The Last String

Introduction

Have you ever noticed how the most hideous days in our lives start like any ordinary day?

You wake up to the same alarm, drink your coffee the same way, grumble about the traffic on Hamra Street as usual. You think about what you'll wear, the Oud lesson you're late for, and your mother who will call to remind you of your tailoring appointment.

No one wakes up in the morning with the thought: I might die today.

I, at least, didn't.

And it never crossed my mind that I was smiling in the face of my killer, handing him a cup of tea, and laughing at his silly jokes.

They used to tell us that evil has features. Pale faces, wandering eyes, crooked smiles. We learned in school to beware of the stranger talking to himself in the street, or the man staring at us for too long at the bus stop. It was simple: stay away, cross the street, enter the nearest shop.

But times have changed.

The most dangerous people today laugh more than we do. They wear neat clothes, scent themselves with expensive perfume, and know how to say the right word at the right moment. They look like us, or look like who we wish to be. That's why we open the door for them, pour them coffee, and tell them our secrets before we even know their mothers' names.

How do we distinguish the good from the evil then?

We can't.

Until it's too late.

Chapter One

Blood was flowing quietly from my finger, staining the music sheet in front of me with a small spot the size of a lentil. Then the spot grew. It became the size of a coin.

Who thinks about coins while they're bleeding?

You do, a sarcastic voice whispered in my head, because you forgot to eat breakfast again, so your mind is looking for something to distract it from hunger.

I sighed. This is my old habit. I talk to myself when I'm alone, and I'm alone most of the time. Not because I don't have friends. I have Mira, and I have my aunt Ibtisam who treats me like her daughter. But when your whole life is tied to one thing, to one obsession, people become on the sidelines of the picture.

The Oud.

This is what fills my life.

"Rahaf, pay attention!" Professor Zuhair shouted from the corner of the hall, his wooden cane tapping on the edge of the platform. "Where are you? We've been repeating the section for a quarter of an hour."

I raised my head quickly, hiding my wounded finger under the sleeve of my shirt. An apologetic smile, a nod of my head. All the usual movements I've known since I was eleven.

At the Beirut National Conservatory of Music, there is nothing the professors hate more than a distracted student. Maybe a student who doesn't keep the beat, or a student who plays with trembling fingers. But distraction? This is a personal assault on art itself.

I looked at my feet one last time, then raised the Oud and started again. My fingers move on the strings quickly, tapping, tying, sliding. Everything I had practiced all week was hanging on this moment. All the hours I spent in my room until dawn, all the meals I missed, and all my mother's headaches from my repeated sounds.

I finished the piece. A short silence. Then Professor Zuhair nodded a nod that meant neither satisfaction nor anger. Just acceptance.

"Go back to your class."

I slipped to my seat at the back of the class, trying to become invisible. Better that someone else makes a mistake now, so the eyes turn away from me.

I know this is ugly. To wish for a classmate to make a mistake. But you don't understand. When you're a student in a place like this, and when your whole future is tied to one nomination for the scholarship in Istanbul, every girl in the class becomes a potential enemy. Even if you smile at her in the morning and share your sandwich with her during the break.

"Hey lady, you made the professor knit his brows today."

I recognized the voice before I turned. Samer. my only friend in this place.

"I wasn't trying to."

"I know. But you succeeded anyway."

He stepped back, raised his hand asking me to stop, and winked.

"What's with you? What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just... I cut my finger on the first string."

He caught my hand before I could stop him. He looked at the small wound, then at my face. His brows rose in a way I've recognized for years. Samer reads me as he reads notes. I can't hide anything from him.

"Rahaf, you didn't eat today again?"

"I ate."

"Liar."

I pulled my hand away quietly, wrapping my sleeve around the wound.

"We have an audition next month. I have to be ready."

"And if you die before it?"

"I won't die."

He smiled sarcastically, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. Samer, oh Samer. If people knew how kind you are, they would eat you up.

We've been friends since we were fifteen. We met on our first day at the institute, when the folder of notes fell from my hand on the stairs, and he bent down to help me. Since that day, we've been like a shadow and its owner. He plays the violin, I the Oud. He's from Aleppo, I'm from Beirut. He laughs loudly, I smile quietly.

