The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  “Yeah.” She smiled again. “Do you think I’ll make a good psychologist?”

  The question surprised me. She was usually so focused and ambitious, she didn’t need encouragement from anyone else.

  “Absolutely.” It just came out of my mouth, but I really meant it. I knew she’d be a brilliant psychologist. She was such a good listener, someone you knew you could trust.

  “Well, psychotherapist, to be precise. Five years of studying and then another three to five years of training.”

  “Wow, that’s a long time.” Five years seemed like forever to me, eight to ten were unimaginable. “And where? Will you go to uni here?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice had become more serious, tinged with a sadness that was unusual for her. “It’s not easy to get a place. I’m just going to apply everywhere and then see what the Central Admissions Office says.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “You’ll be offered a place, don’t worry.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Yasmin looked at the ground as we walked on. Her mood had darkened, and it seemed to have affected the sky above us. The slate-grey clouds had thickened and merged with the horizon. It’s going to rain any minute, I was thinking, when Yasmin started to cry.

  “I’m looking forward to something new, I am. New people, student parties, all that stuff. A change of scene.”

  “But?”

  “But it’s hard to face leaving. I’ve never been anywhere else.”

  Hard. The prospect of Yasmin leaving wasn’t hard. It was unbearable. I didn’t know how I’d have got through the past few months without her, and the thought of a future without her close by made my stomach tighten.

  “Think of it as an adventure,” I said. I smiled, hoping it didn’t seem too forced. “I’ll look after Hakim, don’t worry.”

  She didn’t reply, just took my hand and didn’t let go as we continued on our way, her fingers interlaced with mine. It was an innocent gesture between friends who’d been brought together by ill fortune, who’d just realised that things couldn’t stay this way forever. Yet my heart was thumping and a warm sensation tingled up my spine. I hoped I hadn’t gone red.

  We fell silent again. Our shoulders grazed, and we were connected not just physically, but by the knowledge that we had to savour this moment, that we mightn’t get another one like it. We’d left the pedestrian zone far behind by now. We walked through estates, past houses with little gardens and flowers drooping after the rain. We just kept walking, with no real destination in mind.

  “What about Alex?” I asked eventually. I held her hand tighter, afraid that the mention of her boyfriend might make her withdraw. But it didn’t.

  “He’ll go to whichever uni takes me. He wants to study sports, and he can do that practically anywhere.” Then she added, “Even so …”

  “That’s good,” I said. “You won’t be on your own.”

  But it wasn’t good. It was wrong, unfair, cruel. With a pang, I realised that they’d move in together, share a life. He’d be there when she needed someone to talk to. Alex, not me.

  “Yeah, at least I won’t have to worry about keeping a long-distance relationship going on top of everything else. The thought of it: having to phone him every night, heading down the motorway on Friday afternoons, spending Friday evenings adjusting to each other again, spending Saturdays thinking about Sunday, then back on the motorway again. I’m not cut out for it.”

  “Out of sight, out of mind, eh?”

  “That’s not it. I just think it’s really, really hard to keep your feelings for someone alive if you hardly ever see them. Anyway, it’s beside the point—he’s coming with me.”

  She sounded relieved. I lowered my head. If she did move away, what she said would apply to our relationship too.

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Haven’t really thought about it. I’ll find something.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will.”

  She squeezed my hand again.

  By now, the houses had been replaced by blocks of flats. We’d somehow walked all the way to the edge of town. Desolate fields, pylons, bottle banks. I was thinking about how long it would take us to walk home when Yasmin suddenly stopped. I looked at her and she was beaming. Tower blocks rose up ahead of us, concrete behemoths as grey as the sky. An old wall, wet and covered in moss, blocked our view of the courtyard.

  It hadn’t changed much. Just more graffiti, more broken glass by the kerb, more ivy and spider webs around the entrance. Like a long-abandoned ruin, an enchanted Elysium, our Atlantis.

