:: Paradise

If you sat on your magic carpet in May and told it to take you to Paradise, it would head straight for the South of France. The sun shines, but not enough to burn; the beaches have bodies, but not unwelcome crowds -and that's only the aperitif.
The natural beauty of the country, the contrast between the blue of the Mediterranean and the splendour of the mountains, is superb, enough to enthrall even the most urban of tastes. Any visitor whose resistance is still not overcome by this would then be happily seduced by the best food on earth. Bouillabaisse, the fish soup, which is a speciality of the Côte d'Azur, is wonderful beyond description. And it is matched by the fabulous cooking of any of the restaurants that you just come across accidentally while exploring the region: La Chaumière, Villefranche, or Têtu in Antibes.
The French are brilliant -I say that because every year for a month or so in spring they hold a series of bridge tournaments on the Côte d' Azur. The locations include holiday resorts like Juan-les-Pins, Cannes and Monte Carlo. Unlike bridge tournaments in most countries (especially America) these are holidays first and bridge events second -with only one session of play a day. This is one reason why bridge is thriving in France. The games start at three or four in the afternoon and end at seven or eight -enough to whet your appetite but not enough to drown you.
Having decided to try the world of tournament bridge, my initial sortie was here, to the South of France. Teaming up with Martin Hoffman, a regular visitor to the continent, my first tournament was Juan-les-Pins. If you have to go to school, there's no harm going to one where they serve champagne with breakfast and where the discotheques never close.
The tournaments vary in length, and beginners and experts are both equally welcome and equally in evidence. The one in Juan lasts fourteen days. There are four events, the Individual, the Mixed Pairs, the Open Pairs and the Teams. You can enter as many or as few as you like.
We had arrived too late for the Individual. Let me tell you about the Mixed. For most players, a mixed pairs (with the exception of world championships) is a casual social outing. But there is still an art in doing weIl. Often the field is full of unbalanced partnerships with one better player (man or woman) playing under sufferance with his or her mate. It is a mutant form of the game where the senior partner tries to hog aIl the hands, and bids as if playing solo or cut-throat. But aIl the while they are trying to disguise what they are doing in order to retain their partner's dignity. It isn't easily done, which helps to explain why the Mixed can result in violent fights, tears, and shattered illusions -even broken marriages.
My idea of action during the two days of the Mixed was to browse lazily through a good book on the beach, with the occasional exercise of reaching out for a nearby cocktail. And that's exactly what I was doing when Hoffman came running up just half an hour before the start of the - Mixed. He said, 'I've found you a partner for the Mixed.

'What on earth are you talking about? You know I have no intention. ..'
My reply was interrupted by Martin. 'Here she is.' I looked up. There are very few things that could have dragged me away from my idyllic resting-place and made me change my original plan. Monique just happened to be one of them. With sparkling green eyes and a soft, throaty voice, Monique was almost unreal. The closest I can get to describing her is to compare the feeling one gets from picking up a ten-card suit for the first time. A mixture of fantasy fulfilled and the surge of wild expectation. AIl in aIl, she was impossible to resist. Doubtless she couldn't play, but who would be watching her cards?
Bridge is a pure game, cerebral and intelIectualIy satisfying. I think it is inappropriate, even disgusting, for one person to play with another simply because they find them physically attractive. But what could I do? I admit it -I am disgusting. Anyway, Monique wasn't just attractive, she was a knockout.
Things didn't go weIl. ln fact, the first day's game was a disaster. We were lying 180th out of a possible 190. It was caused by nervousness (Monique), bad luck and lust (me). Monique was close to tears at the end of play and rushed off. My dinner plans were ruined. I couldn't help thinking that this was no way to impress her.
Born out of the threat of frustrated romance, great ideas can sometimes emerge. So was born 'Le Pique Pakistani' (the Paki Spade): a system designed to bring the smile back to Monique's charming face and -hopefulIy -the love back to my life.
The theory was simple enough. Whenever either one of us was non-vulnerable and it was our turn to open the bidding, we would calI one spade -regardless of strength or distribution. Partner could be scientific and respond one notrump with a good hand of thirteen-plus points as a kind of 'what have you got?' bid; or otherwise just play it by ear, trying to cause as much havoc as possible. After aIl, we couldn't do any worse!
We declared our system to our opponents, of course, and then jackpot! The element of surprise, luck, fate, whatever- I don't realIy know -but good results poured in as the opponents succumbed to the devilishness of the system.

Dealer North
EO game

	64 AQJ93 Q94 763
KQ105 82 J3 AQ854		AJ97 K76 K106 J92
	832 1054 A8752 K10

North East South West 1 (1) - 2 - 3 - - -

The opponents could have made four or five spades, rather luckily. But it was difficult for them to get to four spades when not only one but both opponents bad bid spades. (Fifteen years later a similar but more refined method of destruction was devised in New Zealand, following its original invention in Poland. 'Fert' bids were inflicted on the bridge world -where opening bids of one diamond, one heart or one spade, depending upon vulnerability, would show 0-7 points. The 'fert' moniker is an abbreviation for fertilizer, used as the bids are intended to aid the growth of good results.) Le Pique Pakistani was before its time.
The upshot was that we moved up 140 places, finishing a respectable fortieth !
Monique was delighted. I was delighted that Monique was delighted. And the love affair?
I suppose you could say that we celebrated our success in the usual manner.

