The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  “They’re not very good spies,” I said. “Kind of conspicuous, aren’t they?”

  “That’s exactly what they want,” he said. “They want us to know we’re being watched.”

  “But why?”

  “Intimidation,” Rassan murmured, scratching his beard. “Pure intimidation.”

  The two silhouettes in the car hadn’t moved, yet I got the sense they were looking up at us.

  “Anyway, we have to be careful not to talk about him here, not to talk about any of it,” Wissam said, turning away.

  But a little later, as we were seeing Rassan out, I couldn’t stop myself asking.

  “Why would any of the political parties want to intimidate you? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  I wasn’t really expecting to get an answer.

  “They want us to stop,” Rassan whispered.

  “Stop what?” I found myself whispering too. Could the apartment really be bugged?

  He scrutinised me for a moment. “They want us to stop searching for the truth,” he said and stepped out into the corridor.

  Rassan is standing in the shade near the main gate, chatting to a girl. When he sees us, he apologetically gestures to her and rushes over to us.

  “How are you, Samir?” he asks. “What did the doctor say?”

  “I’m going to be fine.”

  “Great! I’ve got a surprise for you later. You’re going to like it.” He winks at Wissam, who nods approvingly.

  “Listen,” Rassan says. “About last night. I know it must all be a bit overwhelming. But I want you to know we’re not involved in anything illegal. It’s complicated. What we’re doing isn’t against the law, but no one wants us to do it. Before you were stabbed, we thought they were just trying to scare us, to let us know they were on to us, you know?”

  I nod, though I don’t really know what he’s talking about.

  “We don’t know if the attack was connected,” Wissam says. “But if it was, we’ve entered a new phase. If they’ve resorted to violence, a line has been crossed. Which means we have to be more careful than ever.”

  “Your friend,” I say. “What exactly did he do?” Could there really be a government conspiracy to knock this guy off? It sounds like something out of a novel.

  “We doubt that they actually wanted to kill you.” Rassan raises his hand to reassure me. “We think they wanted you to survive.”

  “Survive?” I try to recall the men’s faces, but that night in the bar I was too absorbed in the diary. “OK, then let’s assume they wanted to attack him, not me, and let’s assume they only wanted to injure him. Why? Seems a pretty drastic way of scaring someone.”

  “It is,” Wissam says. He starts wringing his hands again. “But we’re pretty sure all they wanted was the rucksack.”

  We pass through the arches of College Hall and emerge out the back of the building, where a narrow path leads down through bushes and undergrowth. Wissam leads the way. I don’t know where he’s taking us. The last few days have been like a horrible film. Being mugged and stabbed has left me in a state of shock and humiliation. What hurts most, though, is losing Father’s diary and the photo. At night, I see Nabil’s sons in my dreams, sitting cross-legged, listening to the old man with the beard. I see Nabil’s wife, a grieving shadow behind the beaded curtain, and I feel guilty.

  “Is your friend a student here too?” I ask.

  “No,” Rassan says, bending a branch out of his way. “He’s studying history at the Lebanese University. That’s where students who can’t afford private university fees go—it’s public. But the politicians wield enormous influence there. The campus is right down in the south of the city, in a totally different Beirut—you’d find it hard to persuade a taxi driver to take you from here to there. It’s another world. LU students hardly ever come here, and we never go there.”

  “So how did you meet him?”

  “In our library,” Rassan says. “He was dressed a bit …scruffily, let’s say. Worn-out shoes, a dirty shirt. He stood out like a sore thumb here.”

  “What was he doing in the library?”

  “Looking for something he couldn’t find at the Lebanese University.”

  “A book?”

  “Support,” Rassan says. “The LU is a state university; in other words, the lecturers work for the state. He can’t trust anyone there—the staff would run straight to the authorities and report him. His project would have been sabotaged before he even started.”

  I’m about to ask what the project is when Wissam comes to a sudden halt and I almost bump into him.

  “It must be this one,” he says.

  We’re standing in front of a green bench nestled between two mighty spruce trees. The bright walls of College Hall can be glimpsed through their branches. Wissam leans over to read the brass plaque on the backrest and laughs. “Our friend is quite the poet.”

  I step closer to the bench and read:

  OUT OF SUFFERING HAVE EMERGED THE STRONGEST SOULS;

  THE MOST MASSIVE CHARACTERS ARE SEARED WITH SCARS.

  – KHALIL GIBRAN –

  “What are we doing here?” I ask. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Rassan nudges me out of the way with his arm and kneels down.

  “Let’s see what he’s come up with this time,” he says, running his hand along the underside of the seat. Suddenly he pauses, then pulls out a scrap of white paper. He unfolds it, reads it, and gives it to Wissam, who takes a quick look before passing it on to me.

  HORSH BEIRUT. TOMORROW NIGHT—that’s all it says. I’m bewildered.

  “This is how you communicate?” It seems a bit over the top, carrying on like characters in a spy movie. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just phone each other?”

  Wissam and Rassan give each other a grave look. Before they have a chance to shake their heads, I realise how ridiculous my question seems to them. They really believe their phones are bugged.

