The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  “It might be a good idea to phone the person you’re waiting for and arrange to meet somewhere you can reach on foot.” He nods towards the street. “You won’t be getting out of here in a hurry.”

  Have I still got Nabil’s business card? It’s probably in my wallet.

  “Where would be a good meeting point?” I ask, fishing out my wallet and looking for the card.

  “If you head south in this direction and turn left at the second side street, you’ll see Saint Joseph University. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. There’s a big car park and it’s very close to the highway. You’re going to the airport, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I take out my mobile and enter Nabil’s number. After a few rings, it goes to voicemail.

  “Hmm,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”

  At the university, I manage to pick up a taxi. As we take the slip road up to the highway, the driver says something about a leaking gas pipe, a construction site, the worst traffic jam for months. I listen with one ear, the other glued to my mobile. Again, no answer, then voicemail.

  I’d woken up feeling so relaxed I was almost euphoric. I’d forgotten what that felt like. The path Amir had described finally seemed to point in one direction, straight ahead. But it feels strange to set out on this path without saying goodbye to Nabil. It feels like unfinished business, the wrong way to start. I don’t want to leave Lebanon with a bad feeling.

  I try one more time. Still no answer.

  A horribly familiar feeling takes over: wishing I’d done things differently. We’d been so close last night, like old friends. It was the perfect moment to say goodbye. We were on a high after a successful journey and a good night out. We’d shared songs and stories under the night sky. That called for a hug, a heartfelt “Thank you,” a “Good night”—but no, we’d simply said, “See you tomorrow!” A taxi had pulled up beside me and Nabil had vanished into the night.

  I can tell from the road signs and low-flying aircraft that we’re approaching the airport. The thought that Nabil might be at the hotel right now, asking for me, is unbearable. He might even follow me to the airport and miss me by a hair’s breadth. Or he might be at home, sick or in trouble.

  In west Beirut it was safer to walk in pairs—that’s what Amir had said. He had accompanied his friend, my father, through the bombed-out streets of Beirut. Was it remiss of me to let Nabil head off alone? Should I have told him to take the taxi, to make sure he got home safely? Nabil is my friend. I’ve never had any friends, which is why I’m so sure of it now. It’s a new feeling, a beautiful one. But there’s something else as well—a growing sense of foreboding, a fear I cannot name.

  Certainty is everything. I can’t live without it. My fear might be unfounded, but right now it’s stronger than me. I know exactly what’ll happen if I go home with a new mystery, if I don’t make sure he’s OK. Father let Amir down. I can’t make the same mistake.

  “Excuse me …,” I say to the driver and lean forward to hand him Nabil’s business card. As the airport fades from view, I keep repeating it to myself: Friends don’t let each other down.

  The balconies on the building are all the same, grey on grey. The stairwell has trapped the heat of the day. The first-floor passageway is like a shabby hotel corridor: a sequence of worn timber doors, a lift that doesn’t work. I’d rung the bell downstairs, and now a stranger is waiting in the open doorway, blinking at me.

  “Hello,” I say, slightly out of breath. “I’m looking for Nabil?”

  The man examines me briefly. He doesn’t ask who I am, just shakes his head and swallows.

  “Nabil,” I say. “Is he in?”

  He doesn’t seem to be able to look at me any longer. He looks down, lets out a deep sigh.

  This body language is disturbingly familiar. It reminds me of the night I sat sozzled opposite Hakim in our dimly lit living room. He was telling me what happened to Mother and he couldn’t look me in the eye.

  “The police say he was drunk at the wheel,” the man whispers. “A terrible accident.”

