I detect the first stirring of emotion on her face. Her eyelids quiver, and for a fraction of a second she looks as if she might lose control, but she composes herself immediately. Her voice is even.
“The last time I saw your father, he and your mother were hiding in the boot of a car that was to bring them to Damascus. I wished them luck and closed the boot. They planned to take a plane from Damascus. To West Berlin. That was in November 1982.”
I stare at her.
Her flinty eyes stare back. But when she speaks, her voice isn’t quite as harsh and pitiless. Then she breaks into a satisfied smile, as if she’s predicted every last detail of this encounter.
“So he left all of you too.”
A wave of tiredness washes over me.
“May!” my grandmother calls, without taking her eyes off me. Seconds later, the housekeeper is back in the room. “Bring us some wine. The Ksara,” she says, still looking at me. “Won’t you sit down.” It’s an order. She points to one of the two chairs at the huge table.
“Yes,” I say, my voice sounding thin and fragile. “I’ve a lot of questions I want to ask you.”
The wine is making me drunk. The room is swirling. She’s sitting across from me, and I’m finding it hard to look her in the eye for more than a few seconds. She never seems to blink.
“He always said you were sick and that he had to send you money for medicine …” I say.
“Do I look sick to you?”
I shake my head.
“As I said, I’ve heard nothing from your father since he left the country with your mother. I never got a cent from him. Your father”—again, the penetrating glare, the strict, chiding tone of her voice—“was very good at taking, but he never gave anything back.”
“What do you mean?”
“In this country,” she says, “you can accomplish far more with money than you can with weapons. Money and contacts. I had plenty of both, and I used them to save your father’s life.”
I remember what he wrote in his diary, which I now have.
“I know,” I say.
“But do you think he ever showed a moment’s gratitude?”
I’m still puzzling over what she said. Where did the money go if she never received it? Had he been putting it aside for his trip? That would imply that he’d planned his disappearance far in advance. A horrible thought. Even scarier is the thought that it would’ve been easier for someone who’d been saving up for years to vanish into thin air forever, with a new passport, maybe even a new appearance … I’m afraid to ask the next question, but I’ve no choice. I’ve got to know for sure.
“Did you ever phone us at home?”
She looks at me, clear-eyed and calm, like a remedial teacher waiting for her pupil to figure the answer out for himself.
“I might have done if I’d had a number.” A smile crosses her face. I can’t tell if it’s kind or mocking. “I might have picked up the phone if I’d known they’d made it to Berlin and then onwards to God knows where. As I said, their frightened faces in the boot of the car—that’s the last I saw of them. And I never heard from either of them again … or from you, for that matter.”
“I’m here now.”
“So I see. Was it hard to track me down?”
“It wasn’t easy,” I say wearily. “But I got lucky. Why did you change your name? Is Bourguiba your maiden name?”
“Change my name?”
“Why aren’t you called el-Hourani anymore? Elmira el-Hourani.”
She was about to take a sip from her glass, but now she puts it down on the table. Her fingers are bony and old—the only thing about her that seems old.
“El-Hourani,” she spits. “My name is Bourguiba. Your father’s name is Bourguiba.” She looks at me triumphantly. “And your name is Bourguiba too!”
“But I’m Samir el-Hourani,” I say, taken aback by how whiny I sound.
“Yes, because your father was an ungrateful good-for-nothing who took that damn name,” she hisses. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you about their wedding?”
“I’ve seen photos.”
“Photos.” She laughs derisively.
I reach into my trouser pocket and take out the picture. I put it in front of her on the table. Grandmother turns it around and examines it: there she is with her thin-lipped smile, arm in arm with my father, who’s wearing a forced smile and a sharp suit.
“That was taken here,” she says, her finger tapping the photo. “Here in this house. We had the ceremony in the garden.”
It’s dark outside now. I can just about make out the silhouette of the big fig tree in the garden. Of course. Why am I only getting it now? I think back to the other pictures our parents showed us, the humming of the projector as it beamed the photo of our parents’ wedding dance onto the living-room wall. It was in this garden. I remember the fig tree, the guests standing around laughing. I get an uneasy feeling as I remember the men standing in front of the brick and mud wall, the men in their khaki shirts embroidered with cedars inside red circles. I picture the gun propped against the tree, exactly where Nabil is now sitting.
I take a mouthful of wine. The realisation that my parents walked across this floor, that Mother got dressed and put on her make-up right here and then stepped out into the sunlit garden, that Father danced with her and kissed her here—it all hits me with an immediacy that threatens to reopen my unhealed wounds.
“A lovely wedding,” she says, as if describing a vase of flowers. “Lots of guests and music.”
“The musician,” I say. “He fled with my parents.”
“Is that a question?”
“No. I know they left the country together. What I mean is, were he and his daughter in the car too?”
“No. Your parents planned to meet him in Damascus, I think. What was his name again?”
“Hakim.”
“Hakim. I remember. Your father insisted on him playing at the wedding. He was good, played the lute, I think, but we could have got someone better. A Muslim, right?”
