The Storyteller

by Pierre Jarawan

  We’ve almost reached the cabin. In the blinding morning light, it looks like the forgotten hideout of a band of robbers.

  “Several mass graves have been uncovered in recent years. In any other country there would have been uproar. People would want to identify the remains, find out who killed these people. But not in Lebanon. Here, no one wants to talk about it. We’re afraid of what truths might come out, afraid of upsetting the apple cart.” He goes up to the cabin and runs his hand over the wood. “For the sake of peace, we keep our mouths shut.” He looks me in the eye for the first time since we arrived here. “The question of the disappeared never became a national issue,” he says. “But it’s going to be the most important chapter in the book. We want to include everyone who was involved in the war. Our government and our people just as much as the Syrian regime and the Palestinians. What makes the question of the disappeared so complicated is that many of those responsible for their disappearance are now running the country.”

  “This has to do with your father, doesn’t it?” I say. “What happened to him?”

  Youssef looks at the ground. “My mother refused to have him declared dead. Who would want the father of her son declared dead without any proof? The commission kept telling the relatives that no one had survived. It was 1992, the war was over, end of story, they wanted everyone to forget about it and move on.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Just a few weeks later, fifty-five missing persons returned home from Syrian prisons. My father was one of them.”

  Youssef’s eyes have lit up. A smile hovers on his lips as he recalls the day: a winter morning, a streak of gold above the mountains, dew on the fields, the houses still shrouded in fog. A man in heavy boots walks into the village. A knock at the door, the boy wakes up.

  “This is where he was kidnapped,” Youssef whispers, as if he’s losing his voice. “There used to be a Syrian checkpoint here. He doesn’t like to talk about it, finds it too difficult. But from what I’ve gathered, he was arrested here and taken to Anjar.”

  “The military base?”

  “Exactly. They accused him of spying for Israel and agitating against the Syrian presence in Lebanon. Then he disappeared and was gone for ten whole years.”

  I feel a sharp stab. Is it my wound playing up or is it envy? The loneliness I’ve felt for so many years is more than social isolation. It’s always been bound up with a sense that no one else can relate to my pain, that no one else really knows what I’ve been through. Irrational, maybe, but it’s made my sense of isolation complete.

  I stare at Youssef.

  “What went through your head?” I ask. “Tell me. I want to know what it was like, that moment.”

  “It didn’t feel real.” His soft, light voice is so quiet now that I have to move closer. I don’t want to miss a word. “In all the years he was gone, my mother never stopped talking about him. So when he finally walked through our door, I felt like I knew him. We both cried. Though we were basically strangers, he told me he’d thought about me every day. He said I looked exactly as he’d imagined. His disappearance caused my mother so much pain and suffering, more than I could ever describe. And I cursed all those years he wasn’t around. But in hindsight, I’m glad things happened the way they did. Know why?”

  My throat feels tight, and when I speak, my voice sounds strange, fragile.

  “Because of the book,” I say. “Because if things had been different, you’d never have started writing this book.”

  Youssef nods.

  “I hope with all my heart that you find your father,” he says. “If deep down you feel that he’s here, then I’m sure he is.”

  We’re standing in the middle of the road. It could be the exact spot where Youssef’s father was dragged out of his car all those years ago. So many images appear in the hot, shimmering air in front of me. Father standing in the door that last evening. The emptiness of our flat the next morning. Mother’s expression, bewildered at first but not yet panicked, only turning sad later. Youssef’s mother, who I see before me though I’ve never met her: black hair, soft pale skin, the same expression, the same emotions.

  “How old were you when he was kidnapped?” I ask.

  A car appears at the point where the road meets the hills. It’s coming towards us.

  “In 1982?” Youssef says, squinting at me. “I wasn’t born yet.”

  -

  8

  Beirut, 15 September 1982

  Treason, Sire, is a question of dates.

  Talleyrand

  6:00 a.m.

  It’s just been announced on the radio: Bashir didn’t survive the attack. I don’t know how much more bad news I can take. There’s no end to it.

  3:45 p.m.

  The news is barely out and Israeli tanks are rolling into Beirut again. They’re sealing off the refugee camps. They say it’s to protect the Palestinians from Christian retaliation. But you’d have to be blind not to see what’s going on. Something terrible is about to happen.

  5:20 p.m.

  They have their suspicions. My workmates. I reckon they know who locked the door. Or is it just fear making me read things into their glances? I thought it over last night. There’s a way out. I’ve got a meeting with Abdallah in two hours.

  -

  9

  My pulse racing, I stare at the lines in the diary until they swim before my eyes.

  “I said what had to be said,” I mutter, absent-mindedly scratching my neck.

  “Huh?” Wissam says. A confused expression crosses his face as he finishes his coffee. Without looking away from me, he puts his dishes in the sink and grabs his bag from the worktop.

  “Everything OK?” he asks.

  “Yeah, all good.”

