“I don’t think he admired him,” says Amir. “But I do remember him saying something odd when I asked him about it. He said, ‘What makes the photo special is what’s going on around it.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everything and nothing,” Amir laughs. “Brahim was a poet, and poets have a knack of expressing even the simplest things in complicated language.”
“Could he have been referring to what Bashir stood for? New hope?”
Amir puffs out his cheeks and exhales sharply.
“That’s a tricky one,” he says, tilting his head in a gesture that brings Amir the camel to mind. “Bashir Gemayel was a symbol of hope for most of the Christians. Some of the Muslim population would have been able to live with him as president too. But he was hated by many. You mustn’t forget where he came from. His father was the leader of the Kata’ib Party, from which the Phalange militia emerged. They were Christians with far-right or at least very conservative leanings. Bashir then formed the Forces Libanaises, which was meant to unite all the Christian militias, namely his father’s Phalangists, the Ahrar militia, the Guardians of the Cedars, and a few others. Bashir had no scruples. In order to gather all of these organisations under one umbrella, he had prominent members of other parties and militias killed, including Tony Franjieh, son of the former president, Suleiman Franjieh. The Forces Libanaises did not become a party-political organisation until after the civil war. Bashir was one of the key figures in all the bloodshed, at least up to 1982.”
“I know the story,” I say. I had researched all the facts for myself. The Cedar Revolution twenty-three years later ultimately benefited the Forces Libanaises, who were openly anti-Syrian. Prior to that, their influence had been significantly curbed by the pro-Syrian parties. I had read a lot about Bashir Gemayel, especially after I found out that he was the man in the photo. Many Lebanese people had hoped he would be in a position to rid Lebanon of all external influence, particularly that of the Syrian army. In his speeches he evoked a state in which Christians and Muslims would live peacefully side by side. He spoke simply but passionately. He had charisma and his messages were clear. Those who wanted to keep him from the presidency were worried about his closeness to the Christian militias from which he came. They accused him of selling the country to Israel, of practically inviting Ariel Sharon to invade in order to evict the PLO, who had been using Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon as command centres for their raids on Israel. The Israelis invaded southern Lebanon on 6 June 1982 and subsequently laid siege to west Beirut. They wanted to banish the PLO from Lebanon once and for all. On 20 August, a multinational force of French, Italian, British, and American soldiers landed in Beirut to oversee the negotiated withdrawal of the PLO. More than ten thousand Palestinian fighters came out of the refugee camps and left Lebanon, among them their leader, Yassir Arafat. The multinational force stayed on to oversee the controversial election of Bashir Gemayel to the presidency on 23 August.
“Do you remember the attack on Bashir?” I ask.
Amir nods slowly.
“Of course. It didn’t come as a total surprise. Celebrations broke out in east Beirut the minute he’d been elected, horns beeping, guns firing in the air. In west Beirut, meanwhile, Muslim parliamentarians who’d voted for Bashir had their apartments torched. It was clear that some people weren’t happy with the outcome of the election, even if Israel and the US tried to convince themselves otherwise. So what happened on 14 September ’82 didn’t really come as a total surprise. Bashir would have been the youngest president ever in Lebanon, but he hadn’t even been sworn in. Brahim and I were in the hotel that day. I was working in the kitchen and your father was on pool duty. Bashir was on his way to the Phalange headquarters in Ashrafieh, east Beirut. It was a Tuesday, the day the party leadership gathered for its weekly meeting at 4 p.m. Bashir’s people had begged him not to attend. They were concerned for his safety, as everyone and anyone knew he’d probably show up at HQ. But Bashir insisted. As president-elect he had to resign as leader of the Phalange, but he was determined to say goodbye to the men of the Forces Libanaises in person. After all, he owed his political success to them. He began his speech at exactly 4 p.m. Ten minutes later we heard an explosion. It was so massive that the glasses in the kitchen and on the poolside tables shook. We even heard that it set the chandelier in the foyer swaying. We