“Yes.”
She wrinkles her nose.
“Terrible, what happened to his wife. But he wasn’t the only one. I thought he could probably do with the money. That’s why I didn’t object when your father wanted him to play at the wedding.”
I feel the hairs stand up on my arms. I know what happened to Yasmin’s mother. It’s in the diary.
Grandmother slides the photo back to me.
“We just had the religious ceremony here. You know that, don’t you?
“How do you mean?”
“There’s no such thing as a civil marriage in Lebanon. A wedding has to take place in a church, a mosque, or a synagogue to be legal. The state recognises weddings held in registry offices abroad, but you can’t get married in a registry office in Lebanon.”
“What’s that got to do with my parents?”
“Antoine-Pierre Khoraiche of Ain Ebel married your parents. The Maronite patriarch himself, thanks to my contacts,” she says, ignoring my question. “Have you any idea what an honour that is? Your father should have shown some gratitude. They disgraced me. Word got out that they’d gone off and got married in a registry office as well, as if the patriarch’s blessing meant nothing to them!” Grandmother’s eyes remain motionless. Her features are rigid. She emphasises every word in a cutting tone. “The pair of them flew to Cyprus in secret. I don’t know where they found the money, maybe your mother had savings. They got married at the town hall in Larnaca. Your father took her name. Then they travelled on to Nicosia, had the marriage officially registered, first by the Cypriot ministry of foreign affairs and then by the Lebanese embassy. They got it all done in five or six hours and were back here that same evening, sitting at this table, and they never said a word.” She’s trying to sound indifferent, but she can’t hide her bitt
erness.
“But why? I mean, what did they hope to get out of it?”
Grandmother waves her hand dismissively, as if I’m a silly little boy who needs everything explained.
“I’ve no doubt your mother was behind it. Even at that early stage, she must have intended to talk your father into fleeing. She knew how soft he was, how easy it was to manipulate him.” She looks at me. “She had it all planned out. If you flee to another country and want to stay there, it’s useful to have a registry-office certificate proving that you’re married. You see? Married couples are far more likely to be granted asylum.”
It’s strange, hearing her tell this story. Grandmother hasn’t once referred to Father or Mother by name, as if she can’t quite remember.
“I heard about it through contacts of mine. Your father didn’t want me to find out. He knew how much it hurt me when he cast off our name. He was my only son.”
Was. As if he’s dead.
“He knew there’d be no more Bourguibas once I’m gone. That was his way of getting revenge.”
“Revenge? For what?” I can almost guess; the answer glimmers between the lines of his diary.
She shoots me a withering look. How can anyone be this stupid, it seems to say. But there’s no trace of impatience in her voice. She’s a master of self-control.
“Revenge for your mother, of course,” she says. “I made him marry her.”
Water spurts out of the tap, spraying my shirt and the mirror. I let it run into the cup of my palms and dip my face in. The bathroom tiles are decorated with arabesques. I had to leave the room for a bit, to get away from this woman and her wall of icy bitterness. She talks about my father, her son, as if he were a traitor. And about Mother as if she were the serpent that seduced him. I knew from the diary that Grandmother had arranged the marriage. When I first found out, I was horrified. But I thought about my parents, about the way they treated each other—as equals, respectfully and considerately, sometimes even lovingly—and I decided that they must have learned to love each other along the way. Their fortunes had bound them together, their escape from a powder keg to Germany. Before that, their marriage, which shielded Father from the militias and maybe even saved his life. My birth. But Mother as the mastermind of their escape? My father capable of such hatred that he would seek revenge on his own mother? Even worse, that he would one day punish his wife, and me, for chaining him to us?
“So he left you too.” When I return to the room, Grandmother is sitting in exactly the same position as when I left. I nod and sit back down at the table.
“When?”
“1992.”
“And you think he’s here, in Lebanon?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you thought I might be able to help you.”
“Yes.” I feel as if I’ve been caught stealing. “Do you really not know where he is?”
“Believe me, I have absolutely no idea. I slipped the driver an extra twenty dollars and told him to drive over as many rocky bumps as possible. Your father abandoned me. He abandoned you. He abandoned your mother. He’s just like his own father: a coward. The kind who leaves everyone high and dry in the end.”
Everyone. Not the people who love him.
“What about his father?” I never heard my parents mention my grandfather.
She swats the air as if she’s trying to get rid of a fly. “He upped and left. Ran out on me while I was pregnant with your father. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree—they were both dreamers, wasters. And the only thing either of them cared about was my money.”
She pauses and takes another sip of wine.
“Your mother is well shot of him. I couldn’t stand her myself—such a stubborn woman—but I hope she’s found someone else in the meantime.” I lower my head and take a deep breath, focusing on the fine grain of the wood. In the meantime. As if there was any in the meantime.
“Can we talk about the hotel?”
She seems a little put out that I don’t want to talk about her money anymore.
“The hotel?”
“Father worked in a hotel, didn’t he?”