  “You look a bit pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He glances at the clock above the door. “I’ve got a lecture at ten. We can meet on campus later if you like, grab lunch in the canteen. Otherwise, see you this evening. Oh, and here.” He reaches into his bag and produces a mobile phone and a cable. “I got the phone you wanted,” he says. “It isn’t a smartphone, but you just need it to make calls, right? I’m not sure how long the credit will last if you phone Germany, though.” He slings the bag over his shoulder, and his T-shirt creases beneath the strap. “I’ve saved our numbers in your contacts. If you’re planning on hanging out on your own again, we need to be able to get in touch with each other.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Noura will pick you up in the late afternoon.”

  “Noura?”

  “Yes, Noura.” Wissam narrows his eyes. “You met her over lunch one time, remember? And she was in the park that night. Are you sure you’re OK?”

  “Yes, don’t worry.”

  “She’ll show you the archive. Can’t wait to hear what you think.”

  I don’t reply. Wissam hesitates in the hall and then shakes his head. “OK then, Samir, see you later.”

  The moment the door closes, I go back to the diary. I told Wissam I woke up an hour or two ago, but the truth is, I didn’t get a wink of sleep. I feel dreadful. I spent the whole night marking passages, circling sentences, filling the margins with notes. Sticky notes poke out from the pages, flagging comments such as “See entry of 3 August” and “Contradiction!”

  I’ve been agitated for the last two days, since that conversation with Youssef. Breathless with envy, admiration, and affection for him. I keep picturing him in his doorway in his village, his father kneeling in front of him. I try to imagine how he must have felt: a weird sense of familiarity, and a weight being lifted off his shoulders, years of pain vanishing in an instant.

  We’d taken a taxi back into town, shaken hands, and said goodbye. I’d walked in a trance to Wissam’s apartment a few streets away. He wasn’t there when I arrived. Instead, I
was greeted with a snooty smile from Samantha, who was flouncing bare-legged around the kitchen, wearing one of Wissam’s T-shirts. I went into my room, took the diary out of my rucksack and didn’t look up again until it was so dark I had to turn on the light. Yesterday, too, I poured over the entries and chewed the end of my biro until shadows fell on the pages. I was so preoccupied that Wissam eventually asked if I was pissed off with him over Samantha. I was wired, fuelled by the fear that I’d never experience the kind of moment Youssef had described.

  The realisation hit me while I was reading. I tried to shake it off, but the shock stopped my heart for a moment, and when it started up again, it felt like a fist punching my chest. I was in shock, didn’t want to believe what was staring at me from between the lines. I skimmed through the passage again and again, tried to find another explanation. But with every rereading, it became clearer that the only possible explanation was the stark, disturbing one that had just occurred to me.

  We’re afraid of what truths might come out.

  That’s what Youssef had said about the disappeared, but I feel the very same fear now.

  Why did Father do it? The question keeps going round and round in my head.

  Next to the diary is the Rhino Nightclub card. It was still in my rucksack, crumpled and dirty in among my clothes. The only thing that survived the few days in the rubbish halfway intact was the photo, tucked away in the inside pocket. It’s a little creased and wavy at the edges, but the colours are as bright as ever. I pick up the mobile Wissam got me and dial the number.

  Just two rings, then laboured breathing on the other end.

  “Sinan Aziz.”

  “I need to speak to Amir.”

  A pause.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Samir el-Hourani.”

  “Samir? You’re still in Lebanon?”

  “Yes. Can you help me?”

  Another pause and a sharp intake of breath.

  “Didn’t you meet him?” he asks.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Then you know where to find him.”

  “Yeah.” I try to keep calm. “But I can’t go all the way back to Brih. You managed to get hold of him quickly enough last time. Please, I need to speak to him.”

  Sinan Aziz falls silent. I picture him in his dark office, his huge belly brushing the edge of the desk. His enormous nostrils expanding as he breathes, his eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I’m not making any promises.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Have you got a phone number I can give him?” He sounds irritated.

  “Just a minute.” Wissam stuck a note with my new number onto the charger. I read it out.

  “What do you want me to tell him?”

  I breathe in deeply, my hands shaking.

  I spend the next few hours pacing, checking that the phone is fully charged. I call it from Wissam’s landline to check I’ve given Aziz the right number. My chest feels like it’s in a vice. Why did I have to examine that passage so closely? What I discovered won’t help me. It just puts Father in a darker light.

  When I was a kid, I had a trick. Before falling asleep, I’d try to think of Father so that I’d dream of him later. I’d replay my happiest moments with him: his weight on my mattress, his hand on my duvet, the dark brown irises around his pupils. I’d imagine us meeting again in the place where his stories were set. Sometimes it worked. I’d be close to him in my dreams, and the cold, desolate sense of loneliness would disappear until the next morning, when I’d wake up again without him.

  My trick doesn’t work here. I can no longer recall his warmth. So I turn to another childhood method of distraction: I try to find animals and patterns on the sunlit wall in the hall and in the kitchen sink, where the coffee grounds have left a grainy trail around the drain. This doesn’t work either.

