Mother of All Pigs. Malu Halasa
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own contribution to international cuisine, dusting becomes reverential. It’s rare for him to find someone he truly likes and trusts. His friendship with Hani is like spontaneous combustion, while with Hussein it has taken years, even decades, of grooming before the flames of mutual profiteering could be ignited.
The Featherer had been dusting the morning his nephew returned to their town. Carrying a clipboard, Abu Za’atar was also noting down inventory and paid little attention to the uniformed man loitering by the counterfeit designer timepieces. The increasingly troublesome border in the valley below made the town a regular stop for soldiers on their way to the various outposts. On the whole, none of them had any money and was therefore of no interest. So when the mustached young man greeted him politely, Abu Za’atar’s reply was offhand and distracted. The shopkeeper was certain that any conversation would lead to the inevitable inquiries into the whereabouts of the only available local girl.
The soldier continued to entertain himself among the watches. When at last Abu Za’atar glanced up, he was stunned to encounter the broad smile of his favorite nephew. He kissed him on both cheeks and then gripped his shoulders at arm’s length, trying to assess what changes had taken place since they last met. The slender, uninspiring boy who had run away into military service had returned, in his uncle’s estimation, a man.
“What was it like, eh?” Surely such a handsome lad must have had many adventures. Tied to the small town, the shopkeeper lived vicariously through the travel stories of wayward traders and truck drivers. In his excitement, he asked question after question, but Hussein’s elusive replies suggested that his experiences were not altogether satisfactory. Finally the young and old sat in silence over arak and the arghileh.
“Amo,” Hussein began shyly, as he would have done in the old days, for he had always found Abu Za’atar’s company fascinating, “did you keep the magazine?”
He was referring to an old copy of Good Housekeeping his brother Abd had sent from America. In the past Hussein and Abu Za’atar spent hours poring over its pages, working on their English and wondering about the purpose of so many colorful and unusual household goods.
Abu Za’atar immediately retrieved the issue from its original hiding place in a drawer under the cash register. He had placed it there on the day of Hussein’s departure, as a token of their shared interests. Taking the magazine, Hussein turned to the double-page spread of a supermarket. He had recently returned from a US military training program for overseas officers at Fort Knox in Tennessee and was able to name and classify all the foodstuffs from peanut butter to wieners, which he himself had purchased from an all-purpose superstore as tall as Jebel Musa, the mountain known to the Christian tourist hordes as Mount Nebo.
The older man became solemn. “Puppy Chow?”
Hussein hesitated. To tell the truth would only make him look foolish, but who else could he confess to, if not his favorite uncle? It was embarrassing to be sure, but if he was going to become an officer, he would have to learn to readily admit his stupidity. Fooled by the supermarket’s generic brand, he bought several cans and enjoyed some tasty curries before realizing his mistake.
As a point of honor, Abu Za’atar never ridicules a heartfelt blunder. “Your father once told me a story about a Bedouin tribe.” He tugged thoughtfully at his receding hairline. “At certain times of the year, on the rising of the morning star, they cut a camel to pieces and ate the raw beating heart before dawn. In this way the tribesmen ensured that they absorbed the animal’s spirit. They wanted the camel’s endurance and vitality to enter into their own lives.”
He peered at his nephew.
“So what did you get?”
“Knowledge that depressed me every time I walked down an American street.”
Hussein had also visited his brothers and their families in Ohio and had been surprised.
“My nieces care for their pets as we do for people. They talk lovingly to them, hug and comb them—” His voice choked with bewilderment. “I’m telling you, man, their dogs live better than we do.”
Abu Za’atar exhaled the dense rich smoke and muttered, “Sometimes it’s best not to know the world.”
Since that time, Abu Za’atar vowed to help this sensitive young relative who showed such initiative and promise. After Hussein retired from the army, it was the proprietor who guided him through the intricacies of selling his father’s land. Even when Hussein insisted on keeping a last piece of Al Jid’s legacy, his uncle bowed to his wishes, although he would have preferred a clean final break; his commission would have been higher. Also, farming was never going to be Hussein’s future. When he ended up in the butcher shop across the street, Abu Za’atar racked his brain to come up with schemes to liberate him. He knew the young man was destined for better things—although it took Hussein a while to fully embrace the unique form his uncle’s aid took.
After Hussein settled in at his new job, Abu Za’atar sent his youngest son, Sammy, to fetch him whenever something really interesting came into the Marvellous Emporium. The quick-witted, weedy fourteen-year-old was instructed to never ever run but stroll casually over to the butcher’s. There was no point in attracting unnecessary attention. However, the tremendousness of Abu Za’atar’s latest prize could be gauged by the boy’s insistent cries of “Ibn ammee”—“my uncle”—heard reverberating down the main street.
After Abu Za’atar received Hani’s gift of natural wonder, he ushered Hussein quickly into the warren of rooms in the back of the Marvellous Emporium, where the floor and tables were littered with crates of Johnnie Walker Red, the latest contraband in the thriving underground economy.
Setting the stage, he ordered Sammy to prepare drinks for the two men and stand at attention for further orders, as Abu Za’atar disappeared behind a closed door. He had the air of a magician about to produce the truly spectacular. Neither the whining from what sounded like a baby coming from inside nor the impassive face of his son was going to give the game away. Little Sammy, Abu Za’atar appreciated, was well trained. He was adept at making frozen margaritas and telling off-color jokes. More important, he had been schooled in keeping secrets. So Abu Za’atar had no doubts that the boy standing motionless by Hussein’s side would remain there for hours if need be.
After a series of loud thuds, followed by Abu Za’atar’s muffled cursing, the door behind the proprietor opened ever so slightly. In the half-light, only his pointy yellow leather Moroccan slippers were visible. The rest of his body was submerged in straw and grabbing at something unseen. An acrid odor exploded from the room, and Hussein fell back coughing.
“Shut the door!” bellowed Abu Za’atar, but it was too late. Hussein spilled his drink and crashed into Sammy, still standing at attention, as a creature with black, tan, and ginger fur, remarkably agile for its size, slid past the whisky crates and fled squealing through the curtained partition. It vanished beneath a rack of faux DKNY chased by a straw-covered Abu Za’atar. He understood if any of his customers caught so much of a glimpse of this special commodity, he would lose them forever. With an athleticism that belied his age, he dived into the dresses and began searching wildly, but he emerged empty-handed, pressing his fingers to his lips before his nephew had a chance to speak.
Sammy, alert and focused, took his place beside his father, straining to hear the tiniest sound that would give him some clue as to the whereabouts of their quarry. A tinkling in the corner made his father jump, but the boy held up his hand and whispered sagely, “Balinese wind chimes.” Another noise came from the far end of the shop, but before they made a move the boy quietly cautioned them again: “Windup toy robots.”
Then with poise and skill, Sammy reached for an old CD/cassette player—something he was rarely without—and switched on the Emir of Kuwait’s marching band starting its medley from Fiddler on the Roof. He had played this rousing selection to the closed door and knew it was a favorite of this creature, which sometimes responded by throwing itself against the door. Sammy had experimented with everything, from love songs to Fairouz, but only martial brass elicited a sure reaction. After a few bars, the animal stepped out from behind some