Читать книгу The Storyteller - Pierre Jarawan - Страница 19

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8

One day in the run-up to my birthday, Father drove out to our town’s industrial estate. That’s where the joinery was where Hakim worked. When he got back, he took a thick plank out of the boot. The timber was a pale but intense colour. I stood by the car and watched. He had gloves on and a warm jacket, and his breath came out in clouds as he wrestled with the board.

“Here, smell this,” he said, holding the board under my nose.

“I can’t smell anything.”

“Exactly. This is dry cedar.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“That’s a secret,” he said, giving me a wink.

“Where did you get it?”

“I ordered it through Hakim’s workshop. The boss there knows a wholesaler. It’s not easy to get cedar in Germany.”

“I thought cedar smelt different.”

He carried the board past me and nodded in the direction of the shed.

“Come with me,” he said.

I followed him, practically reeling with the euphoria of having some attention from him again after all these weeks. He leaned the plank up against the wall in the shed, took a small saw from his toolbox, and cut into the wood.

“Smell that.”

A powerfully aromatic, woody smell hit my nose.

“That’s the essential oils in the resin,” he said. Then he put his own nose close to the fresh incision and inhaled the smell.

“What are we going to do with the wood?”

“We are not going to do anything. I am. And I might show it to you when it’s finished.”

“You might?”

“I might.”

Then he straightened up, stroked my head, walked past me, and disappeared.

He spent the following weekend in the old wooden shed. I also spotted Hakim going in there at various stages, reemerging later and beating sawdust off his clothes. Yasmin and I, bundled in our winter jackets, sat on the steps of our building keeping a keen eye on the shed and watching the white clouds of vapour drifting from our mouths.

On my birthday, lots of neighbours came to my party. There were eight candles on the cake and everyone sang “Sana Helwa ya Gameel,” the Arabic version of “Happy Birthday.” I blew all the candles out in one go and everyone clapped. I got fabulous presents too. Khalil, the young man who had helped Father mount the satellite dish the day we moved in, gave me a diabolo. I’d often watched him on our street, spinning the double-cupped top on a string attached to two sticks. He could do amazing tricks with it, almost like at the circus. From Hakim I got a wooden sled he made himself, a really beautiful one with curved handles. It had a great smell of workshop and wax.

“Don’t worry, the snow will come,” he said. “The longer it keeps you waiting, the more you’ll enjoy it.”

Yasmin went as far as to give me a kiss on the cheek, which I brushed off rather sheepishly. All day long, my parents made obvious efforts not to let the strange atmosphere of recent weeks spoil my party. But there was an awkwardness to their attempts to play the perfect team; they kept bumping into each other, practically knocking each other down as they waited on the guests and put food on the table. And anyone who took a closer look couldn’t fail to see how they tried to avoid each other, passed each other with their heads down, only spoke to guests separately, and never looked each other in the eye.

That evening, Yasmin and I tried out the diabolo. There wasn’t a soul on the street outside our building. The cold made it hard to hold the sticks, but we were too captivated to go in for our gloves. Over and over, we spun the rubber top into the air and caught it with the string, competing with each other to see who could throw it highest, who could keep it spinning longest.

Soon the November evening fog descended, shrouding everything in grey until even the streetlights gave off no more than a dim glow. It crept over the nearby green and through the alleyways of our neighbourhood. Entire buildings vanished, their lit-up windows like ghostly eyes in the gloom. Eventually Hakim stuck his head out the window of their flat and called Yasmin in. It was late. She turned to me, her cheeks rosy, her eyes gleaming from the cold.

“I hope you had a nice birthday,” she said, handing me the sticks.

I nodded. Yasmin turned and disappeared into the fog; the only sound was her footsteps, then the front door closing. I stood there for a moment. Nothing but silence around me, and a strange sense of impenetrable loneliness. I looked up and saw the light from our living-room window. I didn’t really want to go back up.

On my bedside table I found a little present wrapped in dark blue paper with a gold ribbon. It caught my eye the minute I entered the room. It was beside the lava lamp, which was on. I could hear Mother clattering in the kitchen as she washed the dishes. The TV was on in the living room. I’d seen the colours flickering on the hall floor when I came in, and judging by the theme tune, Father was watching the news on Al Jadeed. I’d taken off my jacket and shoes in the hall and put the diabolo in the corner.

