The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  One day, I was sneaking downstairs, my footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. A usual, I’d dilly-dallied for as long as I could, giving the schoolyard plenty of time to empty before I set off home. But this time, there was a woman standing at the bottom of the stairs. She had paper-white skin, shoulder-length blonde hair blow-dried to perfection, and lips as red as a field of poppies. She looked like a 1950s film star, her pink dress forming a startling contrast to the school’s drab grey walls. She studied me with green cat-like eyes. I stopped in my tracks. My classmate Laura was standing beside the woman, blinking at me. I glanced around, but there was no sign of anyone else. It was clear they were waiting for me. The woman put her manicured hands on Laura’s shoulders and gently pushed her towards me. Laura cleared her throat and held out an envelope.

  “I’d like to invite you to my birthday party,” she said. “I’m going to be nine. It’s at my house, on Saturday.”

  The show of friendship caught me so off guard that for a moment, all I could do was stand there and stare.

  “Really?” I said eventually.

  Laura didn’t react. She just kept holding out the invitation. She and her mother resembled Russian dolls, the smaller a near-perfect copy of the bigger one, the only difference being that Laura’s lips weren’t quite as red as her mother’s.

  “Oh,” I said, taking the envelope from Laura. It was pink, like her dress. “Thanks.” It occurred to me that this was the first time she’d ever spoken to me.

  “It starts at two o’clock—it says that on the card anyway. We’ll have lunch and cake, so you don’t need to eat beforehand,” she said. “And we’ll all play games and things. It’ll be fun.” She turned to her mother, looking for reassurance that she’d recited her little speech correctly.

  “And?” her mother prompted.

  “And it would be great if you could come,” Laura added.

  The woman behind her nodded with satisfaction.

  Embarrassed, I turned the invitation over and ran my finger along the embossed paper.

  “I’d love to,” I said and attempted a flustered smile. I’d barely finished speaking when Laura turned on her heel and floated out through the school foyer like a piece of pink chiffon. Her mother glanced at me once more.

  “See you on Saturday, Samir,” she said and left me standing there alone.

  “Laura Schwartz?” asked Mother when I handed her the pink envelope. I’d only noticed how heavily scented it was when I got home. Mother didn’t know the names of my classmates. I never talked about school, and it had always been Father who’d gone to parent-teacher meetings. Mother read the card, unable to suppress a little smile. She was clearly proud that I’d finally been invited to a birthday party, but she was trying not to make a fuss. She didn’t want to emphasise how unusual it was.

  I was pretty proud of myself too. I was delighted, in fact. Laura inviting me to her party seemed like a sign that things were going to get better from now on. Easier. Less lonely. Me, Samir, captain of the Phoenician walnut-shell ships, setting sail for new shores. I’d always secretly admired Laura, possibly because she was so different from me. I’d often observed her in the yard during breaktime and noticed how she drew both girls and boys to her like the sun. Everyone wanted to be friends with her, to be pulled into her gravitational field. Everything came easily to Laura. She glided effortlessly through the corridors, her eyes glazed with the kind of arrogance that comes when your parents tell you you’re the centre of the universe. Her house was rumoured to be the nicest in town, not that I knew anyone who’d actually been there. When teachers asked what we’d done during the school holidays, Laura would always be the first to put up her hand. She’d regale us with tales of holiday homes in Miami and Florence, of sailing around the Côte d’Azur with her parents. Her father was an American diplomat, her mother a porcelain doll. Her surname was Schwartz, and she insisted that everyone pronounce it the American way, which I liked because I was fascinated by exotic things. I think the only reason her parents didn’t send her to a private school was that they could be sure she’d outshine the rest of us, at least when it came to wealth.

  “I bet you’ll have a great time, they sound very nice,” Mother said, putting the envelope aside. She stroked a strand of hair off my forehead and handed me back the invitation.

  I was nervous. I’d never been invited to a birthday party by a kid from school before. It had never occurred to me to invite classmates to my own birthday parties either. I’d always just celebrated with the people from our street, so Laura’s invitation was a big deal.

