Broken Mirrors

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KARIM SHAMMAS bent to lift his suitcase out of the trunk of the black Mercedes taxi that had been taking him to Beirut airport en route back to Montpellier.

His watch said five thirty a.m., and the Beirut dawn was tinted with darkness and dust.

It had rained the day before. The Beirut spring had arrived, carried on the sound of thunder, the thunder blending in turn with the sound of the intermittent shelling that roamed aimlessly around the city.

The man had found it impossible to sleep on his last night in Beirut. He’d drunk a lot of whiskey, sat on the sofa in the living room, yawned, and waited for dawn to the rhythm of the thunder and the rain.

He’d celebrated his fortieth birthday alone. Ghazala had disappeared into her story, Muna had left to search for her future in Canada, and Karim was alone at home in Beirut. Bernadette had called a couple of days earlier and asked him to come back on the fourth of January, so he could celebrate the start of his fifth decade with the family. He’d told her he hadn’t been able to find a seat on the plane until the morning of the following day. His French wife had cleared her throat, pretended to believe him, and hung up.

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