The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  I hadn’t really felt like going into the living room. I was afraid Father would go back to ignoring me now that the guests were gone—or worse, stare at me as if I was about to go up in smoke and he had to imprint every detail of me in his memory. So I just sneaked into my room, where I found the present. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. When I tore off the paper, I held a little wooden box in my hand. The pale wood was streaked with darker shades of brown that ran down the sides of the box like veins or rivulets. I turned it in every direction and inspected it from all angles. The wood was finely polished, my fingers felt no unevenness. It wasn’t big, but the smell of cedar was so powerful that I almost jumped back to catch my breath. I could picture Father in the shed, making this box for me. Sawing the board, hollowing and sanding the wood until he had the shape he wanted. Polishing it as he thought of me holding and feeling his work. Tears welled up but I held them back. I flipped open the lid of the box. There was nothing inside except a hollow about three fingers wide, roughly the length of my little finger, and not particularly deep. Mother had a similar box, lined on the inside, for her earrings. But I didn’t have any earrings, and right now I couldn’t think of anything else to keep in this box.

  “Do you like it?” Father was watching me from the doorway. He had a dark blue jumper on with a high polo-neck. It looked cosy and warm. I was dying to run to him and bury my head in his woolly tummy, but I didn’t dare.

  “I wasn’t sure …” he said.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to put in it.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  I nodded in silent agreement.

  “May I come in?”

  Still looking at the box, I nodded again. Father came into my room and looked around. His eyes took in my desk, the withered cyclamen sitting on it, and the little shelf that held my books and toys. He was studying the room as if seeing it for first time. I looked at him uncertainly. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. The last few weeks had left their mark, and I no longer knew how to read him. So I just sat there and clung to the little box.

  “When I was a little older than you,” he said suddenly, pointing at my hands, “I had one of those too.” He stroked his beard.

  “Really? What did you put in your box?”

  “Well, I used to write stories back then,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets.

  “What kind of stories?”

  “Ones I made up.”

  “About what?”

  “Anything and everything. They weren’t particularly good, which is why I didn’t show them to anyone.”

  “And you kept them in your box?”

  “Yes. It was a bit bigger than yours, though.” He smiled and looked at me. “It’s always good to have somewhere to keep your secrets.”

  Now he was standing very close to me, so close I could inhale his smell. How I’d have loved to lean my head against him, but I didn’t budge. “Will you tell me a story again some time?”

  He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “Yes, of course.”

  “One about Abu Youssef?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes, hoping desperately for a yes.

  “A new adventure with Abu Youssef?”

  “That would be nice,” I said with massive understatement.

  Abu Youssef was a character Father had invented for me. For years he’d regaled me with new episodes of his adventures. Abu Youssef was a bit of an oddball. He lived in humble circumstances in a Lebanese mountain village, but he was very popular because he loved to throw parties and gather his friends around him. He had a talking camel called Amir. Amir means “prince,” which is why the camel always wanted to be addressed as Your Highness. Abu Youssef loved Amir. He groomed him every day at sundown, and Amir was even allowed to eat indoors with Abu Yousef, as he had very good table manners. Amir’s favourite food was apple cake. They had many an adventure together, putting an end to evil scoundrels’ games or coming to the aid of mighty kings whose councillors had run out of counsel. Abu Youssef was respected far and wide. But one thing even Amir did not know was that Abu Youssef had a secret. He was rich, very rich indeed, for he had a great treasure. The wind sometimes carried rumours of his wealth from mountain villages across the plateau and into the cities. On the main squares, they wound themselves around the columns, where they were picked up and spread through the markets or whispered behind closed doors. The gossip about Abu Youssef and his treasure spun from the humble carpet maker in the bazaar to the rich Saudi sheikh in his Beirut penthouse, though many people dismissed it as pure fantasy, for it was well known that Abu Youssef lived in humble circumstances in his village, where he liked to throw parties, if his latest adventure didn’t get in the way. I pictured him as a cheerful old man with a long grey beard, imparting pearls of wisdom to the children who were always gathered around him. He would ride through the land on his talking camel, ready to tackle whatever new challenges came his way.

