The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  Normally I’d have felt cornered, forced to defend myself. But I knew she was right, so I just shrugged and looked down.

  “Don’t do that,” she said, reaching for my hand.

  “What?”

  “Don’t shut me out. Please. I’ve been away for a long time, but I’m not a stranger, Samir. We’ve known each other our whole lives. You’re important to me.” In different circumstances, those last few words would’ve had me jumping for joy. But there was a pleading note to her voice. Yasmin was worried about me. That was scary.

  “I find it really difficult,” I said awkwardly. I looked up but couldn’t face her scrutiny for more than a few seconds. I cleared my throat. Where had this tightness come from?

  “Talk to me, then.”

  Had she always had that tiny mole just above her lip? Outside, the rain was heavier and the sky had darkened, while inside all was a warm glow. The lamps were reflected in the lustre of the newspaper racks and the handle of my teaspoon. The coffee machine gleamed in the corner of my eye, and Yasmin’s eyes were two big pools of expectation.

  “I wake up in the mornings and everything feels empty,” I began nervously. “I spend a lot of time on my own. It takes enormous effort to get to work. I don’t even go through the park any more. I can’t bear to see families.”

  Her fingers were touching mine, but it felt like I had gloves on; her body present, yet somehow far away.

  “When I walk through town, I have to keep my eyes fixed on the ground. Every time I pass a shop, I think: here’s where Father and I bought ice-cream, here’s where he lifted me up on his shoulders. I even go to the supermarket in a different part of town because I don’t want to go to the old one where we used to do the shopping together. I have no friends. I mean, I don’t really go out. I’ve had a few flings, but I can’t bear the thought of anyone leaving me. I find it really difficult to think about tomorrow. The day after tomorrow is an eternity away. Next week is practically non-existent.” Where was all this coming from? It was years since I’d spoken about myself, to anyone. Now the words were rolling off my tongue like heavy stones. “I can’t get a decent night’s sleep. I wake up at three or four in the morning, coated in sweat. I have these dreams. There’s no land in them”—just a hint of land when you are in the dream. “I see my parents everywhere. My mother is every mother waving to her child at the school gates, wiping the corners of her baby’s mouth as they sit on a park bench, tucking in her baby in its buggy as they walk along the street. And my father,” I stirred my chocolate awkwardly. Yasmin was still holding my other hand. “My father is every father cheering his son on at football, reading him a story, driving him to his school graduation party and telling him he can get drunk if he wants, because life is too short not to celebrate. I see them so often, these fathers and sons. I really see them, in shop windows, on billboards, on the bus, at the supermarket check-out, at the take-away. And this town,” the hand holding the spoon began to shake, “this town seems so cramped, so small. I see the same people all the time, it’s so monotonous, but at the same time, I don’t feel able to leave. There doesn’t seem to be any way out. I can’t even think where I’d go. It’s like … I feel so … so …”

  “Alone?”

  I nodded silently. At the table next to us, a man got the bill. Coins clinked onto a plate. Behind me, a newspaper rustled.

  “Every single person I’ve loved has disappeared at some point. I have no contact with Alina any more. I’d like to take responsibility for her, but I don’t even know what she’s up to, how she’s doing. She’s seventeen now—seventeen! I know how this all sounds,” I said, sighing wearily. “Like I’m afraid of life. And I am, to some extent. But it’s not just that I’m afraid.”

  “What else then?”

  “I’m angry. I try not to be, but it doesn’t work. I’m mad at myself, because I keep wondering what I could have done differently. But if I go back farther—and no matter what way I look at it—I always come back to him, to Father. I’m mad at him for what he did to me. Worst of all, I know he’s still alive, living somewhere far away from here.”

  She sipped her chocolate.

  “He is? How do you know? Did he make contact?”

  “No.” I shake my head again. “I just sense it. You know the way you might be thinking of someone and then the phone rings, and it’s them? It’s kind of like that. Like he’s thinking of me the whole time. I’m always thinking about him, but the phone never rings. I’m not religious, but sometimes I wonder if this is some kind of test. And if it is, what’s my mission?”

  “Why do you think him disappearing means you have a mission?”

  “Because I feel like there’s something I missed. That I should have been able to prevent it. Or that I’ve had it in my power for a long time to find him. Except I’m still here.”

  “Do you want to find him?”

  Now the rain was hammering against the window. Someone burst into the café. A cold blast of wind ruffled newspapers and serviettes until the door closed again.

  “Not a day goes by that I don’t think about finding him. Not a single day.”

  Yasmin’s voice was clear, and there was no hint of judgement in her next question. “If you did find him one day, what would you say to him?”

  I looked at her.

  “I’d ask him why. Why he left just like that. Why he did that to me, to us. Why he did that to us.”

  Yasmin dunked the biscuit that came with her hot chocolate. She looked into my eyes and lowered her voice.

  “Have you ever talked to anyone about this? Like now, with me?”

  “No,” I murmured. I had actually thought about seeking help a few years back, but my idea of psychotherapy was one big cliché—a bright room with large potted plants in the corners, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, someone taking notes in a leather armchair, me on a couch opposite them, talking about my life. About my parents. About Father. About him making me promise never to tell. But telling a therapist would have been breaking the promise.

