If Father was convinced about something, it was the best thing in the world. End of story. He knew where you could buy the freshest lettuce, which second-hand car dealer had the safest winter tyres, and which kebab shop had the best doner in the world. The kebab shop might change, but the doner would always be the best in the world. And now, here in our living room, we were looking at the best slide projector in the world. A Leitz Prado.
“Why did you buy it?” I enquired.
“I didn’t. Hakim borrowed it for us.”
“Why?” asked Yasmin.
“We wanted to show you something.” Father nodded to Hakim, who plugged the projector cable into the wall socket and turned off the overhead light. Then Father switched the machine on. It projected a large, bright rectangle onto our living-room wall. Dust motes danced in the beam of light.
“We wanted to show you photos,” Mother said. “Pictures of Lebanon, of us. So that you can see where we come from.”
“Where you come from, too,” said Father.
I liked the sound of that. I, German-born Samir, was going to learn more about my family’s homeland. Father had explained it to me once: “It’s called nationality based on parentage. You were born in Germany but your mother and I are Lebanese, not German. That’s why your passport says you’re Lebanese.” I had accepted this with a simple “OK” and hadn’t given the document a second thought.
Now Father was putting the first slide in. The projector rattled. A colourful image of my mother appeared on our wall. She was sitting on a chair, wearing a magnificent wedding dress.
“Wow,” said Yasmin. “That’s beautiful.”
Mother rarely wore make-up and hardly ever accentuated her eyes as much as on the photo. It looked like a very expensive portrait commissioned from an artist; there was something fragile about her, but also a special aura. I had never seen her in such finery. She really was very pretty.
The next slide showed Father standing beside a woman I didn’t recognise. She had black, curly hair and very straight, dignified posture. Her air of gravitas was compelling, even in this old image. Father was noticeably taller than her. She had her arm linked with his and wore a thin-lipped smile.
“That’s your Teta,” he said, in response to my questioning look.
“That’s Grandmother?” I took a closer look at the picture. “She doesn’t look sick at all.”
Father lowered his head but smiled.
“No. But she’s sick these days, you know that.”
I nodded.
“When was that picture taken?” Yasmin wanted to know.
“1982,” said Mother. “It was our wedding day.”
In the picture, Father had a smart suit on. Grandmother was wearing a blue dress and a lot of lipstick, which made it hard to tell her age. I reckoned early forties, maybe. I was struck by her enormous earrings, which were all the more eye-catching because she wore her curly hair short. Father’s smile looked a bit strained, but then he’d never liked having his picture taken.
“Now, here it comes,” said Hakim, all excited. The projector rattled.
Yasmin and I were amazed by the next slide. It showed my parents standing facing each other. And behind them was Hakim.
“You’re playing the guitar!” I exclaimed.
“It’s a lute,” said Mother. “Hakim played beautifully for us.”
In the photo, Hakim’s eyes were fixed on some point in the distance, as if they were following the notes that soared out of his lute.
“How come you knew each other?”
“From another wedding,” said Father. “Hakim played at lots of weddings.”
“And where is Yasmin’s mother?” I asked.
No one seemed to be expecting this question, and I realised that I’d never asked it before, of Hakim or of my parents. And in all the hours I’d spent playing and dreaming with Yasmin, all the times we’d gone in search of a secret to share, I’d never asked her this question either. Now it hung in the room like a heavy ball that could fall on top of us any minute. The three grown-ups looked at each other. Yasmin looked at me. I felt uncomfortable, partly because I didn’t get any answer.
Several more slides followed, mainly of the wedding feast and of guests enjoying themselves, until Father said, “This is the last of the wedding photos,” as he put another slide into the projector. There were so many people in the picture that it took me a minute to figure it out. It showed my parents in front of a tree, a magnificent fig tree. They were obviously dancing the wedding dance, with the guests gathered in a semi-circle around them, clapping. The women were all wearing lots of jewellery and make-up. It must have been a warm, sunny day. The sky was a glorious blue. The women were in colourful dresses, the men in suits. Some of them had their jackets slung over their shoulders, like film stars. Something struck me: there were other men too, men we hadn’t seen in any of the other photos. They were standing in the background, in front of a brick and mud wall. Some had their arms folded, watching the dancing. They were wearing brown trousers and khaki-coloured T-shirts. They had a cedar embroidered on the left breast of the T-shirt. A cedar with a red circle round it. There was a gun propped against the tree.
“Who are those men?” I asked.
“Guests,” said Father.
“Friends,” said Mother.
Hakim said nothing.
A brief silence ensued.
“We’ve plenty more slides,” Father announced, rubbing his hands. “Now I’m going to show you your country.”
And he did. Whenever he got a chance to talk about Lebanon, he was in his element. We saw photos of the sea, of Beirut and its tall buildings, of the Pigeon Rocks, standing just off the coast like the city’s sentinels. He showed us a photo of the six remaining columns of the Temple of Jupiter at Baalbek. It was after dark, but they were illuminated and very impressive. When he showed us a photo of a port, he said, “See that? That’s Byblos. Where our ancestors, the Phoenicians, invented the alphabet. Not many people know that. They all say, ‘Look at the Egyptians and the amazing pyramids they built—such a highly developed Arab culture!’ But let me tell you, if we’d followed the Egyptians’ example, we’d still be reading picture books today!”
I saw Mother and Hakim exchange glances. They knew there was no point in interrupting Father at this stage. But we kids were infected by his enthusiasm. He didn’t just show the pictures, he told the stories behind them as well. At times he went into full lecture mode.
“Lebanon is the only Arab country with no desert,” he informed us as he showed a slide of Lake Qaraoun in the Bekaa Valley. Its surface shimmered bright blue, reflecting the mountain chain behind it. “There is so much fertile land there, and so many vineyards.”
“Especially in Zahle,” cried Yasmin, her eyes sparkling.
“Exactly,” grinned Father with
