This summer, when we decamped to the mountains, I was relieved to see that the Librairie Michel in Bikfaya stocked the IHT, its famous Gothic title with the telltale yellow “weekend” strip, standing proud among the Arabic press, a harbinger of the hours of mind-twisting joy ahead of me.
But the next week, as I drove into Bikfaya, slightly later than normal I admit, a grey cloud had shunted its way into the otherwise azure sky that was my life. “It’s sold, monsieur,” said the elderly owner with a shrug.
I went to the next newsstand. “We don’t carry it, monsieur.” And then to the next, where the owner gave me the infuriating double eyebrow lift. Before long, I found myself barrelling down the mountain coastward, looking at my watch and wondering if all the copies in the Metn had been snapped up, cursing anyone who might have done so. Why do they want it? I bet they don’t do the crossword! Can’t they read the news online?”
I pulled into the car park of Spinneys, the roar of the highway traffic having replaced the relative quiet of the mountain. Sprinting up the ramp, I ran downstairs and scanned the papers until I caught sight of the familiar fonts and colours, snatching the paper into my arms. The euphoria must have got the better of me because I felt compelled to tell the bemused girl at the till that I had driven all the way from the upper reaches of the Metn to find it.
The warm glow of achievement was short-lived. Would it be like this every Saturday? How could I live with the uncertainty? I would have to make sure I got to Bikfaya earlier.
The following Saturday, I was on the road by 8 am. I parked fifteen minutes later and made my way to Michel. A faint knot of anxiety prompted me to walk slightly faster than normal.
Then I saw him. He was walking towards me, almost equidistant to the newsstand, an elderly man, dressed in the tennis gear favoured by men of a certain generation who have lived in the US – white shoes, ankle socks, shorts and a white polo shirt, all ironed and immaculate, topped off with a visor.
Paranoia kicked in. This was my rival from the previous week, also up in good time to secure his paper. I picked up the pace. I would surely get there before him but what about the inevitable disappointment on his face when I grab the only available copy? Should I offer it to him, knowing that he would never accept? But what if he did? Another drive to Spinneys?
Realising that if I walked any quicker, I would break into a run, I slowed down. When I reached the newsstand, the man carried on past me. This had to stop.
As I paid, I asked the owner if I could reserve a copy for next Saturday. “Mais bien sûr, monsieur.” I liked her. She was efficient in that old school mountain way. She told her young assistant, to save a copy next Saturday “for Monsieur Karam”. The girl dutifully made a note in a logbook. I even paid in advance, despite her protestations and this was also duly recorded. Ah! If only the whole country were run this way.
The next Thursday my sister arrived from London. As we sat on her terrace on Friday evening, the planets were in perfect alignment. I sipped my gin and tonic, secure in the knowledge that, as the weekend stretched out before me, my paper was going nowhere.
“I’m so looking forward to the IHT weekend crossword,” my sister said, staring out across the mountains. “Can you pick me up a copy when you go into Bikfaya tomorrow?”
