The Storyteller. Pierre Jarawan

grey-and-red checked shirt. Too many layers for this weather.

      “I’m not sure I introduced myself properly yesterday,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Nabil.”

      “Samir,” I say as the car pulls off.

      “So Samir, what can I do for you?”

      The question catches me off guard, mainly because I don’t know the answer yet myself. He approached me yesterday in front of the official taxi rank. The night was orange, humid, and warm, in startling contrast to the cool, neon-lit terminal. He came up to me and offered to take me into town for a fraction of the usual price. I hadn’t booked a hotel, so he recommended the Best Western and drove me there. Just before we arrived, I told him I’d need a driver the next day and asked if he could pick me up in the morning.

      Nabil noticed my hesitance.

      “How about I show you the city?”

      We follow the dense flow of traffic. Massive waves of glass and concrete rise up beside us: skyscrapers, banks, hotels, office blocks, and apartment complexes with penthouses, everything ochre-coloured, clean, modern.

      “That there,” says Nabil, pointing through the windscreen, “is the Mohammed al-Amin Mosque.”

      I studied my guidebook during the flight here; the mosque was number six on the map of the city’s attractions. “First time in Beirut?” the blonde woman in the window seat beside me had asked as she eyed my book with curiosity. “Yes,” I answered, feeling like a damn tourist. “This is my fourth visit,” she said. “The first time was in the sixties, before the war. They’ve rebuilt it beautifully. Really, they did a great job. If you’re looking for a good place to go shopping,”—I noticed a reddish-gold bracelet glinting on her wrist as she spoke—“go to Hamra. It’s full of designer stores, boutiques, malls, jewellers …” “Thanks for the tip,” I said, swiftly putting on my sleep mask.

      Bechara el-Khoury Road takes us right up to the mosque. There is something almost obscenely beautiful about the two blue domes rising from the surrounding sea of ochre. In the early morning light, the stone looks golden.

      “I heard the muezzin earlier,” I say, as if that’s a noteworthy occurrence in a city like Beirut.

      Nabil looks at me.

      “Are you Christian, then?”