في عصر قديم، عاشَتْ أسطورة موسى وشهيرة الشهيرة، الجميلة والأنيقة. لم تكن حياته مجرد قصة عادية، بل كانت كالحكايات الساحرة التي تجذب القلوب والعقول. ولد لهما ابن، سماه موسى، كما ورد في السجلات القديمة. ولكن هل كانت نهاية القصة؟ لا، بالطبع لا. لأن في عالم الخيال والحكايات، كل شيء ممكن، حتى السحر والمفاجآت الغير متوقعة. فلنتابع القصة ونرى ما الذي يخبئه المستقبل لموسى ولسعيه إلى السعادة في عالم سحري وخيالي
¡We🔥Come!
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Click the image for a quick introduction.
CHAPITRE 1. Hermes.
Sur l'Olympe d'or, là où brillent les étoiles,
Hermès bondit, léger comme le vent,
Messager ailé, au seuil des cimes royales,
Il chante l'éclat du firmament.
Mais dans l'ombre où glisse l'oubli des âmes,
Il descend, un flambeau dans la main,
Sous des voûtes sourdes, où s'étouffent les flammes,
Il guide les perdus jusqu'à leur destin.
Aux festins divins, il s’élève en rires,
Le nectar coule et les dieux l’acclament,
Mais bientôt sa danse l’entraîne, il chavire,
Vers les champs asphodèles où règne le calme.
Dans un tourbillon, il unit les espaces,
Un pied dans la lumière, l’autre dans l’obscur,
Pont des mortels, ses pas laissent des traces,
Sur le fil fragile d’un destin si pur.
CHAPITRE 2. The Informatics Lesson.
An endless dance of numbers and algorithms,
Weaving data's fabric through screens and rhythms.
A lightning-fast sewing machine takes flight,
Crafting scenes of music, costumes, and light.
The young viewer stares, entranced by the stage,
Unaware of the magic behind the digital cage.
But oh, the wonder of this enchanted theater—
The viewer can alter the plot, become the creator.
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Autumn graces the stage, a fashion show unfolds,
Yet the viewer craves more than the story it holds.
A gentle touch, the spectacle halts mid-air,
Revealing prices, delivery costs, laid bare.
Autumn graces the stage, a fashion show unfolds,
But curiosity takes the viewer bold.
He strides to the model, whispers, "Do you dream?"
No answer comes—it's a scripted scene.
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The programmer toils, through day and night,
Till the patch is ready, and the code feels right.
Autumn graces the stage, a fashion show unfolds,
But now the scene bends to what curiosity molds.
He walks beside the model, asks, "What's the time?
Shall we step off the stage, explore a rhyme?"
The dance of numbers, the swirl of thought,
Algorithms weaving meanings humans sought.
CHAPITRE 3. The Desert Gambit.
Late at night, Faisal’s camel trudged through the shifting dunes, evading French patrols that pursued him relentlessly. The French, fearing his vision of a restored Syrian monarchy, sought to contain him much as they once contained Napoleon—to protect their national security and prevent ideas that challenged the supremacy of Western-style democracy.
As a sandstorm loomed on the horizon, Faisal spotted the flicker of firelight from a Bedouin settlement. He weighed his options: risk exposure or face the storm. He chose the fire.
The tent he entered was spacious and dimly lit, adorned with tapestries swaying gently in the breeze. At the center, seated on a low cushion, was the chieftain of the tribe. Faisal’s eyes scanned the man—a sharp presence, with an almost imperceptible Parisian cadence to his otherwise perfect Arabic.
This was no mere Bedouin leader. This was André Charbonneau, codenamed "Scarab", a French intelligence operative embedded in the desert under the guise of Sheikh Khalid Al-Zaman. Around him sat ten loyal followers, armed with AK-47s—a curious anachronism for this time, their presence no less unnerving.
The First Dance of Etiquette
Scarab rose and offered Faisal tea. As tradition demanded, Faisal refused three times, each declination measured, his eyes meeting those of the "sheikh." Each refusal brought tension to the air, a silent duel of custom and wit. The third invitation would seal their understanding—a transition from formality to genuine discourse.
The chieftain’s eyes flicked toward his men, gauging their reactions, testing their faith in his command. Then, Faisal broke the silence:
“Perhaps a hookah?”
