The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  She was half facing me, half about to walk on.

  “What about the secret?” It was the little girl from back then who was asking.

  “I know what it is,” I said, full of excitement. “I know the secret.”

  The wind blew autumn leaves and images from our childhood towards us. Then she turned fully round to face me.

  I looked at her.

  “From the south to the north, from the Chouf to the sea, from Beirut to Damascus …” I began breathlessly.

  “… rumours abounded,” continued Yasmin.

  I nodded. “From Tyros to Tripoli, behind walls and shuttered shop windows …”

  “… behind the fruit vendors’ crates at market stalls and in front of the columns of the palace …”

  “… everyone was talking about his secret …”

  “… a treasure that he guarded and protected …”

  She was standing in front of me now.

  “… even from Amir, his best friend …”

  “… And everyone wondered what it could possibly be …”

  “… that Abu Youssef was hiding up there in his little house,” I whispered.

  The old magic was there in Yasmin’s eyes. The curtain was drawn back, revealing the wide stage, the lights, the set.

  “So you know the secret?”

  I nodded.

  “I was afraid to tell you before.”

  “I didn’t know he’d told you.”

  “He did. On that last night.”

  Her cheeks were rosy, her hair curly from the damp air.

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  I do, I thought. I have to. We drifted apart once already because I never finished the story.

  Yasmin’s hand was cold as I led her back to the entrance to my building. She sat on the dry top step. I stood at the bottom and told the story, raising and lowering my voice, gesticulating with my arms. I knew it inside out, every word. The sentences and images tumbled out of my mouth and into her ears, transporting her back on a time stream. I could see it in her eyes, a warm glow that came from deep inside.

  This wasn’t our old building. It wasn’t our old street. It certainly wasn’t our old life. But we were here. We were sharing what we had in common. We were eight and ten, and I was taking her back to that night, to the last time everything was still all right.

  -

  17

  I’m around three years old and I’ve never been taller. From my lofty perch on his shoulders, I look down on a world full of small grown-ups and even smaller children. I am a giant. I’m the tallest of them all. I can see the roofs of the cars and the clouds reflected in them. I’m flying, defying gravity. If I reach out, I think I could touch the treetops or even the sky. Then two strong hands grab me, lift me up, and set me down. I feel the ground under my feet again and look up. Father is looking at me. He’s got a red baseball cap on to shield his eyes from the sun, and his black hair curls out from under it. He pats my head and strokes my cheek. I wonder what it must be like to be that tall, what it must feel like to be able to reach out and touch the sky. As I look at him, he smiles a mysterious smile. That’s my earliest memory of him.

  Beneath my window, the lines of traffic wind down the street like ants. Miniature people. Toy cars. The curtains flutter in the breeze. My hair is still wet from the shower. For my last night, I requested a room on the top floor, so that I could see the panoramic view one more time. The towers in the city centre are all in a cluster, each glitzy facade reflecting the next. To my right, beyond the blueish domes of the al-Amin Mosque, I can make out the harbour. Straight ahead, I see a maze of huddled houses, roofs with clothes lines, satellite dishes, water tanks, and potted plants. Mosques and church spires serve as reference points in the landscape.

  My first morning here was one overwhelming impression after another: noise, smog, heat. Now I know I’ll miss Beirut: this vibrant, yearning, crazy city that’s forever in flux; this melting pot of cultures, religions, and languages. Beirut is pure joy and pure sorrow all at once. Beirut is forgiveness. Beirut is limping, confused, and scarred, but still dancing. Beirut is like me.

  Last night, when we got back from Brih, the city had transformed itself yet again. It welcomed me with open arms. The palm-fringed promenade was alive with crowds of young men and women in trendy clothes, all heading for the brightly lit beach bars and nightclubs. Music and laughter rang out everywhere.

  My rucksack is packed. I pick it up off the bed and leave the room. In the lift, I see my face in the mirror. Dark rings under my eyes. Tiny pupils. A weary but contented expression. I’ll sleep on the plane.

