The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  He frowns, looking at Nabil as if I’m out of my mind.

  “Father spoke about you,” I say. “Well, not about you directly, but about a rhinoceros that never loses at cards.”

  Aziz’s bewildered expression softens a little.

  “Rhinoceros,” he says. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.” He leans over again, casting a massive shadow over the desk. “Rhinoceros was what the other employees called me in the Carlton. I told them I didn’t like it, so they started calling me Rhino instead, which I thought was cool. It sounded kind of American. People still call me that today.”

  It feels as if the characters in Father’s stories have come to life, as if they’ve escaped from my imagination and are now leading real lives of their own. But what really stuns me is the fact that Father never once mentioned Sinan Aziz or the rhinoceros in his diary. I’ve always assumed he made up this part of his story just for me. That the rhinoceros and camel were products of his imagination, nothing else. The thought that they’re real people, people I can track down, gives me a tingling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’ve always known that Father found inspiration for his stories in real life; he’d done that back when he told stories to the kids in the sports hall. But sitting so close to Sinan Aziz, knowing that I could reach out and touch the rhinoceros, a character from one of Father’s last stories, is overwhelming. It makes Aziz seem slightly surreal, like something out of a fairy tale.

  “So he talked about me, you say?”

  “Not directly. I didn’t know you used to work together. But he more or less based a character in one of his stories on you.”

  Aziz doesn’t seem to know whether he should be amused or baffled.

  I’m itching to ask the next question. It feels like I’m closing in on Father, and the suspense is killing me.

  “Sinan,” I say. “Why did you go see my grandmother a few years ago? You gave her the card. Why?”

  The giant leans back in his chair, and his face disappears into the shadows again.

  “I’m surprised that wasn’t the first question you asked,” he says. “What can I say? I was hoping to find Brahim.”

  I jump out of my seat.

  “Why?”

  “Take it easy. I’ve already told you I barely knew your father. That’s the truth. I haven’t seen him since 1982; he just disappeared off the face of the earth. But that wasn’t unusual back then, there was a lot of coming and going in that hotel.”

  “And then, almost thirty years later, you suddenly decided it would be nice to see him again?”

  His voice remains calm.

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not interested in Brahim. I never really knew him and I’m not about to change that now.” He examines me for a moment. He seems to be considering whether he should say the next sentence. “There’s something you should know: you’re not the only one looking for your father.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Brahim and I,” he says, his eyes still fixed on me, “have a mutual friend.”

  “A mutual friend? Who?”

  “I can’t tell you. He’s a bit of a recluse. I hadn’t seen him for years. He’d disappeared too, left the hotel not long before your father. And then one day he showed up here, asking whether I knew where Brahim was. Which of course I didn’t, but it wasn’t hard to track down his mother. So I visited her and asked her to call me if her son ever turned up.”

  “This friend. What does he want with my father?”

  Aziz doesn’t answer right away. He nods towards my chair, I sit down again and he exhales slowly, his nostrils flaring.

  “He wants to forgive him,” he says eventually.

  Nabil is looking at me. He seems to be unnerved by the turn the conversation has taken. He’s had his hands clasped the whole time, and I can see a film of sweat on them.

  I do my best to keep my voice steady. “What does he want to forgive him for?”

  “It’s up to him to tell you,” Aziz says, folding his hands over his belly. “If he wants to. Some stories should only be told once.”

  The sunlight is so blinding when we leave the club that I have to shut my eyes. For a while, all I see are orange dots. The city has woken up. Mopeds are rattling across the asphalt again, tables and chairs have appeared on the pavement and are already occupied. Waitresses ferry trays of tea and fruit juice. Young people wander past, and nearby a mime artist stands stock still on a bucket, a hat on the ground in front of him.

  The door has just closed behind us, yet my encounter with Aziz already feels like a dream.

  He said he’d call the man. And if he’s willing to meet me, he’ll let me know. Aziz promised this before he showed us out of the office

  We head back to the car.

  “How are you doing?” Nabil asks. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Ever feel like you don’t know if you’re awake or sleeping?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s how I feel right now.”

  “If you’re sleeping, you’re dreaming of me.” Nabil laughs. “I’m honoured.”

  Back in the car, I get the diary out of my rucksack. A bit I’d forgotten about has just popped into my mind. I flick through the diary until I find the entry:

  Beirut, 4 September 1980

  8:30 p.m.

  I got a promotion today. Well, not really a promotion, but I’ve been given an important new responsibility. Abdallah called me in. I thought he wanted to talk about the wedding tomorrow. Whether I’ve been in touch with the musicians, whether the seating arrangement has been sorted out, whether we’ve got everything ready downstairs. I know how important the weddings are. For the hotel’s reputation—and because they bring in a lot of money, of course.

  – Close the door, he says when I come into his office.

  Mr. Abdallah always keeps his curtains drawn and the little lamp on his desk on. Because of his burns, maybe?

  – You wanted to see me?

  – That’s right. I hear you’re doing a good job here. You’re reliable, the guests like you.