  Father cocked his head and studied me.

  “Aren’t you getting a bit old for Abu Youssef and his adventures?

  “I’ll never be too old for your stories.”

  Father laughed out loud, taking himself by surprise, then cleared his throat.

  “When?” I wanted to know.

  “Soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Very soon. I have a story in mind already.”

  I had a lump in my throat.

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Would I lie to you?”

  Soon I’d have him sitting on my bed again, telling me about Abu Youssef. The thought of it had me fighting back tears once more.

  Then I felt his arm on my shoulder. It was only one brief moment of intimacy, but if I’d ever been granted a superpower, I’d have wished for the power to freeze time. The clusters of foggy droplets on my window would have stopped sliding down the pane. The shapes shifting in my lava lamp would have turned to stone. The dust motes dancing in the air would have come to a sudden halt. The withered leaf that just fell off the cyclamen on my desk would have been suspended in mid-air. And the astonished smile lifting the corners of my mouth would never have faded had his arm stayed on my shoulder. But I didn’t have any superpowers.

  Neither of us spoke. I just sat there feeling the weight of his arm on my shoulder, feeling the gentle pressure as he drew me close. Then we both exhaled. We hadn’t noticed Mother coming into the room. She had wet patches on her blouse, a strand of hair was falling into her face, and her smile was tired. I shoved the little box under the duvet because I didn’t know whether Father wanted it to be our secret. I certainly did. If Mother had seen it, she didn’t let on. Father slowly lifted his arm.

  “Did you enjoy your birthday?” she asked.

  “Yes, it was great.”

  “And what do you think of the diabolo? Is it fun?”

  I grinned a little self-consciously.

  “Yeah. I’m pretty good at it actually.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “It was nice that so many people came. I like our neighbours.”

  “And they like you too. They had a good time.”

  “I like Khalil. He’s a nice guy and he gave me lots of tips.”

  “You can learn a lot from that young man,” Father said.

  I nodded uncertainly. I was remembering that afternoon—the party, our living room full of visitors speaking Arabic, the obligatory shisha pipe doing the rounds after coffee. I could even see the yellow packet of Chiclets that was shared around, the men chewing gum to conceal the smell of tobacco. And I remembered the sudden longing that I’d felt. I desperately wanted to be one of them. To be not just the German-born son of Lebanese parents, but to see Lebanon, to live there, surrounded by people who embellished every word with
impulsive, sweeping gestures, who ate with their hands, who addressed everyone who spoke this wonderful language as habibi or habibti. There was a burning question on my lips, but I wasn’t sure this was a good time to ask it.

  “Is everything OK?” Mother asked.

  I plucked up my courage.

  “Will we ever move back to Lebanon?”

  She clearly wasn’t expecting this question and looked hesitantly from me to Father.

  “No,” she said.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  They had both spoken at the same time.

  Later on—my room was in darkness, the lava lamp switched off—I woke from a restless dream. I reached one arm to the floor and fumbled for my water bottle. I drank in big thirsty gulps. The dream was already fading like invisible ink, and I could no longer remember the details. Silence reigned in our flat, apart from the hum of the old water-heater above the kitchen sink. My fingers followed the flex of the lamp until they found the switch. I rubbed my sleepy eyes. Then I saw the little wooden box on my bedside table. It lay open; I could see the hollowed-out space that seemed so small. A key might just about fit in it, but the key to what? I picked up the box, turning it over and feeling it in my hands. Then, as I pictured my father carving this gift in what little light came through the shed window, it was as if I could hear his voice saying, It’s always good to have somewhere to keep your secrets.

  I flung back the duvet and slipped out of bed. The lava lamp only cast a faint glow around the room, but I’d have found my way in my sleep. I went over to the shelf and took down the fattest book, Tales from 1,001 Nights. These stories that Scheherazade told King Shahryar in order to delay her execution had always fascinated me. Of all the treasures on my shelf, this was the most precious. I shook the book gently until a small object fell out that I had secreted between the pages. I picked it up, returned the book to the shelf, and went back to bed.