  He puts a finger to his lips and silently invites me in. The hall is dark. The air is stuffy and stale, but I can smell food too—mujaddara and fried onions. The man beckons me, again without a word, and quietly leads the way. Is he a brother of Nabil’s? On the hall cabinet there are photos of Nabil, his sons, and his wife, typical family photos, soft focus against a blue background. The man walks down the narrow corridor and opens a door. When I go in, I see a man with a long beard sitting on a chair. Three boys and four men sit at his feet. The man who escorted me points wordlessly at the floor: Please, sit down. Apart from the man on the chair, they all raise their heads and nod when I enter the room. Then they look away again. The hush is reverent and broken only by a deep, continuous murmur. The man with the beard is quietly reciting verses from the Koran while the others listen.

  I feel like an intruder in this stillness. I want to get up and leave. These people are strangers, though I know this is where Nabil’s family lives. The three boys have to be his sons, Majid, Ilyas, and Jamel. The last has big brown eyes and perfect skin—the handsome son, exactly as described by his proud father. When our eyes meet, I think I see a flicker of recognition behind his palpable grief. Jamel’s brothers look at me too, and for a fraction of an awful second I think I can read their whole future in their eyes, a future full of unanswered questions.

  The murmured words from the Koran drift over my head. I rest my back and my head against the wall. Nabil’s sons turn their attention back to the old man. No one shows any further interest in me. All eyes are on the man, who’s now reciting the 36th surah, Ya-Sin.

  It reminds me of the day Shahid al-Nur died, an old Lebanese man who lived on our street. I was six or seven at the time. Father held my hand as we made our way to the flat. “We have to be very quiet and respectful,” he told me. “The flat will be a place of mourning for three days. Shahid’s family will have arranged for the sheikh to come. He’ll read the Koran from beginning to end over the next three days, and the others will listen.”—“But we’re Christians,” I said. Father nodded. “That doesn’t matter. A friend has died.” The atmosphere was similar that time. The flat full of neighbours, friends, and relatives. Intense silence. Men and women in separate rooms. I clung to Father’s hand and sneaked a look at the sheikh. He was wearing a white djellaba under a brown kaftan, and on his head a turban-like ‘imma. His words were clear, and he had an aura about him that was more solemn than sad. “Poorer families can’t afford a sheikh to read from the Koran when someone dies.” Father had leaned down and was whispering in my ear. “In that case, neighbours or friends do the reading.”

  I’ve only just noticed the bead curtain separating this room from another. The window is tilted and an afternoon breeze rustles the strings of beads. I can see shadows on the far side. I think there’s a woman sitting on the bed, wearing a black abaya and hijab. It looks like there are four women sitting on the floor. In addition to the men’s voices murmuring in this room, I can now also hear a woman’s voice reading quietly from the Koran.

  It’s weird. Suddenly I feel safe. Nabil is dead, but I’ve had a gentle landing. By rights, I should be bawling my eyes out and falling to my knees, begging his family to forgive me for not protecting him. Instead, I feel calm. Surrounded by his family, I feel in good hands. My heartbeat settles, my breathing becomes steadier, and I listen to the holy verses. They don’t mean anything to me, but they convey a sense of security, as if something is guiding me, telling me not to worry.

  “Inna nahnu nuhyi al-mawta wa naktubu ma qaddamu wa atharahum wa kulla shay’in ahsaynahu fi imamin mubinin,” murmurs the man on the chair. Indeed, it is We who bring the dead to life and record what they have put forth and what they left behind, and all things We have enumerated in a clear register.

  Nabil’s young sons sit cross-legged side by side, their backs to
me. The men, unshaven and dressed in dark-blue trousers, are seated around them as if to protect them.

  They have friends and relatives here, I think. They are not alone. They have support, people who will help them.

  Nabil’s brother looks over at me. Here, in the pale light, it’s impossible not to see the resemblance. He mouths my name: Samir?

  I nod slowly.

  He joins his hands, closes his eyes, and makes a little bow. Thank you.

  I tilt my head in the direction of the bead curtain and mouth: Umm Jamel? Jamel’s mother?

  He nods.

  I look back at him and put my right hand on my heart. I don’t know how else I can show that I’m sorry.