  Hours go by. I walk around the apartment, running my finger along the books on the shelves, reading and instantly forgetting the blurbs on the backs of the DVDs. The slightest sound makes me jump: the squeak of the leather couch, the drip of the bathroom tap, the ticking of the kitchen clock. I wish Amir would just call me, even though I know he’ll only confirm my suspicion. The phone vibrates, but it’s just a message from Wissam saying where he’s sitting in the canteen in case I decide to come. As the afternoon wears on, the furniture casts angular shadows across the floor and a chill creeps up my legs. I consider going outside to take my mind off things, but I don’t want to risk losing coverage.

  When the phone eventually rings, I rush from the hall into the kitchen, banging my shin and flopping into a chair with a curse. The display says it’s an unknown number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello Samir.” His voice is thin and uncertain, and the noise in the background suggests he’s holding the receiver away from his face. “Have you found your father?”

  “No,” I say breathlessly. “No, unfortunately not.”

  I look at the diary entry with my big question mark in the margin: 16 September 1982.

  “But now I know what he did to you.”

  -

  10

  Beirut, 16 September 1982.

  No one’s there.

  No use in calling.

  No one’s there.

  Fairuz

  9:00 a.m.

  I went to see Abdallah. I said what had to be said.

  6:50 p.m.

  Now I know what to say if Hakim asks me to leave the country with him. I’ve no other choice.

  -

  11

  There are moments in life when you experience something that makes you wonder. Then more of those moments follow. But it’s only much later, when you barely remember those moments, that they acquire new meaning, because in the meantime you’ve learned more about someone or something, more than you knew before. All the inexplicable gestures, looks, movements, and behaviour suddenly make sense. Like finding a piece of a jigsaw and fitting it into the unfinished puzzle you’ve kept for years in case you’d one day manage to complete it.

  Today I’ve found one of those puzzle pieces. Today changes everything.

  Rassan is smoking in front of the old apartment building when Noura and I drive past, into the underground car park. The heat of the day has built up down here, fusing with the smell of oil and petrol. As my eyes are adjusting to the shade, I hear his footsteps echoing. He tosses his cigarette butt into the puddle beneath a leaking pipe, greets Noura, then me, and soon we’re in a creaky lift on our way to the top floor.

  “Is Youssef here too?” I ask quietly. Rassan shakes his head.

  “No, he won’t be here till tomorrow.”

  Noura’s eyes meet mine in the mirror and she looks down. I’d say she’s in her mid-twenties. She has big green eyes, a small, straight nose, and pale skin sprinkled with freckles. Her hair falls in waves to her shoulders. In the car, she told me how she met Youssef. “The exhibition was called ‘The Missing’. It was my own project—I’m studying art. I wanted to create a collage made from portraits of missing people, so I called on thousands of families to contribute photos of loved ones who had disappeared. Youssef brought a copy of his father’s missing-person ad and said, ‘You should get involved in something that’s really going to make a difference.’ I’ve been on board ever since.” “What is it that drew you to him?” I asked. “His conviction.” She checked the rear-view mirror as she wove through the heavy traffic. “He makes every one of us feel like we’re part of something special, something important.” She gave a shy smile and said in a quiet voice, “Who doesn’t dream of changing the course of history for the better?”

  The lift pings and the door opens to a corridor. There are three padlocks on the door in front of us. None of them are locked.

  “It’s basically a flat, but we call it ‘The Explosives Room’,” Rassan says, knockin
g.

  Explosives room? I want to ask, but already I hear footsteps approaching. The door opens.

  The flat is like a bunker crammed with painful memories. Ring binders are stacked high against the walls. There’s no furniture. Sheets of newspapers are spread out on the floor of one room; next to them, handwritten notes, and piles of documents in plastic sleeves. A pool of light spills onto the few tiles that aren’t covered in paper. In another room, students are on their knees, sticking coloured notes onto folders. The floor is strewn with scissors, pens, and little paper circles that have escaped from hole punches. We pass the kitchen, which has a roster stuck to the door. I’m amazed to see it contains twenty names; the archive appears to be staffed twenty-four hours a day.

  “Watch your step,” Rassan says, and I wonder why he’s whispering all of a sudden. The walls of a third room are covered in missing-person ads along with photos of the missing husbands, wives, and children, some in colour, most of them black and white. There must be around a thousand of them.

  Saad al-Deen Hussein al-Hajjar worked as a chauffeur in Tripoli.

  On the morning of 8 July 1975, he had breakfast with his mother, who lives in Tarik el-Jdideh. He left his mother’s apartment and never returned.

  Anyone with information on his whereabouts is asked to contact Café Abou Hette; telephone: …

  All the ads are written in a similar tone. The missing people stare at me from the wall, and I have to avert my eyes. These ads tell more than the stories of disappearances. They’re more than pleas for information. They offer glimpses of the everyday lives of families that were torn apart.