Читать книгу The Storyteller - Pierre Jarawan - Страница 24

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1

I’m woken by someone knocking at the door. Quiet, discreet knocks. A moment ago, they were part of my dream, but now they’ve reached the surface of my consciousness. I jolt awake. Where am I? My skin is sticky with sweat, the sheet rumpled. White bedlinen. On the nightstand is a telephone next to a white lamp. White curtains too? They flutter in the breeze at the open window. On the other side of the room, a white desk next to a white wardrobe. The room feels clinical, like a conference room or a laboratory. The knocking starts again, louder than before. I start. There’s a stabbing in my head, as if shards of glass are flying around inside, and my lips are dry and cracked.

“Not right now, please!” I shout.

No answer, but I hear footsteps retreating down the hall. I sit up and massage my temples.

Slowly, it all comes back to me.

The air smells unfamiliar. I’m rattled by how strange it feels to be here. I hear noises outside, the clamour of voices. I try to distinguish the sounds: revving engines, beeping horns, mopeds clattering, sirens wailing in the distance. Voices layered on top of each other, like at a market. A loudspeaker briefly clicks and crackles, and a second later a song floats into my room. It sounds like a slow lament.

Allahu akbar, ashadu an la ilaha ill-allah.

The muezzin calling for prayer. The words themselves have never meant anything to me, but I’ve always loved the way they sound.

I’m really here, then. The wind carries the call from the minarets of the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque down to me, mixing it with the noise of the city to create a sublime melody. I sink back into my pillow and close my eyes.

Ashadu ana muḥammadan rasulu-Ilah.

Memories pin me to the bed. I exhale and feel the tingle of goosebumps. It’s as if for years I’ve only ever seen a cheap reproduction of a precious painting, but now I have the original in front of me, far more awe-inspiring and beautiful than I could ever have imagined.

When the call to prayer fades away, I throw the duvet aside and sit up. The rucksack beside the bed catches my eye. The airline tag is still attached to the strap. I go into the bathroom. Toiletries are arranged on the shelf above the sink: a nail file, soap, body lotion, and a folded hand towel. BEST WESTERN HOTEL. My swollen red eyes look back at me in the mirror.

Later, I scan the lobby for his face. Hotel staff push luggage trolleys through the foyer. A cleaner with a blue bucket wipes the windows. A man on a black leather armchair near the entrance reads a newspaper, two women with headscarves and red fingernails tap at their smartphones, and a child tries to reach the coin slot of a candy vending machine.

He’s not here. I can’t see him anywhere.

“Eight o’clock, no problem,” he said when he dropped me off yesterday. It’s almost 8:30 now. I’m late. I put my rucksack on the floor in front of the reception desk.

“I’d like to check out, please.”

The young woman looks at me and gives a business-like smile. I can smell her perfume, which I suspect all the female staff here wear, as it pervades the entire hotel. Sweet and milky with a harsh edge, it’s a typical hotel smell, designed to be registered briefly and immediately forgotten, yet strong enough to disguise the odour of carpets and cleaning agents.

“Did you have a pleasant stay, Mr. …”—she looks at the computer screen—“Mr. el-Hourani?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Breakfast is served until ten. The breakfast room is on the first floor.”

I’m not hungry; I can feel the tension in my stomach.

“Can I do anything else for you?”

I notice a little black dot on her eyelid and imagine her kohl pencil slipping as she was getting ready for work this morning.

“No, thanks.”

From the reception desk I can see another part of the foyer. Men in suits sit on the leather armchairs, looking at laptops or holding mobile phones to their ears. He isn’t among them. I turn back to the receptionist.

“Excuse me, was there a man looking for me earlier by any chance?”

“Someone looking for you? Not as far as I know. Just a minute. Hamid …” She turns to a colleague who’s pulling a suitcase out of the storage room. “Has anyone been asking for Mr. el-Hourani?”

“No,” her colleague replies.

“Sorry,” she says. “Have you got a number for him? I can call him if you like.”

“No need, thanks.”

He never gave me a card anyway.

The main door keeps opening and shutting, letting travellers and warm air in. Outside, the sun’s shining. It’s like walking into a hot, damp towel. The heat is so overwhelming that I barely hear the doorman’s “Have a good day, sir.” It’s nearly nine o’clock. Above me, the hotel’s logo emits a bluish-yellow gleam. Cars and mopeds speed by. Expensive pictures are on display in a window across the street; Anaay Gallery, an elegant font above the door announces. Next door, there’s a McDonald’s. Men with trendy beards wearing muscle shirts and sunglasses amble down the footpath. They look like surfers, like California beach bums. In fact, apart from the suited business people clutching briefcases as they frantically wave down taxis, the neighbourhood ahead of me looks more than modern; it actually seems pretty hip. A group of young women in blouses and miniskirts glides past me. They’re followed by a man in a dirty white T-shirt pushing a cart full of oranges, sweat glistening on his forehead. I watch the girls nimbly skip out of the way as a man pours a cascade of water out onto the street. Through the shimmering air, amid the jumble of buildings, I make out the turquoise domes and two of the four towers of the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque. The street sign reads Bechara el-Khoury. It’s surreal to be here at last. The city doesn’t smell like I thought it would. I expected the aromas of falafel, thyme, and saffron, smells that had always filled our street. But it’s hot and sticky here, and it smells of exhaust fumes and dust. It doesn’t sound like I expected, either—not like animated chatter in cafés and music, not like the plucked string of a lute or qanun. It sounds like any other big city.

