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wore infirmity like an itchy, gaudy shawl around her shoulders. She stopped saying she would be the first thirty years ago, when Uncle Wajih died.
    “How many tranquilizers have you taken?” Lina asked my aunt.
    “Have you gained weight?” Aunt Samia replied.
    My aunt’s eyes almost shot out of their sockets. Her lips and the skin around them seemed to have suddenly been invaded by a thousand lines. The noise in the hallway was that of an approaching army, a police team rushing in for a bust. The bey entered the room, followed by a flock of suits. You would think that in 2003, in post-feudal Beirut, one would have little use for clan chiefs and titled nobles, but traditions are not easily erased in our world. The bey no longer collected taxes, tributes, or royalties, but favors and loyalties were still his to claim. Though this latest incarnation of the bey was thirty, he looked like a boy of seventeen trying on his father’s favorite suit. All smiles, he attempted to appear official and officious. He greeted us all perfunctorily, though his eyes never left my father, whereas it was my cousin Hafez, one of the bey’s entourage, who held my father’s attention.
    Fatima, looking furious and threatening, viperlike, followed them into the room. The entourage must have sped past the visitors’ lounge or she would have stopped them.
    “How are you doing, dear uncle?” the bey said.
    My father didn’t reply. My sister did, loudly. “How did you all get in here? We can’t have this many visitors. There are rules.”
    Everyone stopped moving. The very air seemed to perspire. A couple of men ahemmed. “It’s quite all right, Lina,” Hafez said. A nervous laugh escaped his lips. “The guard won’t report us. We’re here because we care about my uncle.” He was a few weeks older than I, but he had the face of a boy.
    “Then care outside, in the visitors’ room. The guard shouldn’t have let you in. I won’t allow it. No more than two visitors at a time.”
    All the men stared at her. Hafez’s hands moved from his sides, trembling, up and down. His eyes were those of prey about to be swallowed.“You’re overreacting, my cousin. We won’t overstay. I’m sure my uncle is happy to have the bey here.” He looked to my father for support.
    “Only two visitors. Everybody follow me to the waiting room.” Lina, with Fatima’s help, directed the confused crowd to the door. Fatima actually pushed one of the men out. “Come out with me,” my sister said to my aunt. “Help me be a good hostess. You, too, Hafez. Unless you want to be one of the two. Just two people. Everybody else has to leave.”
    “But I’m not a visitor,” Hafez mewled. “I’m family.”
    Lina turned to me. “Stay.” She got closer, bent down to pick up her handbag, spoke softly so no one else would hear. “Make sure he doesn’t get excited or emotional. And if the bey asks for money again, come out and get me.”
    My aunt was still sitting, not comprehending what was happening. Lina helped her up. “Why am I leaving?” my aunt asked.
    “I need your wit,” Lina replied.

    After setting up camp on the fourth night, Khayal began: “I am a poet. By the age of three, I was able to astonish all who heard my eloquent use of our illustrious language. I learned to read and write. I memorized the greats, the not-so-great, and the horrid. I have won more poetry wars in the Syrian countries than anyone has before me. I know panegyric poems, I know love poems. I can recite the entire Muallaqat , the qasidas. I am familiar with ghazal poems and khamriyas, the Bacchic songs.”
    “Tonight the poet offers bravado,” Fatima said. “How delightful!”
    “I am in awe, but I am not seduced yet,” Jawad said.
    “I am a lover. Boys from Baghdad to Tunis remember me in their dreams. I am the one whose exploits are recalled fondly by every lad, no matter how many he has had after me. I am the one who has left behind a trail of conquests as long as