It’s a few minutes to nine, and the evening is in full swing on Armenia Street, just outside Jacob’s apartment building. Dressed to the nines, people wander with drinks in their hands through honking traffic, between restaurants and bars where the music is turned up to the max.
It’s been a hot day, and the stink of garbage is as overwhelming as it is inescapable, no choice but to get used to it, then forget it. As Jacob exits into the somewhat cool evening air of the street in front of Saliba Market, the smell hits him again, forcing him to suppress his queasiness.
A car should be picking him up here in a few minutes. It feels so strange. Was Vargander really serious about this? On the other hand, what does he have to lose if no car shows up? It’s not as if he knows anyone here or has made any plans.
It’s been over a week since Alexa’s rooftop party and his meeting with Yassim, and since then he’s basically spent all of his time at home, at the embassy, or at a few local restaurants. He’s almost in shock from Beirut, its chaos and messiness, that indeterminate menace that seems to rise from the asphalt and ooze out of every bullet hole on the buildings’ facades. He’s attracted to it, wants nothing more than to throw himself straight into it. But he doesn’t quite dare.
And then there’s Yassim. Just the thought of his name, his hands, his mouth, makes Jacob almost pant with desire. How could he feel like this after just a few hours in a dark garden late at night?
Maybe this is good for him, to get out a little, focus on something other than his suffocating worry that Yassim might never get in touch with him again.
He’s wearing jeans and a dark-green Ralph Lauren shirt with neatly rolled-up sleeves. One of three identical shirts in various colours that he bought on sale two years ago, which he now switches between for special occasions. He has a tote bag carrying his keys, phone and wallet on his shoulder. He takes a deep breath and fishes out the wallet to flip through his confusing mix of dollars and Lebanese pounds. How much is this night going to cost? His student loan money hasn’t come in yet, and the little he managed to save from packing ulcer medicine in Fyrislund for two months at the beginning of the summer has to last him all the way to Christmas. So far Beirut has been much more expensive than he imagined. He needs to be frugal. Even if he’s used to stretching to make ends meet, the thought of money always fills him with piercing anxiety.
‘Mr Seger?’
Jacob jumps a little, pushes his wallet back down into his tote, and turns in the direction of the voice who said his name. A midnight-blue Volvo SUV with blue diplomatic plates is sitting in traffic right in front of him, with the window of the passenger door rolled down. The driver is trying to get his attention. Jacob goes over to the car.
‘I’m Jacob Seger,’ he says in English.
‘Ambassador Vargander asked me to pick you up,’ the man says. ‘I’m a driver for the Swedish embassy.’
Vargander has sent a diplomatic car. Jacob tries to hide his widening smile as he opens the back door, jumps in and settles in on the light leather seats. The air is cool and dry inside; it doesn’t even smell like garbage.
‘There are refreshments,’ the driver says. ‘Just help yourself to whatever you want.’
The driver stretches a hand back between the seats and taps on what turns out to be a built-in refrigerator on the floor at Jacob’s feet. Jacob bends over and opens the door. Two bottles of white wine are cooling inside, along with a few bottles of beer and four wine glasses.
‘I…’ he begins. ‘I don’t even know where we’re going, I hope you do?’
The driver nods calmly. ‘Trust me. Also, the ambassador wanted me to tell you tonight is on him. He was very specific on that point. He’s paying for everything. There’s money in an envelope over there.’
He points to the fridge again and Jacob opens it. Sure enough, a white envelope is tucked between the wine glasses. He plucks it out and opens it. A small bundle of twenty-dollar bills – he counts ten of them. In Beirut, he’s learned, US dollars are as useful as Lebanese pounds.
He bends down and takes out one of the bottles of Lebanese wine. The traffic is almost completely still. He pours himself a glass and sinks down into his seat, watching the people and the lights and the chaos on the narrow sidewalks outside. Feeling equal parts calm and expectant as he takes his first big gulp of cold, dry wine.
They drive slowly eastward along Armenia Street, and the bars eventually become sparser and are replaced by stores selling lamps and wall clocks and refrigerators standing on the sidewalks. He sees older men in small holes in the wall sweating and welding in the dusk.