  The slide fit perfectly into the hollowed-out space, as if the box had been made for this very purpose.

  -

  9

  My excitement grew by the day. I couldn’t wait to be transported once more into the magical world of Abu Youssef and Amir, a world full of heroes and rascals, colourful costumes and glorious adventures. I recalled some of the earlier episodes, like the time Abu Youssef had to rescue Amir from Ishaq, a lizard-like animal dealer who had kidnapped Amir and was threatening to sell the talking camel to a circus in Paris. Ishaq was a formidable foe who had enslaved many animals because of their extraordinary talents. Among them was an extremely overweight rhinoceros who was unbeatable at cards. On full moon nights, Ishaq would turn into a green-eyed lizard with impenetrable black scaly armour. Abu Youssef used a clever ploy to rescue Amir. He knew that Ishaq’s one weak spot was his fear of fire. So Abu Youssef followed the lizard man across the stormy sea to Paris, where the dealer intended to negotiate the sale of his extraordinary asset to the circus director. Then Abu Youssef challenged Ishaq to a duel. It took place at the Arc de Triomphe by the light of the full moon. Abu Youssef defeated his rival by forcing him into the eternal flame that burns in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

  All sons love their fathers, I believe, but I positively adored mine. He allowed me into his wild fantasies; he took me with him to worlds of wonder fabricated in his head; he intoxicated me with his words. He had made me promise something else early on—never to tell Mother what his stories were about. “If she finds out that I’m telling you stories about men who change into lizards every full moon, I’ll get into trouble,” he said with a wink. I nodded vigorously and promised to keep our secret.

  Yasmin knew all about Abu Youssef too. She was green with envy when I told her Father was going to tell me a new episode soon. “Will you tell it to me later?” she asked. Her eyes gleamed like a sunlit lake. We had developed our own ritual. Father would tell me a story, and I’d then retell it to Yasmin. This made me proud to be a storyteller too, and I loved it when Yasmin listened as I repeated Father’s words. She’d close her eyes tight and listen intently, and I could almost see the magic worlds opening up inside her head. It was as if we had created our own theatre, and Yasmin was the lighting, the stage, and the audience. I had no stories of my own yet, just my voice, my body. So a little boy would stand in front of a little girl and wave his arms about to represent the wind blowing in Abu Youssef’s face, or dance on tiptoes to show how he crept up on an enemy. I whispered when Abu Youssef whispered, and I screamed when Abu Youssef screamed. Yasmin loved it, and nothing could beat her peals of laughter and applause at the end.

  The first snow arrived a few days after my birthday, like cotton wool drifting down from the sky. It settled on the rooftops and the now bare branches of the trees, transforming everything into a glittering wonder. I woke up to the sound of a snow shovel on the pavement and sat up instantly. From my window I could see Hakim, his ears bright red, clearing the snow off the pavement. He waved up when he saw me. “Didn’t I tell you the snow wouldn’t be long in coming?” he shouted and laughed. I laughed too. Frost flowers had grown on the windowpane overnight. They were my favourite flowers, partly because you didn’t have to water them.

  That afternoon Hakim took Yasmin and me up the nearby hill to try out my sled. We sat one behind the other, with Hakim puffing and panting as he hauled us through the snow. Father didn’t come. By now I’d almost grown used to his strange moods. The day after he’d promised to tell me another story, for example, there he was, pacing up and down again like a caged animal. The telephone had rung a little while earlier and Mother had answered it. She’d said “Hello?”, repeating it in a loud voice several times, then hung up. Around half an hour later, Father slipped out of the flat. I knew he was going to ring Grandmother, but I resisted the urge to tell Mother she needn’t worry.

