a little behind him and drew her closer. He took off her veil and revealed a woman as beautiful as any legend. Her hair was jet black and held by a golden clasp, her eyes were Mediterranean blue, and her skin as pure and white as marble. Everyone held their breath, afraid to exhale in case they might blow the delicate creature off the balcony. No one would have been the least bit surprised if she had suddenly flown away like a fairy.
“This is my second heart,” said Abu Youssef. “My wife. And if you want to know what true happiness is, you must always remind yourself that you have more than one heart to which you can return.” He smiled gently. “I have three of them. Three hearts.”
With that he removed the woman’s cape, and they saw a sleeping baby in her arms.
“My son!” said Abu Youssef.
The sky lit up all of a sudden. Fireworks transformed the street, the houses, the whole city into a dazzling spectacle. Blazing rockets whooshed into the sky, not just in the city centre but on the outskirts too, as if a crown of light was hovering over Beirut, turning night into day. Celebratory shots rang out in the sky, echoing off pavements and over walls to fill the air with thunderous noise. From the gardens to the rooftops and beyond, the night was full of shouts of joy. You could not fail to hear them. Red and yellow lights flared up and danced in the half-light. Suddenly, in this riot of colour, the balcony turned gold and shimmered as never before. It gleamed so bright that the people nearest had to shield their eyes. It lit up the street and bathed it in a deep gold that could be seen from a great distance, from as far away as the edge of the city. Its message was clear: Here stands Abu Youssef with his treasure beside him. He has come home to his three hearts.
-
11
“Am I your heart?” I mumbled, barely able to keep my eyes open.
“You are my greatest happiness,” he whispered.
I was already half asleep, drifting in that pleasant land of shadowy darkness, transported there by his voice and the pictures he’d painted. It was a story of reconciliation, showing me how important we, his family, were to him. How important I, his son, was. And how he loved coming home to us, his hearts, no matter which adventures he’d just experienced within himself.
Father kissed my forehead. It was the last kiss I got from him. A feeling of utter contentment settled on me like a downy quilt tucking me in. Then he ran his fingers through my hair. It was the last time he’d do that. He smoothed my duvet one last time and turned out the bedside light.
“Sleep well, Samir,” he whispered. He stood up and looked round at me one more time. “I love you.”
Those were his last words.
Through a heavy veil, I could see him standing in the doorway. My eyelids grew heavier and heavier, as if a lead weight was pulling them down. If I’d known that these were the last few seconds I’d have with my father, I’d have made more of an effort. I’d have tried to look at him for longer, taking in the thick eyebrows above the friendly brown eyes set in a round face. I’d have tried to memorise how he looked so that in the weeks and months to come, when I’d wake from a dream he appeared in, I wouldn’t panic and forget to breathe for fear he’d slip away. So that the teenage me wouldn’t despair when I could no longer remember his face, just a blurry impression of it. So that I wouldn’t keep cursing myself, years later even, when I couldn’t remember how deep the creases at the corners of his mouth were when he laughed. How many lines his forehead had when he frowned. How far his Adam’s apple protruded when he threw his head back to laugh. Whether he might have been greying at the temples. Or had a birthmark on the back of his neck. What direction the lifelines on his palms took when he waved his hands in the air. Which hand he used to stroke his beard. Exactly how his voice sounded when he was telling a story. I would have opened my eyes wide and looked at him and registered it all. So that I’d never forget. I would have forced myself to look at him. But I was too sleepy. And so the last I saw of my father was his silhouette in the doorway and him—so I believe—looking at me fondly.
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II
There’s something you should know: you’re not the only one looking for your father.
-
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
