”
    “Fine. Fine. Call the witch. I will make sure she doesn’t make things worse. Tell her to keep her mouth shut. I don’t want to listen to her tiresome life story once more.”
    Zovik interrupted the midwife’s supper—boiled rice and lentils with a touch of cumin. She told Zovik she would come soon after she finished her meal, but then she actually heard Lucine’s wail. She jumped up off the ground, almost knocking over the brass tray and the dish of lentils. Nimble for a woman her age and weight, she ran out the door, with a concerned Zovik trailing behind. “Why did you wait so long?” the midwife asked. “Why does everybody wait so long?”
    A crowd milled outside the doctor’s house. Some had come from asfar as two or three neighborhoods away to discover the source of the wails and to discuss their significance. The midwife squeezed through the crowd, ran into the house, and found the children clustered outside the maids’ room. As she approached, the wail started as a low rumble, rolled forward like a tumbleweed in harsh winds, and reached a crescendo that almost brought her to her knees. The children’s faces registered shock, followed by dismay, and then they slowly began to cry. The doctor’s wife came out of the room. “I can’t take this anymore,” she said to no one in particular. “To your rooms, children. You have no business here. Don’t forget your prayers, your teeth, and your eye drops. Now go to sleep.” She disappeared into the hallway.
    Lucine lay in bed, her eyes staring at the ceiling, her lips praying, her brows and forehead anticipating the next contraction. The doctor seemed agitated and slightly bewildered. The midwife asked if the water had broken and whether the baby had begun to reveal itself.
    “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
    “It’s definitely a boy. Boys don’t like to come out if there’s another male in the room. Boys like to be enticed into coming out. Boys want to be made to feel special.”
    “That’s nonsense. I wish you’d stop it.”
    “O Holy Virgin. This boy seems to be having problems finding his way out.” She stroked Lucine’s belly. Once, twice, three times. “Listen to me, my boy. We want you out here. You’re our special boy. If you come, I’ll tell you a story. Come.”
    Once, there was a little boy who lived with his grandfather in a small hut in a small village. This boy was so tiny that everyone called him Jardown, the rat. Jardown loved his grandfather, who in turn loved Jardown more than anything in the world. His grandfather took care of him, cooked for him, and told him stories.
    One day in fall, his grandfather told the other village men that he was getting old and could not bring home as much firewood as he used to, and that the boy, Jardown, was too small to carry all they needed for the approaching winter. The other men told him not to fret. They would all send him their sons the following day, and they should be able to collect enough firewood to last for two or three winters.
    The next day, all the village boys arrived at the cottage. Jardown’sgrandfather gave each boy a piece of bread, a piece of chocolate, and two drops of condensed milk. “This is to thank you for helping us. Go into the forest and bring back as much firewood as you can. Take care of Jardown while you’re out