  We’re almost back at the main gate when Rassan taps me on the shoulder.

  “Just a minute,” he says and disappears in the direction of the lockers.

  I sit beside Wissan on the library steps. The sun is blazing, and little beads of sweat drip from my forehead into my eyes.

  “Horsh Beirut,” I say. “What’s that?”

  “It’s the safest place in the city,” he says.

  “And your friend’s going to be there?”

  He nods.

  “Everyone’s going to be in Horsh Beirut. There are loads of us.”

  “How long have you been living in Lebanon now?”

  “I only came back two years ago,” he says. “I moved to France with my parents when I was ten and came back here to study. The original plan was to leave as soon as I finish. It’s so hard to find a decent job here. There are far more opportunities for young doctors in other countries. In fact, there are more opportunities for all graduates in other countries. My plan was to go back to France, maybe the US.”

  “So what happened?”

  “What happened is we met our friend, and he talked me into helping him with his project.” Wissam’s voice is tinged with regret. I can tell he’s deeply disturbed by what happened to me. Not just because an innocent bystander was hurt, but because one of his friends may have been the real target. I imagine he’s worried that his name might be on a list somewhere. He seems to be realising that this is not a game.

  “What kind of a project is it, exactly?” I ask. “You said it’s all above board. So why are you being followed by the authorities?”

  Looking straight ahead, Wissam wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “You know, I’m not that afraid of what might happen if we fail.” He slowly turns to face me. “I’m more afraid of what might happen if we succeed.”

  We sit for
a while in silence. The heat shimmers above the asphalt, a gardener clips a hedge, students giggle and spray each other with water, someone dives to save his laptop. Just before the silence grows uncomfortable, Rassan’s grinning face emerges from a crowd of students. He walks towards us carrying a large plastic bag.

  “What have you got there?” I ask.

  “Your surprise,” he answers, beaming. “But hold your nose. It stinks.”

  “Stinks?”

  “Yeah, I fished it out of puddle. It was hidden behind a pile of rubbish sacks.”

  “You shouldn’t have.”

  Rassan laughs.

  “All right, no need for sarcasm. You missed it that night, but while Wissam was pulling the knife out of your chest, I was running after the attackers. I didn’t manage to catch them, but I was pretty sure they’d dump your rucksack.”

  It hits me like lightning. “You found my rucksack?”

  Rassan reaches into the plastic bag.

  “I did, but be warned: your wallet, passport, mobile phone, everything’s gone. So they know who you are.”

  “You really managed to find my rucksack?” I repeat.

  “Well, what’s left of it.”

  The fabric is discoloured and gives off a disgusting fishy stench. The zip is half open, and as Rassan passes me the rucksack, the diary falls out into my lap.

  “I wish I had better news for you,” Rassan says, “but I think your boxers are still in there. At least you have a change of underwear now.”

  I barely register his voice. I stroke the pages. Father’s writing is blotched and barely legible in places. The cover is greasy and the pages curl at the edges. I hear Hakim’s voice echoing from far away:

  If he left any clues, you’ll find them in his diary.

  Ten days, I think. Ten days to find him.

  -

  2

  Beirut, 3 August 1982

  2:00 p.m.

  Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation.

  It’s as if Gibran prophesied the war.

  Today was not a good day. I was up on the roof for a while earlier. Road blocks and sirens everywhere. Shots echoing throughout the city. Men with guns on the streets. Barking commands at each other, pointing in various directions, getting into cars and disappearing off between the tower blocks. Columns of smoke in the south. The refugee camps are being shelled. The Israelis are in Beirut now. Their tanks rolled down the Corniche a few weeks ago, and there hasn’t been a day without gunfire since. They’ve laid siege to west Beirut and they mean business: Bourj al-Barajneh, Mar Elias, Sabra, Chatila—all the camps are surrounded. The PLO will never survive this. The situation’s been getting steadily worse, but today was the worst we’ve seen in a long time. We don’t dare step outside the door on our own anymore. We bring a workmate with us even if we’re just going for a smoke. It’s too dangerous otherwise. Every time we hear a car screeching to a halt beside us, our blood runs cold. There’s been an abrupt rise in the number of kidnappings. Almost every family in the city is looking for a loved one. The newspapers are full of missing-person ads. More and more bursts of gunfire since this morning. They stopped for a little while earlier, but they’re at it again now. You can hear them even when the windows are closed. Word is that the French are going to help with the Palestinian militants’ withdrawal, the Americans and Italians too. Apparently talks are underway. No one knows when they’re going to arrive, though. Or whether they’ll arrive.

  4:00 p.m.

  Thy lips, O my spouse, drop as the honeycomb; and the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.

  Time becomes such a relative concept when you don’t know if there will be a tomorrow. Two months to go until the wedding. Mother still believes she’s saving my life. They’ve showed up at her gate countless times, armed with rifles.

  – Your son, we could really use a man like him, they said to her.

  Long after I’d moved to Beirut, they kept calling on Mother.

