The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  Two men charged in and opened fire in the lobby. Yunus, the kid at reception, was killed. He only started here a couple of weeks ago.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” says Nabil, patting my shoulder.

  A ghost. He’s closer to the truth than he realises.

  “I don’t know about you …” he says, as he puts his sunglasses back on in an attempt to look tough. “But I’m dying to find out who’s waiting for us in this nightclub.”

  -

  10

  Mother’s death was too catastrophic to take in. Too abstract, like a mathematical formula I didn’t understand and would never figure out. From the moment they buried her, I was consumed by a desperate longing for her. The longer she was dead, the more alive each one of her gestures, words, actions seemed. And the more suffocating the dark, heavy shroud around me became.

  The neighbours came by. Wearing sombre expressions, they shuffled around our flat as if they were visiting a museum or a cemetery, and whenever they noticed me staring at them, they looked away in embarrassment or put a hand on my shoulder. One day, men in work boots spent a whole day coming and going. Equipped with measuring tapes and cordless screwdrivers, they dragged cupboards, cabinets, and furniture out with them. The sound of hammering, drilling, and banging filled the rooms until the flat had been cleared. I looked at the marks on the carpet and the dusty traces of our furniture on the wooden floor. The walls were cold and ugly. Even the curtains were gone. Mother’s room: empty. The living room: empty. The kitchen: completely dismantled. Nothing left but a few boxes in my room.

  I spent the days immediately after the funeral in a haze. Incapable of making decisions, disoriented and scared. The future seemed more terrifying than ever, like a snarling monster. I had no idea how we were going to manage. The only thing I knew for sure was that Alina and I couldn’t stay here.

  Painful as Mother’s death was for me, its impact on my sister was frightening. In the initial aftermath, she suffered from uncontrollable crying fits. She refused to sleep in her own room and insisted on crawling into Mother’s bed, where traces of her sweet smell still lingered. Then she started sucking her thumb again. She wanted to be with me all the time, refusing to leave my side, clinging to my leg or hand or insisting that I carry her, wrapping her arms around my neck and burying her face in my shoulder. Five days after the funeral, she came out of her bedroom in her pyjamas and started shouting for Mother. She went from room to room, looking around and calling for her, as if she’d just woken up to find that Mother wasn’t in the bed beside her. It was both heart-breaking and unnerving. I put my arms around her and held her tight. There was nothing I could say. All I knew was that things were spinning out of our control. Yasmin had started to stay with us at night. About two weeks later, Alina was doubled over with such awful stomach cramps that we had to call the doctor.

  Social services came not long after that. One of them, a child psychologist, explained what traumatic grief is. She sat in Hakim’s tiny living room across from me and him. Her hair was soft and silvery, her eyes green and clear, her voice quiet but determined.

  “It’s very important that Alina receives proper care,” she said, looking at us as if to check that we were following what she was saying. “Children who have lost one or more parents can develop severe difficulties in forming relationships. It’s a natural defence mechanism—the attachment system shuts down to prevent an overreaction to the loss. Alina hasn’t quite got to that point yet, but she’s showing all the classic signs of traumatic grief: overanxiousness, clinginess, searching for the deceased parent. In some children, this can develop into suicidal tendencies.”

  Hakim and I exchanged looks. The woman’s words hung in the air like a wrecking ball.

  “We need to talk through the next steps,” she continued, glancing at the two social workers nodding beside her. Talking through the next steps was probably their job, but they seemed to be leaving it to the psychologist for fear of freaking us out even more. “I know this is a terrible loss, and I understand how difficult it is to even contemplate the future, but I have to ask whether you’ve thought about what you’re going to do.”

  I was still stuck on the term “traumatic grief.” Had I suffered a similar trauma when Father left? I’d been eight, the same age as Alina was now. Maybe Mother’s death would send me over the edge completely. Was I going to wind up in a padded cell?

  Hakim cleared his throat. He looked worn out, but when he spoke, I was startled by how steady and resolute his voice was.

  “Mrs. el-Hourani made arrangements,” he said. “As I’m sure you know, Mr. el-Hourani isn’t around, so he’s unable to fulfil his parental responsibilities. Mrs. el-Hourani drew up her will a few years ago. It says that I should become the children’s guardian in the event of her death.”

  The psychologist gave him a surprised look, then turned her attention to me. I did my best to hold her gaze. Hakim had told me about the will the day after the funeral. I just nodded silently, relieved that I didn’t have to do any thinking myself. But hearing it again, here in his flat, in such familiar surroundings, I felt a stabbing pain. It made me realise how far apart from each other we’d grown, Mother and I. She’d ultimately managed to shake off her grief and look ahead, even to the extent of confronting the prospect of her own death and its consequences for us, while I’d let myself be sucked into the vortex of the past.

  “May I see the will?” one of the social workers asked. He was sitting behind the psychologist and hadn’t uttered a word until now. “It doesn’t have to be right now, but we’ll need to check it at some point, as I’m sure you understand.”

