Chapter One

      Beirut is the city of dreams, at once magnificent and fragile, filled with instances of grace, ephemeral pockets of loveliness that can overwhelm even courageous hearts. There is colour here and brilliance, the hum of movement and its attending sounds; there are buried sorrows and there is transcending joy; and everywhere, flowing through the intricate, complex layers that are people and places, breathes unrestrained life.

      Yet the city no longer possesses an obvious beauty. Very little of the lush greenness I knew when I was growing up and which once defined our many neighbourhoods remains. Beirut is invariably overcrowded with people and construction that is haphazard and garish, and areas that once hummed with life lack character and a real sense of community. What is it then that makes us love it so?

      I live between the east and west of the city in a yellowed building tucked away at the end of an alleyway that begins on a bustling main road. The building has no elevator. Instead, the tenants have to struggle up a long stairway that wraps itself round the exterior walls of some of the floors and plunges into the building’s interior on others.

      My second-floor apartment shares a wall with the outside stairwell which is often noisy, in the early mornings when other tenants are rushing off to work or school and late at night when some of them venture home again. And although it is part of a more recent addition to the building, the flat has uneven floors in places so that, walking through it, I can feel myself leaning towards uncertainty, teetering on the brink.

      There is enough room in the kitchen for a table where I have most of my meals, sitting on one of the two chairs. Afterwards, standing at the sink, I look through the window out onto the alley as I do the washing up, a plate and utensils, a glass and a pot or pan, daydreaming into the future. And at night, lying in the windowless, small bedroom at the back of the apartment, I fall asleep sheltered by layers of comfort, my bed and the sheets and blankets that touch my skin, and the walls around me that enclose a deep, undisturbed darkness.

      The neighbourhood is heavily populated, older buildings crowded in by newer and higher construction and pavements that are either narrow or totally non-existent. Small shops that sell all kinds of wares line the streets and the constant flow of traffic on the main road adds to the noise level and the impression of overcrowding. Stepping out into the street every morning, I am quickly enveloped by the energy that surrounds me and filled with hope, with the sense that wherever I turn, something is certain to happen.

      I walk past a shop that sells tyres and spare parts for cars, a butcher’s, and a dry-cleaner’s that also doubles up as a telephone and fax centre. I turn onto the main road where cars jostle their way up the one-way street, almost nudging each other as they move in fits and spurts, their horns blaring. On one corner, inches away from oncoming traffic, a man sells fruits and vegetables from a large wooden cart, and beyond that there is a flower shop with fresh as well as artificial flowers in plastic vases placed outside its front window.

      At a tiny corner café minutes from home, I order my usual cup of coffee and stand at a counter overlooking the street, sipping it slowly. Most days, I am the only woman there and the men on either side of me move away as soon as I arrive, their gazes averted. It is their way of giving me room and making me more comfortable, I know, but it is a kindness I cannot acknowledge since it might be considered too forward of me to thank them outright. Instead, I remain silent and look out onto the street, gathering my thoughts about me and observing the many passers-by.

      In returning to Lebanon after long years away, I envisioned exactly this life for myself: moments quietly accumulating with me in the midst of a sea of people and activity, separate in some ways but linked nonetheless to the steady, relentless movement that fills the day.

      I am on the stairwell when I hear the thud, feel it move from my belly down into my feet, the tips of my toes tingling with fear. I have heard this sound before and it is not, I know, the echo of a slamming door somewhere in the building, nor the din of heavy machinery from the construction site down the road.

      Within seconds, neighbours come out onto the outside landing to investigate.

      ‘What was that?’ someone asks.

      ‘I’m not sure,’ I reply, my heart beating fast.

      ‘Sounded like a car bomb to me,’ another neighbour says. ‘God knows we heard enough of them during the war to know.’

      ‘Look, there’s smoke rising over there!’

      We turn in the direction of the sea to see a black cloud forming.

      ‘It’s coming from the Corniche,’ I murmur with dismay.

      A neighbour from the flat next door puts her hand on my arm.

      ‘Were you on your way to work, Layla?’ she asks.

      I nod.

      ‘Maybe it’s