  So I’m going to marry Rana. I know Mother was overreacting. Those men have never forced anyone to join them. All they wanted was money. But she can’t stand not being in control. So many sons are dying. She calls on the neighbours, brings cakes, sits in their living rooms, mourns with them. And all the time she’s thinking: I never want to see you in my house. I never want you to kiss my hand and tell me how sorry you are. Just knowing that I’m in Beirut, beyond her reach, must keep her awake at night. So she tries to pull strings, to protect me as best she can. Sometimes I don’t know whether it’s about me or about proving to herself that she still has influence. It’s a smart move in any case. A cousin of Rana’s father is an officer in the Forces Libanaises. Contacts. You’ve got to have the right contacts.

  – Marry this girl and they’ll stop asking you to fight with them, Mother said.

  – Why would they do that?

  – Because they won’t want to make his daughter a widow.

  They say that it’s our national duty to fight. As if there is such a thing as “the nation”! Sometimes the front runs between balconies. Where yesterday neighbours were sharing coffee and sugar, today they’re throwing grenades. Yet hardly anyone knows what they’re fighting for, or even who’s fighting who. Alliances have changed so many times that it’s every man for himself at this stage. Everyone claims to be fighting for the country they’re destroying. It makes no sense to appeal to our duties as Christians, Druze, Muslims. Who wins if we’re all wiped out in the end? Jesus Christ? Mohammed? How will we ever look each other in the eye again?

  5:20 p.m.

  A beard does not a prophet make.

  Young men with rifles slung over their shoulders are patrolling the lobby. I wonder if they know the old saying. They have blank eyes and full beards. I was in one of the bedrooms when they drove up and jumped out of their jeeps, laughing. I can hear them now, stomping around and checking people’s papers. Usually it’s over pretty quickly. It’s all a game. A brief show of force. In this part of town, we’re the ones in charge, that’s what they’re saying. Here, in west Beirut, we call the shots, not them. And we’ll protect you, don’t worry.

  They’ve been coming more often since Bashir Gemayel announced he’s going to run for president. I’m not afraid of the checks anymore. There have been so many. When they come to the hotel now, my only concern is: I hope the door isn’t locked.

  These days, there are few rules that can’t be bent. There’s just one rule that must be followed to the letter: the door to the cellar has to be left open. The security check is just a pretext. They come here to help themselves to our liquor. In the evenings, after a hard day’s fighting, they want to get plastered. I’ve seen them so many times, racing through the streets in their jeeps, firing into the air, and celebrating the fact that they’ve survived another day. The most expensive bottles are stored right at the back. They never delve that far, they just take whatever is near the front. We just need to avoid pissing them off by making sure they can get into the cellar.

  There’s going to be a wedding in the hotel tonight, no matter what happens today. Weddings provide some of life’s most wonderful moments. We may not be a nation, but we do have a national identity: Shoot at us all you like, destroy our homes. But you can’t destroy our lust for life. It’s what sets us Lebanese apart. We’ve just been making the final preparations for the wedding. The tables have been set, place cards and all. The candles are ready. Later, we’ll light the torches around the pool. In the dining room, everyone will get up out of their seats and dance. They’ll sing and celebrate and be enchanted by Hakim’s lute.

  – You know this will be our sixtieth wedding together? I asked him as we were preparing.

  – I like that, he said. Let’s not measure the length of our friendship in years. Let’s measure it in weddings.

  Soon I’ll be married myself. Wha
t then?

  10:30 p.m.

  Hakim never showed up. I don’t know where he is. We haven’t been able to get in touch with him. There was no wedding today. The door to the cellar was locked. Something went wrong.

  -

  3

  Lights flash past, illuminating the pages of the diary. Beside me in the backseat, Rassan keeps turning his head to look out the rear window. The silver Mercedes is nowhere to be seen. It pulled out as we left the underground car park of Wissam’s apartment building, and for the first few minutes we could see it glinting among the dense traffic behind us. But at some point on our southward journey, we managed to lose it.

  The cityscape is different here. There are no glossy billboards. It’s mostly Shias who live here, and the buildings are emblazoned with huge posters featuring Hezbollah’s yellow flag. The further south we drive, the poorer our surroundings become.

  The diary, heavy and dirty, is on my lap. Frowning, I stare at the entry I’ve just read. I want to focus on the last few months before my parents got married. These are the most critical. I read the entry again and reappraise it in the light of everything I’ve learned from Grandmother, Aziz, and Amir. It would appear that Father didn’t even trust his own diary. There are gaps, contradictions. He never once mentions Aziz or Amir. He talks about Bashir, but he doesn’t say anything about the photo that meant so much to him. If there’s an answer, it won’t be in the lines he wrote; it’ll be between the lines. I circle the following sentence: We don’t dare step outside the door on our own anymore.

  Kidnappings, roadblocks, indiscriminate killings of people who belong to the “wrong” religion, street battles for west Beirut. If the situation in the city was so cataclysmic that he didn’t dare step outside the hotel, why did he risk going to meet Mother so often? After all, it was just another ten weeks until their wedding.

  And why didn’t he ever mention these meetings in his diary?

  “We’re here,” Wissam says.