But we're similar in the most important thing: both of us came here escaping from something.

"Listen," he said as he sat beside me on the floor. "After practice, come with me to Abu Nizar's cafe. We'll eat something. Please."

"I have practice at home."

"Rahaf."

"Samer."

He sighed, then took out a piece of cake wrapped in a paper napkin from his bag.

"Take it. At least this."

I hesitated. Then I took it. In fact, I was very hungry.

Practice ended late. I left the institute alone, after Mira insisted on going with Samer to a nearby cafe for coffee. I refused to go with them. I had practice, and my mother was waiting for me, and a thousand excuses were ready on my tongue.

The street was crowded as usual. The sounds of cars, the calls of vendors, the smell of coffee mixed with the smell of the sidewalk wet from spraying water. I walked slowly, carrying the Oud case on my back, and thinking about the nomination. About the audition. About all the notes I still needed to adjust.

Then I saw him.

He was standing at the entrance of the institute, talking to one of the new students. A tall, thin but muscular young man in a way that catches the eye. His hair was black, neatly messy. He wore a simple gray shirt and black pants. Nothing about him was worth stopping for.

But I stopped. Maybe because he turned at that exact moment, and our eyes crossed. He smiled. A quiet, polite smile, as if he had known me for a long time. Then he turned his face to finish his conversation with the girl.

I quickened my steps. I don't know why my heart raced. Not from admiration, I assure you. I don't have the luxury of admiring anyone. Music takes everything I have of feelings, and leaves no remnant for someone sitting in a cafe and smiling at a passerby.

But something in that smile... something wasn't in its right place.

I passed the corner, and stood to rest. I took out my phone, pretending to look for something. Then I looked behind me. There was no one there.

I laughed at myself. Here I am imagining things. This is what happens when you only sleep four hours, and eat one piece of cake all day. I continued my way home. And I didn't know yet that I, at that moment, when I raised my eye and it met his, had opened a door I wouldn't be able to close ever.

Chapter Two

The house was quiet when I opened the door. My mother's silence is different from the silence of other houses. Her silence is not an absence of sound, but a presence of something else. Something heavy, charged, as if the walls are holding their breath waiting for something.

"Rahaf?"

"It's me, Mom."

I heard the sound of the rocking chair stopping in the hall. Her slow steps on the tiles. My mother walks as if she is calculating every step, as if the ground might betray her at any moment. Since my father died three years ago, she has walked like this.

She appeared in the door frame. Her white hair tied back, her blue abaya that doesn't leave her at home, and the glasses hanging on the edge of her nose. "You're late."

"Practice took long."

"Did you eat?"

"I ate at the institute, Mom. Samer brought me cake."

She looked at me for a long time. My mother doesn't believe me, I know that. But she chooses to go along with me, because she is tired of arguing. Tired of everything. "The foul is ready. Come eat with me."

"In a bit, I want to practice first."

"Rahaf."

There was a tone in her voice I hadn't heard for a long time. The mother's tone. Not the broken woman she became after my father, but the mother who raised me. I threw the Oud case on the couch, and went with her to the kitchen.

My mother poured me the foul, and added olive oil and a piece of lemon. She sat in front of me, watching me while I ate. She didn't eat anything herself. She settled for a cup of tea. "Mom, you didn't eat?"

"I ate this morning."

Both of us were lying to the other. Both of us knew.

"How was Professor Zuhair's lesson today?"

"Ordinary."

"Ordinary meaning what?"

I hesitated. If I told her I was distracted in the lesson, and that my finger bled, and that Professor Zuhair knitted his brows, the house would turn into a court. My mother can't stand the thought that I might fail. For the scholarship is our only life buoy. Since my father died and left debts we pay in monthly installments to the bank, our financial situation has been hanging by a hair. And this hair's name is: Rahaf. Rahaf who will get the scholarship. Rahaf who will travel to Istanbul. Rahaf who will become a professional musician. Rahaf who will save her mother.

"The lesson was good, Mom. Don't worry."

"And the audition?"

"Next month."

"And are you ready?"

I swallowed the morsel of foul with difficulty. "Ready."

She nodded, then looked at my hand. "What's this?" I forgot about the wound. The shirt sleeve had slipped, and the small blood spot appeared. "Nothing. A string hit me."

