The Storyteller by Pierre Jarawan

Author:Pierre Jarawan [Jarawan, Pierre]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781642860115
Publisher: World Editions
Published: 2018-09-12T06:58:36+00:00

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11

Sunlight slants in through the slats of the shutters, landing on high tables and a bar. Dust motes dance in the narrow strips of light. Animal-shaped shadows fall across the posters on the wall advertising parties past and future. There’s a smell of sweat and alcohol and smoke. The sticky floor is littered with cigarette butts and plastic glasses, and a disco ball rotates above our heads.

“We closed four hours ago,” the man says. Ripped muscles are visible beneath his tight black T-shirt. Dark brown eyes, full lips, a round, bald head, and a bull neck. He’s twice as broad as me. “We don’t allow anyone to see the club like this.”

A few minutes ago, we were standing outside. Though the footpaths were almost deserted, it was obvious that Mar Mikhael is a nightlife district. Clubs and bars on both sides of the street, brightly coloured buildings, graffiti, low-hanging bunting. Everyone we do see looks like an artist, street entertainer, musician, dancer, or fire-eater. The clubs have English and French names: Studio 43, Behind the Green Door, Floyd the Dog, Electro Mechanique, L’humeur du Chef. It took us a while to find Rhino Night Club. Crumbling, overgrown with ivy, and with a plain sign above the door, it looked more like a run-down youth centre.

I rang the bell three times before the man finally appeared. He waved me away and pointed to his watch: we’re closed.

He turned away, and I rang the bell again.

The glass door opened. Forbidding biceps, surly voice.

“What?”

“I’m looking for Sinan Aziz.”

“And you are …?”

“Samir el-Hourani. This is my friend Nabil.”

“We’re not open till later.”

“I need to speak to him right away.”

“I need to go to bed right away. Come back this evening.”

“Are you Sinan Aziz?”

“No.”

“Is he there?”

“He doesn’t like visitors. Not at this time of day, anyway.”

“Can you just tell him I’m here? He might make an exception.”

Raised eyebrows, a sceptical look.

“Now why would he do that?”

“I’ve got this card.”

A gale of laughter.

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, why?”

“That’s just one of our business cards. They’re all over town.”

“But I was given it in Zahle.”

“So what?”

“By my grandmother. Sinan Aziz brought her the card himself.”

A short pause.

“What do you want me to tell him?”

“Tell him Brahim Bourguiba’s son wants to talk to him.”

The club is bigger than it looks from the outside. It’s not very wide, but it goes right back, like a train tunnel. The man leads us across the dancefloor, past a little stage. Cables and other technical equipment are lying around on the floor.

“We have live music on Fridays,” he says.

We turn into a narrow corridor and pass the toilets. The sign on the gents says “Rhinos,” and it’s “Rhinas” on the ladies. At the end of the corridor, a flight of stairs leads to another door.

“Go on up,” the man says. “That’s his office.”

We enter a dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, and a small lamp bathes a desk in a sepia glow. My eyes need a moment to adjust. Behind the desk sits a dark, hulking figure.

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