After Juan we drove down the coast to Cannes. Cannes: Movie stars, the Carlton Hotel, lobsters, Goulash (a form of bridge popular in France in which the cards aren't shuffled, leading to voids and nine-card suits becoming- everyday occurrences), and a tournament shorter in duration than Juan's. We did slightly better, finishing in the money. I liked the tournament, and have returned regularly over the years. The best result I ever had there was in 1988 while playing with the brilliant young Indian player Jaggy Shivdasani- though it was almost a disaster. But before describing that incident, what was I, a Pakistani, doing playing with an Indian, the traditional enemy? I don't know -put it down to just another instance of the way in which bridge doesn't seem to allow people to know or care where they come from. It is impervious to society's traditional barriers of age, colour, religion or beliefs. Put it down to the magic, the spell that the game mysteriously weaves, bewitching alI those who come into contact with it.
This was Jaggy's first trip to the South of France. A very talented player, whose enthusiasm at the table is a reflection of his attitude to life, he is the text-book tourist, always ready with his camera to go on any excursion. He bubbles excitedly through life.
We had an enormous session of 70 per cent on the first day of the Open Pairs. This is the equivalent of scoring a hat-trick of goals; and we were leading the field. It was about one in the afternoon on the final day's play.

I was where I belonged, blissfuIly asleep, when the phone rang.
“Help” a voice screamed. 'Excuse me' I muttered, stiIl drowsy. I wasn't reacting too weIl. 'Help me, I'm stuck'. At last I recognized Jaggy's voice. He went on to explain that he had gone on a boat excursion to an island off the coast. Busy clicking away, engrossed in using up roIls of film, he had misunderstood the departure time of the boat and when he got back to the departure point, he was in time to see the boat sailing away. The next boat wasn't due until three, which was also the time the game was due to start. This meant he would be at least half an hour late.
Jaggy was on the verge of winning his first international tournament and fate had stranded him on an island five miles away. He was desperate, and he pleaded with me to hire a boat to save bim.
'Do something, wake up, get up, go to the dock and pay a fisherman to sail out and rescue me.' he pleaded. 'But look for one with an old boat. That might be cheaper.' he added as an afterthought.
Where was I going to find a sympathetic French fisherman prepared to rescue a bridge playing Indian savage who was marooned on a not so desert island? Just trying to explain the predicament in my limited French was likely to get me locked up. And it's a fact that most Frenchmen refuse to speak English even if they can understand it. I seriously contemplated going back to sleep. I was probably dreaming anyway.
On the other hand, as far as I knew, this was the first time that a Pakistani and an Indian had ever teamed up in international competition -it would be a great bonus if we won. I tried this line on the concierge, but sadIy this appeal to a higher ideal was totally wasted on him. He did react sympathetically to a 200-franc note and promised to make enquiries, which, naturally, proved to be fruitless.
As a last resort, I appealed to the highest authority -the Tournament Director. I was ready with my pathetic story of the dangers of travelling in a foreign land. He was surprisingly understanding and agreed sportingly to give us a maximum of half an hour's grace during which I could play with a substitute. I told Jaggy this when he called back, adding a few choice descriptions of my views about his lineage, using some of the words that are common to both Urdu (the Pakistani language) and Hindi! (the Indian language).
The story had a happy ending. Jaggy managed to make it before the deadline, and though physically slightly the worse for wear, his bridge skills were not dimmed……a big step forwards in Pakistan-India relationships.
Winning has its own satisfaction, and although no one except me seemed particularly impressed with the political magnitude of our achievement, I was sufficiently moved to write off the 200FF.
After Cannes comes Monte Carlo. The mention of Monte Carlo conjures up images of the jet set: of extravagance, elegance and beauty. For once, reality fits the image. The only thing small about Monte Carlo is its size -a mere two square kilometers, or about half the size of Central Park in New York.
The marriage of the beautiful Grace Kelly to her handsome prince gave the municipality a fairy-tale aura. The fascination of the world with royalty and glamour has done the rest. Wealth is still the key word, but banking, not gambling, is the principal industry. The rich move there not only to enjoy the playground but also for the more commercial reason that residents don't pay any taxes. Prices are astronomical, so be careful where you order a drink. The first time I was there, I offered someone a coke at Jimmy's, the famous night club, and it cost me £20.
However, no mention of Monte Carlo would be complete without an Omar story. Breaking the bank at Monte Carlo is every gambler's dream, but it's much more likely the bank will break you. That doesn't always have to be as bad as it sounds -if you are a superstar like Omar Sharif. Omar once found himself at the losing end of a heavy night at the chemin de fer table. ln fact, in bridge terminology, heavy was an under- bid: he had lost everything he had, a small fortune.
Unfortunately, movie stars are not supposed to react to these setbacks like the other mortals. So he started to leave the casino with as much dignity as his acting skins would permit. He had almost made it to the exit when a man stopped him. 'Excuse me, Mr Sharif, I am sorry about your loss. 'He spoke in Arabic.
'Thank you, but it was nothing. These things happen. 'I am a great fan of yours, and hope you win accept a tip from me that might help you recoup your losses. The price of silver is about to rise dramatically; buy some.'
Omar took the advice, and the next day camed a friend of his, Alan 'Ace' Greenberg, President of Bear Stems (an investment bank in New York), and also a keen bridge player. The tip was dynamite; a coup was in progress in the silver market and Omar not only recovered his losses, but made a profit as well.
I visited Monte Carlo many times over the next few years, but sadIy the annual tournament there has been discontinued, probably from a lack of sponsorship. The last time I was there, I was a spectator, not a player, in the 1976 World Championships. Every fourth year each country may send teams to compete in the Open and Women's Team events.
There are no money prizes, of course, but the competition is as fierce as it is in any other bridge event. A world championship gold medal is the most treasured prize for any duplicate player. Many teams featured players I knew well. I was jealous that they could represent their countries at this level. I too would have liked to be playing for Pakistan, but that seemed no more than a hopeless dream.

Zia Mahmood, Bridge my Way, Faber and Faber, London-Boston