The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  “I love the Lebanese,” the girls shouts. “They’re so open-minded.”

  “Yes,” I shout back. “Very nice people.”

  A mirror slopes from the ceiling, doubling the size of the crowd. Smoke machines shoot swirls of fog into the air. Everyone whoops and throws their arms about. I spot him emerging like a phantom from the haze, his hands buried in his pockets. He smiles when he sees me. The fog makes my eyes water, I blink a couple of times, and when I look up again Youssef has vanished.

  “Too bad there aren’t any nice beaches in the city, like in Barcelona,” the American shouts. “But the parties are amazing, the people here are so full of energy.”

  “Yes,” I shout back. “It’s because they know they could die tomorrow.”

  “They what?”

  “They could die,” I say, running my thumb across my throat. “They know the whole country could burn down again tomorrow.”

  I find Youssef outside. He’s leaning against the wall, scratching at the stamp on his wrist. He’s wearing one of Wissam’s shirts too, and he’s visibly uncomfortable in it. There’s something more dignified about him when he’s in his scuffed sandals and old clothes. Now he looks a schoolboy whose mother has just cut his hair.

  “Well? Is it what you expected?”

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s impressive.” I’m not sure what else to say. I haven’t been into clubbing for years and I’m relieved to be out in the fresh air again.

  It’s two days since we left the park through the hole in the fence. I haven’t seen Youssef since, but the image of all those people hanging on his every word has stayed with me. There’s so much I’d like to ask him, but now that he’s right in front of me, I don’t know where to begin.

  “What about you?” I ask. “I guess you think clubbing is a waste of time?”

  Youssef shakes his head.

  “Trying to enjoy life is never a waste of time.”

  “But?”

  “But there are things I enjoy more than clubbing.” He smiles. “People would say that’s unusual for a Hamoud.”

  “Is Hamoud your surname, then?”

  Just then, Wissam staggers out of the club, a blonde girl clinging to his arm. It takes me a moment to realise it’s the American who was yelling at me earlier. She shoots me a look as if to say, “Your loss,” and they start kissing. Shortly afterwards, Rassan stumbles out.

  “Samir,” Wissam says when the girl lets him come up for air. He nods towards her and raises his shoulders.

  “Got it,” I say. “I won’t be home for at least another three hours.”

  Grinning, Wissam gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Hey, Rassan!” he shouts, switching to English so that the girl can understand. “Samantha wanted to know why we’re not afraid about the Islamic State being only two hours away from our borders. Tell her why conquering Beirut will be impossible for IS.”

  “Too much traffic,” Rassan deadpans.

  Wissam bursts out laughing, and the girl creases up too. Youssef looks at me.

  “His favourite joke,” he says.

  I find myself laughing along with them.

  Later, after Wissam and the girl have sped off in a taxi, Youssef and I stroll through the streets. Rassan went home on his own. It’s way past midnight, and soon the sun will be coming up. Somewhere along the way, we fell silent, but it doesn’t appear to bother either of us. It reminds me a little of the silent longing Father and I shared by the lake more than twenty years ago. And why wouldn’t it? Youssef and I share a sense of yearning, I think. Even in the park, when I only saw his face by candlelight, I sensed a connection between us. I see in him qualities I always wanted to have myself: self-assurance, focus, vision.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of them? Of them catching you, I mean?”

  “Oh.” Youssef laughs, a strangely happy laugh. “I’ve no doubt they’ll catch me in the end. But I’m more worried that we won’t have finished the book by then.”

  “The book …” I’m not sure how to put it without causing offence. “Do you really think it’ll change things?”

  Youssef stops and gives me a friendly look. It’s as if it’s never even occurred to him, the possibility of no one reading the book, of it having no real impact, of it never even getting published. “I know it will, Samir.”

  “How far have you got with it?”

  “Not very far.” We cross the street. To our right, the domes of the al-Amin Mosque rise out of the orange mist cloaking the city. “It’s a race against time,” Youssef says. “The witnesses are becoming forgetful, getting older and less reliable. They’re dying. Only a few of them are willing and able to corroborate their versions. Documents and papers haven’t been stored properly, so they’re disintegrating. There’s a lot of stuff that’s simply unusable.”

  “I read somewhere that several archives were destroyed.”

  “That’s right. The parties knew there’d be questions asked after the war, so they blew up the archives themselves. Who knows what they destroyed. But there’s another reason why we’re running out of time.” With every sentence, the urgency in his voice increases. I’m fascinated by the transformation. His expressive features harden, the gentle, friendly look in his eyes turns piercing, almost fanatical. “The security situation is worsening every day. Not just in Beirut. The whole country is fragmenting into religious conflict zones. State institutions are basically powerless. In the south, Hezbollah is fighting Israel, in Syria it’s fighting the rebels. An Islamic front is forming in the north—young men are driving jeeps around Tripoli, waving the Isis flag out the window. And then there are all the Syrian refugees coming into the country.”

  “Like the Palestinians did years ago.”

