“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.
-
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,