  “Of course,” Hakim said.

  The psychologist looked at me.

  “Samir,” she said quietly. “In principle, the family court is bound by your mother’s will, but since you are sixteen, you have a right to object to the guardianship.”

  I shook my head. I wouldn’t have dreamt of objecting. The idea of moving in with Hakim was comforting. It was the only place I could imagine living now.

  “That sounds like a good solution,” the psychologist said. “When will you be finished with school?”

  “Next year.”

  “So you’ll get your diploma?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She smiled at me encouragingly. “There’s just one thing,” she said, and I could tell bad news was coming. “As I’ve said, the family court is generally bound by the parents’ will—as long as it is in the children’s best interests.” She paused to let her words to sink in. “I believe this guardianship is in Samir’s best interests. In any case, he won’t require a guardian for very long. I’m sure he’ll do some kind of apprenticeship when he finishes school, start earning his own money, get his own place.”

  I couldn’t believe that this woman was making plans for me. I couldn’t even think as far as the next day.

  “Alina’s case is different. She’s going to need psychological support. I’ll have to write a report for the family court. It’s very important that you listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you.” She paused again. She’d emphasised the words “very important” by tapping the side of her hand on her thigh. “We,” she said, turning to the two social workers and then back to face us, “are of the opinion that Alina will not find the stable environment she needs here.”

  Hakim leaned in and tried to say something, but the psychologist raised her hand to signal that she wasn’t finished.

  “Immediate family members and close friends are often under severe emotional strain themselves. The death of a loved one is a deeply distressing experience. It can impact their ability to care for others.”

  Hakim looked at me helplessly and put a hand on my leg.

  “But the will appointed me as guardian for both of them,” he said.

  “I know.” The psychologist remained unflustered. I wondered ho
w many times she’d had this conversation. Living rooms, sad faces, the same wretched routine. “But we have to consider the child’s best interests. It’s crucial that we provide Alina with a secure environment to grow up in. An environment with the steady structures she needs to lead a normal life. It’s not just about psychological support, it’s about giving her a stable home and a sense of order.”

  “A stable home?” Hakim asked. His voice was steady, but I could see his foot shaking underneath the table. “I brought up my daughter on my own. She’s going to sit her university entrance exams in spring and start her studies next year. I can do this. I’ve known Alina since she was born … I’m like a father to her.”

  “We don’t consider this a stable environment for the girl,” said the other social worker, the woman. It was the first time she’d spoken since she arrived. I wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Her voice was formal, bureaucratic, devoid of empathy.

  “So what kind of environment do you have in mind, exactly?” Hakim asked.

  “A foster family.” The social worker answered as if she’d just been asked what she had for lunch. She might as well have been saying, “Burger and chips.”

  “A foster family?”

  Hakim’s foot was shaking more violently now. How was he managing to sound so calm?

  “We believe it’s what’s best for the child,” the psychologist said. “I believe it’s the most sensible decision.”

  There were so many questions I could have asked, but it felt as if the visitors’ voices were incredibly far away, in another space and time. A foster family. A new home. A new father, a new mother. Maybe new brothers and sisters too. I knew they were right, but their plan was no less appalling for that. They wanted to simply transplant Alina’s life. I thought about her gentle face. She had our father’s features and his long, straight hair. I was going to lose her. Like we’d lost our parents. I was going to lose her without ever really knowing her. All those times she’d just wanted to hang out with me. Will you take me to the playground, Samir? Will you stay for my birthday party? Will you tell me a story? I’d never really been the son my mother had needed, and I’d never been the brother Alina had wanted. Now both of them were gone. Out of reach. All that would be left of the family that had moved here eight years ago was a dim memory.

  I’ll never forget when they drove off with her. She was slumped in the back seat, staring at her hands. A little black-haired bundle. I wanted her to bang on the windows, to cry and make a scene, but she just sat there listlessly. She looked right through me as Hakim, Yasmin, and I watched the car pull away and leave our street. She didn’t even wave.

  We’d gone for a meal beforehand. After endless telephone calls, the time had come for them to come and get Alina.

  “Why are you sending her so far away?” I’d asked after finding out where the foster family lived.

  “Because your sister will be happier in a totally new environment. It’ll help her recover,” they’d said.

  Her new parents had invited us out to a restaurant. He was the minister in a tiny parish somewhere in the north of Germany, “just sixty kilometres from the sea.” She was an art teacher, “but only part-time.” They did their best to hide their discomfort. They talked about their big house—Alina would love it, they said—and the beehive in their garden. They weren’t bad people, they were actually quite nice. But I couldn’t eat a thing, and neither could Hakim or Yasmin. We all just pushed our salads around our plates.

  “We have a son, Marcel,” they said. “He’s eight, the same age as Alina. And we have an adopted daughter called Sulola. She’s from Nigeria.”

  I didn’t believe they were really going to take my sister away and raise her until I watched them drive off with her.

