The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  “What do you want?”

  “Is Elmira here? Elmira el-Hourani?”

  “May I ask who you are?”

  “Samir. My name’s Samir el-Hourani. Elmira is my grandmother.” I can sense Nabil’s look of surprise behind me.

  “Oh,” the woman says, without opening the door any wider.

  “Is she there?”

  “Who?”

  “Elmira.”

  “No.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “I don’t think I can help you.” The little girl peeps past her mother’s leg.

  “Are you …” I don’t know how to put it. My mind is spinning—the woman is just a little younger than me. “Are we related?”

  She looks surprised.

  “I don’t think so. Samir? I don’t know any Samirs.”

  “When will Elmira be back?”

  “There’s been some kind of mix-up,” she says. “There’s no Elmira living here. I don’t know anyone called Elmira el-Hourani.”

  It takes a moment for her words to sink in.

  “I … but …” No Elmira? “That’s impossible!” I say, louder than I intended. “She must live here!”

  The woman shrinks back. I feel Nabil’s hand on my shoulder and hear him ask, “Is there anyone else called el-Hourani in Zahle?”

  “No,” she says. Her voice is softer. She clearly finds it easier to talk to him, but she keeps her eyes fixed on me. “I think I’d know. The name’s more common in the south. If there were other el-Houranis living here, we’d know them.”

  “And there’s no one called Elmira in your family?” Nabil asks. His voice is calm and much quieter than usual.

  “No, definitely not.”

  “OK, thanks,” Nabil says.

  The woman nods hesitantly and steps back.

  “Thanks,” I mutter. The little girl gives a shy wave just before the door closes.

  I don’t know why I’m so surprised. After all, this is typical of me. Coming here with nothing solid to go on, looking for an old woman who might be very sick or might even have died years ago. Once again, I’ve walked into a brick wall with my eyes wide open. I’ve ignored the bigger picture because I couldn’t face the truth: that there was never any real chance of me finding anything here. Even if I did manage to track down my grandmother, there was no guarantee she’d lead me to Father. There’s no evidence that he’s alive or that he’s ever been back to this city, this country. The old green door has closed. I’ll never enter this house now. My journey is over before it ever really began.

  The sky has turned a surreal shade of reddish gold. It looks like a kitschy painting, the tiny clouds like smudges of grey pencil. It’s got much cooler. Nabil walks beside me in silence as we leave the house behind. I shuffle along, my energy sapped.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re looking for your grandmother?”

  “I didn’t know how to.” I clear my throat. “Talking about my family was never my strong point.” I laugh bitterly. For God’s sake, don’t start crying, I think.

  “Might she have moved?”

  “She might. But she could just as easily be dead. I don’t know.”

  Nabil nods.

  “So what now?”

  “I dunno,” I say. “Maybe I should just fly home.”

  It doesn’t bear thinking about. I can’t go home. I won’t have any home if I fly back now. If I phone her and admit that nothing panned out the way I’d hoped, it’ll all be over. I’ll return to a cold, empty flat and find a note on the kitchen table: I’m sorry, Samir, I know you tried. That means a lot to me. That’ll be the only trace of her. Her things will be gone, the bed and the bathroom won’t smell of her anymore, and the word “future” will be sneering at me from the half-empty wardrobe. Even if I eventually manage to get over her, it won’t be long before I’ve scattered the tiny puzzle pieces out in front of me again, hoping that one of them will lead me to him. That’s what really terrifies me: the prospect of an unbearable weight on my chest wrenching me from my sleep at night, a horrible feeling that I missed something here, something that might have led me to him. The same old feeling that’s dogged me all these years. And at some point, I’d end up back here, starting from scratch.

  “We’re fucked, Nabil,” I say. “I’m fucked. If you can’t find a Philip Marlowe, I’ll be back on the plane tomorrow.”

  “How come you don’t have any contact with your grandmother?” The question barely out of his mouth, he flaps his hands. “No, no, forget it. Sorry, it’s none of my business.

  “It’s OK. I’ve never met her.”

  “I don’t know any Philip Marlowes,” he says, and I can hear how much it pains him. He sounds as if he’d give anything right now to be friends with an ace detective. “Or Sherlock Holmeses. Or Mike Hammers, or Poirots, or Miss Marples, or Columbos …”

  “You’ve heard of Columbo?”

  “Sure,” he grins. “Cable television!”

  “Looks like we’re out of luck then, doesn’t it?”

  “Know what I think? I think if you’re meant to find your grandmother, you’ll find her.”

  “You really think it’s that simple?”

  “That simple.” He points up to the sky again. “Inshallah.”

  I can’t help smiling. I’ve never really been able to take it seriously, the unwavering, unconditional optimism a lot of people get from their faith. Religion was never that important when I was growing up. I don’t think Mother ever prayed until Father disappeared. As a small child, I only went to church at Christmas, to watch the nativity play. I stopped going altogether once Father left, and Mother never made me go with her.

  I only register the brisk footsteps when they’re close behind us. Nabil doesn’t appear to have heard them either, as he hasn’t turned around yet.

