Even without the tongue it would have been a problem, but it wouldn’t have been quite as bad. How was I going to explain myself? It’s a classic scenario, I’d seen it dozens of times in films: the man gets a smack on the nose because he’s been unfaithful, lied and humiliated his girl. It would be a good idea to talk to Haisam about it. As a strategic specialist, he would be able to consider it clearly and objectively. He would surely be able to advise me.

One by one the hours ticked past until Monday inevitably came around. It was one of the worst days of my life. Worse than the day when my brand-new red racing bike that Dad had brought home on the roof of the Panhard, got stolen. Worse than the days when we had courgettes for lunch at primary school. Worse than the day when I saw a completely withered plant and Dad explained that it was the same for human beings: there comes a time when there’s nothing more you can do for them.

I set off early for school and waited for Haisam in the lodge. His father had once confided in me that he didn’t know when his son slept. Sometimes, he would conduct an experiment: he’d put conkers in Haisam’s bed and he’d find them in the same place several mornings in a row. He thought that being an insomniac was really lucky and might lead to his son becoming someone important. He used the term “majestic” to describe Haisam’s abilities. “It was a majestic win,” he’d said, talking about a chess game that had sealed Haisam’s victory in the regional championships. That morning, Haisam’s father was busy dusting the portraits of the eighteen Sultans who’d ruled the Ottoman Empire up until the eighteenth century. After that, he’d explained, Europe had carved up the Empire bit by bit, just like hunters agreeing how to divvy up their exhausted prey. And now all that remained were the leftovers.

When Haisam arrived, he looked fatter than ever. That was probably his handicap. He put the book on the hypermodern revolution in chess that his father had given him down on the table. He offered me a bowl full of Turkish delight and I watched him for a while as he chewed slowly, lost in thoughts of the Nimzo-Indian Defence and the Bayonet Attack. How on earth could I explain the situation to him? It was complicated. His father gave us a sort of very thick coffee in cups as small as thimbles. It tasted like drinking molten rubber, but I felt deeply honoured. Haisam sipped at the strange drink without ever taking his eyes off the chessboard that occupied the middle of the tiny lodge, like a centre of gravity.

“You look a bit out of sorts,” he said, all of a sudden.