‘Where are we going?’ Jacob asks. He’s on to his second glass of wine now, and he’s enjoyed his ride in the diplomatic car so much that he completely forgot that he has no idea where they’re going.
‘Burj Hammoud,’ the driver answers.
Jacob’s heard of the Armenian district beyond Mar Mikhael, and his curiosity is piqued again, along with a gnawing nervousness. Burj Hammoud is the neighbourhood with the highest concentration of gay culture, though nothing happens openly there either. Apparently he didn’t misunderstand Vargander’s hints.
After they cross the highway the traffic lets up a little, and the character of the neighbourhood becomes something completely different from his own. It looks poorer, more like he imagined Beirut. Run-down houses and dirty neon signs, power lines that turn and twist like spider webs over streets and buildings.
The car turns off the main street and stops at what must be one of the older houses in the area. A modest and worn brass sign hangs on the door: Hammam Oriental.
‘Well,’ the driver says, staying where he is, with his back to Jacob. ‘We’ve arrived. I’ll wait close by and pick you up when you’re ready.’
A hammam? A bathhouse? Jacob knows what that means and he can feel his pulse start to race. It was more than a little forward of Vargander to arrange this. He takes a deep breath, swallows hard and opens the car door.
*
‘Welcome,’ a boy says to him in Arabic when he rings the bell. The boy, who can’t be older than fifteen, shows him into a hall with green, blue and black mosaic tiles in intricate patterns on the walls and floor. On the benches lining the walls some men sit drinking tea from glasses. They study him with interest as he walks over to a small counter in the middle of the room where a stout woman in her fifties asks him for twenty dollars and hands him a towel and some lavender soap in exchange. She says something in Arabic, but when Jacob stares at her doubtfully she switches to English.
‘The locker rooms are that way,’ she says, pointing over her shoulder. ‘We have three saunas. Firas will show you.’
The boy smiles at Jacob and gestures for him to follow. They go through the hall, deeper into the building, which is much bigger than it appeared to be from the street.
In the dressing room, Jacob puts his towels and soap on a bench and stares questioningly at the boy who is standing in the door, looking at him invitingly.
‘Massage?’ he says in shaky English. ‘I make you feel good. Only fifty dollars.’
He winks in an almost comical way, and Jacob feels suddenly very uncomfortable in this situation. It’s obvious the boy is offering more than just a massage.
He’s been in a state of constant agitation since that night in the garden with Yassim. But this feels wrong, the boy is far too young.
‘No thanks,’ he says. ‘I’m good.’
The boy shrugs in disappointment and disappears through the door, leaving Jacob alone in the room.
*
Jacob settles in inside a steam room that he has to himself. Slowly he closes his eyes and leans back on the hot mosaic tiles while the steam hisses around him. A slight and pleasant intoxication makes him feel lighter and freer than usual.
He hears the glass door opening and when he peers through the steam swirling in the draught, he can just make out the outlines of a fit young man. Jacob pretends to shut his eyes so the young man won’t see Jacob checking him out as he walks by. But he takes a peek at those shoulders, the sculpted chest and arms. How old is he? A bit younger than himself? Twenty? Now he sits down next to him, and Jacob glances furtively at his straight, large nose, at his full lips and then down at his skin, down to his waist where his towel sits.
Suddenly the man looks up and glances at him. Or not really a glance: he looks straight at him, and Jacob tries to turn away, but doesn’t quite manage, so their eyes meet for a moment.
There’s something absolutely shameless about the look the young man gives him. Something that requires no interpretation or explanation. Jacob closes his eyes again and can feel his body start to tingle with excitement and anxiety.
Cautiously, he takes another peek and has to suppress a gasp when he sees that the man has opened his towel and is sitting naked next to him. His penis is completely smooth and hard and is standing straight up. He slowly turns towards Jacob.
‘It’s hot in here,’ he says in English.
Jacob nods weakly. ‘Definitely,’ he says.