  “Exactly. I was in Tripoli not long ago, visiting missing-persons’ associations to gather material. You know what I saw in Bab al-Tabbaneh? Assad supporters and opponents fighting. Right in the middle of Lebanon! Kids picking sticks up off the street and pretending they’re guns. That’s what they’re learning from their fathers.”

  “You’re afraid the younger generations are going to make the same mistakes.”

  “The mistakes are already being made. The problem is the complete lack of trust. Have you visited the AUB campus? It gives the impression that people are living in harmony, but that’s only because the AUB brings people together. Outside the campus, there’s hardly any friendship or trust or solidarity between people of different religions. That’s very dangerous. There are eighteen religious communities here, and they’re all terrified of each other. Each community thinks the others are trying to wipe them out. And each community feels abandoned, like it’s been left to deal with the trauma of the civil war by itself. Someone has to help them see that they’ve all experienced the same pain. That everyone—literally everyone—has suffered.”

  I think back to what it was like growing up on our street. It seemed like we all lived happily side by side. Maybe people had to leave the country before they could overcome their differences. Or maybe I didn’t understand what was really going on; I was just a kid, after all. Who knows what people were saying about Yasmin behind closed doors because she didn’t wear a headscarf, because Hakim let her do whatever she wanted. Who knows what people were really thinking about Mother after Father disappeared.

  “Anyone who wants to understand our history has to fight their way through a thicket of censored accounts, half-truths, suppressed experiences,” Youssef continues. “This book represents a huge opportunity for us. As long as every teacher keeps on giving his own version of the war, there’ll be a fundamental gap between the truth of the Muslims and that of the Christians. It goes right back to the nineteenth century. The Christians welcomed the French, saw them as friends, while the Muslims saw them as colonial invaders. No wonder we have no s
hared account of the civil war.”

  “Selective memory,” I say. “My fiancée has written about it, in relation to the children of refugees.”

  “Precisely. Children, teenagers, they’re all growing up with selective memories of past injustices. As a result, they identify only with the religious community in which they grew up. We, the Christians; we, the Alawites; we, the Shias; we, the Druze; we, the Sunnis. When what they should be saying is: We, the Lebanese.”

  He looks at me, his cheeks red.

  “My father would’ve liked you,” I say. “I’m pretty sure of it.”

  Youssef puts an arm around my shoulders.

  “Tell me about your father,” he says. “Who is he?”

  “I wish I knew who he is,” I say bitterly. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for over twenty years. In some ways, my search is a bit like yours—time is running out, and I’m not sure there are any useful clues left.”

  We turn our backs on the mosque and head towards the port. On the horizon, a narrow band of light appears above the mountains behind the city.

  “I’m sure my father would support your project if he knew about it,” I say. “I think he’d also see it as the key to returning the country to its former glory. Vibrant, cosmopolitan, free from fear. He told me about it many times.”

  “What about your mother? Does she want you to find your father?”

  I shake my head.

  “She passed away.”

  “Mine too.”

  The mountains are suffused with a warm gold that makes the city gleam like a treasure chest. Light pours across the roofs and onto the sea as we walk along the waterfront.

  “I grew up in a village,” Youssef says. “I used to hate Beirut. The others loved coming here: the sea, the shops, the cinemas. But the city never appealed to me. Now, though, I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I like the contradictions. I like the houses with bits of bullets still lodged in the walls, all just a few metres away from a shiny new shopping centre. I like that the streets in Hamra are deserted when the muezzin calls, and at exactly the same time the squares in the east are packed.”

  “Hmm,” I begin, hoping I don’t sound too sceptical. “But aren’t those the kind of contradictions you’re hoping to resolve?”

  “Yes, eventually. But while we’re working on the project, the contradictions are a daily reminder of just how important this book is.”

  “When do you hope to finish it?”

  Youssef picks a flat stone off the ground and skims it out to sea. It bounces on the surface three times before sinking.

  “Depends on how much resistance we face,” he says and turns to me again. “I know I sound like a dreamer, Samir, but I’m not.” Ironically, though, he does have a dreamy look on his face as he gazes past me at the city. “Rassan, Wissam, and the others are passionate about the idea, and I’d be lost without them. It’s really important that students from all kinds of backgrounds work on the book, that they come from different universities, different religions. That’s the only way to make the project a truly collective effort. But I’m under no illusions. I’m the only one who’s not studying at a private uni. When the others graduate, they will be welcomed abroad with open arms. And I can’t blame them if they go. I’m not saying that it’s all just a bit of fun for the others. They care deeply about the project, and they know their involvement places them in danger. We’re making good progress at the moment, but that’ll change. It could take years to finish our book. But I will finish it.”

  Youssef and I really are similar, I realise with a mixture of affection and compassion.

  “You’re not convinced, are you?” He buries his hands in his trouser pockets and looks ahead. “You don’t believe our plan’s going to succeed.”

  “I hope it does.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “When you first arrived here, did you think you were going to find your father?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you still think that?”