  The words of the old man fill the air. They float through the room, and somehow it reminds me of how Father used to gather us around to tell us stories.

  I sit on the floor for another while. When I eventually stand up, no one turns round. All I see are the narrow, drooping shoulders and bowed heads of Jamel, Majid, and Ilyas. Their uncle stays where he is too, but he smiles briefly to say farewell. Slowly I open the door and step into the dark corridor. The last words I hear are: “Wa in nasha’ nughriq-hum fala sarikha lahum wa la hum yunqadhuna.” And if We should will, We could drown them; then no one responding to a cry would there be for them, nor would they be saved.

  -

  18

  My throat was in a knot. I was hot and dizzy, barely able to breathe. The tiny window let little light in. The walls, the table, everything was spinning. I could hear the murmur of the people gathered outside.

  “Hang on.” said Yasmin, “Let me open a button.”

  She came closer, undid my bow-tie in a few quick moves, and opened the top button of my shirt. Then she stood on her toes and kissed me on the forehead.

  “Better?” she asked calmly.

  I nodded. She took a step back and inspected me with a smile.

  “You should wear a suit more often.”

  Her hair was plaited at the back and she was wearing a daffodil-yellow dress that fell just above the knee. A silver necklace and a flower pinned to her dress completed the outfit. She looked like spring.

  “Have you got the ring?” she asked.

  I patted the pockets of my jacket, my cufflinks flashing silver as I moved.

  “Yes, I’ve got it.” The little box was safely in my inside pocket. I looked at her. “You look fantastic!”

  “So do you.” She could tell I was nervous. “I’m really proud of you.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled awkwardly.

  Yasmin moved in and brushed some fluff off my shoulder.

  “There’s no need to be nervous. Enjoy today. Enjoy every minute of it. Be glad that we’re here. You made it. The two of you really deserve this.”

  I was just about to put my arms round her when Marcel stuck his head round the door.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I remember it all—the light streaming through the high church windows, the decorations on the altar, the wooden benches creaking beneath the weight of the wedding guests. Alina wore a white dress with a long train. Behind her veil, her grey-green eyes shone with excitement. I remember the collective gasp when the organ began to play and the guests turned round to catch their first glimpse of the bride. She stood at the entrance with me, the daylight behind us projecting our shadows up the aisle. I can still see the beaming, emotional faces. Alina’s foster mother giving us a little wave, seventy-year old Hakim surreptitiously brushing away a tear. Marcel and Sulola, Alina’s brother and sister, seated up front with Yasmin, proud smiles on their faces. Alina’s foster father, performing the marriage ceremony himself.

  The young woman beside me was beautiful. The same shy, reserved beauty our mother had. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Because I hadn’t been there to see this beauty unfold, and because I’d had no idea what to expect, its effect had been all the more dramatic when we were reunited. Since then, I’d often searched her features for the little girl I’d known, catching the occasional glimpse of her when Alina talked excitedly or laughed out loud. I remember her trembling slightly as she took my arm, and I remember the little pools of light on the floor as I led her to the altar. I remember my heart thumping and the joy I felt in that moment, a pure joy free of doubt.

  During the wedding banquet, Alina sat between me and her husband, Hendrik. They’d been together for three years. Alina was twenty-two. We chatted about their honeymoon plans, about the delicious meal, about Hakim’s moving speech. He had insisted on saying a few words in the church, extolling Alina’s virtues, telling us how musical she was, even as a child, his voice breaking with emotion now and again. When a choir sang with violin accompaniment a little later, he shed a few more tears. I felt really proud. I was her brother. She was my sister. Alina Elbrink—no longer el-Hourani. But we were still family.

  Later, when we were all gathered round the bride and groom as they danced in each other’s arms, I squeezed Yasmin’s hand in gratitude; she had never left me on my own on this journey.

  When it was time for the father-daughter dance, Alina came to get me, a smile on her face. I rested one hand on the small of her back and led her with the other. We twirled before the eyes of the assembled guests, until everything around us spun by as fast as the previous five years.