  – I do my best.

  – Don’t be so modest. I have a job for you. You know how much I’ve got on my plate.

  He points to a pile of envelopes on the desk.

  – If I have to get up every thirty minutes and run downstairs to welcome guests, I won’t get through half of these.

  – I can imagine.

  – So I’d like you to greet the guests in future.

  – Certainly, if you wish.

  – I don’t wish anything. I’m telling you, this is your job from now on. Any objections?

  – No, Mr. Abdallah.

  – Good, then get back to work.

  His eyes look almost white in this light. He looks at me impatiently.

  – Thank you, Mr. Abdallah.

  I’m almost at the door when he calls my name again.

  – Brahim!

  I turn around. A strange smile plays around his lips. The left half of his face is illuminated by the lamp, and the burned skin gives off a greenish sheen, glinting like scaly armour.

  – Brahim, he says, you’ve been working here for more than six months now. From now on, I’m going to address you by your first name. That’s not something I do with everyone.

  I know he doesn’t do that with everyone. Sometimes when he’s bawling out the others, he calls them animals.

  – I want you to address me by first name too, he says, his eyes flashing.

  There’s something creepy about him, something sinister, reptilian. I shudder inwardly and nod.

  – Good, he says, his smile turning into a sneer. Then call me Ishaq.

  -

  12

  “This was under E.” Chris said disapprovingly, waving a book in my face. His b
lack horn-rimmed glasses had slid down his nose, making him look like a moronic Harry Potter. “The lady back there chased me up and down the aisles until I found it for her.”

  I looked over his shoulder. An elderly woman in a dark jacket, grey hair peeking out under a black cloche hat, was standing at the loans desk. In one white-gloved hand she held a black umbrella. She was impatiently tapping the counter with the index finger of the other.

  “Is that Mary Poppins?” I whispered.

  “Could be, forty years on. Look—you put the book back on the wrong shelf. See, it belongs under F. For begins with an F.”

  My eyes fell on the title: FOR YOURSELF: THE FULFILMENT OF FEMALE SEXUALITY.

  Chris shrugged.

  “She said it’s for her niece.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t concentrating.”

  “It’s OK. But be careful.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the endless aisles of shelves. “If you put books back in the wrong places, we’ll never find them again. It was sheer chance that I found this one.”

  “Thanks,” I said, because I knew that’s what he really wanted to hear. And though it stuck in my craw, I added, “You’re the best.”

  Chris was nearly forty but looked more like eighteen. He had a very high voice and walked with a bit of a stoop, which I put down to the fact that he was always poring over books. The way he shoved his glasses up his nose every other second, I reckoned he’d end up with arthritis in his finger. Chris was my boss. The kind of boss who makes you wonder what kind of demeaning things he must’ve had to do before someone showed mercy and elevated him to his current position. He didn’t command the slightest shred of authority—as evidenced by old ladies chasing him up and down the aisles, and junior staff and visitors alike addressing him by his first name. For me it was important to be on good terms with Chris. I didn’t want him watching my movements too closely because I’d be finished if he ever found out what I got up to down in the archive or on the computer in his office.

  “Any plans for this evening?” he asked casually, after handing the female sexuality book to the old lady.

  “I think Aurea wants to go out for dinner.”

  He frowned for a second, as if considering what day it was.

  “Aha,” he said. “And what are you going to give her? Flowers?”

  I hadn’t bought anything. In fact, I hadn’t really been planning on giving her a present at all.

  “Yes, flowers.”

  “Very good. Old school—I’m proud of you.” He laughed. The way he said it was unintentionally funny. You’d swear he was Casanova giving his naïve grandson a few tips on seduction.

  The thought of spending the evening with Aurea was giving me a headache. It didn’t suit my plans at all. What I really wanted was to keep doing what I was doing in the archives. She’d caught me on the hop when she casually suggested doing something on Valentine’s Day, but then I’d just smiled and said, “Whatever you like.”

  “How old are you, Samir?” asked Chris. We were piling returned books onto a trolley.

  “Twenty.”

  “Ah, twenty—the right age to be celebrating Valentine’s Day,” he said. He gave me a chummy dig with his elbow. “Why don’t you leave early today. Use up some of the overtime you’ve clocked up over the last few weeks.”

  “No need, thanks. We’re not meeting until this evening.”

  “Samir, you need time to go home and smarten up. Then you pick her up and take her out. That’s how it’s done.”

  “Thanks, really, but I’ve got it under control.”

  He looked at me over the rim of his glasses.

  “What if I make that an order?”

  What an absurd idea. Even a two-year-old wouldn’t take an order from Chris Poliak.

  “I’ll put these books back first,” I said to change the subject. “Who knows, maybe I’ll finish the job early.”

  “OK.” Chris pushed his glasses up his nose. “But make sure you put them back in the right places.”