  The receptionist wants to know if everything was to my satisfaction, if I was happy with my new room, and she hopes I’ll be back again. Hotel staff push luggage trolleys through the foyer. Some guests in leather armchairs sit crouched behind their laptops. A familiar scene. I’m scanning the lobby for his face. It’s half past eight. I’m too late. He’s not here.

  “Eight o’clock. No problem,” he’d said as we parted company last night. It was three or four in the morning, in a dark side street. We were both drunk, leaning against a wall not far from the bar. “I’ll get you to the airport on time.” I took a taxi back to the hotel, Nabil staggered off into the thrum of the night. My head hurts, but I have to laugh. What a mad night we had!

  “We should celebrate,” Nabil had said as he steered down the bumpy road. Brih, tucked into its valley between the mountain sides, had disappeared as soon as we’d rounded the first bend. I was relishing the absence of the heaviness I’d felt for so long. I was breathing easily, thinking of Amir and what he’d said to me: Take all the positive experiences with you. No matter what drove him away from you, it wasn’t your fault.

  I felt in control.

  “We’ve solved the case!” Nabil repeats emphatically, as I’d failed to react the first time he spoke. I had told him about the photo and how it was all staged by Bashir Gemayel. About my father visiting my mother on the sly, climbing up the drainpipe. About Amir coming to life.

  “That’s the best story I’ve heard in a long time,” exclaimed Nabil, banging the steering wheel. “You should move to Beirut, Samir—we could have so many adventures together. You’ll get married. Why not bring your wife here? We’ll open a detective agency downtown … We’ll need a logo. How about a magnifying glass? Too hackneyed? What? You’re heading home tomorrow? What a shame. Then we definitely have to celebrate tonight!”

  “How do you celebrate solving a case?” I asked. I took a swig of lukewarm water from the bottle under my seat.

  “Don’t ask me.” He shrugged but continued enthusiastically, “That was my first case. We have a 100-per-cent success rate. Not bad for beginners, huh?”

  “Absolutely. We’re a hard act to follow.” I laughed, shoving the bottle back under the seat.

  “Damn right. Although …” He scratched his head. “Strictly speaking, you solved the case on your own. You asked all the right questions. So the plot structure is as it should be.”

  “The plot structure?”

  “Well, it’s ultimately the detective who solves the case, not his assistant.”

  “But Nabil, you’re Philip Marlowe, not any old assistant.”

  “Maybe so, but you’re Sherlock Holmes. He is a little more famous, let’s face it.”

  “So that’s why you had a snooze under a tree. You wanted me to solve the case.”

  Nabil laughed.

  “Exactly. I knew we’d have something to celebrate this evening, so I was taking a little nap in advance.”

  Later that evening, the air was cooler but still pleasantly warm. We could hear the babble of voices, the music from the bars. In the narrow streets, shoulders rubbed shoulders, aftershave mixed with perfume. Outdoor tables, neon lights, floodlit facades.

  “I suggest we sta
rt at the beginning and drink our way to the end, bar by bar. That’s the simplest thing.” Nabil’s face broke into a grin when he saw my surprise. Uruguay Street, downtown Beirut, where revellers are drawn to the nightlife like moths to a flame. There were no seats at the outdoor tables, so we found a table inside. The warm air in the pub was loud with the chatter of voices, the clinking at the bar, and the music from the speakers. Nabil ordered for the two of us. As the barman nodded and turned away, Nabil closed the drinks menu and said, “The answer is no, by the way.”

  “The answer to what?”

  “You asked before if I drink wine. The answer is no.”

  “OK,” I said. “But you just ordered two arak. Is it alcohol-free here?”

  “No, but arak is different,” says Nabil. He looks like a teenager who’s bought alcohol at the petrol station for the first time. “It’s transparent. Less conspicuous.”

  “Less conspicuous?”