  “Excuse me,” the man shouts. “Wait!” He’s winded. “Did you just come by our house?” He braces his arms against his thighs and leans over to catch his breath. “El-Hourani?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  The man stands up straight again. Middle-aged, a strong chin, thinning hair. “My name’s Aabid. My wife says you’re looking for someone called Elmira?”

  “Elmira el-Hourani, yes.”

  He shakes his head, still panting.

  “There’s no Elmira el-Hourani here.”

  “So your wife told us.”

  “Right.” He signals with his finger that he needs a moment to gather himself. He takes a deep breath.

  “But there is an Elmira. How old is your grandmother?”

  “I don’t know. Very old, if she’s still alive, and probably very frail by now.”

  The man shakes his head again.

  “That doesn’t sound like the Elmira I know. This Elmira is old, yes, but strong—she could probably carry much younger women’s shopping for them. I don’t see her around town much. Her housekeepers run her errands. But she’s the only Elmira I know of.”

  Nabil and I look at each other.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bourguiba. Elmira Bourguiba.”

  “Bourguiba? Are you sure?”

  The man shrugs and nods.

  “Where does she live?” Nabil asks.

  The man points past us to the end of the street.

  “There?” I ask in disbelief, pointing at the grand house towering behind a brick and mud wall.

  -

  6

  We never spoke about my grandmother. Mother never mentioned her, and neither did I. I was afraid I’d let something slip. I’d promised Father never to tell Mother or anyone else about the phone calls, so Grandmother became a taboo.

  Mother’s nerves were shot in the weeks following Father’s disappearance. Once, she knelt in front of me and gripped me by the shoulders, her eyes red from cr
ying. “Samir, if you know anything that could help the police, you have to tell me, do you understand? It’s really important.” But I didn’t say a word. I felt her fingers digging into my shoulders and thought about how Father had knelt in front of me just like this the day I made my promise. “You two, you spent so much time together. Didn’t he say anything? Didn’t you notice anything odd?” I shook my head. I couldn’t betray him. It was our secret. Eventually she gave up and left me alone. I took out the little cedarwood box and buried it for safekeeping at the foot of the cherry tree in front of our building. That way, Mother would never get her hands on it. That way, I’d be able keep my promise.

  I’ve often wondered why she didn’t pick up the phone and call her mother-in-law. She just never did. As far as she was concerned, my grandmother—a woman I only knew from a photograph—might as well not exist.

  I eventually learned how to grieve behind closed doors. Shattered by the experience at Laura’s birthday party, I swore I’d never leave myself open to attack again.

  The void Father left behind was palpable. It was visible too, especially when it came to Mother. It manifested in many little ways. Long after the initial shock had passed, she refused to even consider the possibility that he might be dead. We were very similar in that respect. I learned a lot from her. I learned to nurture the idea that he loved us even though he’d left us. That he’d come back someday, reappearing as if he’d just been on a really, really long walk. I learned from her absolute devotion to her grief. She kept on cooking for four and setting a place at the table for him. As if he might walk through the door any minute, hang his jacket on the hook, pull off his shoes, and sit down with us, his family. She kept on making kibbeh with toasted pine nuts, the way he’d liked it, even though Alina and I didn’t particularly care about pine nuts and she herself preferred kibbeh without. She kept on putting two duvets and two pillows on their bed, and in the mornings, she would smooth the sheet on both sides. When she sat in front of the television in the evenings, she’d curl her legs under a blanket, leaving plenty of space on the right-hand side of the couch, as if he’d just popped into the kitchen to grab a drink. She left room in the fridge for his bottle of beer, and months after his disappearance, his blue toothbrush was still on the bathroom shelf. Every night, she slipped a hot-water bottle under the duvet on his side of the bed. I think she did it so the bed wouldn’t be too cold in the morning, so she could pretend that he’d just gotten up, that he was waiting for her in the kitchen, reading the newspaper over a cup of coffee. One time when she was cleaning the shoe locker in the hall, I noticed that she made sure to leave room for his shoes beside hers. Another time when I went into the shed to get my bike, I saw her standing at the old cabinet, hiding his keys in a drawer. “It’ll save him having to ring the bell when he comes back,” she said, her eyes downcast, as if I’d caught her doing something shameful. She left his clothes in the wardrobe. He hadn’t taken any of them with him. It was as if he’d walked out the door naked, ready to be born into a new life, unburdened by the past, with nothing to remind him of us.

  Her appearance changed too. She was thirty-three when Father disappeared. Her skin had been smooth, her eyes sparkling and alive. She had striking, feminine features, and there was something proud and aloof about her, especially when she was sitting at her sewing machine, absorbed in her work. But I soon noticed that her cheekbones had become more prominent, she’d broken out in spots, a haggard pallor replacing her healthy glow. She’d give me a strange, uncertain look whenever I interrupted her thoughts, and I saw that the sparkle had vanished from her eyes. But what shocked me most was that just a few months after Father left, her hair started to go grey.

  Father’s disappearance didn’t affect my sister the same way it affected me. I guess that’s why our relationship was so difficult. Of course, it didn’t help that she moved to a foster family at the age of nine and found a new father there. She was just a baby in 1992, the year Father left, hadn’t even reached her first birthday. And the older she got, the less she could understand why I was so fixated on the man who had ruined our life, a man she had no memory of whatsoever.

