The air in the flat was stale, like a big wardrobe that hasn’t been aired for years. It was a long time since they’d been there. Through the closed shutters, they could hear eager voices calling Abu Youssef’s name.
Abu Youssef signalled to the other person and gave a questioning look. His companion nodded. Slowly Abu Youssef opened the balcony door. The babble of voices died instantly. It was as if the whole city lay in silence. Not for long, though, because no sooner had Abu Youssef stepped out on the balcony than riotous cheers erupted. The sound of rejoicing swept through the streets again and shook the houses to their core. Fathers put toddlers on their shoulders so that they could see. Everyone was waving and calling out Abu Youssef’s name, and he waved back.
Then he held up a hand. At this signal, the cheers dried up like a drop of water in the desert.
“My dear friends,” he said, allowing his gaze to wander over the waiting crowd, “I’m so pleased that you’ve come.” Everyone was staring up at him. No one dared to speak; no one wanted to miss what Abu Youssef had to say. He carried on, in the slow and deliberate manner he was known for. “There are two kinds of feelings associated with the word ‘farewell’. A farewell can be sad because what you are leaving behind is so precious and important that you are loath to leave it. But a farewell can also be happy, because the power of what lies ahead does not stir sadness but joyful anticipation. Life is full of farewells, and our feelings change with each parting. But the word ‘homecoming’ is different. Why? Because we really only come home once. But where is home? They say home is where the heart is. You only come home once because you only have one heart, and it’s your heart that decides.” His eyes swept over his intent audience once more. “At least that is what I always thought,” he said. “I thought you only have one heart, and therefore only one home. But I was wrong.”
Abu Youssef turned from the crowd to face into the flat and held out his hand. Dainty fingers reached out to take his. Then a delicate figure in a veil joined him on the balcony. A loud murmur went through the crowd.
“I’ve had many adventures,” said Abu Youssef, still holding the woman’s hand. “And many of you have wondered about the wealth I’m supposed to have amassed, along with all the honour and glory. Many of you think I must live in the lap of luxury, in a palace with servants and date palms and a gold nameplate at the gate. But the truth is, I haven’t got a bean. And yet I am the richest man on earth. Standing here, looking down at all of you, I see many wealthy men. Men who have more than one heart.”
He turned to the petite figure who had been standing 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.
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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.
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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