  It felt like they’d torn off a piece of my own flesh. I missed Alina with every fibre of my being. Her happy-go-lucky laugh, her adorable capacity to lose herself in a book, the way she bent her wrist when she was writing so that, being left-handed, she wouldn’t smudge what she’d just written. The way she brushed her teeth in a circular motion, just as she’d been taught, and burst out laughing when the foam from the toothpaste made her look like she had rabies. The way she sang and danced. There was so much I wanted to say to her. And so much that would remain unsaid.

  Six months passed before I sent her the first of only a few letters. Yasmin used to phone her now and again, Hakim too, but I couldn’t bring myself to call. So I wrote a few lines about how I’d be leaving school soon. Mostly, though, I asked about her. How she was doing, how she was settling into school, how she liked the sea.

  She wrote back, but she never said how she was doing. Her childish scrawl just described what she saw:

  The house is lovely, the teachers are nice. We even have a dog. His name is Moses. He’s cute, but he’s not allowed to sleep in the house. He has his own little house in the garden. I’ve been to the beach. But I couldn’t swim, because the water here is too cold. My violin teacher’s name is Viola. She has really long fingers. If I practise a lot, I might be allowed to play in a concert. When you come to visit, I’ll play something for you.

  I took Hakim’s bedroom, and he slept on the living-room couch. It was a temporary arrangement. Yasmin would be moving out and starting university in the summer, so I’d take her room, if I hadn’t moved out by then myself.

  It was both nice and weird to be so close to Yasmin again. Weird mainly because Alex, her boyfriend, never left her side. He was nice enough to me, but I always got the sense he was keeping an eye on me. That he was suspicious of the past Yasmin and I shared. If the two of us were alone in a room when he came in, he’d make a show of putting his arm around her waist or giving her a casual pat on the backside. And when he was looking for her, he’d never just call her name, he’d shout something like, “Can you come here a minute, honey?” We spent many evenings in front of Hakim’s TV with bags of crisps, cartons of ready-made sangria, rented videos. Yasmin and Alex didn’t do too much cuddling and kissing when I was there beside them, but later, when I lay in bed staring at the wall, numb with loneliness, I’d hear rustling and muffled panting next door, followed by the sound of them tiptoeing to the bathroom.

  When we were kids, Yasmin never made me feel like I was two years younger than her. Going on expeditions through dark corridors, climbing trees, jumping in puddles, whiling away rainy spring afternoons together—it’s all blended into one fuzzy memory. The two of us in cahoots, united, inseparable.

  But now, eight years later, it was hard not to notice the age difference. Puberty had taken me hostage, scattering angry red spots on my forehead and making my voice croak, whereas she’d become a woman. Everything about her was womanly: the way she smelled, walked, talked, dressed. I loved being around her, even though it made me painfully aware of how young, short, and inexperienced I was.

  While I half-heartedly studied for my exams—I couldn’t have cared less about school and my classmates and their banal chatter—Yasmin spent her afternoons swotting for her university-entrance exams in the library or with a study group. She wanted me to go with her—after all, it didn’t make any difference where I studied—but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist glancing over at her, watching as she tucked her hair behind her ear like a little girl. I was stunned by how time had transfigured her. If I looked closely, I could still see that wild, fearless glint in her eyes, and it made me think of the tomboy who used to charge through undergrowth, beat a path through the thicket. But these days, there was something perceptive about her eyes, too; she always seemed present and curious and genuinely interested. I could be talking about something completely trivial, but the way she listened and nodded and asked questions made me feel like I was interesting, and my mind would go back to those wonderful afternoons on our steps when I used to relay Father’s stories and her pupils would reflect the worlds I was creating. We used to be able to tell at a glance what the o
ther was thinking, or we’d start a sentence with the exact same words at the same time. There were rare moments when it was still like that. Then it felt like nothing had changed, like our closeness had stood the test of time.

  I never went into the library with her. But I’d meet her outside later. After school, I’d study in the canteen, spending half the time checking the clock above the vending machine. When at last it was time to go, I’d make my way to the library, an imposing stone building with decorated columns. Statues of two bearded men observed each other in front of the entrance: Plato and Socrates. I’d stand under their eyes on the steps, waiting for Yasmin to emerge, grinning, with a clear plastic bag full of books and notes.

  One day we were strolling through town. The air was close and the streets were still shiny after a May shower. The pavements were crowded. People had closed their umbrellas, but they kept eyeing the sky with suspicion, ready for the next downpour. Our exams were just a few days away. We walked in silence side by side, going nowhere in particular. That was another great thing about being with Yasmin: our silences were never uncomfortable.

  “Are you all set?” she asked after a while. The humidity had made her hair a little frizzy.

  I shrugged. “I’ll be fine. What about you?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine too.” She smiled. “You can do it. I’m not worried about you at all.”

  I wasn’t worried either. In fact, I didn’t give a toss how I did in the exams.

  “Are you looking forward to moving on?” I asked, without really thinking about what I was saying. “Starting uni, I mean?”