"Rahaf."

"Mom, please. This happens to all musicians."

She got up from the table, and went to the medicine cabinet. She returned with a cotton swab, antiseptic solution, and a band-aid. "Give me your hand."

"I can—"

"Give me your hand."

I gave it to her. She cleaned the wound quietly. Her movements were precise, although her hands had started to tremble recently. Then she put the band-aid, and pressed gently. "Rahaf, you are all I have."

She said it in a low voice, without looking at me. "I know, Mom."

"Don't tire yourself too much. And don't forget to eat."

"I will."

But she knew, as I knew, that I would forget. That music would take me again, and I would forget myself completely.

After dinner, I went up to my room. My room on the second floor of the old house. Its ceiling is high, its window overlooks a small courtyard where there is a lemon tree my father planted before he got sick. In the corner, a wooden shelf holds the Oud case, music books, and old photos of my father playing the violin at my aunt's wedding.

My father was a musician too. Not a professional, but he played for his pleasure. He's the one who taught me the first song on the Oud when I was seven. He used to put my fingers on the strings and say to me: "Don't be afraid of the strings, honey. They are your friends. If you're afraid of them, they'll cut you. If you love them, they'll sing for you."

I took the Oud out of its case, and sat on the floor, leaning my back against the bed. I started to practice. An hour. Two hours. Three hours. My fingers hurt. The wound opens again. But I continue. Because in my mind is one image: a large hall, lights, a judging committee, and me playing. And the sentence that will come after it: "Rahaf Nassar, winner of the scholarship for the coming year."

At about one after midnight, my phone vibrated on the floor. I looked at the screen. A number I don't know. I hesitated. Usually I don't answer strange numbers. But something made me reach out my hand. "Hello?"

"Rahaf?" A man's voice. Quiet, clear. But I didn't recognize it. "Yes, who's with me?"

"My name is Karim. Karim Al-Ali. I'm the new student at the institute, I met Professor Zuhair today. He gave me your number."

My hand froze on the Oud. Karim Al-Ali. The young man who was smiling at me at the entrance. "Professor Zuhair gave you my number?"

"Yes. He told me you're one of his best students, and that if I needed any help adapting to the institute, I should contact you. I hope I haven't disturbed you at a late hour."

His voice was very polite. Polite in a... calculated way. "Professor Zuhair didn't tell me anything about this."

"Really? That's strange. In any case, I apologize if I made a mistake by calling at this time. I can talk to you tomorrow at the institute."

I hesitated. Something inside me was warning me. Something saying to me to end the call, to block the number, to forget the matter. But I— I don't know why I said what I said. "No problem. What do you need?"

"In fact, I'm looking for a private teacher for the Oud. I play the violin primarily, but I wanted to learn the Oud in my spare time. Do you know anyone?"

"There are many teachers at the institute."

"I know, but I wanted someone who teaches in a... personal style. Perhaps an advanced student like you."

I was silent. "I don't give lessons."

"I understand. It was just a question. Thank you, Rahaf. See you tomorrow at the institute."

He ended the call before I could answer. I sat there, the phone in my hand, the Oud on my thigh, and a strange feeling crawling up my back. Why would Professor Zuhair give my number to a student I don't know?

I picked up the phone and sent a message to Mira. "Are you awake?" She replied after seconds: "Yeah. What's up?"

"Do you know a student named Karim Al-Ali?"

"The new guy? Yeah of course. All the girls were talking about him today."

"Because of what?"

"Honey, you just saw him?"

I ignored the question. "He called me. Said Professor Zuhair gave him my number." Her reply was delayed this time. "Rahaf, Professor Zuhair never gives the girls' numbers to anyone. He's never done that."

I felt something tighten in my chest. "Meaning..."

"Meaning stay away from him. It's not normal that he searches for your number and lies that he took it from the professor."

"Perhaps there was a misunderstanding."

"Rahaf."

"Mira, let's see tomorrow. We have to sleep."

I closed the phone. I looked at the window. The lemon tree was trembling in the wind, its leaves moving quietly as if trying to tell me something. Where did he get my number then? And why did I choose to believe his lie, instead of closing the line in his face?