  I thought long and hard about what to get her. I figured Laura was the kind of girl who already had everything she could possibly want.

  “How about making something yourself?” Mother asked.

  I liked the idea of giving Laura something she wouldn’t be able to buy in a shop. I decided to bake a cake especially for her. Mother helped me, but I did most of it on my own. I stood on a stool in the kitchen and carefully placed lots of raspberries on the sponge base. I then covered them in cream and wrote “Happy Birthday, Laura” in chocolate sprinkles on top. Finally, I stuck in nine candles, the kind that are hard to blow out.

  On Saturday, Mother laid out my shirt and belt and combed my hair before disappearing into the bathroom for what seemed like an eternity. When she reemerged, she was wearing make-up and her pretty blue dress. She smoothed it down one last time as she inspected herself in the mirror. She’d even put on her perfume. It was as if she was the one who’d been invited to the party.

  We drove to a part of town I’d never been to before. Big, beautiful houses with white facades lined the street, gleaming like limestone palaces. The air in front of the windows shimmered, ornate columns flanked the entrances, and expensive-looking tables and loungers adorned the balconies. Trees towered over the front gardens, where flowerbeds glowed like rainbows. The smell of freshly mown grass drifted through my open window. We drove past a gardener in a round straw hat who was standing on a ladder and trimming a hedge. This street was another world. Wide and almost clinically clean, it had nothing in common with ours. An alley lined with birch trees. Cadillacs, Porsches, and every Mercedes model imaginable sparkling in covered driveways. My mouth hung open in amazement. Mother parked in a side street, too embarrassed to drive our old Toyota right up to the house. We walked the rest of the way. I held Laura’s cake out in front of me, so afraid of dropping it that I started to sweat. I wanted to fit in here, maybe even be invited back sometime, so I had to make sure I didn’t mess up this immaculate street with raspberries and cream.

  The house was easy to spot. The brightly coloured balloons tied to the garden fence were dancing in the breeze as if they were party guests. The dazzling white house was three storeys high, with arched windows and curved French doors leading out to a balcony on the second floor. A fountain stood in the middle of the wide path sweeping up to the front door. It was guarded by imitation Greek statues, youths in stone tunics armed with bows and arrows. They glared down at me, and I could still feel their eyes boring into my back as we approached the house. Mother walked slowly, looking around her as if she’d just set foot on another planet. We went up the marble steps to the front door. Mrs. Schwartz flung it open before we even had a chance to ring the bell. Behind her, I could hear children shrieking as if they were at a funfair.

  “Samir!” she said.

  “Hello Mrs. Schwartz,” I said, doing my best to pronounce her name like an American.

  “Look how cute you are in your shirt! You’re adorable,” she said, stroking my combed hair like I was a guinea pig. She glanced at Mother, who was standing nervously behind me. “Mrs. el-Hourani, nice to meet you.” She took a step out of the hall.

  “Hello,” said Mother, shaking the proffered hand. “Thank you for inviting Samir.”

  I’ll never forget her standing there, awestruck, between the columns of a ho
use that must have seemed like a palace to her. All done up in her best dress, with her lightly accentuated eyes and her perfume, so smart and pretty: it had been ages since I’d seen her look like that.

  “Laura insisted he come,” Mrs. Schwartz said. “We’re delighted to have him. Laura, Samir’s here!”

  Laura was wearing a white dress. A garland of flowers sat atop her blonde hair, making her look like a young bride, or a fairy on her way to a secret party in an enchanted forest.

  “Happy birthday,” I said shyly.

  “Happy birthday,” Mother repeated and waved at Laura.

  Mrs. Schwartz flashed a quick smile. She was the kind of woman who thinks there’s a photographer hiding behind every bush, the kind of woman who expects to see her face on the front page of the newspaper the next day. Her smile was a perfectly choreographed dance between the two corners of her tired-looking mouth. Paying no further attention to Mother, she said, “Well then, Samir, in you come.”