  The light from the tall library windows fell on the long wooden shelves. The trolley glided over the marble floor, and all around me I heard the muted whispers of library users. I loved that sound, but I loved the smell of the books even more. There was something comforting and magical about it. The scent of countless stories slumbering between book covers, waiting to be read. A mysterious pheromone designed to lure the right reader to the right book. The older the books, the stronger the scent. Whenever I could, I detoured through the section where nineteenth-century books exuded the smell of yellowed pages and thick leather bindings. My romantic sentiments conveniently filtered out the fact that the smell was really a sign of age and decay. The library’s directors had decided to move with the times and had begun digitising the collections in order to preserve them. For weeks now, dozens of interns weighed down by books had been staggering through the main reading room and disappearing through a door that said STAFF ONLY. Behind that door, stairs led down to the archive, which was almost twice the size of the public space upstairs. Here the interns scanned the books page by page.

  All this activity didn’t suit me one bit. The scanners and photocopiers were constantly going; I kept bumping into baby-faced interns in the corridors; someone was always calling for a technician because a copier was on strike; and if I was at a copier myself, a queue of people would form behind me in no time. The whole operation was a nuisance. The more people there were down there, the greater the danger I’d be found out. And the archive was only half the story. I’d be out on my ear if anyone knew what I got up to on the computer upstairs.

  I thought back to the day I’d first set foot in the library. I’d stood awestruck in the huge entrance hall, between the stone columns that supported the gallery, and gazed at the brimming book shelves. The respectful hush was irresistible; I had to go in.

  My original reason for going to the library had nothing to do with books. I went because I missed Yasmin. There was something comforting about going to the places she’d liked. I’d started having breakfast once a week in the café where I’d often seen her sipping her coffee. I’d been to the swimming pool several times; I didn’t really like swimming but I knew she liked the pool. I tried to see these places with her eyes, to imagine what it was like when she heard the rattles and hisses of the coffee machine or inhaled the chlorine fug of the pool. When I went to the cinema, I picked films I thought she’d have gone for. It was the same with the library. I wanted to get to know the place where she’d spent so much time during the last days we shared. I wanted to sit where she’d sat, read what she’d read. It was like following a faint trail of perfume before it faded altogether.

  We wrote to each other and spoke on the phone now and then. We talked about her studies, about people she’d met, about how she was getting a student grant now. The first semester, she didn’t come home at all. Alex was going to uni there too, and she was completely wrapped up in her new student life. She went off travelling during the semester break and didn’t come home the second semester either. Hakim visited her occasionally but I never went with him. I couldn’t bear the idea of seeing her for a couple of hours and spending the whole time thinking that all too soon I’d have to leave her again. She went to the USA in her second year, spending a semester at San Diego State University. She sent me a photo, taken from behind, of her looking out over a fabulous Pacific bay. It was a nice photo, but I was far more interested in who she was there with and who had taken the picture. Alex had stayed in Germany, I knew that much. When she sent that photo, I was half way through my own professional training. I was going to be a “Specialist in Media and Information Services.” It was a silly job title—“Librarian” sounded a lot better. It was a three-year programme divided into practical and theoretical elements. I did the practical apprenticeship in the library and the theory in the vocational college. I got a job in the librar
y when I qualified, and I’d been permanent for six months now.

  The minute I’d walked into the airy space between the entrance-hall columns, I’d known that this would be one of my special places, one of the few where I felt at ease. The library was perfect in many ways. It was a repository for all the stories born out of the imaginations of the world’s great storytellers. Being close to their stories meant being close to Father. I knew he’d have liked this place. I also knew that Yasmin had liked it here, which made it even easier for me to like the library.

  But what clinched it was something else. I had wandered almost reverently up and down the aisles, past Fiction, Biography, and Reference to Non-fiction. Overwhelmed by the sheer number of books, I skipped a few shelves until—as if fate had led me there—I ended up in front of a section labelled MIDDLE EAST. I traced the titles on their spines in amazement:

  Der alte Libanon

  Coexistence in Wartime Lebanon

  Pity the Nation—The Abduction of Lebanon

  Syrien & Libanon

  Constitutional patriotism in Lebanon

  It was a shock to see so many books on Lebanon and Lebanese history. I’d always assumed that no one except the people who live on our street had any real interest in the country. How wrong I was. And how lucky. The library was somewhere I could feel close to those who meant so much to me, but it was also somewhere I could quench my enormous thirst for knowledge. There was nothing for it: I had to apply for a place on the librarianship course.

  I was dreading the evening with Aurea for the same reason that I dreaded us being anywhere other than her flat—I was afraid she’d suggest going to my place. I liked Aurea. I really did. Her parents were Portuguese but she’d been born in Germany like me. She was twenty-three, had dark, animated eyes, was a dance teacher by day and studying for university entrance exams by night. We’d been sleeping together for about six months, which was presumably long enough to call whatever we had a relationship. Six months was a record for me. I’d been with various girls over the years—I’d even managed to string along two girls at the same time for a while without either of them finding out. But I’d never really had a proper relationship. Any time I’d felt they were beginning to get serious—or were about to break it off—I did a runner. Even today, the thought of being abandoned makes me do things I hate myself for.