all went out on the street. A big cloud of smoke was billowing over Ashrafieh. Sirens wailed all over the city as ambulances raced to the source of the cloud. Rumours of an assassination spread all over town within fifteen minutes. At first, people said he’d survived. Some heard he’d been taken to hospital with an injury to his left leg. Others claimed he’d emerged unscathed from the rubble, though no one really believed that. Fifty kilos of TNT had been detonated in the apartment above the party headquarters. The whole house lifted off the ground, apparently, before imploding completely. Not much chance of anyone coming out of that alive. In east Beirut, church bells rang out to celebrate Bashir’s survival, and the Voice of Lebanon heralded the resurrection of the nation over the airwaves. It was chaos. No one knew where Bashir was, no one could find him. A few hours later, the radio station stopped broadcasting and all we heard was white noise. We went back to work, but someone always had one ear pricked to pick up the latest news. Early the next morning, Chafiq Wazzan, the prime minister, announced that Bashir was dead. They’d managed to get him to hospital, but his face was so badly mangled no one could identify him. It was his wedding ring that eventually led to his identification. Beirut has always been good at stirring up rumours, so you can imagine what it was like next day. You couldn’t walk past a newspaper kiosk, a supermarket, or a street corner without hearing the same snatches of conversation: Who were the assassins? Whose interests did Bashir’s death serve? Speculation was rife, and the answer was, it served the interests of many. A lot of Christians remembered the bloody power struggles during the founding phase of the Forces Libanaises. Then you had the Muslim militias. Bashir’s aggressive campaign to deal with the Palestinian question by evicting the PLO and all refugees from Lebanon had earned him many enemies in this sector. He wasn’t popular with the Syrians either. Two days after the attack, Habib Shartouni was arrested, and he confessed to the crime. He admitted that he’d been given the bomb and the long-range detonator by a man called Nabil al-Alam. Shartouni was the perfect man for the job: his grandparents owned the apartment above the Phalange HQ, so he could come and go as he pleased, despite the heavy security around the building. Al-Alam, who had excellent connections to the Syrian secret service, disappeared over the Syrian border immediately after the assassination. Even though he’d confessed, Shartouni was never charged, not even when Bashir’s brother Amin became president soon afterwards. Perhaps it suited Amin that way. It might even have added to Bashir’s martyr status.”
“How did my father take the news?”
“He was devastated, of course. We all were. The multinational force had pulled out after Bashir was elected, so Beirut was a vacuum in security terms, totally out of control and left to its own devices. Brahim was constantly pacing up and down. I took him by the arm and said, ‘Brahim, everything will be OK.’ But he said, ‘You know that’s not true. They’ll want to avenge him. Something terrible is going to happen.’”
“He was right about that,” I say.
Amir nods. His eyes mist over, as if memories are unspooling in his head.
“Sabra and Chatila,” he whispers. “The Israelis knew something was going to happen too. They decided to march right into Beirut. Officially, they were meant to be protecting Muslims from Phalange revenge attacks.”
“Officially?”
Amir shrugs.
“Who knows for sure. What was clear was that the Israelis weren’t happy about Bashir’s death. They’d shared a common purpose with Bashir when it came to the Palestinians; both wanted them out of Lebanon and as far from the Israe
li border as possible. The PLO had made a big deal of withdrawing from Beirut at the end of August, but the Israelis claimed there were still terrorists in the camps. So they moved in and surrounded the Palestinian refugee camps. What happened next is common knowledge.”
On 16 September 1982, Israeli soldiers let Phalange militiamen enter Sabra and Chatila, and did nothing to stop them from murdering women, children, and old men. The Phalangists rampaged through the camps for two days, massacring anyone who crossed their path.
“Can you tell me any more about my father? What was he like between May and September?”
“He was worried about your mother, naturally,” Amir says. “That was a bad year for Beirut, even worse than the previous years. Your parents were due to get married in early October ’82. Not in Beirut, in Zahle. But all hell had broken loose in Beirut, which is where your mother lived too.”