  It’s true to say that Mother played a part in making me who I am today. But that’s not an accusation. Who am I to accuse her of anything when I bear the blame for so many other things?

  -

  7

  “Just a minute, please.” The woman standing in the marble-tiled front hall indicates that we should wait outside, then disappears back into the house. We’re in a lush garden sheltered by pine and fig trees. The lawn smells freshly watered, and the rising steam is making the air even muggier. The sun has almost set; dusk casts an eerie shroud over the house. The moment the gate in the mud wall buzzed open, I had a sense of déjà vu. I feel like I’ve seen the house before, just not in this light. Elmira Bourguiba. Who is she? Could this really be the right place? An elegant sandstone house with an ornate front door and arched windows screened by latticework mashrabiyyas. Lawn sprinklers, manicured flower beds—it’s not at all what I expected. Another thing I find weird is that the city has been completely blocked out. Not even the traffic noise can penetrate the walls. The house’s seclusion is absolute.

  The woman who opened the door introduced herself as May. Dark skin, bright eyes. She asked what we wanted, and when I said, “I’m a relative,” she looked sceptical. She still hasn’t reappeared. I dart Nabil a questioning look.

  “Sri Lankan,” he says. “Pretty common among posh Lebanese people.”

  “She looks African,” I say.

  Nabil shrugs.

  “Anyone who’s anyone has a housekeeper. It started in the fifties and sixties, when the country was still thriving, especially economically. Back then, most of the housekeepers came from Sri Lanka, so rich people started calling them all ‘Sri Lankans’. Once I picked up this business man—you know what he said? ‘We have a Sri Lankan from Angola now.’ Unbelievable.”

  I hear footsteps approaching from inside the house. The housekeeper appears, scrutinising us.

  “Just you,” she says at last, pointing to me. She steps to one side and ushers me in.

  “Careful, please. The floor is wet.”

  The marble tiles are glistening. I know why; Father explained it once. When it’s hot outside, you throw water on the stone floors inside. The water has a cooling effect as it evaporates, preventing the house from getting too hot at night.

  May leads me down the hall to a large room, signals me to wait, and goes off again. I can see the garden through the mashrabiyyas. Nabil is sitting on the lawn, leaning against the big fig tree. I look around. There are no plants in the room, no photos either. The stone walls are bare and cold. Elmira Bourguiba. Whoever she is, she’s not very interested in the past. The grand exterior of the house bears little relation to the interior. An old divan looks lost in the room. Next to it, two chairs at a table that could easily sit six. A glass cabinet with just three plates and three glasses in it. She clearly doesn’t receive many visitors. The whole room is pervaded by an unwelcoming sense of emptiness.

  I had always pictured my first meeting with my grandmother as follows: I enter a small room. Candles flicker in the breeze coming in through the open window. There’s a smell of herbs and ointments. A woman lies in bed, hooked up to tubes and beeping devices. Her chest slowly rises and falls. Her wrinkled skin is speckled with age spots, her eyes speak of a hundred years of solitude. I step closer, her eyes follow me, though her head doesn’t move, and she examines me sleepily. Her fine white hair is a tangled mess. I say her name and take her hand. Her smile is tired, but there’s no mistaking her delight that she’s finally getting to meet me.

  For years and years, I’ve played this moment over in my mind, imagining older versions of the woman in the photo. Which is why I’m totally unprepared for the reality.

  “What do you want?”

  I spin around. She’s standing ther
e, straight as a rod, a glass in her hand. There’s something cool and strange about her narrow, crystalline green eyes. Her face is birdlike, with sharp features and a pointed chin. Thin lips painted on with a fine brush. Her penetrating gaze is directed right at me, her entire bearing is forbidding. Her short, curly hair is black, not the white I expected. The silence that follows her question is deafening. It’s impossible to guess her age. My father’s mother would be close to eighty by now. If this woman is that old, she must have spent the last forty years doing nothing but taking care of her appearance.

  The fact that I recognise her right away is astonishing. She looks the same as she did in the photo of my parents’ wedding. Back when the Leitz Prado projected her onto our living room wall, I could sense her air of authority. Here in the flesh, she’s even more intimidating, surrounded by a force field that makes me feel small and insecure.

  She moves towards me in a slow, almost stately manner.

  “I know who you are.”

  “I’m Samir.”

  She looks at me with disdain, her fine-boned fingers twitching around her glass. Don’t waste my time, her eyes seem to say.

  “I … how are you?”

  “You came all this way to ask me how I am?” She exhales sharply through her nose. “After thirty years?”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “Please. You’ve got his eyes.”

  She’s right. It’s the only thing about me that still looks like him.

  “Did he send you on ahead?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Here, to me. Did he come with you?”

  “What?”

  “Are you looking for money?”

  “Money? No … I …” It takes me a second to realise she’s not talking about Nabil. She’s talking about Father. The contrast between the woman standing in front of me and the woman I’d imagined has completely thrown me. When I finally grasp what she’s just said, my head starts to spin. “You … you don’t know where he is?”