The men exhaled collectively, a palpable relief at this breach of formal tension. Scarab nodded, allowing the mood to shift. The coals were lit, and the fragrant smoke coiled between them as Faisal began his tale.
The Vision
“Peace and prosperity for Syria,” Faisal began, his voice steady. “They require more than armies and blueprints. France must be convinced that this vision serves not only Syria but her own interests in the East.”
Scarab’s lips curled slightly, a smirk betrayed by the glow of the hookah's embers. He understood the subtext—Faisal knew who he was. Yet his men did not.
“Your Highness,” Scarab said, his tone even, “ambition in the desert is like chasing mirages. One misstep, and all is lost.”
Faisal gestured toward the tent flap, where the rising storm howled. “In a sandstorm, no one chases mirages. They seek shelter. What I propose is not a dream but refuge from the chaos consuming this land.”
Scarab leaned back, his expression guarded. “You want us to believe in your monarchy—a restoration that you claim Paris will tolerate? A hard sell, my friend.”
Faisal exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing. “History is recursive. Mistakes lead to division. Half a Lebanon, half a nation lost to chaos. But unity? Unity brings strength—perhaps a union as prosperous as the Emirates, but on Syrian soil.”
The hookah passed among the circle, Scarab watching his men closely. Faisal’s words resonated; he could see it in their eyes. But none dared speak first.
The Bait
Sensing the mood, Faisal pressed further. “Have you heard of the underground river project? Thirty meters beneath the desert lies not just a well but a network—a water metro, if you will.”
The men perked up, their curiosity piqued. One mentioned Elon Musk and his tunnel-boring machines, likening them to modern marvels of engineering.
Faisal seized the momentum. “As the Romans brought aqueducts to their empire, so shall the Syrian kingdom provide endless drinking water to all its people.”
Scarab leaned forward, finally breaking his silence. “And what do you propose in exchange for our... interest?”
The tent fell silent save for the rustle of fabric and the distant howl of the storm.
“Radio,” Faisal said simply.
Scarab’s brow furrowed. “Radio?”
“Yes. Public radio stations from Damascus, playing near every water distribution point. News, culture, unity. Water for radio.”
The men exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves. The proposition was unconventional, but Faisal’s logic was compelling. Scarab raised an eyebrow.
“And where’s the catch?”
Faisal’s gaze was unwavering. “There is no catch. Before we negotiate the grand, we must perfect the small, enforceable agreements. Everything else will come later—even if it takes generations.”
The storm raged outside, but inside the tent, the foundations of an idea took root.
CHAPITRE 4. The Lesson of Cyber-Socialization.
A sewing machine of digits and algorithms hums,
Weaving the fabric where knowledge comes.
The top thread gleams, bold and bright,
Driven forward by life's relentless might.
Yet the top thread alone cannot bind,
Without the hidden thread intertwined.
Invisible, silent, yet holding it all,
The unseen thread answers the unseen call.
So it is in memory, in thought's design,
The visible thread looks ahead, seeks to shine.
But the hidden thread, the secret it keeps,
Is the whispered past where the soul deeply sleeps.
The fabric of dreams, a future foretold,
Meets the hidden cloth, stories of old.
A dance of threads, a machine’s gentle play,
Binding tomorrow to the echoes of yesterday.
Without the hidden thread, it all would unravel,
No trace of the journey, no paths to travel.
For every connection, the seen and unseen,
Creates the tapestry of all we’ve been.
CHAPITRE 5. نظرة على "حقل العجائب" من خلال حديث في سماعة الأذن لدى يعقوبيتش.
حیات هرمس به روایت افسانههای هزار و یک شب
هرمس، پیامآور خدایان، در افسانههای هزار و یک شب همچون قاصدی جادویی و حیلهگر جلوه میکند، مردی که با کفشهای بالدارش از میان صحراهای سوزان و کوههای اسرارآمیز میگذرد، از قصرهای طلایی تا دالانهای تاریک جهان زیرین.
تولد در سایه ستارگان
هرمس همانند شاهزادهای که با برکتی آسمانی به دنیا آمده، کودکی بود که از لحظه تولد تقدیرش روشن بود. او همچون "علاءالدین"، تنها با ذکاوت خود و هدایای اندک آسمانی، راه خود را در دنیایی پر از خطر و جادو پیدا کرد.