  Yasmin let go of my hand and looked at me. Her eyes were transformed, as if someone had pulled aside a grey curtain to reveal a brightly lit stage. She didn’t have to say anything, I knew exactly what she was thinking. We walked up to the rusty gate, creaked it open, and walked into the courtyard. The same old swing was there, but the paint had peeled off and the corroded chains looked like they were about to fall apart. The same teenagers, huddled and smoking. They would have seemed so grown-up back then, the kings of the flats. But now they were just kids brought together by boredom, the last guardians of a forgotten temple. We felt like ghosts who’d travelled back on a shimmering time stream.

  “Come on,” Yasmin whispered. Her cheeks were red with excitement as she made her way up the stairs gingerly, as if her footsteps might wake us from our beautiful dream. It was so potent, this physical sense of all the years that had gone by. We sneaked through the corridors beneath broken lightbulbs, running our fingers along the walls and listening to the sounds coming from behind the doors: TVs, low conversations in exotic languages, the faint beats of unfamiliar music—like when we were kids. I didn’t notice at first that Yasmin was no longer beside me. I turned around, and it took a moment to spot her on her knees, holding her nose to the crack of one of the doors. She beckoned me over and patted the floor beside her. I knelt down beside her, put my nose to the door and inhaled the strange aromas.

  “African,” she whispered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. What can you smell?”

  I sniffed again. Yasmin had always been better at this game than me.

  “Onions?” I whispered back.

  “Definitely. And chilli. A trace of cardamom. A pinch of pepper—black, I think. Sweetcorn too, but I could be wrong about that. A few peanuts, maybe, and definitely a handful of baobab leaves, cassava root, and ground fenugreek.”

  I gaped at her.

  She stared back, deadly serious, but couldn’t keep a straight face for long. She dissolved into snorts of laughter and had to press her hand against her mouth to keep the noise down. I started laughing too. An absurd scene, two overgrown kids on their knees in the dirty corridor in front of a stranger’s flat, sniffing at the door. Just like in the old days. Yasmin grinned at me. Bright and clear and carefree. We were back in our world. Right then, it didn’t matter where life might take her; we felt so close that no distance could separate us. I grinned back. I could smell her skin, the fragrance of her body lotion, a delicate mixture of honey and musk. Our cheeks were almost touching. We heard footsteps behind the door and sprang to our feet. Giggling, Yasmin pulled me along after her, and we made it around the corner before the door opened.

  We leaned against the wall, shoulder to shoulder, laughing and trying to catch our breath. Then we played the game again, kneeling, sniffing, guessing, standing up, going to the next door. Until we eventually got to number 37. A damp doormat, a tarnished doorknob, a nameplate without a name. We looked at each other. If Yasmin was anything like me, thousands of images were flashing through her mind: Mother combing her hair, the two of us exchanging conspiratorial glances across the dining table, Father reading aloud to us as we cuddle up on the sofa in our tiny living room. Instinctively, my fingers stroked the old wood in the doorframe. I felt as if I
could reach out and touch the past. Memories of a world that wasn’t yet so big that we’d get lost in it. Yasmin put her hand on mine, held it tight, and kissed me quickly on the lips. It was longer than the blink of an eye, but not long enough for me to be immersed, to really feel the warmth of her lips.

  It was late by the time we’d ambled home beneath a slightly brighter sky. We ate with Hakim, but we didn’t talk much. He eyed us curiously but knew better than to ask why we were so quiet. Alex came by later and gave me a high five. Yasmin flung her arms around his neck and they kissed. I can’t remember what film we watched. We sat on the couch, Yasmin in the middle with her head on his shoulder and a hand in his lap. She stroked his fingers absent-mindedly. I sipped beer out of a can and tried to concentrate on the film, but I couldn’t, because my foot was under the coffee table and Yasmin’s little toe was touching it.

