The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  “Don’t you want to celebrate with us, Abu Youssef?” the people said. “Don’t you want to sing and dance with us all night? Don’t you want to celebrate your good fortune?”

  Abu Youssef replied, “Yes, I do, but not now and not here. If you want a real party, then gather on the street below my balcony at midnight. I’ll show you the meaning of true happiness, and I’ll dance and celebrate with you till long after dawn.”

  Amazed, the people wondered what this could possibly mean. Was Abu Youssef planning a party in the city? He had a small flat in Beirut, everyone knew that. And everyone knew his balcony because it was the only one on the street—and also because, in the right light, rumour had it, the balcony shone like it was made of pure gold. But Abu Youssef spent very little time in this flat. If he was going to throw a party, he preferred to do it in his village in the mountains, where he’d invite all his friends to join him.

  The news travelled through the streets and alleys like a leaf on the wind. Children shouted it to their parents; the parents told their friends; and soon the whole city was bursting with excitement. “This evening,” the people cried, “Abu Youssef is going to show us the meaning of true happiness.”

  Abu Youssef rode into the mountains on Amir’s back. He had reached a decision. At first he’d thought it would niggle at him for a long time, but now that he knew what he had to do, he felt very calm. Back home in his village, he fed and watered his faithful friend Amir, then disappeared into his house.

  He did not reappear until dark. And he was not alone. The stars shone down on his little homestead; the village lay deep in sleep. Under cover of darkness, two figures and the camel set off for the city. Even from a distance they could hear the murmur of voices as the side streets and alleys filled up. People streamed from the surrounding neighbourhoods into the centre, to the street where Abu Youssef’s flat was, the building with the shimmering balcony. The camel and the two figures took shortcuts and secret paths so as to reach the house undetected. Clever Amir had tied cloths around his hoofs to muffle the sound. He reached his long neck round every corner and gave a discreet whistle when the coast was clear. They had a few near misses, but Abu Youssef and his companion were able to duck behind Amir’s humps. In this way, they made their way through the streets and to the back entrance of the house.

  The air in the flat was stale, like a big wardrobe that hasn’t been aired for years. It was a long time since they’d been there. Through the closed shutters, they could hear eager voices calling Abu Youssef’s name.

  Abu Youssef signalled to the other person and gave a questioning look. His companion nodded. Slowly Abu Youssef opened the balcony door. The babble of voices died instantly. It was as if the whole city lay in silence. Not for long, though, because no sooner had Abu Youssef stepped out on the balcony than riotous cheers erupted. The sound of rejoicing swept through the streets again and shook the houses to their core. Fathers put toddlers on their shoulders so that they could see. Everyone was waving and calling out Abu Youssef’s name, and he waved back.

  Then he held up a hand. At this signal, the cheers dried up like a drop of water in the desert.

  “My dear friends,” he said, allowing his gaze to wander over the waiting crowd, “I’m so pleased that you’ve come.” Everyone was staring up at him. No one dared to speak; no one wanted to miss what Abu Youssef had to say. He carried on, in the slow and deliberate manner he was known for. “There are two kinds of feelings associated with the word ‘farewell’. A farewell can be sad because what you are leaving behind is so precious and important that you are loath to leave it. But a farewell can also be happy, because the power of what lies ahead does not stir sadness but joyful anticipation. Life is full of farewells, and our feelings change with each parting. But the word ‘homecoming’ is different. Why? Because we really only come home once. But where is home? They say home is where the heart is. You only come home once because you only have one heart, and it’s your heart that decides.” His eyes swept over his intent audience once more. “At least that is what I always thought,” he said. “I thought you only have one heart, and therefore only one home. But I was wrong.”

  Abu Youssef turned from the crowd to face into the flat and held out his hand. Dainty fingers reached out to take his. Then a delicate figure in a veil joined him on the balcony. A loud murmur went through the crowd.

