Traffic was nearly at a standstill, and the sun’s rays were already being sharpened on its fiery whetstone. Disgusting smells were about to ripen completely and run riot through minds and moods. The entire scene was liable to melt together, blending colors, skin tones, and voices. Seeing it was 10:25, I quickened my pace. I’d pick up something for lunch on my way, I thought, since Shaygha wouldn’t have time to prepare the Nepalese feast she had promised.

When I reached the bridge, I plugged my nose as I met the smell of everything that had transformed Beirut River into a gutter of shit and filth and slaughterhouse scraps. Before I crossed into the neighborhood of Mar Mikhael on the other side of Armenia Street and bade farewell to this accursed little planet, I promised myself I wouldn’t tread this spool of humanity ever again. I even thought, as I walked, that I should think about going abroad and settling down somewhere—in Europe, for instance, maybe France or England. I should get back to teaching creative writing—or any teaching at all. I could talk to Sa’id about selling the apartment and the land we owned and buy a house somewhere—calm and apart—or else acquire some plot of land and live, my wife and I, off what we could grow or raise. My imagination quickly carried me off to that farm, and I saw Shaygha raising chicken and sheep, making milk, yogurt, and cheese, and growing tomatoes, lettuce, green beans, and cucumbers. I saw myself sitting at my desk, typing out my books on a laptop as I watched her, coming and going in the distance, exhausting herself all day as I did nothing besides write and think.

I felt a sudden dizziness and the beginnings of nausea taking root in the pit of my stomach, and I stopped, mastering the urge to vomit. The idea bothered me very much that I would sink so low as that, right there in the street in view of everyone, and I swallowed my feelings of constriction. I flagged down a passing taxi and asked to be taken quickly to my apartment in Abdel Wahab El Inglizi Street.

This time I rode in the back. I was overjoyed to find it was an actual taxi and not a shared-service taxi. When I got in, the driver closed the windows and turned on the air conditioning. He didn’t say anything after asking which part of the street I was heading for. Near the Albergo Hotel, I told him. He nodded his assent and turned his eyes back to the road, scarcely acknowledging my presence after that. Maybe it’s my appearance, I thought, or else his youth and the necessity of earning a living in this profession, that inspires his reserve. Or maybe it’s the address, which for so long made me feel a sense of distinction, especially when you bring together “Abdel Wahab” and “El Inglizi.” It imparted a sense of peculiarity and foreignness, something you don’t often get from the names of other streets.