I hadn’t really felt like going into the living room. I was afraid Father would go back to ignoring me now that the guests were gone—or worse, stare at me as if I was about to go up in smoke and he had to imprint every detail of me in his memory. So I just sneaked into my room, where I found the present. It was surprisingly heavy for its size. When I tore off the paper, I held a little wooden box in my hand. The pale wood was streaked with darker shades of brown that ran down the sides of the box like veins or rivulets. I turned it in every direction and inspected it from all angles. The wood was finely polished, my fingers felt no unevenness. It wasn’t big, but the smell of cedar was so powerful that I almost jumped back to catch my breath. I could picture Father in the shed, making this box for me. Sawing the board, hollowing and sanding the wood until he had the shape he wanted. Polishing it as he thought of me holding and feeling his work. Tears welled up but I held them back. I flipped open the lid of the box. There was nothing inside except a hollow about three fingers wide, roughly the length of my little finger, and not particularly deep. Mother had a similar box, lined on the inside, for her earrings. But I didn’t have any earrings, and right now I couldn’t think of anything else to keep in this box.

“Do you like it?” Father was watching me from the doorway. He had a dark blue jumper on with a high polo-neck. It looked cosy and warm. I was dying to run to him and bury my head in his woolly tummy, but I didn’t dare.

“I wasn’t sure …” he said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to put in it.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

I nodded in silent agreement.

“May I come in?”

Still looking at the box, I nodded again. Father came into my room and looked around. His eyes took in my desk, the withered cyclamen sitting on it, and the little shelf that held my books and toys. He was studying the room as if seeing it for first time. I looked at him uncertainly. I didn’t know what he wanted from me. The last few weeks had left their mark, and I no longer knew how to read him. So I just sat there and clung to the little box.

“When I was a little older than you,” he said suddenly, pointing at my hands, “I had one of those too.” He stroked his beard.

“Really? What did you put in your box?”

“Well, I used to write stories back then,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets.

“What kind of stories?”

“Ones I made up.”

“About what?”

“Anything and everything. They weren’t particularly good, which is why I didn’t show them to anyone.”

“And you kept them in your box?”

“Yes. It was a bit bigger than yours, though.” He smiled and looked at me. “It’s always good to have somewhere to keep your secrets.”

Now he was standing very close to me, so close I could inhale his smell. How I’d have loved to lean my head against him, but I didn’t budge. “Will you tell me a story again some time?”

He seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “Yes, of course.”

“One about Abu Youssef?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes, hoping desperately for a yes.

“A new adventure with Abu Youssef?”

“That would be nice,” I said with massive understatement.

Abu Youssef was a character Father had invented for me. For years he’d regaled me with new episodes of his adventures. Abu Youssef was a bit of an oddball. He lived in humble circumstances in a Lebanese mountain village, but he was very popular because he loved to throw parties and gather his friends around him. He had a talking camel called Amir. Amir means “prince,” which is why the camel always wanted to be addressed as Your Highness. Abu Youssef loved Amir. He groomed him every day at sundown, and Amir was even allowed to eat indoors with Abu Yousef, as he had very good table manners. Amir’s favourite food was apple cake. They had many an adventure together, putting an end to evil scoundrels’ games or coming to the aid of mighty kings whose councillors had run out of counsel. Abu Youssef was respected far and wide. But one thing even Amir did not know was that Abu Youssef had a secret. He was rich, very rich indeed, for he had a great treasure. The wind sometimes carried rumours of his wealth from mountain villages across the plateau and into the cities. On the main squares, they wound themselves around the columns, where they were picked up and spread through the markets or whispered behind closed doors. The gossip about Abu Youssef and his treasure spun from the humble carpet maker in the bazaar to the rich Saudi sheikh in his Beirut penthouse, though many people dismissed it as pure fantasy, for it was well known that Abu Youssef lived in humble circumstances in his village, where he liked to throw parties, if his latest adventure didn’t get in the way. I pictured him as a cheerful old man with a long grey beard, imparting pearls of wisdom to the children who were always gathered around him. He would ride through the land on his talking camel, ready to tackle whatever new challenges came his way.

Father cocked his head and studied me.

“Aren’t you getting a bit old for 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.