  “I’ve had many adventures,” said Abu Youssef, still holding the woman’s hand. “And many of you have wondered about the wealth I’m supposed to have amassed, along with all the honour and glory. Many of you think I must live in the lap of luxury, in a palace with servants and date palms and a gold nameplate at the gate. But the truth is, I haven’t got a bean. And yet I am the richest man on earth. Standing here, looking down at all of you, I see many wealthy men. Men who have more than one heart.”

  He turned to the petite figure who had been standing a little behind him and drew her closer. He took off her veil and revealed a woman as beautiful as any legend. Her hair was jet black and held by a golden clasp, her eyes were Mediterranean blue, and her skin as pure and white as marble. Everyone held their breath, afraid to exhale in case they might blow the delicate creature off the balcony. No one would have been the least bit surprised if she had suddenly flown away like a fairy.

  “This is my second heart,” said Abu Youssef. “My wife. And if you want to know what true happiness is, you must always remind yourself that you have more than one heart to which you can return.” He smiled gently. “I have three of them. Three hearts.”

  With that he removed the woman’s cape, and they saw a sleeping baby in her arms.

  “My son!” said Abu Youssef.

  The sky lit up all of a sudden. Fireworks transformed the street, the houses, the whole city into a dazzling spectacle. Blazing rockets whooshed into the sky, not just in the city centre but on the outskirts too, as if a crown of light was hovering over Beirut, turning night into day. Celebratory shots rang out in the sky, echoing off pavements and over walls to fill the air with thunderous noise. From the gardens to the rooftops and beyond, the night was full of shouts of joy. You could not fail to hear them. Red and yellow lights flared up and danced in the half-light. Suddenly, in this riot of colour, the balcony turned gold and shimmered as never before. It gleamed so bright that the people nearest had to shield their eyes. It lit up the street and bathed it in a deep gold that could be seen from a great distance, from as far away as the edge of the city. Its message was clear: Here stands Abu Youssef with his treasure beside him. He has come home to his three hearts.

  -

  11

  “Am I your heart?” I mumbled, barely able to keep my eyes open.

  “You are my greatest happiness,” he whispered.

  I was already half asleep, drifting in that pleasant land of shadowy darkness, transported there by his voice and the pictures he’d painted. It was a story of reconciliation, showing me how important we, his family, were to him. How important I, his son, was. And how he loved coming home to us, his hearts, no matter which adventures he’d just experienced within himself.

  Father kissed my forehead. It was the last kiss I got from him. A feeling of utter contentment settled on me like a downy quilt tucking me in. Then he ran his fingers through my hair. It was the last time he’d do that. He smoothed my duvet one last time and turned out the bedside light.

  “Sleep well, Samir,” he whispered. He stood up and looked round at me one more time. “I love you.”

  Those were his last words.

  Through a heavy veil, I could see him standing in the doorway. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier, as if a lead weight was pulling them down. If I’d known that these were the last few seconds I’d have with my father, I’d have made more of an effort. I’d have tried to look at him for longer, taking in the thick eyebrows above the friendly brown eyes set in a round face. I’d have tried to memorise how he looked s
o that in the weeks and months to come, when I’d wake from a dream he appeared in, I wouldn’t panic and forget to breathe for fear he’d slip away. So that the teenage me wouldn’t despair when I could no longer remember his face, just a blurry impression of it. So that I wouldn’t keep cursing myself, years later even, when I couldn’t remember how deep the creases at the corners of his mouth were when he laughed. How many lines his forehead had when he frowned. How far his Adam’s apple protruded when he threw his head back to laugh. Whether he might have been greying at the temples. Or had a birthmark on the back of his neck. What direction the lifelines on his palms took when he waved his hands in the air. Which hand he used to stroke his beard. Exactly how his voice sounded when he was telling a story. I would have opened my eyes wide and looked at him and registered it all. So that I’d never forget. I would have forced myself to look at him. But I was too sleepy. And so the last I saw of my father was his silhouette in the doorway and him—so I believe—looking at me fondly.