  I stepped into the marble hallway. Through the cut-glass pane in the front door, I caught a glimpse of Mother raising her hand to wave goodbye. It was like looking through a prism.

  The walls were covered with pictures of Laura: Laura at the seaside; Laura at the top of a skyscraper, a miniature city behind her; Laura on a ship. She led me through bright, spacious rooms with high stucco ceilings and elegant oak cabinets shining in the afternoon light. Cosy, chintz-covered armchairs were tucked into the corners of the living room beside shelves lined with thick green-bound books. On the other side of the room I spotted a Steinway grand piano and a music stand next to a palm tree that stretched up to the ceiling. I pictured Laura sitting in front of the piano after school, her mother standing behind her as she practised. We passed through some more rooms, past Chinese vases, statues, and a chaise longue adorned with meticulously positioned cushions. I wondered if anyone had ever actually dared to sit on it. A painting of a naval battle hung above the chaise longue. A man was standing at the bow of a ship, brandishing a sword as he roared and pointed towards another ship while thick smoke billowed from the mouths of canons. I followed Laura through this unfamiliar world of wealth. My feet sank into the soft carpet, the air was clear, and warm light shone in through the huge windows.

  Light-footed and self-assured, Laura kept striding ahead. Throughout the house, artefacts from foreign lands were tastefully exhibited on walls and in display cabinets. Laura led me past them as if she were a museum guide. Every now and then, she pointed something out. “My father brought that back from India,” she said as we passed a cane topped with a gaudy snake’s head. Later, she waved towards a headdress spiked with multicoloured feathers and explained, “In Brazil, newborn babies wear that. Crazy, huh?”

  It was crazy indeed. Dumbstruck, I nodded.

  “Have you ever been abroad?” She turned and flashed me a curious glance.

  I shook my head.

  “You mean you’ve never been outside the country?”

  “No.”

  “Oh my God, why not?” She waved an imaginary fan as if she was about to faint.

  “I don’t know.” I wanted to tell her that living in our street was like living abroad. That it was full of the smells of other countries and that the people spoke lots of different languages. That it was wonderful and mysterious, not like here at all.

  “You really have to travel,” Laura sighed. “I can’t imagine the world without other countries.”

  “I will, for sure,” I said, as if I were making her a promise. “Thanks for inviting me, Laura.”

  She looked at me for a moment as if she hadn’t caught what I’d said. Then she stepped towards me, coming so close that her lips almost touched my ear, and whispered, “The others can’t wait to see you.”

  I’m sure the birthday cake was delicious, but I can’t say for sure what it tasted like, as I didn’t get any. I behaved exactly the way I’d been taught to. Whenever I would visit Lebanese friends with my parents, I’d always turned down a slice of cake three times. This was considered good manners. At Laura’s party, I showed what a polite guest I was by giving Mrs. Schwartz the chance to show what a good hostess she was. But after I turned down the cake a second time, she stopped asking, so I just sat there with my hands folded in my lap, waiting for the game Laura and the others had been talking about so cryptically. Nobody wanted to try my cake, but Laura’s mother assured me they would have it for breakfast.

  “It’s going to be so much fun, this game,” said Nico, a boy from our class. A crumb of chocolate cake was stuck to the corner of his mouth. It looked like a beauty spot. Nico was the class clown. He never did his homework; he just copied it from the other kids. He was brilliant at PE and getting into schoolyard scraps, though. He was probably invited to all the kids’ birthday parties. “You’re in for a surprise,” he said with a wink. Laura and the others tittered.

  “What are we going to play?”

  “Hit the Pot,” Laura said. “Know how to play?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “But our version has really special presents,” Nico said, and everyone started giggling again.

  They seemed genuinely pleased to have me there. When I’d walked into the room, they’d all run over to me, shouting “Samir, you made it!”

  To my surprise, I was having a good time. This was something new, meeting my classmates outside school. I felt like I was one of them, even though I didn’t say much. I mostly just listened, ready to give a polite answer if anyone spoke to me.

