‌Mousharabiyya

My dear friends, I would have burst into outraged laughter had the accusation been levelled by anyone other than my own brother. As it was, I stared at him in amazement. We were of the same flesh and blood; I could look at the world through his eyes, and yet I couldn’t look through his heart and fathom his reasoning.

He mistook my silence and attempted to jog my memory.

You do remember when I gave it to you, don’t you? It was in the evening, at home, in the garden. We were all standing around. Ahmed had just played the flute for you; Father had recited a poem.

Even though I didn’t dare trust my voice, I felt compelled to reply. Mustafa, it was less than two years ago, I said. I’d hardly have forgotten.

Well then?

I had to smile, the ridiculousness of it all saddening me.

Have you gone mad? I asked him.

He stared at me. Of course not, he retorted, colouring fiercely.

Then you are delirious, perhaps?

Absolutely not.

Then how can you assume that I had something to do with the disappearance?

He began to bluster, but I cut him off.

And so one seeks the truth in the small, palpable objects as a remedy to the great impalpable that is life, I observed.

He seemed taken aback by my words.

You don’t believe me? You think I’m making it all up?

Oh no, I do believe you, I said. Don’t forget that I’m a storyteller. That is how I make my living. For me, whatever is imagined must, by definition, aspire to fidelity. And yet…

I paused and chose my next words carefully.

Let me put it this way. As Father likes to say, it takes more than just a healthy imagination to make an adept storyteller.

I did not imagine it. It is the truth.

It is not the truth. It cannot be. A vital element is missing.

There was a pause.

He appeared put out. Then he ran his tongue over his lips.

I don’t understand what you’re getting at. What would make my story more believable, according to you? What is missing?

The element of proof.

What do you mean?

Simply this. I’d gone there looking for you that night. I searched for you in all your usual haunts in the medina, determined to dissuade you from the course you had chosen.

You went to Karim’s shop?

Yes, I did, and to Dounia and her daughters, and the Qessabin Mosque where they’d seen you enter, and many other places besides. Obviously the inkwell must have fallen out of my pocket when I was standing in front of the shuttered shop, where I’d hoped that Karim would be working late, and you’d be with him, and we’d be able to talk some sense into you together.

He gazed at me in disbelief. You cut short your storytelling session in the Jemaa?

And dismissed my audience. For the first time in my life.

I had no idea, Hassan!

No, of course you didn’t. You were too caught up in your own madness.

I extended the inkwell towards him.

We share the same mother’s heart, Mustafa. If there is any doubt in your mind about my complicity in the affair, then I will personally reveal your suspicions to the police.

My brother stared at the inkwell and then at me in supreme confusion – his face a compendium of many feelings, both complementary and conflicting – before sitting back with a dazed expression.

So you see, I said, it made for a nice story, though one too slight for my taste. It could have done with – how shall I put it? – more gravity, but also more suspense. To consider only one instance, that fight in the Jemaa was vicious, as I remember it, and I don’t think you did justice to it. Also, you rushed through the best parts, which is usually an error that most amateurs make when it comes to judging pace. A less breathless tone would have made it seem more seasoned, less glib, and certainly not so much like a B-grade movie. All the same, it was a valiant first effort. Or was it a first effort?

Realizing abruptly that I hadn’t the faintest idea, I jerked forward and fixed him with my eyes. Mustafa, I said with sudden alacrity, is that what you told the police?

Of course not, he said, flushing. A hint of irony, so fleeting that only my watchful eyes could have noticed it, played on the corners of his lips. He met my earnest gaze and said: There’s a time for secrets and a time for confessions. I told you that you could set your mind at ease.

Yes, I said wryly. You’ve told me a lot of things.

He flushed again and contemplated me with an air of contrition.

I care about you, Hassan, he said. Immensely. I always have. Never forget that.

Thank you, I replied. All the same, it won’t change my opinion that you are an idiot and also quite mad. And totally reckless, to the bargain.

He frowned but did not utter a word. His face still bore traces of his astonishment arising from my refutation of his claim concerning the inkwell, and it was clear that he now preferred discretion to valour.

Exercising restraint, I joined my fingertips and regarded him with immense forbearance.

You do realize, don’t you, I said, that there was no need for you to have acted as you did? You’ve behaved like a complete fool.

He hung his head without a word.

Well? I prompted.

He sat back and closed his eyes. On his handsome, weary and bruised face there now appeared traces of helplessness. To my surprise, he seemed close to tears.

I realized at once that I’d been too harsh and attempted a more conciliatory tone of voice. Mustafa, I said, I am sorry about what I just called you, and I apologize as well for coming down hard on your story, but at least where the latter is concerned I have my standards, and they are high.

I’m well aware of that, he said, and, opening his eyes, he brought his face close to mine. A sense of shame seemed to be oppressing him, checking his rising tears. He looked at me for a long time before turning away and casting his glance around the room with a look that was oddly ambivalent.

May I have another chance? he asked. His voice was hoarse.

My heart felt heavy as I gazed at my brother.

The room smelt of our sweat, both his and mine.

I turned away from him and said: Only if you tell me what really happened that evening. As your brother, I deserve no less.

Somewhere on the floor above us a tin cup clattered loudly. Neither Mustafa nor I reacted to it. Instead, we continued to stare at each other, not daring to take our eyes off one another’s faces for even an instant. Finally, he stirred. His tired face seemed to have grown even more exhausted.

All right, I will tell you what happened, he answered.

Thank you, I said. It’s only fair, you’ll agree.

I could see him composing himself. Turning a little red in the face, he coughed, twice, paused to catch his breath, and then, in a ragged, spent voice, told me the story of his love for a complete stranger and the sacrifice he’d made for her.