  Besides, the arrival of the snow meant there were far more important things on my mind. When I’d come down in my snowsuit, Yasmin was already out the front in her red hat and gloves, armed with a perfectly formed snowball. Now we were sitting on my new sled, urging Hakim to pull us faster, and roaring with laughter when he whinnied like a horse. We lost track of time as we whooshed down the slope over and over again. The air was cold and clear and full of shrieks of joy. Our cheeks were red, our eyelashes frosted over, our noses ran, but we barely noticed. Winter had come, the time for family fun. The air smelled of cinnamon and tangerines instead of damp cold and dead leaves, of log fires and cloves instead of chestnuts and musty earth. We left sled tracks in the snow. We were happy.

  The hours flew by, and suddenly we realised it was dusk. “That’s enough for today,” shouted Hakim, his eyes gleaming with the cold. “There’s plenty of winter yet. Next time we’ll take the car and find a bigger hill.” We protested, but only half-heartedly, as we could feel a pleasant tiredness taking hold. If Hakim was tired, he didn’t show it. He just whinnied cheerfully and pawed the snow before pulling us home.

  When we got home, the smell of hot punch already filled the whole stairwell. Yasmin and I pushed past each other into our flat, quickly discarded hats and gloves, and clambered out of our snowsuits. Mother was already waiting with two steaming mugs.

  “You’re frozen to the bone,” she remarked, stroking our cheeks.

  We were indeed, and all the more glad to wrap our hands round the warm mugs. Hakim closed the door behind us and knelt down to pick up the hats and gloves we had carelessly tossed on the floor.

  “Give that pair a sled and a hill and they don’t just forget the time, they forget their manners as well.”

  Mother smiled gratefully, relieved him of our things, and handed him a mug of punch. He closed his eyes and held it to his cold cheek. Then he followed us into the kitchen.

  “Where is Brahim?” he asked, poking his head into the living room.

  “He’s not back yet,” said Mother.

  “When did he leave the house?”

  “This m
orning.”

  Hakim raised his eyebrows and looked at the clock above the kitchen door. It was just after six. He’d been gone over seven hours.

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “No.”

  Mother sighed. Hakim frowned and took a seat. Outside, darkness had descended.

  Mother turned to us. “Tell me all about the snow.” She gently pushed a lock of Yasmin’s hair out of the way before she bent over her cup.

  We regaled her with our adventures on the slopes, each trying to outdo the other’s descriptions of breakneck speeds and spectacular falls into the deep snow. Even Mother laughed out loud when we described our draught horse, Hakim. She really was so pretty when she laughed.

  We sat in the kitchen for about an hour, drinking punch and eating our supper. Then we went into the living room. Yasmin and Hakim had gone downstairs briefly and reappeared in cosy sweaters. The four of us were wrapped up on the sofa now, the warmth of the heating behind us and a soft blanket tucked round our feet. Yasmin and I had found some notepaper and were making out our Christmas lists. I wanted a bike and Yasmin wanted a new schoolbag. Hakim was asking Mother about her sewing and her latest ideas. He had one of her sketchbooks on his lap and was running his flat fingertips over the drawings as if he could feel the fabrics’ weft and weave. Mother was using the drawings to explain the different steps in her work and telling Hakim about a Christmas market where she was hoping to buy material at a keen price. Hakim already knew about the market. His boss had suggested that he carve nativity figurines to sell there and asked if that would be a problem for a Muslim. It was no problem for Hakim, of course.

  We were so absorbed that we never even heard Father coming in. I’ve no idea how long he had been standing there before we noticed him. Mother startled as if she’d got an electric shock. Hakim looked up and the sketchbook fell from his hands. Yasmin dug her nails into my arm. Father stood there in the doorway, staring at us like we were ghosts. His clothes were all wet and crumpled, his face as grey as a November morning. Time seemed to stall for a moment. Water dripped from his hair and beard onto the wooden floor. A puddle had already formed around his feet. Then he closed his eyelids, raised his hands, and pressed the insides of his wrists to his temples, as if he’d felt a jolt of pain. It was as if he couldn’t bear the sight of us and hoped we’d be gone when he opened his eyes again. But we still sat there, motionless, staring back at him. He lowered his hands, turned, and stumbled out of the room. A few seconds later we heard the click as he locked himself into the bathroom.