  -

  II

  There’s something you should know: you’re not the only one looking for your father.

  -

  1

  I’m woken by someone knocking at the door. Quiet, discreet knocks. A moment ago, they were part of my dream, but now they’ve reached the surface of my consciousness. I jolt awake. Where am I? My skin is sticky with sweat, the sheet rumpled. White bedlinen. On the nightstand is a telephone next to a white lamp. White curtains too? They flutter in the breeze at the open window. On the other side of the room, a white desk next to a white wardrobe. The room feels clinical, like a conference room or a laboratory. The knocking starts again, louder than before. I start. There’s a stabbing in my head, as if shards of glass are flying around inside, and my lips are dry and cracked.

  “Not right now, please!” I shout.

  No answer, but I hear footsteps retreating down the hall. I sit up and massage my temples.

  Slowly, it all comes back to me.

  The air smells unfamiliar. I’m rattled by how strange it feels to be here. I hear noises outside, the clamour of voices. I try to distinguish the sounds: revving engines, beeping horns, mopeds clattering, sirens wailing in the distance. Voices layered on top of each other, like at a market. A loudspeaker briefly clicks and crackles, and a second later a song floats into my room. It sounds like a slow lament.

  Allahu akbar, ashadu an la ilaha ill-allah.

  The muezzin calling for prayer. The words themselves have never meant anything to me, but I’ve always loved the way they sound.

  I’m really here, then. The wind carries the call from the minarets of the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque down to me, mixing it with the noise of the city to create a sublime melody. I sink back into my pillow and close my eyes.

  Ashadu ana muḥammadan rasulu-Ilah.

  Memories pin me to the bed. I exhale and feel the tingle of goosebumps. It’s as if for years I’ve only ever seen a cheap reproduction of a precious painting, but now I have the original in front of me, far more awe-inspiring and beautiful than I could ever have imagined.

  When the call to prayer fades away, I throw the duvet aside and sit up. The rucksack beside the bed catches my eye. The airline tag is still attached to the strap. I go into the bathroom. Toiletries are arranged on the shelf above the sink: a nail file, soap, body lotion, and a folded hand towel. BEST WESTERN HOTEL. My swollen red eyes look back at me in the mirror.

  Later, I scan the lobby for his face. Hotel staff push luggage trolleys through the foyer. A cleaner with a blue bucket wipes the windows. A man on a black leather armchair near the entrance reads a newspaper, two women with headscarves and red fingernails tap at their smartphones, and a child tries to reach the coin slot of a candy vending machine.

  He’s not here. I can’t see him anywhere.

  “Eight o’clock, no problem,” he said when he dropped me off yesterday. It’s almost 8:30 now. I’m late. I put my rucksack on the floor in front of the reception desk.

  “I’d like to check out, please.”

  The young woman looks at me and gives a business-like smile. I can smell her perfume, which I suspect all the female staff here wear, as it pervades the entire hotel. Sweet and milky with a harsh edge, it’s a typical hotel smell, designed to be registered briefly and immediately forgotten, yet strong enough to disguise the odour of carpets and cleaning agents.

  “Did you have a pleasant stay, Mr. …”—she looks at the computer screen—“Mr. el-Hourani?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Breakfast is served until ten. The breakfast room is on the first floor.”

  I’m not hungry; I can feel the tension in my stomach.

  “Can I do anything else for you?”

  I notice a little black dot on her eyelid and imagine her kohl pencil slipping as she was getting ready for work this morning.

  “No, thanks.”

  From the reception desk I can see another part of the foyer. Men in suits sit on the leather armchairs, looking at laptops or holding mobile phones to their ears. He isn’t among them. I turn back to the receptionist.

  “Excuse me, was there a man looking for me earlier by any chance?”

