The Storyteller. Pierre Jarawan
Abu Youssef and his adventures?
“I’ll never be too old for your stories.”
Father laughed out loud, taking himself by surprise, then cleared his throat.
“When?” I wanted to know.
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Very soon. I have a story in mind already.”
I had a lump in my throat.
“Really?”
“Of course. Would I lie to you?”
Soon I’d have him sitting on my bed again, telling me about Abu Youssef. The thought of it had me fighting back tears once more.
Then I felt his arm on my shoulder. It was only one brief moment of intimacy, but if I’d ever been granted a superpower, I’d have wished for the power to freeze time. The clusters of foggy droplets on my window would have stopped sliding down the pane. The shapes shifting in my lava lamp would have turned to stone. The dust motes dancing in the air would have come to a sudden halt. The withered leaf that just fell off the cyclamen on my desk would have been suspended in mid-air. And the astonished smile lifting the corners of my mouth would never have faded had his arm stayed on my shoulder. But I didn’t have any superpowers.
Neither of us spoke. I just sat there feeling the weight of his arm on my shoulder, feeling the gentle pressure as he drew me close. Then we both exhaled. We hadn’t noticed Mother coming into the room. She had wet patches on her blouse, a strand of hair was falling into her face, and her smile was tired. I shoved the little box under the duvet because I didn’t know whether Father wanted it to be our secret. I certainly did. If Mother had seen it, she didn’t let on. Father slowly lifted his arm.
“Did you enjoy your birthday?” she asked.
“Yes, it was great.”
“And what do you think of the diabolo? Is it fun?”
I grinned a little self-consciously.
“Yeah. I’m pretty good at it actually.”
“I bet you are.”
“It was nice that so many people came. I like our neighbours.”
“And they like you too. They had a good time.”
“I like Khalil. He’s a nice guy and he gave me lots of tips.”
“You can learn a lot from that young man,” Father said.
I nodded uncertainly. I was remembering that afternoon—the party, our living room full of visitors speaking Arabic, the obligatory shisha pipe doing the rounds after coffee. I could even see the yellow packet of Chiclets that was shared around, the men chewing gum to conceal the smell of tobacco. And I remembered the sudden longing that I’d felt. I desperately wanted to be one of them. To be not just the German-born son of Lebanese parents, but to see Lebanon, to live there, surrounded by people who embellished every word with impulsive, sweeping gestures, who ate with their hands, who addressed everyone who spoke this wonderful language as habibi or habibti. There was a burning question on my lips, but I wasn’t sure this was a good time to ask it.
“Is everything OK?” Mother asked.
I plucked up my courage.
“Will we ever move back to Lebanon?”
She clearly wasn’t expecting this question and looked hesitantly from me to Father.
“No,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said.
They had both spoken at the same time.
Later on—my room was in darkness, the lava lamp switched off—I woke from a restless dream. I reached one arm to the floor and fumbled for my water bottle. I drank in big thirsty gulps. The dream was already fading like invisible ink, and I could no longer remember the details. Silence reigned in our flat, apart from the hum of the old water-heater above the kitchen sink. My fingers followed the flex of the lamp until they found the switch. I rubbed my sleepy eyes. Then I saw the little wooden box on my bedside table. It lay open; I could see the hollowed-out space that seemed so small. A key might just about fit in it, but the key to what? I picked up the box, turning it over and feeling it in my hands. Then, as I pictured my father carving this gift in what little light came through the shed window, it was as if I could hear his voice saying, It’s always good to have somewhere to keep your secrets.
I flung back the duvet and slipped out of bed. The lava lamp only cast a faint glow around the room, but I’d have found my way in my sleep. I went over to the shelf and took down the fattest book, Tales from 1,001 Nights. These stories that Scheherazade told King Shahryar in order to delay her execution had always fascinated me. Of all the treasures on my shelf, this was the most precious. I shook the book gently until a small object fell out that I had secreted between the pages. I picked it up, returned the book to the shelf, and went back to bed.
The slide fit perfectly into the hollowed-out space, as if the box had been made for this very purpose.
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9
My excitement grew by the day. I couldn’t wait to be transported once more into the magical world of Abu Youssef and Amir, a world full of heroes and rascals, colourful costumes and glorious adventures. I recalled some of the earlier episodes, like the time Abu Youssef had to rescue Amir from Ishaq, a lizard-like animal dealer who had kidnapped Amir and was threatening to sell the talking camel to a circus in Paris. Ishaq was a formidable foe who had enslaved many animals because of their extraordinary talents. Among them was an extremely overweight rhinoceros who was unbeatable at cards. On full moon nights, Ishaq would turn into a green-eyed lizard with impenetrable black scaly armour. Abu Youssef used a clever ploy to rescue Amir. He knew that Ishaq’s one weak spot was his fear of fire. So Abu Youssef followed the lizard man across the stormy sea to Paris, where the dealer intended to negotiate the sale of his extraordinary asset to the circus director. Then Abu Youssef challenged Ishaq to a duel. It took place at the Arc de Triomphe by the light of the full moon. Abu Youssef defeated his rival by forcing him into the eternal flame that burns in the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
All sons love their fathers, I believe, but I positively adored mine. He allowed me into his wild fantasies; he took me with him to worlds of wonder fabricated in his head; he intoxicated me with his words. He had made me promise something else early on—never to tell Mother what his stories were about. “If she finds out that I’m telling you stories about men who change into lizards every full moon, I’ll get into trouble,” he said with a wink. I nodded vigorously and promised to keep our secret.
Yasmin knew all about Abu Youssef too. She was green with envy when I told her Father was going to tell me a new episode soon. “Will you tell it to me later?” she asked. Her eyes gleamed like a sunlit lake. We had developed our own ritual. Father would tell me a story, and I’d then retell it to Yasmin. This made me proud to be a storyteller too, and I loved it when Yasmin listened as I repeated Father’s words. She’d close her eyes tight and listen intently, and I could almost see the magic worlds opening up inside her head. It was as if we had created our own theatre, and Yasmin was the lighting, the stage, and the audience. I had no stories of my own yet, just my voice, my body. So a little boy would stand in front of a little girl and wave his arms about to represent the wind blowing in Abu Youssef’s face, or dance on tiptoes to show how he crept up on an enemy. I whispered when Abu Youssef whispered, and I screamed when Abu Youssef screamed. Yasmin loved it, and nothing could beat her peals of laughter and applause at the end.
The first snow arrived a few days after my birthday, like cotton wool drifting down from the sky. It settled on the rooftops and the now bare branches of the trees, transforming everything into a glittering wonder. I woke up to the sound of a snow shovel on the pavement and sat up instantly. From my window I could see Hakim, his ears bright red, clearing the snow off the pavement. He waved up when he saw me. “Didn’t I tell you the snow wouldn’t be long in coming?” he shouted and laughed. I laughed too. Frost