جادوی هزار و یک درهم
روزی هرمس، همچون تاجری حیلهگر، به بازار افسانهای بغداد رسید. او نه برای خرید، بلکه برای آزمودن هوش و ذکاوت مردمان بازار آمده بود. او داستانهایی بافت که حقیقت و افسانه را در هم میآمیخت و مردم را مسحور کلمات خود کرد، درست مثل شهرزاد که با کلام خود جانش را نجات داد.
چراغ جادو و سفر به جهان زیرین
هرمس همچون کسی که چراغ جادویی را یافته، توانایی سفر میان جهانها را داشت. او با کفشهای بالدار خود به زیرزمین، جایی که "افریتها" و "جنها" حکمرانی میکردند، میرفت. در آنجا با دانایی و سخنوری، حتی از خطرناکترین جنها پیمان وفاداری میگرفت.
همبازی پادشاهان و خادمان
هرمس در دربار سلاطین همچون وزیر خردمند و در کنار مردم همچون قصهگویی ساده ظاهر میشد. او میدانست که چگونه با هدایای کوچک دلها را به دست آورد، همانگونه که سندباد با ارمغانهای شگفتانگیز خود اعتماد شاهان را جلب میکرد.
راهی میان جهانها
هرمس، مثل پلی میان دنیای زندگان و مردگان، همانند دلالی در بازارهای شرقی، همیشه راهی پیدا میکرد که میان دو طرف صلح و تعامل برقرار کند. او نه قهرمان بود و نه جادوگر، بلکه میانجیگری بود که با ذکاوت و تدبیر، هر مانعی را از میان برمیداشت.
نتیجهگیری
در افسانههای هزار و یک شب، هرمس نماد دانایی، حیلهگری و هنر سخنوری است. او نشان میدهد که برای فتح دنیا نیازی به شمشیر نیست، بلکه با کلام، ذکاوت و توانایی خواندن دلها، میتوان تمام دروازهها را گشود. هرمس همچون نسیمی خنک در دل کویر، افسانهای است که هرگز کهنه نمیشود.
CHAPITRE 7. The Streets of Amman: A Camel’s Journey and a Gambit in Disguise.
Faisal rode into Amman, his trusted camel swaying gently under the morning sun. The narrow streets bustled with life—vendors shouting, children darting between carts, and the scent of freshly baked bread mingling with the spices of falafel frying nearby. His destination: the French Embassy. But first, the unspoken challenge of navigating the labyrinthine social politics of the city.
A Chance Encounter
As Faisal turned a corner, two men approached him. Their clothes were ragged, their faces tanned by the sun, and their hands calloused from work—or perhaps something more disciplined. Yet their demeanor was far from the chaos of street wanderers.
One of them, a wiry figure with quick movements and sharp eyes, introduced himself as Salim. His story was that of a Palestinian refugee from Ramallah, whose family had fled to Jordan during the Six-Day War. He claimed to survive by doing odd jobs and selling trinkets to tourists.
The other, stockier and slower in speech, called himself Mahmoud. He said his family had escaped Gaza after Black September, blending into Amman’s working class. Mahmoud spoke nostalgically of his childhood near the sea, a memory that seemed rehearsed but nonetheless poignant.
Faisal dismounted and gestured toward his camel. “Would you mind giving my friend here a tug? He’s a bit stubborn today.”
Salim and Mahmoud exchanged a glance, their movements instinctive, as though accustomed to serving someone of importance. With synchronized ease, they knelt the camel and helped Faisal to the ground.
A Debate Over Falafel
Faisal, brushing the dust from his robes, casually mentioned, “I’ve heard there’s a falafel spot in Amman that rivals even the finest in Damascus. Do you know the place?”
Salim smirked. “If you want the best falafel, my uncle’s stall in downtown Amman is where kings would eat—if they weren’t too proud to visit the streets.”
Mahmoud scoffed. “Your uncle’s falafel? Dry as the desert. My cousin’s shop in Jabal Amman is where you’ll taste heaven.”
The two began a spirited argument, their voices rising as they competed over whose family mastered the art of the perfect falafel. Faisal listened intently, the cadence of their argument revealing more than the words themselves.
Amid their claims, Salim let slip that his uncle’s falafel shop opened in 1971—right after Black September. Faisal’s mind clicked: this was no coincidence. The man’s family was likely one of many Palestinians who stayed behind, weaving themselves into the kingdom’s complex fabric.
