Sophie had gained even further on us.
We went past more dirty brick walls, some with extensive damp patches. The paving was uneven and I could see before us puddles glinting under the street lighting.
'Don't worry,' I said to Boris. 'We're nearly there now.'
Boris was continuing to whisper to himself, repeating in time with his short breaths: 'Number Nine… Number Nine…'
From the first, Boris's mentions of 'Number Nine' had rung some distant bell for me. Now as I listened to his whispering, I recalled that 'Number Nine' was not in fact a real footballer, but one of Boris's miniature players from his table-football game. The footballers, moulded in alabaster and each one weighted at the base, could be made with flicks of the finger to dribble, pass and shoot a tiny plastic ball. The game was intended for two people each controlling a team, but Boris only ever played on his own, spending hours lying on his front orchestrating matches full of dramatic reversals and nail-biting comebacks. He possessed six full teams, as well as miniature goals with authentic netting and a green felt cloth that opened out to form the pitch. Boris despised the manufacturers' assumption that he would enjoy pretending the teams were 'real' ones, such as Ajax Amsterdam or AC Milan, and had given the teams his own names. The individual players, however - though Boris had come to know each one's strengths and weaknesses intimately - he had never named, preferring to call them simply by their shirt numbers. Perhaps because he was not aware of the significance of shirt numbers in football - or perhaps it was just another wilful quirk of his imagination - a player's number bore no relation to where Boris placed him in the team formation. Thus, the Number Ten of one team might be a legendary central defender, the Number Two a promising young winger.
'Number Nine' belonged to Boris's very favourite team, and was by far the most gifted of the players. However, for all his immense skill, Number Nine was a highly moody personality. His position in the team was somewhere in midfield, but often, for long stretches of a match, he would sulk in some obscure part of the pitch, apparently oblivious of the fact that his team was losing badly. Sometimes, Number Nine would continue in this lethargic manner for over an hour, so that his team would go four, five, six goals down, and the commentator - for indeed there was a commentator - would say in a mystified voice: 'Number Nine so far just hasn't found his form. I don't quite know what's wrong.' Then, perhaps with twenty minutes remaining, Number Nine would finally give a glimpse of his true ability, pulling back a goal for his side with some fine piece of skill. "That's more like it!' the commentator would exclaim. 'At last, Number Nine shows what he can do!' From that moment on, Number Nine's form would grow steadily stronger, until before long he would be scoring one goal after another, and the opposing team would be concentrating entirely on preventing at virtually any cost Number Nine receiving the ball. But sooner or later he would, and then, no matter how many opponents stood between him and the goalmouth, he would manage to find a way through to score. Soon the inevitability of the outcome once he had received the ball was such that the commentator would say: 'It's a goal,' in tones of resigned admiration, not when the ball actually went into the net, but at the moment Number Nine first gained possession - even if this occurred deep within his own half. The spectators too - there were spectators - would commence their roar of triumph as soon as they saw Number Nine get the ball, the roar continuing intensely and evenly as Number Nine wove his way gracefully through his opponents, struck the ball past the goalkeeper, and turned to receive the adulation of his grateful team-mates.
As I was remembering all this, a vague recollection came into my head that some problem had recently arisen concerning Number
We went past more dirty brick walls, some with extensive damp patches. The paving was uneven and I could see before us puddles glinting under the street lighting.
'Don't worry,' I said to Boris. 'We're nearly there now.'
Boris was continuing to whisper to himself, repeating in time with his short breaths: 'Number Nine… Number Nine…'
From the first, Boris's mentions of 'Number Nine' had rung some distant bell for me. Now as I listened to his whispering, I recalled that 'Number Nine' was not in fact a real footballer, but one of Boris's miniature players from his table-football game. The footballers, moulded in alabaster and each one weighted at the base, could be made with flicks of the finger to dribble, pass and shoot a tiny plastic ball. The game was intended for two people each controlling a team, but Boris only ever played on his own, spending hours lying on his front orchestrating matches full of dramatic reversals and nail-biting comebacks. He possessed six full teams, as well as miniature goals with authentic netting and a green felt cloth that opened out to form the pitch. Boris despised the manufacturers' assumption that he would enjoy pretending the teams were 'real' ones, such as Ajax Amsterdam or AC Milan, and had given the teams his own names. The individual players, however - though Boris had come to know each one's strengths and weaknesses intimately - he had never named, preferring to call them simply by their shirt numbers. Perhaps because he was not aware of the significance of shirt numbers in football - or perhaps it was just another wilful quirk of his imagination - a player's number bore no relation to where Boris placed him in the team formation. Thus, the Number Ten of one team might be a legendary central defender, the Number Two a promising young winger.
'Number Nine' belonged to Boris's very favourite team, and was by far the most gifted of the players. However, for all his immense skill, Number Nine was a highly moody personality. His position in the team was somewhere in midfield, but often, for long stretches of a match, he would sulk in some obscure part of the pitch, apparently oblivious of the fact that his team was losing badly. Sometimes, Number Nine would continue in this lethargic manner for over an hour, so that his team would go four, five, six goals down, and the commentator - for indeed there was a commentator - would say in a mystified voice: 'Number Nine so far just hasn't found his form. I don't quite know what's wrong.' Then, perhaps with twenty minutes remaining, Number Nine would finally give a glimpse of his true ability, pulling back a goal for his side with some fine piece of skill. "That's more like it!' the commentator would exclaim. 'At last, Number Nine shows what he can do!' From that moment on, Number Nine's form would grow steadily stronger, until before long he would be scoring one goal after another, and the opposing team would be concentrating entirely on preventing at virtually any cost Number Nine receiving the ball. But sooner or later he would, and then, no matter how many opponents stood between him and the goalmouth, he would manage to find a way through to score. Soon the inevitability of the outcome once he had received the ball was such that the commentator would say: 'It's a goal,' in tones of resigned admiration, not when the ball actually went into the net, but at the moment Number Nine first gained possession - even if this occurred deep within his own half. The spectators too - there were spectators - would commence their roar of triumph as soon as they saw Number Nine get the ball, the roar continuing intensely and evenly as Number Nine wove his way gracefully through his opponents, struck the ball past the goalkeeper, and turned to receive the adulation of his grateful team-mates.
As I was remembering all this, a vague recollection came into my head that some problem had recently arisen concerning Number
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