“Not everything has to be cheerful,” I said. “For example, music isn’t always happy either. I’m not talking about the racket The Rattletraps make, obviously… But the cello, for instance, real music, that can be sad too, but it still gives you a good feeling.”

He gave me a slightly amused look.

“My word, Victor, your intellect is really coming along.”

I was startled, because those words exactly reflected what I felt too, deep down. Although you can’t admit things like that to yourself.

Then he said, thoughtfully, “It’s true as well… I wonder why we like listening to sad music…”

“Perhaps it stops us feeling so alone with regard to existence and all that sort of thing. Perhaps the most difficult thing in life is to feel alone.”

“I’m pleased to see you having such profound thoughts…”

He was looking amused again.

“It’s because of my profound thoughts that becoming a chicken breast cutter doesn’t appeal to me. Right or left. If you get me.”

In the street in front of the house a workman, perched on the platform of a small crane, was putting up garlands of Christmas lights.

6

The next morning, there was a dusting of white snow everywhere. The school bus skidded and everyone screamed, as though we were on a roller coaster. The driver turned scarlet, but we couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anger. I saw on the school noticeboard that lots of the teachers were having trouble getting in. Haisam told me that the first lesson was cancelled and invited me to his father’s lodge. My friend had got even fatter and I imagined that one day he’d completely fill the lodge, be trapped inside and condemned to play chess for all eternity. They’d reached the fifth round of the 1962 Curaçao tournament.

“Bobby Fischer against Viktor Korchnoi,” explained Haisam.

Out of the window I could see the other kids building a snowman in the playground. I looked out for Marie, but there was no sign of her.

“It’s the Pirc Defence,” added Haisam’s father, “played for the first time in Nuremberg in 1883.”

“You see, my friend,” whispered Haisam, “the aim of the strategy is clear: the white knight goes to b3 and is then chased away by a5-a4, possibly followed by a3, which obviously weakens the a1-h8 diagonal, where the bishop g7 is lurking. Obviously. It’s elementary really…”

“Obviously!” I agreed, so as not to look like a dimwit. “Very elementary.”

The snowman in the playground was getting bigger.

“Now: 13.g4! An aggressive move that seems to turn the tables, but wait for Korchnoi’s spectacular response…”

It seemed to me that chess, like music, was mostly a question of language.

After the game, I asked the Honourable Egyptian to look over my maths.

“I drew a weird thingy and then I tried to prove it as best I could.”