  “Did you ever try writing it down?”

  “Writing?”

  Yasmin nodded. Drops from her dunked biscuit fell on the white china.

  “The letters you wrote me were really beautiful,” she said.

  I swallowed.

  “You use such beautiful language, and the imagery is so alive. I read them over and over.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I wish you’d never stopped writing,” she said awkwardly.

  I hadn’t stopped. But she didn’t know that. At home, in a box, were hundreds of unposted letters to her.

  “You have a talent for writing, for storytelling. I think it would help you.” She was looking straight at me. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, what would I write about?”

  “About yourself? It’s just a thought, but it often occurred to me when I was reading what you wrote. I think you’re an even better storyteller than your father.”

  She blushed as she smiled. She’d read and re-read my letters—why had I never posted the rest? It would have been one way of remaining close to her.

  One day you’ll put your own children to bed and tell them stories, Father had said.

  “Alina would be thrilled to get a story from you too,” Yasmin said. “A story from her big brother. She’d love that.”

  “Alina? But we never even talk to each other.”

  “So what? She often talks about you.”

  In my fidgety state, I’d torn my serviette into little pieces. Now someone yanked the café door open, and a blast of cold wind sent all the serviette confetti flying.

  “You’ve been in touch with her?”

  “We never lost contact,” said Yasmin, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “We write, we phone each other, that kind of thing.”

 
; “How is she?”

  As always, my throat constricted at the thought of Alina. For all I knew, she was my only living relative in this country, yet she still seemed out of reach.

  “Her family is great. She’s happy there. She’s gone a bit Christian, but that’s hardly surprising when her foster father is a minister. She goes to church fairly regularly, and on parish youth outings. But she doesn’t lay it on, the religious stuff, if you know what I mean.” Yasmin laughed. “She often asked me about you, wanted to know how you were doing, what you were up to. So you’re wrong if you think Alina doesn’t want any contact with you. It took her years to get back on her feet. Hours and hours of therapy. She thought you were in therapy too. Told me she’d love to see you again sometime, do something with you, see how you turned out. When …” Yasmin looked at me, holding my hand tight as she spoke. “When you’re feeling better.”

  Maybe Yasmin was the safe shore I’d imagined all these years. She was certainly bringing me the first bit of good news I’d had in ages.

  “Alina,” I mumbled, as if it was some fairy creature’s name. “She’s well, you say? I mean, what’s she up to, what’s her favourite subject in school, does she have a boyfriend?”

  “I think she’s in love,” Yasmin said, smiling.

  “Really?”

  “Well, she was asking me for tips—dos and don’ts for your first date. What does that tell you?”

  I couldn’t help but smile. Since Mother’s death, if not before then, every day had seemed an endless struggle. Now, to my surprise, the years seemed to have flown. My little sister had blossomed into a young woman who was beginning to live her own life.

  “So she thinks of you as her big sister?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I hope she does.”

  Saying nothing, Yasmin smiled.

  “And she’d like to hear from me?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I thought she’d blame me.”

  Yasmin had just put her cup to her lips but set it down again. “Samir, no one blames you for anything! What would they be blaming you for anyway?”

  “My mother …” It was barely a whisper.

  “Samir, Rana was ill. None of us could have saved her. Alina knows that too.”

  I said nothing. Then I asked, “And she wants to see me?”

  “You don’t have to meet right away. How about a letter? Or a story? And then a phone call? These things take time, Samir. But you’re only twenty-four—or you will be in a couple of months. Twenty-four! I don’t want to sound like an old woman, but you have your whole life ahead of you. There is no question that you’ve been through a lot. No one has any doubts about that.” Now she leant in and laid both hands on mine. “I don’t have any doubts about that. I know how you feel. I grew up without a mother. I never knew my mother, so I didn’t have the kind of bond you had with your father, but it still wasn’t easy growing up without a female role model. Father was brilliant. He did more for me than anyone could have expected. What I’m trying to say is: I know exactly how you feel. But I also know something you still have to learn: Life goes on. It’s a cliché, but wherever there is darkness, there will always be light.”

  I wished she’d keep talking and never let go of my hand. I could have stayed like that forever, slumped in my chair, the smell of hot chocolate wafting up from our cups, Yasmin’s face opposite me, the one thing that counted. But she paused, and I knew I had to say something.

  “What if I can’t see the light?”

  Her eyes moved up from my hands, locking my gaze.

  “Then you need someone who can show you where it is.”

  The rain had become even heavier, lashing against the window panes. The outside world floated away in a blur.

  “What time is it?” asked Yasmin.

  I looked at the familiar clock behind the coffee machine.

  “Nearly three.”

  “I want to be at Father’s by four at the latest. Why don’t you come with me?”

  I had been planning to visit him today anyway, to see if he wanted any help. His birthday was going to be celebrated whether he wanted it or not. The neighbours had invited themselves weeks ago.

  “OK, I just have to get changed first.” I was still wearing my copy-shop uniform.