  “Someone looking for you? Not as far as I know. Just a minute. Hamid …” She turns to a colleague who’s pulling a suitcase out of the storage room. “Has anyone been asking for Mr. el-Hourani?”

  “No,” her colleague replies.

  “Sorry,” she says. “Have you got a number for him? I can call him if you like.”

  “No need, thanks.”

  He never gave me a card anyway.

  The main door keeps opening and shutting, letting travellers and warm air in. Outside, the sun’s shining. It’s like walking into a hot, damp towel. The heat is so overwhelming that I barely hear the doorman’s “Have a good day, sir.” It’s nearly nine o’clock. Above me, the hotel’s logo emits a bluish-yellow gleam. Cars and mopeds speed by. Expensive pictures are on display in a window across the street; Anaay Gallery, an elegant font above the door announces. Next door, there’s a McDonald’s. Men with trendy beards wearing muscle shirts and sunglasses amble down the footpath. They look like surfers, like California beach bums. In fact, apart from the suited business people clutching briefcases as they frantically wave down taxis, the neighbourhood ahead of me looks more than modern; it actually seems pretty hip. A group of young women in blouses and miniskirts glides past me. They’re followed by a man in a dirty white T-shirt pushing a cart full of oranges, sweat glistening on his forehead. I watch the girls nimbly skip out of the way as a man pours a cascade of water out onto the street. Through the shimmering air, amid the jumble of buildings, I make out the turquoise domes and two of the four towers of the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque. The street sign reads Bechara el-Khoury. It’s surreal to be here at last. The city doesn’t smell like I thought it would. I expected the aromas of falafel, thyme, and saffron, smells that had always filled our street. But it’s hot and sticky here, and it smells of exhaust fumes and dust. It doesn’t sound like I expected, either—not like animated chatter in cafés and music, not like the plucked string of a lute or qanun. It sounds like any other big city.

  I shift indecisively from one leg to the other. If he’s just late, it would be a mistake to set off on my own now. But it’s already past nine. I’ve probably missed him.

  Was he the person who’d knocked on my door earlier? Probably not, seeing as there was a laundry trolley and a vacuum cleaner in the corridor; chamber maids at work. Plus he would have had to ask for my room number at reception. We barely know each other. No, there’s no point in waiting or looking for him any longer.

  I’m here. In Beirut. For the first time in my life. Everything is foreign and new yet oddly familiar, like bumping into a once-close friend whom I haven’t seen in a long time. Home, I think. This is home. Although my roots are here, it feels strange, unreal.
Like in a long-distance relationship, when you spend the first hours of each reunion getting used to each other again, remembering familiar caresses. So that’s what it looks like when you smile. Except this isn’t a reunion.

  “Hey … what are you doing here?” A dusty old Volvo is crawling along beside me. It seems out of place in this gentrified street. The cars behind it brake and beep. It’s the same car, the same guy who brought me here from the airport yesterday. “It is you, isn’t it?”

  I slow down. The man leans across the passenger seat and shouts through the open window: “Didn’t we arrange to meet in the hotel?”

  Astonished that he’s appeared here out of the blue, I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “At eight o’clock, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And look, here I am, as promised.”

  “Eight o’clock,” I repeat.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost half past nine.”

  He laughs.

  “Welcome to Beirut! Get in.”

  The car jerks to a halt and the beeping around us becomes louder. The car is now blocking the street, and the other motorists have to cross into the other lane to get past. I flop into the passenger seat. It’s even hotter in here than out on the footpath.

  “What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asks.

  “Air conditioning,” I say, throwing my rucksack onto the back seat.

  He shrugs. This is the first time I’ve seen him in daylight. He has a moustache and four- or five-day stubble on his cheeks. I’d guess he’s around fifty. His hair is greying at the temples and there are fine lines around his eyes. He has the friendly face of a man who takes his kids to watch football or films at weekends and buys them candyfloss. He’s wearing washed-out jeans and a cardigan over a grey-and-red checked shirt. Too many layers for this weather.