“Did you know her?”
Amir gives a bashful smile.
“I never met her, but I sometimes felt like I knew her.”
“How do you mean?”
“Brahim used to visit her, even before they were married. The marriage was arranged by your grandmother, but I think he really liked your mother in spite of that. He often went to see her, usually in the evenings after work. He’d be back in the hotel before his shift began in the morning.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I went with him the odd time.”
“You went with him?”
“Yes, as far as her flat. I often went to the same part of town in the evenings, because my parents lived there, and in west Beirut it was safer to walk in pairs.”
“But you each made your own way back to the hotel?”
“That’s right.” Amir nods. “Brahim was clearly head over heels. Even though he hadn’t chosen your mother himself, he couldn’t conceal his happiness. It was lovely to see him like that. He practically floated along the footpath, singing away to himself, a twinkle in his eye.”
There’s something poignant and beautiful at the same time about this image of my father. It adds a reassuring little piece to the puzzle of my parents’ life. Beirut was quaking, rumbling, and burning, but nothing could stop my father from secretly visiting my mother. He had protested when Grandmother forced this marriage on him. But had he been putting on an act? Maybe part of his rebelliousness meant he had to criticise every decision his mother made. He couldn’t give her the satisfaction of being right.
“And you really never met my mother?”
“No,” Amir shakes his head. “But Brahim said she was really beautiful.”
“Yes, she was.”
“I went as far as the house a few times. Your father, madman that he was, climbed up the drainpipe to get to her balcony. Then the door would open and he’d disappear inside. Fairytale romance.” Amir smiles pensively. “It was lovely to watch him when he knew he’d be seeing her later on. He’d whistle to himself, and once I even caught him dancing with the hoover. What passion he had. I was happy for him.”
I try to imagine Amir back then, to picture the friendly face of his youthful self.
“It’s a wonder he never got caught,” Amir says. “Brahim didn’t just climb up the drainpipe. He had to climb back down too. Things didn’t go too smoothly one time—he fell and fractured his foot. Don’t ask me how he made it back to the hotel alone at daybreak. He worked all day, despite the injured foot, until someone found him at the bottom of a staircase. He told everyone he’d fallen down the steps. No one knew the truth except me. The fracture didn’t heal all that well. Left him with a bit of a limp.”
So that was the real story behind his limp. He’ll have it for the rest of his days. A comforting thought. No matter where he is, every step will be a reminder of the nights he spent with Mother.
“Why weren’t you at their wedding?” I ask.
“I thought we agreed not to talk about that,” Amir replies, mildly. “The wedding was in the first week of October, in your grandmother’s house in Zahle. I’d left the Carlton a few weeks previously. Let’s leave it at that.”
When we started talking, I was keen to find out why my father and Amir fell out. Now I’m not so sure. What I’ve been hearing about Father casts him in a better, softer light. I picture him climbing up the drainpipe under cover of darkness, reaching one arm out for the balcony railing. I picture Mother waiting for him inside. He swings his leg gracefully over the balcony. Then he signals to his friend, waiting below, and Amir slips into the shadows. I see Beirut shrouded in darkness. Amir and Father slinking through the streets. Two accomplices who must not be caught. I see Father caressing Mother’s face and kissing her. I see them talking about their wedding, the future ahead of them, the children they might have one day. I see them holding each other tight while the city quakes and rocks. And I see him stealing out onto the balcony at dawn the next day, before anyone catches the lovebirds.
Suddenly I understand that the purpose of my journey is not to find Father after all. It is to find out more about him, to fill in the gaps, to release him from the prison of my thoughts. And although I now accept that I may never find him, I am flooded with a warm, true feeling that I haven’t felt for ages. It must be happiness, this overwhelming lightness that’s sweeping everything heavy away. Amir has closed the circle for me. The stories from my childhood have come to life here, and Amir has led me to the place where the last goodnight story took place. Even the golden balcony was real. Father’s last story was about us, for us.