  “Do you live near here?”

  I nodded.

  “Between the library and our street. About ten minutes from here.”

  Yasmin signalled to the waiter and dug her wallet out of her bag.

  “Right,” she said. “I’m going with you.”

  A wall of stale air hit me when I opened the door to my flat. The walk here was like a blurry film with distorted noises and voices. The sound of passing cars became a roar, the acoustic signal at the pedestrian crossing seemed more shrill than usual, every light dazzled and fractured, and the clacking of our footsteps seemed to come from another world. Loudest of all was the pounding of my heart. I could feel Yasmin’s arm again, linked in mine under the umbrella, but it felt very far away. As we walked to my flat through the easing rain, I felt like I was looking down at us from above. The closer we got to my place, the more I tried to calm down, to reassure myself that it was OK to take Yasmin there.

  Of all the people who had left me, she was the only one who had come back. How could she release me from my prison if I didn’t let her in?

  In a state of numbness, I saw my flat through her eyes. A dark, oppressive, cramped space. Stuffy. Incredibly untidy. The shutters were closed as usual. Slivers of light filtered through. Yasmin went in first, her eyes trying to adjust to the dark. My heart thumped even louder when she stopped and looked around in disbelief. I could only see her from behind, but I sensed her shock.

  The bands of diffused light showed up screaming headlines on yellowed newsprint pinned to the walls:

  NO PEACE FOR LEBANON

  CIVIL WAR

  INVESTORS ABANDON BEIRUT

  BASHIR GEMAYEL KILLED IN BOMB ATTACK

  WHAT WENT ON IN SABRA AND CHATILA?

  CEDAR STATE TOPPLES TOWARDS THE ABYSS

  Crisscrossing each wall, and stretching from one wall to another, were long threads held in place with thumbtacks. Like a giant spider’s web, they linked details in the newspaper articles. Years, dates, placenames, people’s names, all circled and flagged with exclamation marks. Further threads led from there to other articles around the room in which the same names occurred. No matter where you looked, you saw words, images, newspaper cuttings. Even the ceiling and the furniture were covered in clippings—the backs of chairs, cupboard doors, the table top. It was like being trapped inside a giant newspaper, or in a hidden chamber behind a bookshelf, a place where a secret society was hatching dubious plans. Or like one of those classic movies in which the despondent detective, abandoned by his wife and children, spends his evenings staring at pieces of evidence pinned to the wall, whiskey in hand. A storm rages outside. He knows he’s missed something. It’s probably staring him in the face. He paces up and down in a drunken stupor, the cop who’s lost everything because he’s spent half a lifetime obsessively chasing a serial killer.

  On the largest wall, at the point where all the threads met, was the photo of my dreamy-looking father beside Bashir Gemayel. Above Father’s head was a sheet of white paper with a big question mark on it. I could hear Chris’s disappointed voice again: Why didn’t you just photocopy the pages? Eyes downcast, I’d answered: It wouldn’t have been the same. No originals, no authenticity.

  “I thought I had a right to it,” I whispered, shuddering at the thought of the years I’d spend crawling around in here.

  Yasmin still had her back to me, but I could see her covering her mouth in shock.

  “Really, no one else was interested in this stuff,” I continued in a whisper. It was the same excuse I’d used to justify m
y actions to myself. “I traced it all on the computer.”

  Yasmin’s face was ashen. She looked at me in horror, struggling for words and failing to find any.

  She stood frozen in shock and confusion. I put my hand on her shoulder and she jumped, then looked at the wall again.

  “What have you done to yourself?” she asked in a trembling voice.

  I swallowed, struggling to find an explanation.

  “This … It really hurts to see this.” Yasmin reached a hand toward one of the threads crisscrossing the room. It trembled at her touch. “I mean, how can you live like this?”

  “I’ve been hoping to find a clue.”

  She turned to face me. Her pupils were enlarged by the dark. I could see the flicker of pity in them.

  “You’re breathing, Samir,” she said bitterly. “But that’s not living.”

  I nodded in silence. What could I say? She had exposed it for what it was—a crazy web of delusion. There we were, surrounded by the images we’d seen projected on the living-room wall all those years ago, like waymarks on a three-dimensional timeline. I had wrenched Yasmin back into the painful past. It was too much for her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, laying her hand briefly on my shoulder as she turned away. “I can’t do this.”

  She ran out of the flat. Seconds later, I heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs.

  I stood frozen to the spot. The sound of the door closing at the bottom of the stairs jolted me into action.

  “Yasmin!”

  I charged out of the flat, ran down the stairs two steps at a time, and yanked the front door open. Outside, the air was fresh, the sky clear, the pavement still glistening with rain. To the right—nothing. To the left—a flash of Yasmin’s yellow coat, the echo of her footsteps.

  “Wait!” I cried, my heart pounding. “D’you remember the secret?” I could not, would not lose her now. “D’you remember?”

  She stopped and turned.

  “His treasure,” I said, all out of breath. “The secret everyone talks about? Remember?” Was that a smile on her lips? “You do remember,” I said. “I know you do.”