Читать книгу The Storyteller - Pierre Jarawan - Страница 18

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7

He never mentioned the subject, never took me to task. Not the next day, nor in the weeks that followed. It was as if it had never happened, that moment when he caught me but never said a word. As a result, I started to feel like we had a special bond again, a secret. But his mood changed very little. And the longer this strange behaviour continued, the more Mother suffered, despite her best efforts to hide it. If she caught me watching her while she was hanging up the washing, she’d try to whistle a cheerful tune. She never normally did that. One time I came into the kitchen when Father had just left the house.

“Are you crying?” I asked.

“No,” she said and smiled. “I’m chopping onions, see?”

“Hakim says the trick is to hold your breath while you’re chopping them. Then they won’t make you cry.”

“OK, but I can’t hold my breath for ever, Samir.”

It hurt to see my father the way he was, but it was almost more painful to see my mother trying to hide the wounds inflicted by his behaviour. Few things in this world seem sadder than a fake smile. Perhaps her perception of our flat changed too, like my own, because she started cleaning it from top to bottom every day, even the bits that couldn’t possibly have got dirty again. She started cooking way more than we could eat too. Then she’d wrap the leftovers in tinfoil and have me take it round to friends and neighbours. If she was completely exhausted, I’d take my little sister from her, rock her in my arms, and sing her to sleep. Many’s the time I found Mother asleep when I came back to the living room, curled up like a child on her side of the sofa, the left side. And if I went up close, I could make out traces of tears on her cheeks.

One day not long after the time Hakim told the Syrian joke while he and Father were watching TV and discussing the new beginnings in Lebanon, the phone rang in the hall. It was one of those old telephones with a rotary dial and a heavy handset. Ours was mint green. I was nearby, so I answered the phone.

“Hello. Samir el-Hourani speaking,” I said.

Silence.

“Hello?” I said, shrugging at Father, who gave me a surprised look. It was a bad line, lots of crackling. I could hear someone breathing at the other end, as if they were taking a deep breath.

“Hello?” I said again.

The person at the other end exhaled. Someone was singing in the background. Next thing, Father was standing beside me, taking the handset.

“This is Brahim el-Hourani,” he said.

I watched him and saw his eyes narrowing. Then he hung up.

“The line was cut off,” he said brusquely. Then he turned on his heel, taking his jacket off the hook, fished a few coins from his pocket, and quickly worked out how much he had.

“Are you going out?” I asked.

“That was your grandmother,” he said. “I have to ring her back.”

“What do you need your jacket for?”

“I’m going to the phone box.”

“But we have our own phone,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

“I know, Samir. But it’s very expensive to ring Lebanon. I’ve been saving coins especially so that I can ring your grandmother from the phone box.”

He knelt down to tie his shoes.

“Can I go with you?”

“No,” he said. “Wait here. Your mother will be back any minute with the shopping. I want you to help her carry it in.”

With that, he left the flat.

A few days later, the phone rang again and I answered. Again, no reply. Just more breathing. No singing in the background this time, but I thought I could make out engine noises. “Grandmother?” I said into the silence. No reply. Maybe the line was even worse at the other end? I listened for a little longer this time. Then the line went dead. I told Father about the phone call, and off he went again to return the call from the phone box. But before he left, he went down on his knees, put both hands on my shoulders, and looked me straight in the eye.

“Samir,” he said insistently, “promise me you won’t tell your mother about the phone calls.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want her to worry.”

“But if Grandmother is sick, don’t you think she’d want to know?”

His eyes narrowed.

“Of course. But you know your mother. She’d get upset, and that wouldn’t be good.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“Do you promise?”

“Not to tell Mother?”

“Not to tell anyone.”

I promised. And I kept my promise too.

Grandmother rang a third time, I think. Father answered the phone, said his name, hung up almost immediately and left the flat. This time, he didn’t even put on his jacket.

Soon the weather turned colder. The leaves changed colour and cast our neighbourhood in a golden-red glow in the evening light. Then they turned brown and fell. A street in timelapse. The pretty autumn colours seemed to rub off on people too. I loved how the crisp air could bring a magic smile to rosy cheeks. Even the grown-ups were friendlier, out raking leaves on our street. Of course, I loved to kick up the piles of leaves again when no one was looking. For me, autumn was also full of things to look forward to. Winter—and the longed-for first snow of the season—was only round the corner. Then there were walnuts, which I loved not just because you could make little ships out of them, but because they tasted so good. And the dark evenings were great because it meant Mother would light candles and turn the heat up. Another reason I loved autumn was because it came with an image of my mother that has become one of my indelible memories of her. She’s sitting on the sofa with a rug tucked round her legs, steam rising from a cup of tea in front of her. She’s flicking through catalogues looking for inspiration for new dresses. Before turning the page, she briefly puts her left index finger to her lips to moisten it. I don’t think she was even aware of doing this.

Eventually, the weather got so cold you could see your own breath outside. By then, the new Lebanese parliament was two months old, and it had quickly become clear that Rafiq Hariri, the prime minister, wasn’t going to hang about. The reconstruction plans had already been drawn up. The Syrians were still in the country, of course, and they wouldn’t be leaving in a hurry. But things were progressing that November. All that was missing was the first snow. Our snowsuits hadn’t come out of the wardrobe yet. On 10 November 1992, I turned eight.