She winces, just for a second, but it’s like a mask has slipped. Then she heaves a dramatic sigh, clearly well-rehearsed.
“That’s a good example of what a waster he was. He trained to be a hotel manager in Beirut, in 1980, in the middle of a civil war. There were no tourists in the hotels in those days, only snipers who took the lift straight to the top floor. My God, what was he thinking? It was his way of distancing himself from me as much as possible. I wanted him to study abroad—not in Beirut, needless to say—but he refused point-blank. He was always heading off with his pens and scraps of paper, writing poems about trees and grass, about how much he loved his country. Nineteen years old. Other kids his age were proving how much they loved their country by joining the Phalange, Bashir Gemayel’s Kata’ib militia—they had offices everywhere, and the queues outside stretched for hundreds of metres. But what does your father do? He heads out to the cedars to daydream. Dreams have never changed a country.”
“I thought you didn’t want him to join the militias,” I say.
“That’s not true.” Her tone is sharp. “I would have liked to see him fight. Were we supposed to just sit back and let the Druze take over the country? The Sunnis? The Syrians? The Palestinians? The Kata’ib wanted to recruit him. They tried their best. But just imagine your father—he wouldn’t have survived a day. He’d have bombarded the Druze, the Amal militia, the PLO, the entire Lebanese National Movement with poems and nothing else. I saved his life.”
Up to this point, she’s managed to maintain the facade, the wall of composure protecting her. But now it comes pouring out of her, the vitriol, scorn, and contempt. The corners of her mouth twist into a grimace. It’s as if a dam has burst into a valley where nothing but poisonous thorn bushes grow. The hatred in her voice when she says the names of the other civil war factions is chilling. As if the wall around her house is too high. As if the news that the civil war ended more than twenty years ago never even made it into her garden. As if neighbours are still shooting each other right outside her gate, as if militiamen are still standing by roadblocks, dragging people out of their cars if their papers declare them to be the wrong religion. As if bodies are still lying on the streets, throats slit and faces shot to pieces.
Now that her eyes are screwed up and her whole face is contorted, I see how heavily made up she is. The rouge on her cheeks just emphasises her pallor, making her look as if she hasn’t seen the sun in a long time. My grandmother seems to have withdrawn from life many years ago. Shut away behind her walls, she seems to have become fixated on the story she’s been telling herself over and over again, her rage festering away inside. She strikes me as having tried everything to stay young over the past thirty years: the lipstick, the dyed hair, the thick layer of make-up on her cheeks. She seems to have clung to the belief that if she keeps herself looking young, she can stop time from moving on. That way, she’ll never get old, never notice how lonely she is. And if her son ever comes home, he’ll find the same mother he left behind. That way, it’ll be easier to start again.
This woman and I are more similar than I care to admit. Both of us have been abandoned. By the same man. And both of us have suffered at the hands of time.
Her hand trembles when she picks up her glass. She struggles to bring it to her mouth. The fingers of her other hand are clenched into a fist on the table, her white knuckles sticking out. I move to put my hand on hers, but she pulls away. Her eyes have glazed over and are looking through me. She seems to have cast her mind back to a time when the future looked bright.
Nothing has turned out the way I imagined. My own name has been thrown into question. I fidget in my chair. Should I get up and go? I can’t. I’ve got two more questions.
“Teta?” I say cautiously,
and I reach for her hand again. This time she lets me. “You said he loved Lebanon.”
It takes an age for her to respond. She blinks sadly and nods. She looks exhausted, broken, and very old.
“Do you think he came back here after he left us? Please, I need to know.”
She lets out a quiet sob and allows herself a single tear.
“I can’t think of anywhere else he would’ve wanted to go,” she says.
At that moment, it seems to hit her: that her son has probably been back in this tiny country for more than twenty years, without ever contacting her. I think it has broken her heart.
I squeeze her hand and she gives a little jump. Her bones are soft, almost malleable.
“One last question,” I say. “Is there anyone else who might know where he is? Other relatives? A family friend?”
She stares straight ahead without answering.
Unsure of what to do, I stay seated. If I don’t get an answer to this question, it really is all over.
“Teta?”
She doesn’t look at me. I push back the chair and rise unsteadily to my feet. Then I put my hand in my pocket, take out the photo I’ve already shown her, put it on the table in front of her, and leave the room. I don’t need it anymore.
May is standing in the hall. She sees me to the door in silence. The water on the marble has long since evaporated. The air outside is cold, and the starry sky catches me by surprise. It’s far too clear for my muddled state of mind. I spot Nabil asleep under the fig tree. May nods me a goodbye, but just as she’s about to close the door, I hear Grandmother’s voice from inside the house, back to its sharp bark—as if the vulnerability of a few moments ago was just a fleeting illusion.
“May,” she calls. “Do you remember the man who called here a few years ago? The fat one with the ugly nose?”
May looks at me.
“Yes,” she shouts without taking her eyes off me.
“Go get the card he left and give it to the kid. It’s on my desk.”
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The Storyteller Page 15