  When everyone had finished eating, we trooped out into the garden. Laura, who was carrying a pot, a spoon, and a scarf, led the way. We then took turns being blindfolded. The player wearing the blindfold had to crawl around, hitting the neatly trimmed grass with the spoon until they found the pot. Meanwhile, the rest of us helped by yelling “warm” or “cold,” but if the player looked like they were going to find the pot too easily, we’d misdirect them a little. It was a lot of fun. Laura hid a different present for each guest under the pot. It was her way of thanking us for coming. Nico got one of those football magazines you stick pictures of players into. Sarah was thrilled to discover a friendship book. Sascha got a little 3D puzzle of the Eiffel Tower, and Sophie, who liked drawing, got a Diddl Mouse notepad. Laura had chosen something special for everyone, something she knew would make them happy.

  I was the last to be blindfolded. Up until then, I’d been giving tips with the rest of them and cheering as each player found their prize.

  “It’s your turn, Samir,” Laura said.

  “Yeah, Samir, you don’t have a present yet.” Nico looked at me, his head cocked.

  I nodded in excitement and rubbed my palms together. Nico stood behind me as he tied the scarf around my eyes. Everything went black and I felt his breath on my ear. “It wasn’t Laura’s idea to invite you,” he whispered. “Her mother made her.” Before I could react, he pushed me onto the ground.

  I groped around, blind and confused. I wanted to ask Nico what he meant, but the others were yelling, “Come on, Samir!”, so I started crawling across the damp grass. When the children clapped and shouted “Cold!”, I turned around, striking the ground with the spoon all the time. The others sounded so loud in the dark. They were screeching like birds of prey. I scrambled around, trying to follow their contradictory directions. It wasn’t Laura’s idea to invite you. What had Nico meant? The heat of the sun was scorching my back, and I had broken out in a sweat under the blindfold. The voices hammered down on me as the spoon missed the pot again and again. None of the other kids had taken so long to find it. I was just about to give up when the others cried, “Warm, warm!” Shortly afterwards, the spoon struck metal.

  “God, that took forever,” I heard Laura say as I pushed the scarf up off my eyes and saw the pot in front of me. The others formed a circle around me. Nico was standing with his legs spread wide. Laura’s eyes had become cold and were
fixed on me. The others were staring too, waiting for me to lift up the pot.

  Nothing could have prepared me for what I found. Humiliation engulfed me like an avalanche. I tried not to cry, gasping for air in an effort to stop the tears. But they brimmed over anyway, and I crumpled, my strength sapped, mortified that I’d walked right into their nasty trap. How could I have been stupid enough to believe that I was welcome here, that I’d been invited because they liked me? How could I have been naïve enough to think I would find friends here, in a world so far removed from my own?

  It hadn’t occurred to me that the others would pounce like beasts of prey the moment they’d lured me away from the teachers’ watchful eyes. At Laura’s party they were taking revenge for me poisoning the atmosphere in our class with my grief. Finally they had a chance to release their pent-up desire to punish me. I sat on the ground, the blindfold still tied around my forehead. My nose ran and I sobbed as fat tears rolled down my cheeks and onto the picture in my hands. It was the photo of Father the police had used when they were searching for him. I cried so hard that the other kids fell silent and stared down at me in horror. I remember Laura’s mother eventually pushing her way through the hushed circle. She froze for a second and looked down at me, her hand pressed to her mouth. Then she pulled herself together. “Get back into the house!” she hissed at the others, and she put her hand on my shoulder and told me how sorry she was. I remember how I held the picture tight and couldn’t stop crying, and that I was so ashamed about my tears, still clinging on to the picture when Mother rushed across the lawn, hugged me, and kissed my cheeks. I remember keeping my head down as she led me through the living room, where a shocked silence had descended. I remember her nodding wordlessly as Laura’s mother opened the front door for us, and how she slid me into the back seat of our car, which sat in the posh driveway all dusty and rusty. I remember vowing to myself never to make friends again, to remain alone forever and to tend my pain and my memory of Father like a garden. All the while I clasped his picture to my chest as if it were a recovered treasure.