We sat down at our desks and the teacher asked us to fill in a form with our personal details, because at the beginning of the year “they” wanted to know something about us. I’ve never understood quite why, but anyway… Actually I would have liked to know more about the teachers, but I’d never raised it, because coming from me it would probably have looked suspicious. But still, it would have been interesting to know where they lived, what their families were like and so on. More interesting than quite a lot of other things.

Haisam, as usual, had sat down in the back row. I’d hoped that he might have had a change of heart, but apparently not; he still wanted to be on his own at the back of the class. He explained that this was because during lessons he entered into a state of deep concentration that could easily be mistaken for sleep. Of course, I knew that it was a sort of essence of concentration – like strong Turkish coffee – but at the beginning of the year the teachers were always fooled by it and thought he was having a snooze. His eyes would be half-closed, his arms crossed over his stomach and sometimes his chin rested on his chest. Haisam said that at times like this he was being a Nile crocodile: he appeared to be asleep but in fact he was soaking up the whole lesson like a sponge. He could react to the teacher’s slightest word or tone of voice, just like a croc who seems to be sleeping but can grab anything passing with one snap of its jaws.

Last year the maths teacher was demonstrating the solution to a totally baffling problem on the board, with root thingummies everywhere and formulas that looked like something out of science fiction. While the teacher was scurrying backwards and forwards from one end of the board to the other, my friend the Honourable Egyptian was his usual serene self, peacefully dozing with his chin on his chest, writing nothing down. Then he lifted one eyelid and very politely asked the teacher if he could say something.

“With all due respect, sir, I think there’s a simpler way of doing this.”

Haisam strolled over to the board and picked up a marker. We all sensed that a miracle might be about to take place. In a little corner of the board he wrote one small, perfect line of figures and symbols. The teacher opened his eyes wide, as though he’d looked through a door and glimpsed infinity.

“You’re quite right,” he said, in a thin little voice that was both despairing and admiring.

After that he went on sick leave, probably to think a few things over.