Mr. N listened gratefully to Kareem. Without him, he wouldn’t have known that Luqman came in only on afternoons, which inspired a deep curiosity and a desire to stick around. This kid was just like Luqman, that handsome young rogue, in the days when he launched himself upon Shireen, greedy for her citizenship. But Luqman, unlike the youth of today, was actually a war criminal, one of the war’s great killers, a true lord of war, and the world was too much for him when peace came. He lost his way until he found his former companions, killers like himself. Together, they founded a company for exterminating rats. That’s how he met Shireen, a French archaeology scholar of Lebanese descent, who came to Beirut to take part in the reconstruction. Ha! Reconstruction of what? Shireen fell in love with Luqman, and he, for his part, considered her a prize catch, a means of expunging his record and starting life again, with a new identity in a distant country. He strove desperately to make her fall in love with him, and he achieved his aim. She went ahead to Paris in order to arrange his paperwork and then send for him.

Two days before Luqman left to meet her, Mr. N was going mad. How could he let him go? How could he let him get away? “Everyone like Luqman is getting off scot-free,” people consoled Mr. N. “Just look around. This one, at least, looks like he might be able to turn over a new leaf … ” But no, Mr. N lost it. Did they really believe a murderer could change? When did the ones he murdered get a chance to start over? When did they get new lives? And people wanted to give him a free pass after everything he’s done? All the things he’s blown up or stolen, all the human beings he put in the ground? “A general amnesty,” they told Mr. N, and: “Let’s turn the page on the war and begin a new chapter.” A new chapter? Really? A new chapter starring the same vile criminals, thieves, and butchers? Did they think even God could forgive what was past? Well, maybe so—but not I! I’ve never forgiven, and I never will.

Mr. N couldn’t believe how strange other people considered it that he refused to reconcile, that he insisted on a reckoning and an interrogation of the past, insisted on seeing that everyone who had committed deliberate, premeditated murder and who had turned the survivors’ lives into a living hell should pay for it. He spent forty-eight hours turning things over in his head, pacing back and forth across his room, finally climbing the walls and bouncing off the ceiling, trying to think. He came up with a plan, but just as quickly replaced it with another. Meanwhile, time rushed on, the war receded, and Luqman was getting ready to travel. He was packing his things, saying goodbye to his friends, and answering phone calls from Shireen, who followed along—long-distance—with each and every step he took. As the sun set, Mr. N was at the railing of his beloved balcony, still thinking. The other buildings were all asleep, the defiant tower was quiet, the street was empty. If only Mr. N could take the only logical step. If only he could end the murderer’s life …