Two days later the whole quarter was rejoicing. The Syrian Jules Gammal, a young Christian officer stationed in Egypt for training, had rammed the French naval destroyer Jean-Bart off Port Said with his torpedo boat, dying a martyr’s death. His portrait, swiftly painted in oils on canvas, was hung up everywhere. All of a sudden the entire quarter felt joyful release. The young officer’s death had resolved the guilt feelings of the Christians. “Our own Jules Gammal has liberated Egypt,” they told each other. It was not in fact true, but to them he was a hero who had stopped all the Europeans in their tracks. Later on streets, squares, and schools all over the country were named after him.
The facts were that the young officer died in a desperate action against the superior forces of the French and British, who had landed in the harbour city of Port Said at the northern end of the Suez Canal. He set out at random with his torpedo boat. The fires of hell were spewing out from the horizon at the city, whose inhabitants would not surrender.
Finally he rammed the French destroyer Jean-Bart with his explosive vessel. The destroyer was not sunk, but the impact rendered it unable to manoeuvre. It was not until three hours later that a second fast torpedo boat blew it up.
Neither Jules Gammal nor anyone else, apart from a single British Navy man, knew that he very nearly took all the war strategists to their deaths with him. His torpedo boat raced past the British warship H.M.S. Tyne with only three metres between them. All the British and French war chiefs were assembled on board, only one sailor was standing in the bows. He saw the boat and shouted, but his voice was drowned in the noise of the engines and explosions ringing out in the Suez Canal. He watched the boat race on until it rammed the French warship and went up in flames.
“What about that, then, Stinker?” cried Josef three days later, looking in at the butcher’s shop. Mahmud had no customers at that moment, and was reading a book about pre-Islamic poetry. He looked up in surprise. After all, he knew Josef and Farid. His assistant was standing there with his head bent, looking like a beaten dog.
“Now, now, Josef! Who do you mean by Stinker?” asked the butcher, displeased.
“Your butcher’s boy was going to set our quarter on fire. He thinks we Christians are traitors.”
“Who? The fool said that?” Mahmud put the poetry book down on the chopping block and turned to his apprentice. “This lad can’t even tell fillet steak from ground beef — so now he’s meddling in politics?” A ringing slap landed on the boy’s face. “You bastard, insult my customers, would you?” And a second slap landed on his other cheek.
“I’m sorry, master. I’ll never talk politics again. I kiss your hand, spare me your blows,” the boy begged, submissively reaching for his master’s arm. The butcher shook him off like a fly, and turned to Josef and Farid. “It must have been a mistake, but if he does it again just let me know, and I’ll cut off his balls and throw them to the dogs.”
162. Backgammon
Chess ranked highest among the games played at the club. Drafts and dominoes were played by the very old and very young members, but card games were forbidden. They were regarded as primitive games of chance that merely caused quarrels and enmity. No one would commit himself about backgammon. It wasn’t forbidden, but it wasn’t encouraged. Taufik who ran the café was not pleased about that.
“It’s only because the committee members don’t play it well,” he said scornfully. Farid could play a great many games — chess, draughts, dominoes — but no one in his family used to play backgammon. It had been forbidden in the monastery. Josef knew how to play, but it was forbidden in his home too. A game for the lazy, said his father crossly.
One day Farid came into the club and saw Josef and Taufik sitting at the backgammon board. He watched the two of them, fascinated. Josef was cursing quietly because he was losing game after game. The variant they were playing was called Frandjiye, the Frankish game. When it ended with a score of 5–0, Taufik suggested other variants, and Josef decided on Maghrebiye, the Morocco game. But after half an hour Taufik was victorious again, although only just.
“Perhaps we ought to try Mahbusse, the prisoners’ game. You beat me twice running at that one recently.”
Josef waved the idea away. “The dice aren’t falling well for me today.”
“What kind of a game is it?” asked Farid.
“An annoying one,” said Josef, “but it gets you addicted.” He stretched.
“It’s a complete philosophy,” said Taufik. “Take a look. Chess is iron logic and strategy. A game that leaves no room in it for life, luck, or chance. The whole world praises it because it is indeed a game for clever people. I don’t play chess. It’s too cold and calculating for me. If you play against a pro you don’t have the slightest chance, he’ll destroy your army in meticulously planned moves. But with backgammon, as in life, everything is still possible. And there’s something else about it too — look, this is what Gibran showed me.
“Two players represent two lives, two dice are two ways to go. Each dice has six numbers on it.
One is God.
Two is heaven and hell, good and evil, man and woman.
Three is father, mother, and son.
Four is the seasons of the year and the points of the compass.
Five is the number of fingers and senses.
Six is the number of harmony, the number of colours in the
rainbow.
Each set of two numbers opposite each other on the dice add up to seven. Seven is a holy number.
“Each side on the backgammon board has twelve triangles, known as points, twelve spaces for the twelve months of the year. Between them the players have twenty-four points, as many as the day has hours. They play with thirty pieces, which are the days of the month, half of them black for night and the other half white for day. Or you could say for grief and joy, for happiness and sorrow.
“The player tries to use skill, and in contrast to the game of chess he must consult his luck, his oracle, before every move: he must throw the dice, and the victor can quickly become the loser and vice versa, sometimes not until the last minute. The greatest luck in throwing the dice doesn’t help you if you play without skill. And that,” he concluded his description, “that’s life.”
That evening Farid asked Taufik to teach him the rules of all the variants of backgammon. And for the first time he had a glimpse of what lay behind the mask of the apparently unassuming licensee of the café.
163. Nourishment
Entirely unexpectedly, Rana phoned. The Greek vacation was over. She wanted to see him, she said, and she had good news too: her Aunt Mariam was flying to Milan for a week to buy the latest fashions for her shop. Rana was to water the flowers and keep an eye on the apartment. In return her aunt would bring her a leather bag from Italy.
“I’d have done it for free, anyway,” cried Rana excitedly. He could enjoy Rana’s company seven times, thought Farid that first evening, when he had done his school homework and was on the bus. He could hardly believe his luck. They could be together and undisturbed for three or four hours every day. Jack suspected nothing. Rana was right: those hours were stolen from Paradise, and beyond the grave would surely be docked from their time there.