I feel Amir’s hand resting on mine, and I meet his gaze. You were my favourite companion, my best friend, I think. We were separated when I was a little boy, but time has brought us together again.
Amir is right. There are no puzzles for me to solve. My search ends here. When I left Germany and set out on this quest, I never dreamed I would achieve as much. If black moments plague me again, I’ll remember this day. If doubts beset me at night, clawing at me and whispering in my ear, I’ll think of my old friend Amir. I’ll turn on my side and inhale the smell of my wife’s hair. I’ll kiss the nape of her neck and listen to her breathing. I’ll put my arm around her, feel her warmth, and keep telling myself, I’m here, with you, it all turned out well, who’d have thought?
“I wish I could tell you where to find him,” says Amir. “I’d love to see him again too. But I’ve a feeling he doesn’t want to be found. There’s no trail leading to him. You could look for other trails, and I’m sure you’d find them. You could even follow them, but every time you reached the end, you’d see that you’re back at the same crossroads where you started. You could spend your whole life like that, convinced that you’re looking forwards, whereas in reality you’re looking back. There is no road leading to him. They all lead back to the beginning. And that’s where you are. You and only you. And it’s up to you to decide what happens next.” He squeezes my hand. “May I give you a piece of advice?” he asks.
I nod.
“Go home, Samir. Take all the positive things with you, all the good new thoughts. Leave your fears behind. Keep telling yourself you’re not the only one who remembers your father. Lots of people out there met him, and in one way or another, he affected them all. They know his name. They know who he was, and that’s what keeps him alive. Hold onto the idea that he was a good man, and above all, hold onto this thought: no matter what drove him away from you, it wasn’t your fault.”
-
16
“Excuse me, can I get this bound, please?”
It was a routine request, typical of my monotonous duties. I barely looked up when I heard the woman’s voice. I’d been working in this copy shop since early 2008. Three years had passed since I’d lost my job in the library, since the assassination of Hariri. A rainy summer had come to an end. Now it was autumn, and golden leaves lent the town a magical glow. The copy shop was not far from the vocational school where I’d do
ne my librarianship course. It was on a narrow street between the train station and the cinema, next door to a pizzeria where up to thirty teenagers would congregate at lunchtime for the student deal—a small pizza with a soft drink. The library was only a stone’s throw away. I sometimes saw Chris passing by on his way to work, lost in thought, leather briefcase under his arm. The shop’s main customers were from the vocational school, though we occasionally got students from the university who wanted to get their seminar handouts copied or theses bound. At work, I wore a black cap and T-shirt with COPYCENTER printed on them in green. The back of the T-shirt bore the shop’s slogan: COPY THAT? I used to pity the poor suckers at supermarket check-outs who said nothing all day except, “Do you have a loyalty card?”, “Would you like a receipt?”, and “Have a nice day.” I wasn’t much better than them now. It had only taken three years and a couple of poor decisions to slide down the slippery slope.
When Aurea had left me standing on the steps outside my house that time, I’d gone in, closed the door and headed for the stairs. As usual, I checked my letter box on the way. I hardly ever got post, apart from junk mail and payslips from the library . Even Alina had practically given up writing. But on this cold grey evening there was a postcard. A picture of a historic town somewhere in northern Germany. Lots of half-timbered facades with brightly coloured shutters. A photo taken on a fine summer’s day. An inviting small-town idyll, the green patina of a church spire gleaming in the distance above the rooftops.
Dear Samir,
I looked at an apartment here today. I’m moving here in the autumn. Do you like it? :) This is where I’ll be doing my further training—the clinic specialises in trauma therapy. I’ll miss uni (though not Statistics), but I’m looking forward to getting practical experience. I won’t make it home this summer, I’m afraid. First I’ve got to finish my thesis, then I’ll be moving house. At least we’ll both be spending lots of time in a library. ;) I hope you still like it there. Come and see me some time?
The Storyteller Page 27
