A cappella

Chapter 9: Tell me a Story

It was chaos: there was blood on the floor and on the walls, wounded people moaning on both sides, endless bed sheets stretched vertically to separate the iron beds that lined up all the way into the hospital corridor.

His father had carried him, supporting him as best he could... it was impossible to find a taxi in the streets strewn with rubble, until an ambulance arrived at the scene of the bombardment and transported them to the hospital.

All along the way, he was delirious in French: "help me, save me!", fear and pain caused him to forget that he was in Damascus, that Arabic was the spoken language.

He was under shock, but it was only a broken arm in the end.

Since there was no more plaster to immobilize the fractured bone in this overworked public hospital, the young medical student had placed a temporary wooden splint to his arm and had advised his father to take Max to be treated elsewhere, if that was possible for them.

They left Damascus on that same night, the same way they came from, by the road to Lebanon, leaving behind Max's paternal grandmother, who refused to leave her country, not believing in danger.

She said they were all just made up stories, referring to the news on television.

The only reason they went there in the first place was to try and convince her to leave with them to safety, as long as there was still time, but she preferred to stay in her apartment, the familiar setting of a lifetime.

It was the last time they would ever dare visit her, waiting now in the calm and safety of Vienna for peace to return to Syria and for the road to Damascus to open again.

The taxi driver who was driving them towards the border chatted with his father like two old friends, telling him his life story, and through the half open window, a cold breeze and pure air descended from the eternally snowy mountains, as if the grumbling revolution was only a punctual event, which would come to pass as other dramas had passed on these lands since the beginning of time.

It was these images that Max saw again, while following with his gaze the dance of the dust in the ray of the sunlight that crossed his room in the hospital of Bayonne.

Here, everything was clear and clean, and he was quietly waiting for permission to leave the hospital where he had been admitted the day before, for head and hand injuries caused by the scraps of broken glass.

Despite that, he felt well, in perfect health, with only the regret of having somewhat spoiled his grandparents' anniversary party.

"What a bunch of Drama, Max! I think that I shall never forget the image of my son dressed all in black with his head bleeding, in the midst of a garden full of festivities!" She said as she entered the room, and with her, her familiar perfume and smile. " I arrived yesterday at just the right time, my plane was late, and I pushed the garden gate just when you went landing on the table..."

They both laughed.

Max's mother was dressed in her usual long dark garments, plain colors that went well together, but that did not say much about her.

Max was glad to see her smiling face, still young, with no make up on, and her sensitive eyes that reflected the pleasure she had seeing him now healthy.

"There was a young girl who came over to the house this morning asking about you. She also brought you a few books. She said you could choose which ever book you wanted to start with but that you had to read them all."

"What girl? Marion? A thin girl, charming, with a ponytail, brown hair..."

"It's Marion, right?" She only stopped by for a second. "Here are the books...let's see: a few stories by Maupassant, Candid of Voltaire, the little prince by Saint Exupéry... funny that choice... and then Astérix and Caesar's gift, I love it! She has taste this Marion... She wants to educate you?"

"Yeahhh... they realized, both her and all of my new friends, that I didn't know much in French! Seems like you cannot be French if you haven't read these books! You could've told me about them a little more, don't you think mom?"

"In any case, it's never too late. Besides, I once read you the little prince, you know, with the fox who wants to be tamed... remember that? Start with that, it's the easiest. Meanwhile, I'll go have lunch with your grandparents, I'll see you tonight, at their house!"

"Did you get me a copy of your last piece of written work?"

She had been collaborating for a few years with a women's magazine, where she wrote a literary heading of one page each week. It was called "tell me a story" and she was free to choose the subject.

Max, willingly manipulative, flattered himself to knowing the right questions to ask each person, especially his mother.

He knew what to say to make her laugh or to make her angry.

In this case, talking about what she wrote was the surest way of keeping her with him a while longer.

"I don't have the magazine, no, but if you want, I have my last article that I finished correcting on the plane" She said, sitting down on the edge of the bed to open her bag. "Here! I will let you read it alone, let me know what you think... It is a fantasy with elements of reality, as usual"

Then she left in spite of himself, leaving him alone, with the words.

.....

Writing this chapter, i couldnt help but feel sad for the people of Syria! Raising awarness of issues in this world is important for every writer!

please vote or comment if uve liked the chapter! thank you!