Slowly, it all comes back to me.
The air smells unfamiliar. I’m rattled by how strange it feels to be here. I hear noises outside, the clamour of voices. I try to distinguish the sounds: revving engines, beeping horns, mopeds clattering, sirens wailing in the distance. Voices layered on top of each other, like at a market. A loudspeaker briefly clicks and crackles, and a second later a song floats into my room. It sounds like a slow lament.
Allahu akbar, ashadu an la ilaha ill-allah.
The muezzin calling for prayer. The words themselves have never meant anything to me, but I’ve always loved the way they sound.
I’m really here, then. The wind carries the call from the minarets of the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque down to me, mixing it with the noise of the city to create a sublime melody. I sink back into my pillow and close my eyes.
Ashadu ana muḥammadan rasulu-Ilah.
Memories pin me to the bed. I exhale and feel the tingle of goosebumps. It’s as if for years I’ve only ever seen a cheap reproduction of a precious painting, but now I have the original in front of me, far more awe-inspiring and beautiful than I could ever have imagined.
When the call to prayer fades away, I throw the duvet aside and sit up. The rucksack beside the bed catches my eye. The airline tag is still attached to the strap. I go into the bathroom. Toiletries are arranged on the shelf above the sink: a nail file, soap, body lotion, and a folded hand towel. BEST WESTERN HOTEL. My swollen red eyes look back at me in the mirror.
Later, I scan the lobby for his face. Hotel staff push luggage trolleys through the foyer. A cleaner with a blue bucket wipes the windows. A man on a black leather armchair near the entrance reads a newspaper, two women with headscarves and red fingernails tap at their smartphones, and a child tries to reach the coin slot of a candy vending machine.
He’s not here. I can’t see him anywhere.
“Eight o’clock, no problem,” he said when he dropped me off yesterday. It’s almost 8:30 now. I’m late. I put my rucksack on the floor in front of the reception desk.
“I’d like to check out, please.”
The young woman looks at me and gives a business-like smile. I can smell her perfume, which I suspect all the female staff here wear, as it pervades the entire hotel. Sweet and milky with a harsh edge, it’s a typical hotel smell, designed to be registered briefly and immediately forgotten, yet strong enough to disguise the odour of carpets and cleaning agents.
“Did you have a pleasant stay, Mr. …”—she looks at the computer screen—“Mr. el-Hourani?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Breakfast is served until ten. The breakfast room is on the first floor.”
I’m not hungry; I can feel the tension in my stomach.
“Can I do anything else for you?”
I notice a little black dot on her eyelid and imagine her kohl pencil slipping as she was getting ready for work this morning.
“No, thanks.”
From the reception desk I can see another part of the foyer. Men in suits sit on the leather armchairs, looking at laptops or holding mobile phones to their ears. He isn’t among them. I turn back to the receptionist.
“Excuse me, was there a man looking for me earlier by any chance?”
“Someone looking for you? Not as far as I know. Just a minute. Hamid …” She turns to a colleague who’s pulling a suitcase out of the storage room. “Has anyone been asking for Mr. el-Hourani?”
“No,” her colleague replies.
“Sorry,” she says. “Have you got a number for him? I can call him if you like.”
“No need, thanks.”
He never gave me a card anyway.
The main door keeps opening and shutting, letting travellers and warm air in. Outside, the sun’s shining. It’s like walking into a hot, damp towel. The heat is so overwhelming that I barely hear the doorman’s “Have a good day, sir.” It’s nearly nine o’clock. Above me, the hotel’s logo emits a bluish-yellow gleam. Cars and mopeds speed by. Expensive pictures are on display in a window across the street; Anaay Gallery, an elegant font above the door announces. Next door, there’s a McDonald’s. Men with trendy beards wearing muscle shirts and sunglasses amble down the footpath. They look like surfers, like California beach bums. In fact, apart from the suited business people clutching briefcases as they frantically wave down taxis, the neighbourhood ahead of me looks more than modern; it actually seems pretty hip. A group of young women in blouses and miniskirts glides past me. They’re followed by a man in a dirty white T-shirt pushing a cart full of oranges, sweat glistening on his forehead. I watch the girls nimbly skip out of the way as a man pours a cascade of water out onto the street. Through the shimmering air, amid the jumble of buildings, I make out the turquoise domes and two of the four towers of the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque. The street sign reads Bechara el-Khoury. It’s surreal to be here at last. The city doesn’t smell like I thought it would. I expected the aromas of falafel, thyme, and saffron, smells that had always filled our street. But it’s hot and sticky here, and it smells of exhaust fumes and dust. It doesn’t sound like I expected, either—not like animated chatter in cafés and music, not like the plucked string of a lute or qanun. It sounds like any other big city.
I shift indecisively from one leg to the other. If he’s just late, it would be a mistake to set off on my own now. But it’s already past nine. I’ve probably missed him.
Was he the person who’d knocked on my door earlier? Probably not, seeing as there was a laundry trolley and a vacuum cleaner in the corridor; chamber maids at work. Plus he would have had to ask for my room number at reception. We barely know each other. No, there’s no point in waiting or looking for him any longer.
I’m here. In Beirut. For the first time in my life. Everything is foreign and new yet oddly familiar, like bumping into a once-close friend whom I haven’t seen in a long time. Home, I think. This is home. Although my roots are here, it feels strange, unreal. Like in a long-distance relationship, when you spend the first hours of each reunion getting used to each other again, remembering familiar caresses. So that’s what it looks like when you smile. Except this isn’t a reunion.
“Hey … what are you doing here?” A dusty old Volvo is crawling along beside me. It seems out of place in this gentrified street. The cars behind it brake and beep. It’s the same car, the same guy who brought me here from the airport yesterday. “It is you, isn’t it?”
I slow down. The man leans across the passenger seat and shouts through the open window: “Didn’t we arrange to meet in the hotel?”
Astonished that he’s appeared here out of the blue, I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“Yes, we did.”
“At eight o’clock, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And look, here I am, as promised.”
“Eight o’clock,” I repeat.
“What time is it?”
“Almost half past nine.”
He laughs.
“Welcome to Beirut! Get in.”
The car jerks to a halt and the beeping around us becomes louder. The car is now blocking the street, and the other motorists have to cross into the other lane to get past. I flop into the passenger seat. It’s even hotter in here than out on the footpath.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asks.
“Air conditioning,” I say, throwing my rucksack onto the back seat.
He shrugs. This is the