We walked along The Corniche with plastic cups of coffee gone cold.
“He’ll be born on the page and he’ll die on the page.”
“It’ll never work.” He squinted at some indefinite point out at sea.
“He’ll be the hero that everyone is looking for. These young people are looking for some meaning in their lives; they want someone to save them. Why do you think so many of them are leaving the country? They’re desperate.”
“They’re leaving because they need jobs; they work abroad to support their families.”
“I know, but if they had someone to inspire them, to give them hope, wouldn’t they stay?”
“I doesn't work like that. You foreigners will never understand the way it works here. Our heroes are also our enemies.” He threw down a half smoked cigarette and stamped it out with his shoe.
“Why do you do that? It seems like a waste.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
“Why don’t you just smoke less of them?”
“I can’t.”
“So you’re trying to deceive yourself?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me and smiled.
“Is it working?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re a journalist, Julie; you’re supposed to report the news, not make it up,” he said.
“Listen, I need to sell a story or I’m out of here. People have stopped listening to stories about Syrian refugees and no one really cares about Lebanon’s win over ISIS or the country’s ongoing conflict with Israel. People want to hear something inspiring or they’re going to see the region as a lost cause; many already do.”
“But you can’t go around making things up.”
“Politicians do it all the time.”
“You’re not a politician.”
“Please help me.”
“This is crazy.”
“It’s perfect.”
