and bowing slightly. ‘And I am Syrian, which means you are very lucky indeed. And why are you lucky, please?’ There was no response. Perhaps he did not expect any. He quickly answered his own question. ‘You are very lucky because we Syrians speak the best and the purest classical Arabic. However, this comes with a warning. You will discover on this course that everybody – everybody from an Omani sailor to a Moroccan shepherd – will say that they speak the best and the purest Arabic. Even the Egyptians say this, though in the case of the Egyptians you will please understand that the claim is simply laughable. With Syrians it is at least close to the truth.’
There was some laughter from Harry and Raj and one of the two women in the room. She was dark haired and Mediterranean in appearance and sat at the very front of the class.
‘This course is not for the faint hearted,’ Abdul Aziz al-Barra went on, stopping to drink his coffee in one mouthful. ‘If you are not prepared to work hard then, please, may I respectfully suggest you leave now and find a less demanding class. Perhaps basket weaving. If you can keep it up for three years then I guarantee you will be excellent speakers of the Arabic language. If you can’t … well … we also have Arabic Culture and Society. Very interesting. We have Koranic Arabic. Very religious. We have slower courses. All of them very good. Some even taught by Syrians. We will now go round the class, please, and each of you will kindly give me the idea of why you wish to learn my language. This will help me teach. Please. Thank you.’
He nodded at a slim, petite blonde woman in her late twenties who sat in the corner.
‘Please?’
‘I am Polly Black,’ the blonde woman said. ‘I work in the travel business in central London. I think tourism to the Arab world is something which could be developed.’
‘She’s an optimist,’ Raj whispered to Harry. ‘Fancy a package tour to Gaza?’
Then came the strikingly pretty Mediterranean woman who had laughed at the professor’s attempts at humour.
‘My name is Zumrut,’ she said. ‘I am Turkish.’
Zumrut explained that she wanted to learn Arabic because she was writing a book about the decline of the Ottoman Empire and its implications for the Middle East.
‘I already can read Ottoman. I speak French and English, but I need more context – therefore I need the Arabic language as well.’
‘Thank you, Zumrut. Please.’
And so it went. A sad-faced black man from northern Nigeria, Mohammed, said he was learning Arabic ‘for religious reasons’. That was all he said. The teacher nodded at Harry.
‘Please. Perhaps a little more information from each of you, including any languages you already speak.’
‘I am a linguist,’ Harry replied. ‘A translator. At the moment I am working on a translation of some early Milan Kundera short stories from the Czech into English for a British publisher, and I am also helping with the translation of some poems by William Butler Yeats. I work from home. I also translate business and technical documents. I see learning Arabic as two things. Fun – I am interested in the development of language and I know that Arabic is the language of grammarians. And I also see it as a good business opportunity for me in the future. I am interested in Islamic culture too, but I’m not religious. Maybe you could say I’m an ethnic Christian.’
‘Fine,’ Abdul Aziz said, nodding towards Raj. ‘And you?’
‘Scholarship,’ Raj said. ‘I’m not so sure about the fun, but I hope to enjoy it too. I also want to read the Holy Koran properly, because I am not sure how much you can ever trust a translation, or a translator.’ He smiled at Harry. ‘No offence meant, but even the best translations are bound to miss something. And I would like to explore Arab culture. It’s like a part of me – but not a meaningful part. Or not yet.’
‘What do you do, please?’
‘I’m an immigration lawyer. Some of my clients are Arabs, so it would come in useful at work too. Iraqis because of the war. Algerians. Also Iranians and Afghans.’
‘Ah, so George Bush is at least good for business,’ Harry whispered to Raj. ‘Glad he’s helping someone.’
At the back of the class sat two middle-aged Pakistani men neatly dressed in suits and ties. They knew each other. One spoke for both. The one who spoke said they were originally from the same village in Pakistan and now ran a taxi business together in west Ealing. Their first language was Urdu.
‘We wish to go on Hajj pilgrimage and we need Arabic,’ the one who talked said in heavily accented English. ‘Also wishing to understand our religion better.’
Abdul Aziz nodded at the other man who said simply, ‘Same.’
He moved on to the remaining two students, who were also sitting together at the back.
‘My name is Rafiq,’ the first said, with a London accent. He was in his early twenties, with a wispy short beard. ‘I want to travel. That’s why I need to learn the language.’
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