Chapter Three

The next morning, I reached the institute early. I had decided to ask Professor Zuhair directly. If he had indeed given my number to Karim, then no problem. I would know it was natural. But if he hadn't, this meant Karim reached my number in another way. And this means...

I don't know what it means. I entered his office. He was sitting behind his table, reading a newspaper, and drinking his black coffee. "Good morning, Professor."

He raised his eyes from over his glasses. "Rahaf. Early today."

"Yes, I wanted to ask you about something."

"Go ahead."

I hesitated. How do I phrase the question without appearing rude? "Professor, yesterday a student named Karim Al-Ali called me. He said you gave him my number."

His brows rose. "Karim?"

"The new student."

"I know who he is. But I didn't give him your number, Rahaf. I never do this. You know my policy."

I felt a shiver run down my back. "Then... where did he take it from?"

Professor Zuhair looked at me with a serious look. "Rahaf, did he say anything uncomfortable to you?"

"No, no. He was very polite. He said he was looking for a teacher for the Oud."

"Fine, I'll talk to him about this subject. And I don't want you to answer him again, understood?"

"I understand, Professor."

I left his office, my heart beating fast. How did he reach my number? At the institute, numbers are kept in administration records. No student can reach them. Unless... unless someone had given it to him. Or if he had seen me writing it somewhere. Or if he had searched for me.

I walked in the corridor, my head spinning. I was trying to remember if I had met him anywhere before. Did I see him at a party? In a lesson? In the street? No. I hadn't seen him before yesterday. "Rahaf!"

I turned. It was Mira running towards me, her long black hair flying behind her. "Mira, I—"

"Did you hear the news?"

"What news?"

"The scholarship!" My heart froze. "What about it?"

"They changed the date. The audition is in two weeks, not a month."

"What?!"

"Yeah by God. The announcement is hanging on the news board. Go see." I ran to the news board in the institute hall. There was a group of students crowding in front of it. I made my way between them, and stood in front of the announcement.

Two weeks. Only two weeks. I felt dizzy. I grabbed the edge of the board so as not to fall. "Rahaf, are you okay?"

Mira's voice was near, but it sounded distant. "I am..."

"Rahaf." Another voice. Quiet. Familiar. I turned. It was Karim standing behind me. He was carrying a cup of coffee, and on his face was a worried smile. "Are you okay? You looked pale."

"I'm fine."

"Take it. Drink water." He took a small water bottle out of his bag, opened it, and offered it to me. I hesitated. Mira was looking at him with narrowed eyes. I knew she was about to intervene, so I took the bottle quickly. "Thank you."

I took a sip. "The date has advanced," Karim said quietly. "This is hard on everyone. You're one of the candidates, right?"

"Yes."

"And me too." I looked at him. "You're a candidate?"

"Yes. This is the reason for my transfer to this institute. I was at the Damascus Conservatory, but the conditions... in any case, I transferred here a month ago. And Professor Zuhair accepted to nominate me for the scholarship."

Two weeks. And a new competitor. I felt as if the ground was slipping from under my feet. "Good luck," I said in a low voice. "And to you too."

I walked away with Mira. She was walking fast, dragging me by my hand. "Rahaf, I told you. This guy has something not normal about him."

"Mira, now the problem is the scholarship. Two weeks. How will I be ready?"

"Rahaf, listen to me. The date didn't advance by accident. The administration doesn't change dates like that. Something happened."

"What thing?"

"I don't know. But it's not normal. And this guy comes out a candidate after he called you last night? As if he's building a relationship with you before the competition."

I looked at her. "Mira, you're exaggerating."

"Rahaf."

"Enough. I have to go practice." I left her standing in the middle of the corridor, and went to the practice room. But I couldn't play. My head was spinning. The questions were many. And the time was short. And in the background of everything, Karim's smile was floating before my eyes. A quiet, polite smile. And unnatural in a way I can't describe.

On the way back home, I stopped at Uncle Salim's grocery store to buy some bread. The street was relatively quiet, the sun had begun to tilt toward sunset. I entered. I chose a bag of bread, and put it on the counter. "How are you, my daughter?" Uncle Salim said with his usual smile. "Praise be to God, Uncle."

"How's your mother?"

"She sends her regards." I paid the bill, and left the shop. Then I stopped. Something caught my attention.