  “Yes. It looks like water.” Nabil points at the ceiling. “Allah is way up there, and it’s very crowded down here. If he were to look at my glass from up there, it looks completely innocent.”

  “I get it.” I had to laugh.

  I would miss Nabil as well. Something about this friendly faced guy who’s playing keyboard on the table-top right now reminds me of an air-traffic controller who works diligently all day, only to throw himself into whatever adventures life has to offer by night, his tension dissipating as he navigates the crowds. He had done it again—taken me to one of the most touristy bits of Beirut. This time it didn’t bother me, though. I was completely at ease.

  “So, what’s next for you?” I asked.

  “Me?” He raised his palms. “Well, I’ll start looking for an office, for when you move to Beirut. Somewhere downtown, twenty-fifth floor or something like that, panoramic view for ourselves and the clients, a fountain in the courtyard, golden taps.” He winks. “No, I’ll do what I always do. Drive. I’ll continue to solve cases on the side, assuming something interesting comes along. And sooner or later I’ll buy the car Philip Marlowe drives in the movie of The Big Sleep. Have you seen it?”

  “No.”

  “Robert Mitchum. Brilliant.”

  “What kind of car is it?”

  “A 1930s Chrysler. I might have to break into a museum.” He laughs. “On the other hand, the way people drive in Beirut, you wouldn’t want to take such a beauty out on the road.”

  Electronic music was thumping out of the sound system by now, and the atmosphere was more club than pub. Fortunately, we had a spot by the wall, so the speakers boomed the music out over our heads. Unlike the other customers, we didn’t have to shout to make ourselves heard.

  I followed Nabil’s gaze as he scanned the pub. Most of the tourists seemed to be from the Gulf States, but there was also a table down the back where some English and Russian guys seemed to be having an international drinking contest. It was hard to tell whether their faces were red from the drink or the sun.

  “It’s good to have the tourists back,” he said, perhaps because he’d seen me staring. “In 2006, after the Israelis bombed us, we thought it would take forever for tourism to recover. The airport, the city, everything was in ruins again. Everything we’d rebuilt since 1990 was in danger. But somehow it all worked out.” He smiled. “Things always have a way of working out.”

  “We should drink to that,” I said.

  Nabil looked around for the waiter.

  “If we ever get a drink.”

  “More tourists also means more clients for us,” I said.

  “See?” He laughed. “That’s what I like about you. I like the way you think. I’m glad we met. You’re a good person, like a brother to me, habibi.”

  He put his hand on my arm, and I was a young boy again, back home on our street, where men I hardly knew embraced me and called me habibi, and that was perfectly normal, perfectly OK.

  “Let me tell you something, Samir,” Nabil continued. “It’s been thirty years since I had a holiday. Thirty years. My children have never been outside this country; my wife and I only once. We went to Syria, back when Damascus and Aleppo had more markets and bazaars than bullet holes. I told you about the money I’ve been putting aside for Jamel’s college fund, didn’t I? Now your story has helped me reach a decision.”

  “Really? How?”

  “I’m on the go all day—don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean this evening or the week I just spent with you, I mean in general—I work like mad. I hardly see my kids. I work so that they’ll have a better future. I want Jamel to go to college. So I spend fourteen hours a day driving strangers around, and most evenings I go to the airport hoping to pick up a fare into town. When I get home, the kids are either asleep or heading out the door. I only see them in passing, like ships in the night. I hope this isn’t too close to the bone, Samir,” he said, hesitating briefly, “but I don’t want my children to get to your age one day and have to go looking for strangers to find out what kind of guy I was. You know what I’m saying?”

  I nodded.

  “Does that sound wrong?”

  “Not at all.”

  “So maybe a holiday would be a good idea. Pack up the whole family and head off. Spend some time together. Maybe I’ll even read stories to them.” He smiled, but it was an absent-minded smile. The waiter brought the arak and we raised our glasses.

  “A toast to everything working out in the end?”