  The old uneasiness was still there, but in brighter moments I felt more in control of it. I still thought of Father frequently. I railed at him, cursed him for his absence, wished he could see how hard I was trying to glue the pieces of our family together again. I no longer had photos and newspaper articles and threads on my bedroom wall. I wasn’t even living in that flat any more. But I was still driven by the idea of finding him, of tracking him down and confronting him. I had a burning desire to see the country we were from, to travel in his footsteps in Lebanon. Me, Samir, captain of Phoenician walnut-shell ships, heading off in search of the unknown. Nothing had changed that longing, not even the fact that Yasmin and I were together now.

  The magic of storytelling had helped us find our way back to one another. Not immediately. Not right there on the steps, where I finally told her Abu Youssef’s secret, fifteen years too late. The process was a gradual one. In the end, it was my stories that made her fall in love with me.

  She was the reason I started to write, and once I’d got going, she encouraged me to keep at it. I soon figured out that in order to write, you had to allow yourself a life with stories. And in order to experience anything, I had to get out of the house and pay more attention to the world around me, not focus on myself and my past.

  For the first time since leaving our old flats, I became more aware of my surroundings and discovered magical places outside of town. Yasmin and I went off exploring. We’d cycle along the river until we’d left the town behind us, pick a grassy spot to spread our rug, and I’d try to describe what we saw as clearly and in as much detail as possible. Then I might take a blade of grass and twirl it round her belly button, or move up and trace the contours of her smile. In the evenings, we went to funfairs, milling among the crowds and taking in the garish lights of the rides and shooting galleries, the barkers’ cries, the smells of candy floss and chocolate bananas, the giant teddies at lottery booths, the shining eyes of children.

  My first story was about a boy who fell in love with a girl. He had a serious illness, the symptoms of which only disappeared when the girl was near him. So, in order to survive, he had to make her fall in love with him. It wasn’t a great story. It was full of awkward imagery, and the characters were too obviously based on us, but Yasmin liked it, and that was how I got going. When I was visiting Hakim, I’d sometimes slip the pages of a new story under her door. Then she got her own flat, and eventually I moved in. A couple of days after I’d given her a story, I’d ask what she thought of it, and she’d say, “I haven’t touched it. I’d much rather you read it to me.”


  When I read to her, it was as if the magic of our past had survived everything. We were children again, transported to another world for hours on end. Nothing could have brought us closer. We were like two gentle spirits hovering around each other, and though there were some very dark stories that I never showed her, it wasn’t long before Yasmin and writing were the twin mainstays of my life.

  At this stage, Yasmin was working in a trauma therapy practice about twenty minutes’ drive from town. She had her own patients and her own office, and when she had the time, she volunteered as a contact person for refugees in the sports hall.

  To this day it’s a mystery to me why Chris didn’t press charges when he fired me from the library. At any rate, his lenience—or negligence?—meant that I had some chance of starting over.

  The library where I got my new job was in a different town, thirty minutes away by train. It was smaller than the other library, but that meant I had greater variety in my work.

  In the first couple of years, our relationship was characterised by the lightness, the tingling passion of young love. Everything is magical and new until that first flush gives way to a bigger, deeper love that’s perhaps a little less exciting. After Alex, Yasmin had had a few fleeting relationships, but none that lasted. For both of us, it was completely new to be in a relationship with someone we’d known our whole lives, and to discover that there was so much we didn’t know about each other. Little things, mostly—for example, Yasmin liked to perch on the edge of the bath and hum to herself while she was brushing her teeth, and after showering, she’d go to the bedroom wrapped in a towel and get dressed there, whereas I always took my clothes with me to the bathroom. She noticed that I always got out of bed left foot first, put on my left sock first, and my left trouser leg too. I noticed the way her body would give a funny little jerk just as she was about to fall asleep. They were just little things, trivial quirks and foibles, but they gave us plenty of laughs.