At the opposite corner, under the light of the electric pole, a person stood. He wasn't completely clear, but I saw his features. Karim. He was looking at his phone, as if waiting for someone. Then he raised his head. And saw me. He smiled. And waved his hand greeting me from afar. I froze in my place. The grocery store... my house... between my house and the institute is a long distance. What was he doing here, in our neighborhood, at this time of the evening? I turned my back quickly, and walked in the opposite direction, even though my house was in the direction he was standing.

I knew. I knew now. The numbers weren't a coincidence. Nor was the call a coincidence. Nor was the advanced date a coincidence. Nor was his standing in front of our neighborhood grocery store a coincidence. Something is happening. Something started since I looked into his eyes the first time. And I don't know yet where it will take me.

Chapter Four

Three days passed. Three days while I was trying to convince myself that what I saw at the grocery store was a coincidence. Perhaps Karim was looking for a house in the neighborhood. Perhaps he has a relative living here. Perhaps... perhaps... a thousand "perhaps" I repeat in my head until I sleep. But sleep was not coming.

Every night, I sit in front of the Oud until dawn. I play, and repeat, and play. My fingers became hard, and the skin cracked on their tips. My mother stopped asking me if I had eaten. She started putting the food plate beside me on the floor in the room, and closing the door behind her.

Today, Thursday morning, I woke up late. I had only slept three hours. And when I opened my eyes, the sun had risen, and my mother's voice reaches me from the kitchen. "Rahaf, you have a visitor."

I raised my head. "A visitor?"

"Yeah. A young man from the institute. His name is Karim." Everything in me froze. "Mom, what?"

"What's with you? Go down and see. He's standing at the door." I went down quickly, my hair still messy, and the shirt I slept in still on me. I stood on the stairs, and looked toward the door. Karim was standing there, behind my mother, carrying a small box of sweets. "Good morning, Rahaf."

My mother turned to me, with a comfortable smile on her face. "This young man brought you Professor Zuhair's notes. He said you forgot them yesterday at the institute." Notes? I hadn't forgotten anything. "Mom, leave us for a bit."

"Rahaf, talk with politeness. The young man—"

"Mom, please." My mother looked at me for a long time, then withdrew to the kitchen. I approached Karim. I lowered my voice. "How did you know where I live?"

He smiled. "Professor Zuhair. He gave me the address with the notes."

"Professor Zuhair told me he didn't give you my number. And now he gives you my address?" His smile didn't change. "Rahaf, I don't understand why you suspect me. I'm only trying to be kind."

"Listen, Karim. I don't know you. And I don't want to know you. Please stay away from me." He took a paper out of his pocket, and put it in my hand. "Take it. These are the notes of the piece you'll play in the audition. Right?"

I looked at the paper. They were the notes of the piece "Sama'i Bayati" by Al-Qasabji. The piece I chose for the audition. The piece I hadn't told anyone about except Professor Zuhair. I raised my eye to him. His smile was still in its place. "How did you know?"

"Rahaf, we're in a small conservatory. News spreads."

"This is not news. This is my personal choice. I haven't told anyone."

"Perhaps the professor mentioned it in front of me."

"Professor Zuhair doesn't talk about his students in front of each other." Silence. Then he said, in a quieter voice: "Rahaf, you're tense. I understand that. The audition is in ten days. If you needed any help—"

"Get out of my house."

"Rahaf—"

"Get out." His smile began to fade. For the first time, I saw something different in his eyes. Something that was hidden under that polite layer. It wasn't exactly anger. It was something... colder. Then the smile returned. "Understood. I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I wish you success in the audition."

He turned, and walked slowly toward the street. He didn't look back once. I closed the door. I leaned against the wall, and took a deep breath. My hands were trembling. "Rahaf?" My mother came out of the kitchen, with worry on her face. "What happened? Why did you kick him out?"

"Mom, this young man is stalking me."

"Stalking you? What do you mean he's stalking you?"

"He knows things about me he shouldn't know. He knows my number, my address, and even the piece I'll play in the audition."

My mother was silent for a moment. Then she said: "Honey, the young man brought you a gift, and delivered notes to you. Why do you interpret everything in a bad way?"

