Beirut.

Her hustle and bustle had already begun on the streets below the small blue apartment. Bicycles rang their bells, women argued over prices and people talked. Loudly. Salahaddin could hear the next door neighbours on the balcony giving directions to some blonde tourist. You go straight! Yes! Yes! Straight, straight! Salahaddin was packed. His flight wasnt till early next morning but he liked to be ready. It meant less stress. Fewer worries. His day was planned. He would go out into the streets and take in has last breaths of the city. He would buy a falafel for lunch from that rather marvellous little falafel shop whose owner wore a cross round his neck and shaved his head so he resembled a strange sort of Middle Eastern rapper. Then he would take a little ramble downtown, gazing at all the brand name shops and rich wives in their big black cars who had been let loose with their husbands credit cards. Salahaddin found downtown Beirut a fascinating place. The wealth seemed so odd, stuck in the middle of a war ravaged country, whose public buses were a relic of the 1970s. Today was going to be a lazy day. All Salahaddin had to do was make sure the apartment keys were returned to Mr Mounayere sometime before night fell. That was all. Salahaddin took out his mobile and dialled the number. Alo? Mr Mounayere? Alo? Salahaddin here. Im leaving tomorrow morning, very early. When is a good time for you to pick up your keys? Ahhh! Salahaddin! My friend! How are you? Fine thank you Are you enjoying Beirut? It is beautiful yes? Till when you are here? I am leaving tomorrow Mr Mounayere. At 4 in the morning. Why you pick this time? Its too early. I didnt pick the time, Mr Mounayere, the airline did. That was the only time. Excuse me? I did not hearvery.well Salahaddin raised his voice. They didnt have many options. When would you like to collect the keys? Crackle. The line went dead. Salahaddin rang back. Busy. He sighed. The man must be very busy. Landlords usually were. He would ring later when it was more convenient. It was nearing lunchtime. Salahaddins tummy was looking forward greatly to that scrumptious Lebanese falafel, which, according to the shop owner was one million times better than the Egyptian falafel. In fact, it was they, who stole it from us! cried the falafel man as he cut, twisted, chucked and spun Salahaddins lunch into existence. It had taken Salahaddin half an hour to reach the shop, which had brought the time comfortably from almost lunchtime to well past lunchtime. I wouldnt know, replied Salahaddin, his eyes stalking the developing falafel. I have never tasted an Egyptian falafel before. Lebanese is better! exclaimed the skinhead. Believe me! Salahaddin decided not believing would be taken as a personal insult.

I am sure you are right, he agreed, reaching for his lunch. The bald little man slammed his hand down on the newly born falafel. I am half Egyptian, he said in a low voice, his dark eyes burning. I know this to be true. Salahaddin was saved by a fire of gunshots somewhere outside. Within seconds the contents of the shop had emptied itself onto the street. Alone at last, Salahaddin picked up his lunch and opened his mouth, ready to take a large bite when his phone rang. It was Mr Mounayere. My friend! Hello Mr Mounayere. I am sorry about the bad connection earlier. No problem Is everything ok? Salahaddin glanced at some boys running past the shop window towards where the gunshots had come from. Its the keys Mr Mounayere. The keys to your flat. Ah, but of course. I collect them tomorrow. No, no. I am leaving very early tomorrow. You need to get them today. Ah of course. What time do you think you will come? asked Salahaddin. He could hear shouting outside. I am on my way now, God willing. So you will be here in a few hours then? Salahaddin stuck his head out of the door. There was a great crowd gathered on the street. He quickly retired back into the shop. Yes a few hours, yes, God willing. Goodbye brother. The shop owner came back. Everything alright out there? asked Salahaddin, putting his phone in his jacket pocket. The falafel rap lookalike picked up his knife and started to hack at a piece of meat. Stupidity, he muttered. They are all sons of donkeys, these people that fight over religion. Salahaddin decided that lunch was over. By four in the afternoon he had had enough. It was August and very hot. Too hot. His shirt dripped with sweat and he was terribly thirsty. He squelched back to his apartment street where a little caf served that delicious sweet date extract called Jellab. After two glasses he felt sufficiently replenished to walk up the many stairs to his apartment. Hello Mr Mounayere. Its Salahaddin again. Ah, hello my friend! Where are you? I am on my way, God willing. God willing you will be here soon Only He knows, my friend Who? Allah Ah. Any chance it will be before 9?

Of course! Definitely before 9 God willing. Salahaddin was beginning to suspect God of tardiness. He looked at the clock. It was nearly 6. And at precisely 6 o clock, the whole street exploded. According to the news, it was one religious fanatic disagreeing with another religious fanatic, which ended up being disagreeable for the whole neighbourhood. According to the falafel man, it was nothing to do with religion. They are all sons of donkeys! he cried. Salahaddins telephone rang. It was 11 pm. My friend? Hello! My friend, I have just seen the news. Are you alright? Yes I am fine Mr Mounayere, answered Salahaddin looking down at his charred clothes. Two people were killed though. Salahaddin pulled the mournful keys out from his pocket and surveyed them. They dangled. Quite innocently. I have rung the airport. My flight will leave in the morning. He paused. When do you think you could come and pick up your keys Mr Mounayere? I will be there, God willing, in ten minutes! There was an urgency in the landlords voice that made Salahaddin wonder whether he truly was worried about the welfare of his tenant or the condition of his little blue apartment. Salahaddin smiled. I am sure God wills it Mr Mounayere. God preserve us! Click. The line went dead. Salahaddin looked about. Smoke drifted into the air from a pile of ashes that had once been a car. Fat old ladies wailed, slapping their hands against their knees and lifting their palms to the heavens. Men shouted, girls sobbed, children found pieces of metal to play with. The falafel man had arrived with a small cart and sold falafels surreptitiously to hungry bystanders. Salahaddin noted that falafels doubled in price during crisis. Young men discussed loudly the rumours that there were bombs planted all the way down the street and they were likely to go off. A flock of pretty young ladies came and sat on the steps near the young men, speedily cracking sunflower seeds with their teeth and listening wide-eyed. The men noticed the girls watching and their rumours of bombs in the street suddenly graduated to stories of the entire country under siege. The girls became hysterical. The men took it upon themselves to calm them down. Salahaddin bought a falafel. A big black four-wheel drive pulled up just outside the little blue apartment. A man in a suit got out, urgently surveying the block of flats. A few windows blown out. No major harm had been done. The man in the suit breathed a sigh of relief. He turned and his eyes fell on Salahaddin. He flung open his arms. Salahaddin! My friend! God willing, I am here!