theother Beirut, the southern suburbs, where there’s no sea view and parking is at the owner’s risk.
He walks the last couple of blocks, white cardboard box of pharmaceutical supplies wedged under his arm. The scarred low-rise buildings smell of river weed, and women in veils burn rubbish beside the unmade road.
Men stand around and watch. A dog the colour of cement takes Gallio seriously and a motorbike chugs by, low on its axle through the potholes, metal milk churns rattling in the place of panniers. As a friend of the poor, if he were genuine, Jesus could hide in a place like this.
For some time, however, Gallio has known he’s on the trail of Jude. He found Jude’s name in the Lebanon
Daily Star
, where the classified ads are full of messages of thanks.
Thank you Jude, for your Intercession
. That is, unless Jude was the disciple who’d changed places with Jesus for the crucifixion, and this disciple in Beirut is secretly Jesus. It would fit. Jude is a minor disciple, less likely to have been missed in the aftermath.
From early responses to the Missing Persons bulletin, and Jude’s name in the newspaper, Gallio has tracked this alleged disciple to a community hospital in the centre of one of Beirut’s southern city camps. Beirut shelters refugees from conflicts dating back to Assyrian wars and Canaanite rebellions, but no one gives up hope of a better life even now. Taped to the door of Jude’s hospital is a sign in black marker pen:
No Guns Beyond This Point
.
Inside the entrance, sitting behind a table, is a squat man in camouflage trousers and a Christian Surfers T-shirt. Jags of scar tissue interrupt the growth of his two-day stubble, and on his side of the X-ray scanner there’s a black steel crossbow. He picks it up in a good-natured way.
‘Bolt can go through a horse. Your ID, please.’
He nods at the Swiss identity card, hands it back. ‘Are you ill?’
Gallio holds up the box. ‘Drugs. I’m here to help.’
Security in a Beirut hospital comes with dreadful teeth. ‘Ha! We prayed for medicines. We must be expecting you. Come on in.’
Gallio walks around the metal detector. The man holds up his hand.
‘Through the gate, please.’
Gallio beeps once, backs out, takes off his belt and tries again.
‘Arms out, we can’t be too careful.’
He frisks Gallio, armpit to hip, takes his phone and wallet from the Strellson jacket. Waistband. Inner leg. ‘You’ll get your stuff back when you leave.’
Gallio feels nervy without his phone, suddenly back in a more vulnerable era when backup was in the hands of the gods. A small boy slides out from a corridor. He’s carrying a bow fashioned from a car aerial, and aims a homemade arrow at Gallio’s eye. The man cuffs the boy across the head.
‘Don’t frighten people you don’t know.’
The lift doesn’t work. The boy covers them across every angle of the stairwell as they climb and turn, bow poised, arrow in the slot. The hospital seems deserted.
‘Contagious,’ the doorkeeper says. ‘Everyone else had to leave. Jude keeps the infected patients on the top floor because the air is better.’
On the understanding that knowledge is power, Speculators value small talk for the information it can yield. As they climb the stairs Cassius Gallio gets the man to talk about how Judecured him, and also his son. Like the patients at the top of the hospital, father and son had the plague.
‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘Some long medical name. We all call it the plague.’
Out of gratitude to Jude the man takes care of security, and besides, jobs in Beirut are scarce.
‘Why does Jude need protection?’
The man hauls himself up by the stair rail. He may be cured but he’s not in good shape. ‘You wouldn’t believe the nutters in this city. Some of them think we’ve enough gods as it is. Others think we have too many. A god strong enough to heal the sick looks to some people like a bad omen.’
The citizens of Beirut have a
He walks the last couple of blocks, white cardboard box of pharmaceutical supplies wedged under his arm. The scarred low-rise buildings smell of river weed, and women in veils burn rubbish beside the unmade road.
Men stand around and watch. A dog the colour of cement takes Gallio seriously and a motorbike chugs by, low on its axle through the potholes, metal milk churns rattling in the place of panniers. As a friend of the poor, if he were genuine, Jesus could hide in a place like this.
For some time, however, Gallio has known he’s on the trail of Jude. He found Jude’s name in the Lebanon
Daily Star
, where the classified ads are full of messages of thanks.
Thank you Jude, for your Intercession
. That is, unless Jude was the disciple who’d changed places with Jesus for the crucifixion, and this disciple in Beirut is secretly Jesus. It would fit. Jude is a minor disciple, less likely to have been missed in the aftermath.
From early responses to the Missing Persons bulletin, and Jude’s name in the newspaper, Gallio has tracked this alleged disciple to a community hospital in the centre of one of Beirut’s southern city camps. Beirut shelters refugees from conflicts dating back to Assyrian wars and Canaanite rebellions, but no one gives up hope of a better life even now. Taped to the door of Jude’s hospital is a sign in black marker pen:
No Guns Beyond This Point
.
Inside the entrance, sitting behind a table, is a squat man in camouflage trousers and a Christian Surfers T-shirt. Jags of scar tissue interrupt the growth of his two-day stubble, and on his side of the X-ray scanner there’s a black steel crossbow. He picks it up in a good-natured way.
‘Bolt can go through a horse. Your ID, please.’
He nods at the Swiss identity card, hands it back. ‘Are you ill?’
Gallio holds up the box. ‘Drugs. I’m here to help.’
Security in a Beirut hospital comes with dreadful teeth. ‘Ha! We prayed for medicines. We must be expecting you. Come on in.’
Gallio walks around the metal detector. The man holds up his hand.
‘Through the gate, please.’
Gallio beeps once, backs out, takes off his belt and tries again.
‘Arms out, we can’t be too careful.’
He frisks Gallio, armpit to hip, takes his phone and wallet from the Strellson jacket. Waistband. Inner leg. ‘You’ll get your stuff back when you leave.’
Gallio feels nervy without his phone, suddenly back in a more vulnerable era when backup was in the hands of the gods. A small boy slides out from a corridor. He’s carrying a bow fashioned from a car aerial, and aims a homemade arrow at Gallio’s eye. The man cuffs the boy across the head.
‘Don’t frighten people you don’t know.’
The lift doesn’t work. The boy covers them across every angle of the stairwell as they climb and turn, bow poised, arrow in the slot. The hospital seems deserted.
‘Contagious,’ the doorkeeper says. ‘Everyone else had to leave. Jude keeps the infected patients on the top floor because the air is better.’
On the understanding that knowledge is power, Speculators value small talk for the information it can yield. As they climb the stairs Cassius Gallio gets the man to talk about how Judecured him, and also his son. Like the patients at the top of the hospital, father and son had the plague.
‘Which is what, exactly?’
‘Some long medical name. We all call it the plague.’
Out of gratitude to Jude the man takes care of security, and besides, jobs in Beirut are scarce.
‘Why does Jude need protection?’
The man hauls himself up by the stair rail. He may be cured but he’s not in good shape. ‘You wouldn’t believe the nutters in this city. Some of them think we’ve enough gods as it is. Others think we have too many. A god strong enough to heal the sick looks to some people like a bad omen.’
The citizens of Beirut have a
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