Back on the landing of the Haddad Building, puffs of smoke still floating up from the charred cars behind him, Antoine Costa was at a loss over what the future would hold.
“This is not the first time this happens here. What can I do?” Costa asked, stunned. “I’m worried about the future. What will happen? More car bombs? More explosions? More suicide terrorism? I don’t know what will happen.”
On the same landing in the light of the next morning, Miter Haddad, owner of the building, stood with arms crossed in an attitude of resignation shared by many of those around him. He had sustained numerous cuts on his hand, thigh and calf the night before, and knotted stitches above his right eye extended beyond the gauzy bandage circling his forehead.
Asked about what the future would hold, Haddad shifted his weight to the crunch of broken glass, wincing bleakly.
“Nothing. It’s dirt,” he said.