Honour by Elif Shafak Page B

was still watching the ball spin around the wheel, still winning. The dealer asked for a break.
    In need of fresh air Adem stepped out into the street. There was a tall, hulking Moroccan he knew from the factory, sitting by himself on the pavement.
    ‘You’re a lucky man,’ remarked the Moroccan.
    ‘
Kismet
. Not every day is like this.’
    ‘Maybe Allah is testing you.’ The man paused, giving him a cursory glance. ‘You know what they say.
He who wants to ride a fast horse could break his back, but the horse has to gallop
.’
    ‘What the hell does that mean?’
    ‘I don’t know but I like the sound of it.’
    They laughed, their voices carrying in the night air.
    ‘Here’s a good one,’ said Adem. ‘
One can flee to the end of the world but one cannot run away from his behind
.’
    ‘Uh-hum.’ The Moroccan was about to raise his glass when he noticed his companion’s empty hands.
    ‘I don’t drink,’ Adem said by way of explanation.
    This elicited a chuckle from the other man. ‘My, oh my. Look at you! You’re hooked on gambling but when it comes to booze you turn into a pious Muslim.’
    Adem’s face closed down like a trap. He was not an addict. He could stop playing whenever he wanted. As for his reasons for not drinking, it was something he rarely talked about, especially with strangers. But tonight he made an exception. He said flatly, ‘My father was a heavy drinker.’
    No sooner had he returned to the basement than the lights went off. Another power-cut. The third this week. These days London was grey in the mornings with rainclouds, black in the evenings with shutdowns.
That candle shop in Hackney must be raking it in
, Adem thought. There was good money in wholesaling candles, a business that had become as vital as selling bread and milk.
    Adem strained his eyes through the half-lit corridor, until he reached the room at the back. There were three Chinese at the table, sulking by a paraffin lamp – men of few words and impenetrable expressions. Adem knew it was time for him to leave. He had to be satisfied with what he had earned. He grabbed his jacket, tipped the dealer, and was about to walk out the door but then stopped.
    Later on, whenever he recalled this moment, which he would do fairly often, he would think of the emergency handles on trains. He had never tried pulling one, but he knew if someone did, the train would come to a sudden halt. That night he had stopped as if there were such a handle attached to his back and someone had tugged and tugged on it.
    A young woman had entered the room, like an apparition from the shadows. In the faint lamplight her sandy hair had an uncanny glow, curling below her ears, small and delicate. Leather miniskirt, white silk halter top, stiletto daggers on her feet. Every inch of her heart-shaped face sent out the message she was not pleased to be there, she’d rather be somewhere far away. He watched her sit next to one of the Chinese – a bald, portly man who acted as if he were the boss, and perhaps he was – and whisper in his ear. The man smiled a half-smile and caressed her thigh. Something tore inside Adem.
    ‘So, you are still here. You want to play another round, my friend?’
    This man had asked the question without raising his head or looking at anyone in particular. And yet Adem knew, as did all the people in the room, that the question was directed at him. He could feel the gaze of each person, but it was her eyes that pierced him – a pair of blue sapphires. He had never seen eyes that big, bright and blue. If his wife had met this woman, she would have feared the evil eye. For Pembe believed that if someone with such eyes stared at you, even for a moment, you had to run back home and burn salt on the stove.
    Adem’s face was aflame. He saw in that precise moment that he was about to commit the worst mistake in gambling, if not in life: to let yourself be provoked. But understanding this was one thing, accepting it quite