"Mom, you don't understand—"

"Rahaf, you're nineteen years old. Not once has a young man come out with you. Not once did you think of a human other than the Oud. I'm worried about you, my daughter. It's not normal that you live like this." I looked at her. "Mom, I'm not talking about marriage. I'm talking about a stranger stalking me."

"Perhaps he's admired you, and doesn't know how to express it."

"Mom!"

"Enough. Go practice. And think a bit before you refuse everything." She went into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the hall. I looked at the music sheet in my hand. Then I noticed. In the corner of the paper, there was a small line in red pen. I approached. Karim had written a small number. Numbers and letters. I didn't understand them for a moment. Then I understood. They were coordinates. Coordinates of a place.

Chapter Five

I spent the whole day trying to ignore the coordinates. I went to the institute. I practiced. I returned home. I played. I ate half a plate. I slept. But at night, I woke up at three in the morning, and found myself writing the coordinates in the map on my phone. The place was near. A side street in the Gemmayzeh neighborhood. It was no more than fifteen minutes away on foot from my house. What does he want from me? Why is he playing this game?

I closed the phone. I tried to sleep. I couldn't. In the morning, I went to the institute. Karim was there, practicing in the violin room. When he saw me, he smiled, and waved at me quietly, as if nothing had happened. I didn't reply. I approached Professor Zuhair during the break. "Professor, I need to talk to you."

"Go ahead, Rahaf."

"Karim Al-Ali came to my house yesterday." Professor Zuhair froze. "What?"

"He said you gave him my address, with notes." He got up from the chair. "Rahaf, I didn't give him anything. No number, no address, no notes. And I spoke with him on Monday, and warned him from approaching you again."

I felt as if the air had been sucked out of my lungs. "Then how..."

"Rahaf, listen to me. This young man has a problem. I called the Damascus Conservatory to inquire about him after you spoke to me last time. They told me he was never a student of theirs in any way."

"What?!"

"The papers he submitted to the conservatory are forged. I discovered this yesterday, and was going to inform the administration today. He's not registered in any music conservatory in Syria."

"Then... who is he?"

"I don't know. But the administration will take care of the matter. I don't want you to approach him. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Professor." I left his office, my heart beating strongly. Who is Karim? And why is he stalking me specifically?

On the way back home, I stopped in the street. I took the paper out of my pocket. And looked at the coordinates. Something inside me told me: go. Something else said: flee. I chose the first. I don't know why. Perhaps because I was tired of fear. Perhaps because I wanted to know the truth. Perhaps because, in some depth, I knew that fleeing was no longer possible. I walked toward the Gemmayzeh neighborhood. The coordinates were pointing to a corner of a small street, behind an old carpentry workshop. I arrived there at about four in the afternoon. The sun had begun to tilt. The street was almost empty. And there was no one. I stood at the corner, looking around me. Perhaps I was late. Perhaps he had left. Then I heard a voice behind me.

"You came." I turned. Karim was standing a few steps away. He was wearing a black shirt this time, and holding a water bottle.

"What do you want from me?" He smiled. "Rahaf, calm down. I won't hurt you."

"Professor Zuhair knows. Your papers are forged. You are not a student." His smile widened. "I know. They will discover a lot in the coming days."

He approached a step. I stepped back. "Stay away from me."

"Rahaf, listen to me. I'm not here to hurt you. I'm here because I..." He stopped. For the first time, he seemed unsure of his words. "Because you what?"

"Because I know who killed your father." Something fell inside me. "What?"

"Your father, Emad Nassar. He died three years ago in a car accident, right?" "Yes."

"It wasn't an accident." I felt the ground spinning under my feet. "What are you saying?"

"Your father was working as an accountant in the Jalabi Import Company. He discovered smuggling operations. He was going to report. So they staged the accident for him."

"You're lying."

"Jalabi. Does the name mean something to you?" My heart was beating with insane speed. Jalabi. I heard this name in my childhood. My father used to mention it sometimes in the evening, when he sits with my mother and whispers. I was young, I didn't understand. "How do you know this?"

"Because I'm his son." I froze. "What?"

"I'm Karim Jalabi. Son of Nizar Jalabi. The man who killed your father." I looked at him. I couldn't speak.

"My father died a year ago. I was living in the Emirates with him. When he died, I opened his files. I found everything. The company, the smuggling, the people who were killed. I found your father's name. And I found your picture."

