He nods, but he doesn’t know which stairs the voice is referring to. The stairs in this building? Some other stairs? But the man has already turned around and is heading towards the door.

‘Wait!’ Jacob says and grabs his shoulder. ‘Which stairs?’

The man turns around, his expression still warm, but he’s no longer smiling, and something flashes in those eyes when he glances down to where Jacob is holding his shoulder. Jacob feels guilty, as if he’s committed some inexcusable mistake, and perhaps he has. He read that it’s illegal here, what the two of them are obviously up to. The police usually ignore it, but if you’re unlucky or if they want to hurt you, you can be arrested for being gay. Thrown in prison, deported, subjected to humiliating medical exams. Jacob pulls his hand back.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

The man smiles again, just a little, and bends towards him. ‘You’re new to Beirut,’ he says. ‘I understand. Take a left on Armenia Street, go fifty metres, it will be on your left side. The colourful stairs that lead up to Ashrafieh. Hurry.’

And with that, he’s gone.

It doesn’t take Jacob long to find Alexa, and thank her for the wine and the party. She smiles and kisses him on both cheeks.

‘Just promise me you won’t turn into a real diplomat,’ she says.

That ‘real’ stings a bit, but Jacob lets it pass. He doesn’t want to be seen as somebody who’s not ‘real’. And besides, what does Alexa know? She’s just a hippie, right? But he promises to try, smiles indulgently, and feels like the naturalness of his smile is proof of an innate talent for diplomacy that will take him far.

‘Here,’ Alexa says, pushing a business card into his hand. ‘In case I don’t have time to say goodbye tomorrow. If you ever want to visit me. Just call first, baby. Shatila is a labyrinth. You’ll disappear there if you don’t know what you’re doing.’

She kisses him on the cheek again, and Jacob smells wine and garlic and also a sort of natural self-confidence on her breath. She steps back and looks deep into his eyes.

‘Beirut is not Sweden, habibi,’ she says. ‘Be careful. About everything.’

*

A few minutes later he’s stumbling over the broken cobblestones and concrete of Armenia Street, past the bars on the narrow sidewalks where parties spill out into stationary traffic. Honking and revving motorcycles. Calvin Harris and Arabic pop music, which sounds like nothing he’s ever heard before. He feels confused and exhilarated and exhausted – like he might never sleep again.