  We both passed our exams. Yasmin got straight As, I scraped by. Not that I cared. I was just surprised, seeing as the numbers and words on my exam paper had all been a blur and I’d guessed most of the answers. That was in July 2001. I was finished with school. I sent Alina a letter with a photo of a smiling me holding my exam results. She wrote back a few weeks later.

  Hi Samir,

  Your suit is lovely. Marcel wears a suit when we go to church on Sundays. I like it there because everyone sings together. I painted Moses a picture and hung it up in his kennel. There are pictures hanging up all over the house, but he’s not allowed in. Everyone is nice to me here and at school. I like school and I’m glad I’m not finished like you. We’re going on holiday in August. I can’t wait, I’ve never been on a plane before. There are beaches where we’re going, but it’ll be warmer there, so we might be able to go swimming at last. I’m sending you a photo too. The girl next to me is Louisa. We’re in the same class. If you come visit, you’ll get to meet her.

  I didn’t recognise the dress Alina was wearing. Her long hair had been plaited into pigtails, and the innocent smile on her face as she looked into the camera made me want to cry. I probably would have, if Hakim hadn’t knocked on the door. He had his jacket on, a well-stuffed sports bag in each hand, the car key wedged between his fingers.

  “Coming?”

  I shoved the letter and the photo back into the envelope, nodded, and took one of the bags from him as we made our way outside. Yasmin and Alex were already sitting in the car.

  I timed the journey: it took exactly five hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty-four seconds to reach the car park outside Yasmin’s student residence. It was half a country away. En route: smelly service areas, the heady odour of petrol stations, and changing landscapes: fewer mountains, more trees. I thought back to the day Yasmin had got her letter. Her eyes had widened as she read it and she’d thrown her arms around me before running out of the room to tell Hakim.

  We carried their luggage down a narrow path to their rooms. A student-run residence: two rooms, furnished; one kitchen and two bathrooms to be shared with the other students in the residence; washing machine and dryer in the basement; a bike rack. The two of them went ahead, hand in hand, looking around excitedly and whispering. Washing hung from makeshift lines outside some of the doors, students sprawled on blankets on the lawn, reading and smoking. The flat was small, impersonal, and not very clean, but I knew Yasmin would make it feel like home in no time.

  Hakim hugged Alex goodbye and wished him luck. Then he put his arms around Yasmin and held her while Alex and I stood by awkwardly. It seemed as if he’d never let her go. I had a lump in my throat as I said goodbye. I twisted my mouth into a smile and put my arms around her. Not for too long, just a short, friendly hug. I’d pictured this moment so many times, ever since she’d opened the acceptance letter and I’d sunk into conflicted gloom, pleased for her but feeling as if it was the end of the world for me. I’d even prepared a little farewell speech thanking her for everything she’d done for me over the past few months, promising to write and visit. But I was too embarrassed to deliver it here in the car park with Alex and Hakim looking on.

  “All the best,” I said. “Take care.”

  She nodded, welling up. It was late summer, hot and muggy, the end of another August and the start of something completely new, a cloudless day that was much too bright for what was happening.

  “You too.”

  They waved as Hakim and I drove off. I raised my hand briefly, then looked straight ahead at the hot air shimmering above the road. I felt neither sadness nor hope. Just emptiness. Had I known it would be years before I saw her again, I might have turned around for one last look.

  -

  11

  Sunlight slants in through the slats of the shutters, landing on high tables and a bar. Dust motes dance in the narrow strips of light. Animal-shaped shadows fall across the posters on the wall advertising parties past and future. There’s a smell of sweat and alcohol and smoke. The sticky floor is littered with cigarette butts and plastic glasses, and a disco ball rotates above our heads.

  “We closed four hours ago,” the man says. Ripped muscles are visible beneath his tight black T-shirt. Dark brown eyes, full lips, a round, bald head, and a bull neck. He’s twice as broad as me. “We don’t allow anyone to see the club like this.”

