Free Meatloaf in Manhattan by Robert Power Page A

his. Finally, after eight hours play I am still winning and the General calls it a day.
    We all gather for the last toast of the night, made by the host to conclude the festivities.
    The General looks worn and defeated. The vodka, cigarettes and rigours of battle have all taken their toll.
    â€˜To our collaboration,’ he says, ‘the lawmen and the doctors.’
    â€˜To our collaboration,’ we all echo.
    And then the General turns to me and hands me his cue.
    â€˜This is for you,’ he says, the look of defeat still etched on his face. ‘Your skills in Russian billiards must be rewarded.’
    He thrusts the beautiful cue into my hand, grasping my arm to indicate that refusal is not an option.
    â€˜Spasebar, spasebar bolshoi,’ I reply. ‘And,’ I add, raising my voice, making sure everyone can hear, ‘I want to thank you for letting me win, when I know you could so easily have crushed me. That showed the real man in you.’
    The General’s face lights up: the small boy who has just been told his exam marks were mixed up and he is still top of the class after all. Everyone smiles and one more toast is made ‘to sportsmanship’.
    Back in my hotel room it is way into the night. My few clothes lie in a heap on the bed. The billiard cue is secure in its case, awaiting its unexpected migration. Soon Misha will be here to drive me to the airport for my early morning flight back to Domodedovo airport. The snow is still falling heavily outside as I take one more look out of the window on to the square. Lenin stands in that familiar pose, his overcoat opened wide, one hand on his heart, the other pointing to a wonderful future. Some thousand miles away, in the mausoleum in Moscow’s Red Square, his embalmed corpse lies in its glass case, eyes closed, waiting for the morning and the new day’s visitors.

THE I ZINGARI CAP
    The I Zingari cap has been worn by a group of nomadic cricketers since 1845, with its distinctive circles of black, red and gold reflecting the I Zingari motto ‘out of darkness, through fire, into light’ .
    Melbourne, Victoria, Australia, 25 August 2010
    â€˜Out of darkness, through fire, into light,’ shouts the gypsy, so near to my face that I can feel the heat of his breath.
    The I Zingari cap is tight on my head. When did I put it on? I can barely think, the pain in my body is immense, more than anything I’ve known before. But I run on. One foot in front of the other, the stadium and finishing line in sight.
    â€˜Where have you come from?’ I ask the gypsy.
    â€˜From Cullin-la-Ringo,’ he says, the tell-tale gold tooth sparkling against his pitch-black skin. ‘I bring news of the battle. But I shall not expire at your feet. I am already dead.’
    Then he whispers, close to my ear.
    â€˜I’ve come from your father’s grave in Goa,’ his skin lightening, like the depth of my dream, the smell of cardamom and cloves on his words.
    The roar of the crowd, the bright sun overhead is a dream come true. I run onto the track as a conquering gladiator. Thousands of smiling faces, cheering my effort. And then one voice.
    â€˜Son,’ he shouts, waving wildly, running to the edge of the track. My father, dressed in the suit I buried him in, the I Zingari cap no longer on my head, but atop his skinless skull. ‘I spotted you,’ he says. ‘the colours, just like you said. Rings of black, red and gold. I knew it was you. By the cap. By the cap on your chinny chin chin.’
    â€˜Don’t look back,’ whispers the gypsy in my ear. ‘Don’t ever look back.’
    I might be sleeping, I tell my dream, but I know that nightmares can turn into fairytales.
    Colva, Goa, India, 16 July 2007
    â€˜If he had looked over the other shoulder, who knows, it may have all turned out differently.’
    That’s what the policeman told me, in the courtyard, in the stinking heat, standing on