I shift indecisively from one leg to the other. If he’s just late, it would be a mistake to set off on my own now. But it’s already past nine. I’ve probably missed him.

Was he the person who’d knocked on my door earlier? Probably not, seeing as there was a laundry trolley and a vacuum cleaner in the corridor; chamber maids at work. Plus he would have had to ask for my room number at reception. We barely know each other. No, there’s no point in waiting or looking for him any longer.

I’m here. In Beirut. For the first time in my life. Everything is foreign and new yet oddly familiar, like bumping into a once-close friend whom I haven’t seen in a long time. Home, I think. This is home. Although my roots are here, it feels strange, unreal. Like in a long-distance relationship, when you spend the first hours of each reunion getting used to each other again, remembering familiar caresses. So that’s what it looks like when you smile. Except this isn’t a reunion.

“Hey … what are you doing here?” A dusty old Volvo is crawling along beside me. It seems out of place in this gentrified street. The cars behind it brake and beep. It’s the same car, the same guy who brought me here from the airport yesterday. “It is you, isn’t it?”

I slow down. The man leans across the passenger seat and shouts through the open window: “Didn’t we arrange to meet in the hotel?”

Astonished that he’s appeared here out of the blue, I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed.

“Yes, we did.”

“At eight o’clock, right?”

“That’s right.”

“And look, here I am, as promised.”

“Eight o’clock,” I repeat.

“What time is it?”

“Almost half past nine.”

He laughs.

“Welcome to Beirut! Get in.”

The car jerks to a halt and the beeping around us becomes louder. The car is now blocking the street, and the other motorists have to cross into the other lane to get past. I flop into the passenger seat. It’s even hotter in here than out on the footpath.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asks.

“Air conditioning,” I say, throwing my rucksack onto the back seat.

He shrugs. This is the first time I’ve seen him in daylight. He has a moustache and four- or five-day stubble on his cheeks. I’d guess he’s around fifty. His hair is greying at the temples and there are fine lines around his eyes. He has the friendly face of a man who takes his kids to watch football or films at weekends and buys them candyfloss. He’s wearing washed-out jeans and a cardigan over a grey-and-red checked shirt. Too many layers for this weather.

“I’m not sure I introduced myself properly yesterday,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Nabil.”

“Samir,” I say as the car pulls off.

“So Samir, what can I do for you?”

The question catches me off guard, mainly because I don’t know the answer yet myself. He approached me yesterday in front of the official taxi rank. The night was orange, humid, and warm, in startling contrast to the cool, neon-lit terminal. He came up to me and offered to take me into town for a fraction of the usual price. I hadn’t booked a hotel, so he recommended the Best Western and drove me there. Just before we arrived, I told him I’d need a driver the next day and asked if he could pick me up in the morning.

Nabil noticed my hesitance.

“How about I show you the city?”

We follow the dense flow of traffic. Massive waves of glass and concrete rise up beside us: skyscrapers, banks, hotels, office blocks, and apartment complexes with penthouses, everything ochre-coloured, clean, modern.

“That there,” says Nabil, pointing through the windscreen, “is the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque.”

I studied my guidebook during the flight here; the mosque was number six on the map of the city’s attractions. “First time in Beirut?” the blonde woman in the window seat beside me had asked as she eyed my book with curiosity. “Yes,” I answered, feeling like a damn tourist. “This is my fourth visit,” she said. “The first time was in the sixties, before the war. They’ve rebuilt it beautifully. Really, they did a great job. If you’re looking for a good place to go shopping,”—I noticed a reddish-gold bracelet glinting on her wrist as she spoke—“go to Hamra. It’s full of designer stores, boutiques, malls, jewellers …” “Thanks for the tip,” I said, swiftly putting on my sleep mask.

Bechara el-Khoury Road takes us right up to the mosque. There is something almost obscenely beautiful about the two blue domes rising from the surrounding sea of ochre. In the early morning light, the stone looks golden.

“I heard the muezzin earlier,” I say, as if that’s a noteworthy occurrence in a city like Beirut.

Nabil looks at me.

“Are you Christian, then?”