"My picture?"

"My father used to keep pictures of all the families of those he killed. As if they were... souvenirs. I don't know why. Perhaps he was sick. When I saw your picture, I saw a girl who looked like my sister who died young. I felt something... I can't explain it."

"So you came to tell me this?"

"I came to compensate you."

"Compensate me?"

"I know you and your mother live with difficulty. I know the scholarship is your life buoy. I know everything about you, Rahaf. I've followed you for two months. And I entered the institute to get close to you."

"Oh God..."

"I submitted a nomination for the scholarship so that I withdraw before the audition, and you take it. And I staged the advance of the date because the judging committee will change, and the new committee has a friend of mine who will guarantee you win. And I have an amount of money, my father's inheritance, I want to give you half of it."

I looked at him. I was trying to understand. Everything he said. Everything I knew now about my father. Who died wronged and we didn't know. "You..."

"I know, Rahaf. I know this is hard. But I wanted to fix what my father did." He approached another step. And for the first time since I met him, I saw in his eyes something sincere. Fatigue. Regret. "Karim, I..." I was going to say something. I don't know what. Perhaps "thank you". Perhaps "get out of my face". Perhaps "how do I believe you".

But I didn't say anything. Because the sound of the car came first. A black car. Its speed was high. It came out of the corner of the street. And I saw the driver's face. A man I don't know. His face was hard. His eyes were cold. And I saw something shining in his hand. Karim saw it before me. He pushed me. He pushed me hard to the side, so I fell on the sidewalk.

I heard the shots. Three shots. Then the sound of the car's tires taking off. Then silence. I raised my head. Karim was lying on the ground. Blood spreading under him. The water bottle had fallen from his hand, and rolled beside him. "Karim!" I crawled to him. I put his head on my knee. His eyes were open, but he wasn't seeing me completely.

"Rahaf..."

"Karim, stay strong. I'll call the ambulance. Stay strong."

"My father... had... enemies..."

"Be quiet. Don't speak."

"Rahaf..." He grabbed my hand. His hand was cold. "The money... in my bag... at home... street... Jor street..."

"Karim, don't die. Please."

"Rahaf... forgive me..." Then he went silent. His eyes remained open. But he wasn't there.

I sat in the street, his head on my knee, for half an hour before anyone came. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I was only looking at his face. This face that smiled at me four days ago at the entrance of the institute. This face that terrified me. This face that saved me. When the police came, they took me. They asked me. I answered with an automated voice. I told them everything. Even about my father.

In the news, the next day, the headline was: "Young man killed in front of a Beirut family due to settlements between smuggling gangs." They didn't mention his name. They didn't mention that he wanted to fix something. They didn't mention that he saved me.

The End

I returned home in the evening. My mother was waiting for me. When she saw my face, she understood. She didn't say anything. I went up to my room. I took the Oud out of its case. And looked at it for a long time. Then I put it on the shelf. And I didn't touch it again.

On many days, I walk on Gemmayzeh Street. I pass by that corner. I stop. I look at the ground. There is no trace of blood. They washed it long ago. There is no trace of him. No one knows that he died there. Sometimes I wonder: was he lying? Was everything he said about my father a truth? Or was it another trap, another way to get to me? I don't know. And I will never know. I went once to Jor Street. There was a small house. I didn't enter. I stood in front of it for a long time, then I left. Perhaps the bag was there. Perhaps the money was in it. Perhaps I would have saved my mother from the debts. But I couldn't. Because I don't want anything from him. I don't want his money. Nor his apology. Nor to know the truth. I just want to forget his eyes. And I don't forget.

My mother passed away two years later. The debts ate what remained for us. I sold the house. I lived in a small room in the Achrafieh area. I worked in a musical instruments store, selling to people instruments I no longer played. Every day, I see a new Oud leaving the store in the hands of a customer. And I smile. And I say to him: "Take care of it." And I don't talk about anything else.

Because the most hideous days, as I said at the beginning, start like any ordinary day. I woke up that morning, and in my head were the audition, the scholarship, and the Oud. And I didn't know. I didn't know that I would lose everything in four days. And I didn't know that the man I feared was the last person who tried to protect me in this world.

The End.