charmer’s pibroch. Then an onrush of comments and grunts, cheers and yells, shouts of desperation and triumph rose from the restless bunch. Whenever the Israeli forwards approached the French goal, only one voice rose in support.
“Pass. Pass. There. There. Shoot, I tell you. Damn! Ooooiyih!” Alain’s entire body contorted, his hands and legs rose and fell in empathic response. When Trezeguet, the French forward, was sent out, there was an uproar, but Alain kept mum. He seemed to mutter under his breath. The others watched Alain in brooding silence. Finally, exasperated, they brought their heads close together and whispered among themselves.
“What you not Français, Alain?” queried Meydi.
“And you?” retorted Alain. “You Français? Or Algérian?”
“Me? Me Algérian,” riposted Meydi, a bit startled though. “But here, I Français.”
“Me, too. Here Français Français.” Alain pointed to his heart, “but here,” he pointed to his feet, “Jew.”
“Oooh, like that, ah? Me too, Français Français here and here.” Mamadou pointed to his heart and head. “But here and here,” he pointed to his legs and feet, “African.”
Everyone laughed. Faces relaxed. From then on, they cheered the French team making thrusts into the Israeli half, while they taunted Alain in good cheer when he yelled for the Israelis. When it looked like neither side was likely to win, Alain faced the Pakistanis.
“Why you...you and you... Pakistanis cheer French team. You are not Français.” They looked stumped. They said something in Urdu that others could not
understand.
“Translate. Translate,” urged Mamadou, nudging Zulfikhar.
“They say, yes, they not French, but soon, soon, they get nationalité. Because they got girl-friend with French passpot.” Then, he hesitated for a moment. “Yes, yes. They say they already shoot they ball into they own gol. Now, wait. Only question, time.”
“Girlfren...nomber two... nomber three... or nomber foor... wife?” Mamadou shouted and nearly choked himself.
© T. Wignesan 2006 January 14 -16, 2006</b>