Mother of All Pigs. Malu Halasa

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      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 bolts of cloth, its impressive bulk swaying to the music.

      Abu Za’atar grabbed the beast’s leg and snarled, “Ten-hut!” and juvenile Sammy straightened like a board again. The marching band’s closing musical signatures from “If I Were a Rich Man” were impatiently switched off. Abu Za’atar retreated behind a curtain, dragging the animal behind him. Once he regained his breath, he invited Hussein to join him. After they settled down with fresh drinks from Sammy, he petted the prominent snout of the sleekly furred sow that lay placidly at his feet and told Hussein, “This, my friend, is the future.”

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