  “No,” I said. “A toast to fathers.”

  “OK. To fathers. Look …” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pulled a crumpled brochure out of his trouser pocket. “This is what I was thinking of: Turkey. Not too far away but still a change of scene.”

  The colours were so faded, he must have been carrying it around for ages. It was like a treasure map. The picture showed a hotel resort. The photographer had presumably chosen the most flattering angle, but it was still pretty obvious that the pool was tiny and the hotel a big concrete box. Two stars, no private beach access, and at least thirty kilometres to the nearest tourist attractions. But I could tell from the way Nabil put the brochure on the table and pointed at it that this place held untold promise, the answer to all his cares.

  “It looks great,” I said. “Go for it, Nabil.”

  “I will,” he said, tapping the brochure. “Splashing around with the kids, relaxing, reading, time out, hanging out together.” Then he looked at me. “Those stories meant a lot to you, didn’t they?”

  “My father’s stories? Oh yes, they meant the world to me.”

  “My father told us stories too, during the war. It was nice, because you could forget everything else for a while. So I know what you mean. Do you know ‘Kilun ‘indun siyara wa jidi indu hmar’?”

  “The children’s song? Of course!” Kilun ‘indun siyara wa jidi indu hmar. Everyone has a car, but my Grandpa has a donkey. “My parents often sang it with us.”

  “We used to sing it with our kids too,” said Nabil. “I’d love to sing children’s songs again. I’m not great at telling stories, but one thing I’m good at is making up children’s songs.”

  I pictured him gathering his family together for a sing-song over the next few evenings. I could almost feel my melancholy ache return, but Nabil shook off the wistful mood and clapped his hands.

  “And you? After you get home, when will the wedding be?”

  “The date isn’t set yet,” I said, then adding confidently: “But it will happen.”

  For the rest of the evening we just enjoyed ourselves and drank arak. With each round, we became more relaxed and more talkative. At some stage we moved to a different pub and switched to beer. Nabil ordered his in a juice glass. He put a finger to his lips and said, “Strictly between you and me.”

  After a while, some Americans—all wearing red T-shirts with a university logo—decided it would be a good idea t
o move the tables and clear space to dance. We watched them for a bit, and next thing I knew we were joining in, absorbed in the bass and the melody, swinging our arms and legs, singing along way too loud and totally out of tune. I laughed and laughed, happier than I’d been in a very long time. I was suspended between the warm sense of having finally arrived and the pleasant anticipation of getting home, throwing my rucksack in the corner, and proudly announcing that I’d done it, that my journey had been a success.

  Later, beneath an orange moon, we sat on a wall which, according to Nabil, was part of the old Phoenician fortifications. We dangled our feet, drank cans of beer, and sang children’s songs into the cloudless night, as if it was the last summer of our youth, as if we knew it too.

  I’m pretty sure this is the hottest day of my life. It’s early morning and the thermometer has already hit 35 degrees. I’ve left the cool foyer, and it’s like walking into a hot, damp towel again. The young man in hotel uniform holds the door for me, smiling stoically even though his brow is beaded with sweat. Nine o’clock. No sign of Nabil. Maybe he overslept. He probably shouldn’t even be driving, but I doubt if anyone gives two hoots about that here. I’m beginning to get worried. My rucksack could go as cabin baggage, but I will still need time to get to the airport and clear security. To make matters worse, the traffic in front of the hotel has come to a complete standstill. Cars are stuck at all angles, suspended in chaotic motion, their occupants gesticulating on their phones and blowing their horns, although the traffic has nowhere to go. I look for Nabil’s Volvo in this sluggish chaos, but I don’t see him. No wonder it’s taking him so long. Bechara el-Khoury Road is completely backed up.

  “Would you like us to call a taxi?” the porter asks.

  “No, thanks. I’m waiting for someone.”

  Though I can’t wait much longer, I’d like to see Nabil before I leave. We’d deliberately kept our goodbye brief last night.