A fan on a balcony in Beirut in the 1950s. (Credit: Georges Boustany Collection)
I see him again, sitting in the semi-darkness, a cigarette between two yellowed fingers, lost in thoughts this taciturn man had no intention of sharing with a little chatterbox barely three apples tall.The mezzanine where he had set up his retiree's office looked like the wreck of a ship lying in deep water. To reach it, daylight had to cross a maze of shops, a vaulted passage, and a narrow arched window. Here, the sounds of the street seemed muffled by the wadding of years, giving the impression of an attic where stored objects and files smelling of old paper rested.The only sign of life, aside from my grandfather's breath as he exhaled the bluish smoke that would ultimately take him, was the arrogant purr of the fan. The object was imposing and reputed dangerous for the small hands of children, who could easily slip through its...
I see him again, sitting in the semi-darkness, a cigarette between two yellowed fingers, lost in thoughts this taciturn man had no intention of sharing with a little chatterbox barely three apples tall.The mezzanine where he had set up his retiree's office looked like the wreck of a ship lying in deep water. To reach it, daylight had to cross a maze of shops, a vaulted passage, and a narrow arched window. Here, the sounds of the street seemed muffled by the wadding of years, giving the impression of an attic where stored objects and files smelling of old paper rested.The only sign of life, aside from my grandfather's breath as he exhaled the bluish smoke that would ultimately take him, was the arrogant purr of the fan. The object was imposing and reputed dangerous for the small hands of children, who could easily slip through...
