back at him. He lowered his hands, turned, and stumbled out of the room. A few seconds later we heard the click as he locked himself into the bathroom.
When I was younger still—three or four maybe—I almost drowned. It was summertime. A small river flowed through our town, and its grassy banks were very popular once the weather grew warmer. On a sunny day you’d see couples sprawled on rugs rubbing sun cream on each other’s backs, popping luscious strawberries into each other’s mouths, and gazing at each other with bedroom eyes. Youngsters with blaring boom boxes cooled their beers in the water; toddlers in nappies waddled across the grass, trailed by tail-wagging dogs; young guys playing football in their swimming trunks grinned cheeky apologies when they happened to hit the bikini-clad girls feigning disinterest at the edge of the pitch. Old folks summoned their dogs in vain when a refreshing dip proved irresistible; back on the riverbank, the dogs would shake rainbows of water off their fur. That’s the kind of day it was. The sun shone so brightly that the water sparkled like a shop window full of diamonds.
We were a bit late getting there. The best spots along the riverbank—where the water was shallow and perfect for a quick dip—were already gone. We carried on upriver until we found a spot where the grass hadn’t been flattened by too many towels. We spread out our rug. Father set up the barbecue and lit the coal. Mother sliced carrots and cucumbers. And I fell into the water. I’m hazy on the details now, but I remember the water being extremely cold and swallowing me up, and then the current sweeping me away. I have a memory of Mother’s voice shouting Father’s name, but that could also be my imagination. In any case, I saw Father jump fully clothed into the water and swim after me with powerful strokes. He made several attempts to grab hold of me before he eventually succeeded. He held me tight with one arm and slowly swam to the river bank with his free arm. Mother was in an awful state. She wrapped me up and rubbed me dry. As I sat there bundled in my towel, I looked up at Father, standing in the sun, soaking wet. I remember the water dripping from his clothes and beard, but the look in his eyes was very different that day. That day he was smiling.
It was a whole hour before Father came out of the bathroom. Hakim and Yasmin had left. I sat at the door, listening to the muffled sounds of the shower. Mother paced up and down the corridor. She had hastily knotted her woolly red cardigan round her waist. She kept running her hands through her hair. Eventually she told me to get up off the floor and go to my room. I pressed my ear to the bedroom wall but couldn’t hear a thing. I was scared and confused. I’d never seen Father this way, so frightened, so vulnerable. As if he’d used his last reserves to escape from some dark torture chamber, or been chased through the snow by ghosts he had barely managed to shake off. I wondered what kind of terrible news he must have got in that phone call to come home in such a state. My vivid imagination conjured up the worst for Grandmother in Lebanon. Maybe she’d told him she was very ill; maybe she’d said that this might be their last phone call. I imagined how sad this made Father, how he’d dropped the receiver, slumped to his knees, then staggered out of the telephone box and spent hours wandering aimlessly in the cold dark night.
As I stood there with my ear pressed to the wall, I realised I was shivering, covered in goose pimples. I wished it would all stop, that he’d come out of the bathroom, hug me and Mother, kiss our foreheads, and tell us that that was the end of his strange behaviour. I wished he’d come out and say sorry for hurting us again and again.
The bathroom door opened moments later. I heard Mother say something but couldn’t make it out. I resisted the urge to run out to them. I wanted him to come to my room. I wanted him to see how much he’d scared me, to sit down on my bed and talk to me, tell me what was wrong. I lay on my bed and stared at the door handle in the hope that he’d press it down and walk in. If he did, I’d quickly turn to face the wall so that he’d only see my back and would have to ask me how I was. But he never came. I heard two sets of footsteps heading for my parents’ bedroom, and Mother speaking again. She sounded very upset. Soon after that, I heard their door opening and Father coming out. Mother stayed behind.
This time I couldn’t resist. I darted out of my room and tugged him on the sleeve. He had changed into brown trousers and a check shirt, and smelled of shampoo and soap.
I whispered so that Mother wouldn’t hear. “Is Grandmother sick?”
He shook me off.
“Not now, Samir. Not just now …”
I wasn’t giving up. I tugged at his sleeve again.
“What happened to you?”
“Nothing, Samir. I had a fall. It was nothing serious.”
He took a few steps but I clung to his sleeve.
“But it looked serious.”
“Listen, habibi. Go back to your room, please. Get into bed.”
“But why?” I fought back tears of rage. I was sick of it, sick of trying to figure out what the point of his weird behaviour was. I wanted him to be himself again, immediately.
Father blinked nervously but his voice was calm and almost affectionate. “So that I can come to your room later and tell you the story.”
He was standing in a semi-circle of light, silhouetted by the hall light behind him.
“Abu Youssef?”
“Yes. The next episode is ready.”
He looked me in the eye, for the first time in ages. His gaze was unfathomable, alternating between sheer exhaustion and firm resolve.
“Can’t you tell me the story right now?”
“Later, Samir. There’s something I have to do first.”
“What?”
“I need to see Hakim. To tell him he needn’t worry and to apologise if I gave him a fright.”
I nodded. Hakim and Yasmin had been very puzzled leaving our flat. She’d held his hand and kept looking back at me. Still, I held on to my father’s sleeve and looked up at him.
“But you’ll come back, won’t you?”
He took a deep breath.
“Yes, Samir. I’ll only be down with Hakim for a few minutes, then I’ll come to your room.”
I let go of his sleeve.
“Can I come with you?”
“No. I won’t be long.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. You get yourself ready to hear the story. It’s about Abu Youssef’s treasure.”
“His big secret?”
“Yes, his big secret.”
He swallowed.
“Go to your room and wait for me. I’ll be back in no time.”
I did what I was told, and I heard our front door open and close.
This time, though, I had no intention of letting him go alone. I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight. I knew in my heart that he hadn’t really been chased in the dark by sinister characters. It was just my imagination playing tricks. But what if it wasn’t my imagination? Then they’d be out there