  “I don’t know. At times I’ve wondered whether finding my father was ever my real purpose. I thought I had to make this journey in order to put him behind me once and for all.”

  “But you feel like you might not succeed.”

  “I just want to know what happened to him.”

  “And deep down you feel you might get this one chance that could change everything for you.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And this feeling is much stronger than the rational voice telling you it’s impossible, that you’ll never achieve your goal.”

  “Yes, that’s how it seems.”

  “That feeling eclipses everything else, and it seems like the whole purpose of your life was to lose him in order to go search for him.” He pauses. “You feel that your mission is to find him.”

  I nod.

  “It’s the same for me with this book,” Youssef says. He takes his right hand out of his pocket and opens it to reveal a piece of paper. It’s been carefully folded but is obviously old and tattered.

  “What’s that?” I ask. Youssef doesn’t answer, just holds out the paper.

  I unfold it. It’s a piece of newspaper. On the left, there’s a picture of a man’s face. It’s a composite sketch, not a photo, badly drawn and faded.

  “What is it?” I ask again, but my question is answered when I read the text beside the picture:

  This man was last seen on Friday, 17 September 1982. He left his apartment in Mseitbeh, Beirut, and never returned. Anyone with information on his whereabouts is asked to phone 00 961 01 273881.

  The morning wind ruffles Youssef’s black hair and the collar of his shirt.

  “A missing-person ad?”

  He nods.

  “Who is it?”

  Youssef takes the paper from my hand and looks at it intently. He’s clearly very familiar with this man’s features. A smile flickers across his face. “That’s my father,” he says.

  -

  6

  Beirut, 31 August 1982

  Time’s vagaries crush us like glass; thereafter

  We’ll never be remoulded as one piece.

  Abu al-‘Ala’ al-Ma’arri

  We sat on the roof facing north, watching the ships depart. Truck convoys guarded by French soldiers, who arrived on the twenty-first, have been trundling into the port, men in khaki uniforms jumping out and boarding the ships. More vehicles have been lining up outside the port. Rumour has it that Sharon is in town to witness the PLO withdraw himself.

  In years to come we’ll still be talking about all this. About the last few days in particular. A wind of change is blowing, I can feel it, but I can’t tell if it’s for better or worse. Bashir Gemayel: our new president. His dream: a unified nation. Hakim is not convinced.

  —November, he said a couple of days ago. I’m leaving this country with Yasmin in November. I’ll play for you on your wedding day, but then I’m packing up the lute for good.

  He’s beating himself up about his wife. He was away from home too much, he says, too wrapped up in himself.

  – The only thing that matters now is my daughter, he says. Look around you. There won’t be a building left standing by the time the war is over. Nor a family that isn’t mourning. I don’t want her growing up here, not here.

  My wedding day. I can already see our first dance. I’ll have Rana in my arms. Maybe we can pretend we’re alone, even with the others gathered around. Mother. All the people she’ll invite. The men Rana’s father will bring.

  Our team is shrinking day by day. Abdallah is taking great pleasure in firing people at will.

  – One of you is going to go every day, he tells us. I’m going to send someone packing every single day until you tell me who locked the door.

  The bullet holes in
reception have been plastered over; it’s as if Yunus never existed. The guests keep coming. Who in their right mind would want to visit Beirut right now? I lie awake at night and think about what it all means for me. Abdallah is waging war on us. He’s docking our pay.

  – Until I’ve recouped the money you useless animals lost me, he says.

  We’re being worked into the ground. The others are exhausted and scared. Many of them are their family’s sole breadwinner.

  I can’t come clean. He’s trusted me for so long. If he finds out, I’ll lose everything. And I can’t be a husband if I’m not earning. Not earning would mean moving back in with Mother. There’s no way I can tell him.

  -

  7

  We watch the taxi drive off, leaving us alone in a wasteland around twenty kilometres outside Beirut. Drought has cracked the earth into honeycomb patterns. The road shimmers in the heat, melting away into the distant hills.

  “What exactly are we doing here?” I ask. Youssef doesn’t reply.

  There’s something he wants to show me. I look around. Nothing but sand, withered bushes, and fly-tipped rubbish bags. Further ahead, there’s something that might once have been a little cabin. We start walking towards it.

  “There was a time when I came here nearly every day,” he says.

  “Why? There’s nothing here.”

  “Because this is where I got the idea for our book.”

  The road doesn’t seem to lead anywhere. In the haze behind us, Beirut looks like a blurry ghost town.

  “Where are we?”

  “Almost fifteen thousand people disappeared during the war,” Youssef says, as if he didn’t hear my question. “There’s been no trace of them since.”

  “Youssef, why are we here?”

  “After the war, they set up a commission to find out what happened to the missing. It was a farce. The head of the commission was a police officer, the others were military and security personnel. The only evidence they looked at was what the relatives had gathered themselves, and eventually they came to the conclusion that none of the missing persons were still alive. They advised the relatives to have their loved ones declared dead, despite there being no proof.”