normal life: everything except his son.
His limited grasp of French was a source of daily frustration for Nura. Months after the event, he told me rather sheepishly â though he could also see its funny side â about an incident that had nearly tipped over into farce. After going to have his hair cut in the Belleville district, he had gone into a café to use the toilet. While he was waiting, a young Asian girl came up and started talking to him. He could make out the words âworkâ and â40 eurosâ. Delighted at having found a job, or so he thought, he followed her back to her place. No sooner had they gone inside than she took all her clothes off and demanded 40 euros. Dumbfounded, Nura grasped the nature of the transaction and fled, while she yelled after him, calling him all the names under the sun.
Not all of Nuraâs adventures were so entertaining: far from it, in fact. Through the experiences he confided in me, I learned about the world of those with no money, no documentation, no defences and no rights. As he was coming out of the Métro one evening, a man set upon him for no reason and started beating him up. He punched Nura to the ground, then attacked him with a volley of kicks. When a police car came around the corner, the attacker took fright and ran off. Their suspicions aroused, the police officers stopped the car and came over to Nura:
âWhatâs going on here? Why were you fighting with that man?â
âNo worry, no worry,â replied Nura, struggling to his feet with difficulty.
Then a bystander intervened:
âI saw it all: this gentleman was coming out of the Métro minding his own business when the other man launched an unprovoked attack on him.â
The police officersâ attitude softened:
âAre you all right, sir? Are you hurt?â
âOK, no worry,â protested Nura, terrified that they might ask him for his papers.
âWould you like us to take you to hospital?â
âNo, no! All fine,â he repeated, panic-stricken.
âCome with us to the police station to make a statement.â
âNo, no! No problem. Much much no problem.â
âBut you need to stand up for yourself. Come with us.â
âNo, no! No problem, no worry.â
Nura was on the verge of tears. So plaintive were his pleas that the police officers let him go. He staggered painfully back to the hotel. The next day he had to drag himself to the nearest accident and emergency department.
I donât know why, but for a while Iâve been going through a bad phase. I keep losing, even against weak players. At one tournament, Iâm flattened in 30 moves. My opponent takes one of my pawns and attacks the rampart that Iâve built around my king. As he does it I just watch: I canât react, canât defend myself. When it gets to checkmate, itâs all I can do to stop myself from crying.
My father is furious. He flies into a terrible temper and wonât speak to me for two days. He doesnât speak to me in the morning. He doesnât speak to me on the way to school. He doesnât speak to me on the way back from school. He doesnât speak to me when we eat. He just says nothing, as if Iâm not there. He wonât do anything for me. He doesnât even wash up my plate after supper. So I wait for him to speak to me. I know he will. Heâll have to, he needs me to translate. But it goes on for ever and it hurts.
Another time, he looks on as the game Iâm playing collapses. I can feel him getting crosser and crosser. Soon all I can think about is how angry he is, I canât think about the game at all. When the tournament is over, he picks up his things and leaves. I run after him, down the street, into the Métro. When we get to the hotel he wonât speak. I feel so bad.
I refuse to eat and go and sulk in front of the television. Luckily I find a packet of crisps in my pocket, a bet I won
His limited grasp of French was a source of daily frustration for Nura. Months after the event, he told me rather sheepishly â though he could also see its funny side â about an incident that had nearly tipped over into farce. After going to have his hair cut in the Belleville district, he had gone into a café to use the toilet. While he was waiting, a young Asian girl came up and started talking to him. He could make out the words âworkâ and â40 eurosâ. Delighted at having found a job, or so he thought, he followed her back to her place. No sooner had they gone inside than she took all her clothes off and demanded 40 euros. Dumbfounded, Nura grasped the nature of the transaction and fled, while she yelled after him, calling him all the names under the sun.
Not all of Nuraâs adventures were so entertaining: far from it, in fact. Through the experiences he confided in me, I learned about the world of those with no money, no documentation, no defences and no rights. As he was coming out of the Métro one evening, a man set upon him for no reason and started beating him up. He punched Nura to the ground, then attacked him with a volley of kicks. When a police car came around the corner, the attacker took fright and ran off. Their suspicions aroused, the police officers stopped the car and came over to Nura:
âWhatâs going on here? Why were you fighting with that man?â
âNo worry, no worry,â replied Nura, struggling to his feet with difficulty.
Then a bystander intervened:
âI saw it all: this gentleman was coming out of the Métro minding his own business when the other man launched an unprovoked attack on him.â
The police officersâ attitude softened:
âAre you all right, sir? Are you hurt?â
âOK, no worry,â protested Nura, terrified that they might ask him for his papers.
âWould you like us to take you to hospital?â
âNo, no! All fine,â he repeated, panic-stricken.
âCome with us to the police station to make a statement.â
âNo, no! No problem. Much much no problem.â
âBut you need to stand up for yourself. Come with us.â
âNo, no! No problem, no worry.â
Nura was on the verge of tears. So plaintive were his pleas that the police officers let him go. He staggered painfully back to the hotel. The next day he had to drag himself to the nearest accident and emergency department.
I donât know why, but for a while Iâve been going through a bad phase. I keep losing, even against weak players. At one tournament, Iâm flattened in 30 moves. My opponent takes one of my pawns and attacks the rampart that Iâve built around my king. As he does it I just watch: I canât react, canât defend myself. When it gets to checkmate, itâs all I can do to stop myself from crying.
My father is furious. He flies into a terrible temper and wonât speak to me for two days. He doesnât speak to me in the morning. He doesnât speak to me on the way to school. He doesnât speak to me on the way back from school. He doesnât speak to me when we eat. He just says nothing, as if Iâm not there. He wonât do anything for me. He doesnât even wash up my plate after supper. So I wait for him to speak to me. I know he will. Heâll have to, he needs me to translate. But it goes on for ever and it hurts.
Another time, he looks on as the game Iâm playing collapses. I can feel him getting crosser and crosser. Soon all I can think about is how angry he is, I canât think about the game at all. When the tournament is over, he picks up his things and leaves. I run after him, down the street, into the Métro. When we get to the hotel he wonât speak. I feel so bad.
I refuse to eat and go and sulk in front of the television. Luckily I find a packet of crisps in my pocket, a bet I won
Similar Books