Now the young man scoots a little closer. ‘Do you want to cool off with me?’ he says. ‘There’s a room where we can relax a little.’
Jacob can’t help staring at him, at his naked body, at his hard cock, and he can feel the attraction awakening inside him. All the frustration that’s been brewing inside him since that night in the garden. This is so far from all his plans and goals and tightly controlled life. But this was what Vargander meant, he supposes. This is what he was offering him, and somehow that gives him permission to give in.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Show me your little room then.’
The young man has wrapped the towel around himself again, and he walks past Jacob towards a small pool, a few deep and low sinks, and showers where a few men are busy washing themselves. No one pays them much heed.
‘Here,’ the young man finally says, opening a door next to a dry sauna.
Jacob takes a deep breath, but he knows he’s already made his decision, and he can feel the excitement pulsing through his veins. He steps into a room with a leather-covered massage table at its centre and a small sofa on the short-sided wall. The man locks the door behind them and walks slowly towards Jacob while letting his towel fall.
‘I want you to fuck me,’ he says. ‘I want you to be brutal. Do you dare?’
Jacob’s heart is pounding in his chest. Simon was tender and careful, excessively aware that Jacob was inexperienced. It felt safe in the beginning, then boring. Now something awakens inside him, and for once he lets it.
‘Get down on your knees,’ he says, trying to sound brusque, but he can hear how insecure and inexperienced his voice sounds. The man smiles provocatively.
‘You’ll have to be harder on me than that,’ he says, taking a step towards him.
The young man bends forward and bites him lightly on his earlobe.
‘I wanna be your little whore, do you understand?’ he whispers.
It feels crude and a little dangerous, and it scares him, but that’s not the only thing Jacob feels. He stops, hesitates, and for a moment considers turning around, going back to the locker room, getting dressed and leaving. But there’s something in all this that he finds alluring. It’s not sexual excitement, or not only that. It’s the adventure.
He takes a step closer to the man and looks straight into his eyes.
‘Get down on your knees, whore,’ he says.
The man obeys immediately, gets on his knees in front of Jacob, whose towel falls to the floor. Now he’s standing in front of a nameless man, completely naked. And the man stares up at him with pleading eyes.
‘Hit me, hit me in the face,’ he whispers.
Jacob reacts, this is another step towards the unknown. ‘Are you…’ he says. ‘Are you sure?’
The man gives him an almost scornful look. ‘Don’t be a little pussy, hit me now!’ he hisses.
And Jacob gives in and slaps him across the face, which makes him look up with an almost contemptuous expression.
‘That was nothing,’ he says. ‘You should be embarrassed. Hit me for real.’
Jacob looks at him and hesitates again. But then he raises his hand and strikes him with full force across the cheek.
The young man turns his head up again and smiles weakly. Redness spreads across his cheek. ‘There we go,’ he says. ‘Pull my hair now. Force me.’
*
Afterwards, he sits in the back of the Volvo, unable to speak to the driver beyond monosyllables, completely unable to think. The lights and traffic, the people outside the windows of the car seem blurred.
‘Just drive me home,’ he says, opening the fridge, pouring himself a glass of wine, bringing it to his lips.
What exactly happened at the bathhouse? Who did he become in there?
He shakes his head and closes his eyes. Everything he did, everything the man wanted him to do. It was exciting, but now he feels only anxiety. Not about the young man; he wanted what happened, and they had a brief, almost friendly talk afterwards. But he feels uneasy about the role he played. Dominant, brutal. Would he rather have had the other role? He knows that’s true. He would rather be on his knees in front of Yassim.
For a short while in the massage room he thought that might be enough, enough to let go of that night in the garden and move on. But sitting in the back seat of the embassy car on his way home through eastern Beirut, he realizes Yassim planted something inside of him that Jacob can’t let go of.
He takes another gulp of the wine, and his phone vibrates in his bag. He almost spills his wine in his eagerness to read the message. Four words from a blocked number, no sender, as if it dropped straight into his phone from space. Still it’s enough for the world to regain its sharpness, enough for his brain to come back to life:
Next Saturday. I’ll call.
Yassim.