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Chapters (85)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Joakim Zander
  3. THE FRIEND
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. Epigraph
  8. 1
  9. 5 August
  10. 21 November
  11. 5 August
  12. 21 November
  13. 5 August
  14. 21 November
  15. 12 August
  16. 21 November
  17. 14 August
  18. 21 November
  19. 17–22 August
  20. 22 November
  21. 24 August
  22. 22 November
  23. 7 September–16 October
  24. 22 November
  25. 16 October
  26. 22 November
  27. 20 October
  28. 22 November
  29. 20 October–13 November
  30. 22 November
  31. 13–14 November
  32. 22 November
  33. 14 November
  34. 22 November
  35. 14 November
  36. 23 November
  37. 14 November
  38. 2
  39. 23 November
  40. 14 November
  41. 23 November
  42. 14–15 November
  43. 23 November
  44. 15 November
  45. 23–24 November
  46. 15 November
  47. 24 November
  48. 15–21 November
  49. 24 November
  50. 21 November
  51. 24 November
  52. 23 November
  53. 24 November
  54. 23 November
  55. 24 November
  56. 24 November
  57. 24 November
  58. 24 November
  59. 24 November
  60. 3
  61. 24 November
  62. 24 November
  63. 24 November
  64. 24 November
  65. 25 November
  66. 25 November
  67. 25 November
  68. 25 November
  69. 25 November
  70. 25 November
  71. 25 November
  72. 25 November
  73. 25 November
  74. 25 November
  75. 25 November
  76. 25 November
  77. 25 November
  78. 25 November
  79. 25 November
  80. 25 November
  81. 26 November
  82. 26 November
  83. 26–28 November
  84. Acknowledgements
  85. An Invitation from the Publisher

The man from the terrace was right: the stairs are only fifty metres further down the street, each step painted in red, green, blue, black, yellow, forming an abstract pattern that leads straight up into the darkness and another part of town. Ashrafieh. Mar Mikhael, where he lives, is a working-class neighbourhood; Ashrafieh is for the rich, Christian elite.

Jacob sees the man standing halfway up the stairs and raises a hand in an eager, childish greeting. The man smiles and calmly waves him up. Jacob stops for a moment. He shouldn’t be doing this. Not on his first night in Beirut. He should say: ‘We’ll talk some other day.’ He should sleep and focus on his career and his new life. What he’s dreamed about ever since he started dreaming. Call Agneta early and ask if he can go in to the embassy, show them his resourcefulness, his sense of duty, his abilities.

He should, he should, he should.

But he knows he won’t do that, and as soon as he takes the first step onto the staircase he has to hold himself back from running up to the man.

*

They walk in darkness down the street above the stairs. Jacob is still winded; the stairs were longer than they looked. It’s unusually quiet up here in the middle of the night – not even the honking on Armenia Street makes it all the way up here. They walk in the middle of the street, because here among the crumbling art deco houses there’s no traffic, not now – this isn’t the Beirut Jacob saw earlier in the day, this is another city. Still chaotic, but calmer, with empty streets and alleys. Abandoned perhaps, a city after an evacuation or an apocalypse.

At first they say nothing to each other. Jacob feels like he’s lost his voice, or has suddenly forgotten how to formulate words and sentences. There’s so much he’d like to say, so much he’d like to ask or discuss, but he’s giddy and excited and tired, and this moment is so crisp and brittle that language might destroy it, words and sentences and subject matter might ruin it, change it, shift it up or down, or just cause it to disappear completely.