  A few minutes ago, we were standing outside. Though the footpaths were almost deserted, it was obvious that Mar Mikhael is a nightlife district. Clubs and bars on both sides of the street, brightly coloured buildings, graffiti, low-hanging bunting. Everyone we do see looks like an artist, street entertainer, musician, dancer, or fire-eater. The clubs have English and French names: Studio 43, Behind the Green Door, Floyd the Dog, Electro Mechanique, L’humeur du Chef. It took us a while to find Rhino Night Club. Crumbling, overgrown with ivy, and with a plain sign above the door, it looked more like a run-down youth centre.

  I rang the bell three times before the man finally appeared. He waved me away and pointed to his watch: we’re closed.

  He turned away, and I rang the bell again.

  The glass door opened. Forbidding biceps, surly voice.

  “What?”

  “I’m looking for Sinan Aziz.”

  “And you are …?”

  “Samir el-Hourani. This is my friend Nabil.”

  “We’re not open till later.”

  “I need to speak to him right away.”

  “I need to go to bed right away. Come back this evening.”

  “Are you Sinan Aziz?”

  “No.”

  “Is he there?”

  “He doesn’t like visitors. Not at this time of day, anyway.”

  “Can you just tell him I’m here? He might make an exception.”

  Raised eyebrows, a sceptical look.

  “Now why would he do that?”

  “I’ve got this card.”

  A gale of laughter.

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, why?”

  “That’s just one of our business cards. They’re all over town.”

  “But I was given it in Zahle.”

  “So what?”

  “By my grandmother. Sinan Aziz brought her the card himself.”

  A short pause.

  “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell him Brahim Bourguiba’s son wants to talk to him.”

  The club is bigger than it looks from the outside. It’s not very wide, but it goes right back, like a train tunnel. The man leads us across the dancefloor, past a little stage. Cables and other technical equipment are lying around on the floor.

  “We have live music on Fridays,” he says.

  We turn into a narrow corridor and pass the toilets. The sign on the gents says “Rhinos,” and it’s “Rhinas” on the ladies. At the end of the corridor, a flight of stairs leads to another door.

  “Go on up,” the man says. “That’s his office.”


  We enter a dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, and a small lamp bathes a desk in a sepia glow. My eyes need a moment to adjust. Behind the desk sits a dark, hulking figure. I can hear him breathing heavily.

  “Sinan Aziz?” I ask.

  “Come in,” the figure says. His voice is preternaturally deep and booming, as if it’s coming to us from the depths of a ravine.

  As I walk towards the desk, the giant rises slowly to his feet. I can’t see his face. The breathing turns into puffing and panting as he comes out from behind the desk. He must be at least two metres tall, his footsteps heavy and ungainly. He seems to take up the entire room.

  The first thing I notice when his face finally emerges from the darkness is his eyes: narrow, inquisitive slits. His cheeks are doughy, and a cunning smirk plays around his thin lips, like he’s just figured out how to cheat an opponent at cards. He towers so high above me that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He’s smiling, but it fails to hide his tension. He’s like a deceptively lumbering animal that could rear up at any moment and charge through a wall.

  Grandmother’s words ring in my ears: The fat one with the ugly nose.

  Without that nose, Sinan Aziz would be fairly average-looking. Exceptionally tall and heavy, yes, but there would be nothing remarkable about his long, heavy-chinned face were it not for the nose. It juts out sharply like a horn and has massive nostrils. Now that he’s right in front of me, a wild suspicion begins to creep over me.

  “I’m Samir,” I say.

  He offers his paw.

  “Sinan Aziz.”

  We stare at each other for a second. Then he lets go of my hand and points to two chairs in front of his desk.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Should I wait outside?” Nabil asks me.

  “No. He’s a friend,” I say, turning to Aziz.

  Aziz shrugs and lumbers back behind his desk. I quickly explain why I’m here. That I’m looking for my father, that my grandmother told me to come here. He listens in silence, his skin glistening in the dim light.