But the ritual taught Youssef something about the way the world worked. Sort of. He’d never been outside Lebanon but he was sure that no matter where he went, flies would flock to honey.
“ ’ello. Double whiskey, please, No ice ehhh. I’ll take the Macallan 10. Thanks, mate.”
Australian accent. Yves Saint Laurent pinstripe suit. Probably cost quite a bit. At least enough to show that he had a respectable job.
Youssef poured the whiskey. Just as he poured countless drinks everyday. He had a sharp eye for suits. Long before he broke away from the family trade, he was a salesman in his father’s farming business. Suits, his father had frequently pointed out, told a lot about a man and how he would conduct a deal. Thread, fabric, cut, price - they all said something about the calibre of the wearer. Yusef’s attention to such detail was over a decade old, the fruit of nights spent researching online.
The Australian slurped down the last of his drink and placed the glass on the bar with a clink and a tap of his finger.
“Cheers, Mate.”
“Cheers,” Youssef echoed in his imitation of an Australian accent. The man barely noticed and departed to catch his flight.
It had become his game to work out where people were going, where they had come from. Youssef’s eyes lit up when he noticed a small, crumpled piece of paper at the foot of the stool. He surveyed the glossy slab of wood separating him from the rest of the world. No one. So with a ghost-like movement, he left his territory and picked up the Australian’s boarding pass.
Departure: Abu Dhabi
Arrival: Beirut
Where was the man going next? He chewed this over as a woman radiating confidence sauntered over. Hastily, Yusef shoved the ticket stub in his pocket. He would add it to his collection later.
“Hey there, Honey.
Youssef cringed quietly.
A quick scan of her attire and bags revealed plenty.
She too must have just arrived from somewhere in the Gulf. A crystal-embellished abaya peeked out of her handbag. Her makeup was fresh and perfectly applied, looking like she put it on before the complimentary drink slowed her motor skills. The perfect ruby lips and rouged cheeks could hardly hide the glazed eyes. A scent of Arabian musk surrounded her. He liked the scent but couldn’t say why. The woman sat down.
She was the type of traveller who craved talk. For her, Youssef was a breath of fresh air. A good listener with a chiselled physique, a disarming smile and a sleight of hand in the alcoholic arts, he was also unbound by the cultural restrictions she was forced to live elsewhere. Women always seemed to take easily to Youssef but the Gulf women were a breed unto themselves. Like their male counterparts, they’d hunger for more intense interaction.
She hissed her order, a glass of French rosé, then locked large eyes on him, ready to pounce. Her expression unveiled her intentions. She was looking for entertainment and Youssef was already too slow on the uptake.
“Where are you travelling?” he asked, unable to determine for himself.
“Oh come on. Don’t waste my time with idle talk. Tell me something interesting about being a bartender in this dump?”
Youssef picked up a towel and started cleaning glasses. “Where do I start?” he replied, deflecting her hook.
He wasn’t willing to get wrapped up in her games. He’d been working this bar for ten years now and had been eaten up and spat out regularly in his early years.
Annoyed at Youssef’s refusal to indulge her, she resigned herself to revealing a few personal stories of her own - it was a strangers-in-an-airport habit to which Youssef had become accustomed – until finally she left, visibly disappointed, to catch her flight.
Youssef only wished he could leave too. A world of destinations just a few steps away. Yet he did not even own a passport. In all his years of playing chameleon - perfecting accents, picking up cultural cues, stealing glimpses of foreign currency - he had grown more and more restless. Drawing travellers to him this way helped satiate his appetite for the international, but it also draining his spirit.
And he hated honey. It was in his genes, in his makeup but the only way he knew how to live was to draw the flies of the world out there to his sticky honeycomb on the second floor of Beirut International Airport.
