‘I’m so unbelievably tired,’ she says. ‘I think I have to head to bed right away, Gabi.’

*

Klara sits on the twin bed in her room, staring at her reflection in the dark window. Her blue eyes seem pale now, rather than intense as she sometimes hopes. The black eyeliner around her eyes, her sallow, autumn complexion. It’s been a long and terrible day. At the same time, she feels like somehow things will get sorted out. Maybe they’ll even get sorted out for her after all the shit she’s been through these past few years.

She turns off the lamp, stands up and walks over to the window. Wet flakes swirl in the wind. She puts her forehead against the cold glass and tries to catch sight of the sea and the islands with no success. But just as she’s about to climb back into bed, she hears something that makes her stop cold. The muffled sound of an engine, dampened by snow and wind, almost imperceptible.

Someone is driving on the road out there, and it’s getting louder. It sounds like someone is approaching the hostel.

14 August

Beirut

It’s a few minutes to nine, and the evening is in full swing on Armenia Street, just outside Jacob’s apartment building. Dressed to the nines, people wander with drinks in their hands through honking traffic, between restaurants and bars where the music is turned up to the max.

It’s been a hot day, and the stink of garbage is as overwhelming as it is inescapable, no choice but to get used to it, then forget it. As Jacob exits into the somewhat cool evening air of the street in front of Saliba Market, the smell hits him again, forcing him to suppress his queasiness.

A car should be picking him up here in a few minutes. It feels so strange. Was Vargander really serious about this? On the other hand, what does he have to lose if no car shows up? It’s not as if he knows anyone here or has made any plans.

It’s been over a week since Alexa’s rooftop party and his meeting with Yassim, and since then he’s basically spent all of his time at home, at the embassy, or at a few local restaurants. He’s almost in shock from Beirut, its chaos and messiness, that indeterminate menace that seems to rise from the asphalt and ooze out of every bullet hole on the buildings’ facades. He’s attracted to it, wants nothing more than to throw himself straight into it. But he doesn’t quite dare.

And then there’s Yassim. Just the thought of his name, his hands, his mouth, makes Jacob almost pant with desire. How could he feel like this after just a few hours in a dark garden late at night?