‘Is that what you want?’ says Jacob. ‘Do you want to stay away from me?’

He’s not just seeking confirmation, not just waiting to hear Yassim say: ‘No, of course not. I want to be with you forever.’ He says it because he doesn’t know what this is, who Yassim is.

But his friend rolls onto his side and puts on his white briefs and his shirt.

‘Come,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat something.’

*

By the time Jacob pulls on his jeans and T-shirt and goes out into the large living room, Yassim has cleared the computer from the table and arranged takeout boxes of salads and spreads. He opens a bag of pita bread and tears it into pieces.

‘I picked up some food on my way,’ he says, smiling at Jacob. ‘Thought you might be hungry.’

Jacob nods, moved by this thoughtfulness, and keeps his eyes on Yassim’s face, though Yassim never looks directly at him. Jacob watches as he fills up bowls, puts the bread in a basket. Jacob wants nothing more than to go and put his arms around him. The doubts he felt seem negligible now. That Yassim is what Myriam says he is seems only laughable. He suddenly wants to tell him everything. About Myriam and the bathhouse and the threats and accusations. But something holds him back, and he turns his eyes away. A little sliver of suspicion.

‘Were you in Aleppo?’ he asks quietly. ‘This whole time?’

Yassim puts tabbouleh on Jacob’s plate and drizzles olive oil over a container of grainy baba ganoush.

‘I’ve been just about everywhere,’ he says cautiously. ‘I go where they want me.’

Jacob nods. Why would he lie? And yet he can’t let go of Myriam’s words. All these conflicting agendas.

‘I got here a bit early,’ Jacob begins doubtfully. ‘So I was waiting outside.’

He gestures towards the window where the city’s yellow light streams onto the grey concrete floor. ‘You had a visitor right before I arrived?’

Yassim takes a bite and looks up at him questioningly. He shakes his head slightly. ‘Excuse me? I don’t quite follow you.’

‘I thought I saw someone in the window,’ Jacob says, looking away. ‘But I must have been wrong.’

Wasn’t that Yassim’s apartment he was looking up at? Wasn’t that Yassim he saw? He’d been so sure. But now Yassim just smiles at him.

‘You must have been spying on the wrong apartment, Jacob,’ he says, taking another bite of the bread. ‘I’m not the only one who lives here.’

Jacob shrugs. ‘I guess so. Sorry.’

But it does seem to be only Yassim’s apartment that’s inhabited. And he’s absolutely sure he’d recognize Yassim’s silhouette anywhere. But he doesn’t say anything. Just eats his hummus Beiruti and takes a gulp of water.