The Walk to "Falafel Al-Yasmeen"
“Perhaps you can settle this argument,” Faisal interjected with a smile. “Take me to this ‘uncle’ of yours, Salim. I’ll let my taste buds decide.”
With that, the trio began their walk through Amman’s bustling streets, Faisal leading his camel. As they strolled, the conversation drifted from falafel to weightier matters.
Faisal tested their depth: “I hear France is keen on opening new universities in Damascus. A noble cause, don’t you think? But it’s said to upset Iran’s interests in the region.”
Salim and Mahmoud stiffened, exchanging a wary glance. Mahmoud spoke first, choosing his words carefully. “Education is a path to a better future. If young Syrians can go to school, they’ll have a chance we didn’t—a chance to work for respected companies, not roam the streets like us.”
Salim added, “Yes, universities bring hope. But such things are complicated, especially when the powerful have their own games to play.”
Faisal nodded, sensing their discomfort yet admiring their subtle maneuvering. These men knew more than they let on. Their polished deflections hinted at a training few street wanderers would possess.
Delivering the Message
By the time they reached Falafel Al-Yasmeen, the shop’s scent of fresh herbs and sizzling oil enveloped them. Faisal declined to sit, citing his embassy meeting, but he thanked Salim and Mahmoud warmly. As he handed them a coin for their trouble, he remarked, “Even wanderers have a role to play in shaping a kingdom’s destiny.”
The two men looked puzzled but nodded respectfully. Faisal mounted his camel and continued on his way, reflecting on the encounter. He suspected the men were not merely wanderers but couriers in the intricate network of Jordanian intelligence, planted to observe and perhaps guide him.
“Even if I don’t meet the King himself,” Faisal thought, watching the bustling streets give way to the embassy’s imposing gates, “the message is already delivered. The pieces are in motion, and the gambit is underway.”
CHAPITRE 8. The Lesson of Cyber-Psychology.
The future spins, a mist unknown,
Yet in the dance of needle alone,
A ballerina twirls through space,
Threading life’s fabric with tireless grace.
Her pirouettes draw threads anew,
Binding past and dreams in view.
The needle leaps, a daring flight,
Weaving stories in morning light.
Beneath the surface lies the thread,
Silent steps where past is fed.
Yet in each loop, a secret trace,
The hidden rhythm, time’s embrace.
The ballerina knows her art,
Each leap, each twirl, a perfect start.
Her dance connects what’s seen, unseen,
The outer layer and soul within.
Her pointe shoes glide through woven streams,
Creating patterns, stitching dreams.
And as she moves, her steps compose,
A book of threads, where memory grows.
For every stitch and every turn,
The needle’s song makes fabrics churn.
The dance continues, bold, alive—
A timeless story, where threads survive.
CHAPITRE 11. À ce moment-là, au palais de l'Élysée, dans la salle Napoléon III : une interprète arabe explique la signification cachée des mots dans une émission télévisée.
— Interprète (calmement) :
"Cette émission, Monsieur le Président, c'est comme un téléphone auquel on aurait ajouté un flux rapide de cartes postales."
Le président Macron se tend, nerveux, et se redresse sur son fauteuil.
— Macron (d'un ton perplexe, mais un peu agacé) :
"Je sais ce qu'est une émission télévisée, mais je vous parle des réseaux, des fils invisibles qui mènent à tout cela. Qu'est-ce que cela signifie, ces... ces 'toiles de miroirs magiques' ? Comment fonctionne ce système ?"
L'interprète ajuste ses lunettes, jetant un regard furtif vers l'écran de télévision avant de répondre avec calme.
— Interprète (explicative) :
"Les 'toiles de miroirs magiques', Monsieur le Président, sont une métaphore pour désigner l'architecture complexe d'Internet, ce réseau qui interconnecte le monde. Ces 'miroirs' sont en réalité des serveurs et des protocoles qui, à travers des lignes invisibles, échangent des informations à une vitesse impressionnante."
Le président Macron, les sourcils froncés, essaie de saisir la profondeur de la réponse.
— Macron (avec une pointe de curiosité) :
"Et ces codes dont vous parlez, les fameux HTTP ? Pourquoi tant de chiffres et de lettres, et que signifient-ils réellement ?"
L'interprète, souriant légèrement, commence à expliquer, tout en ajustant ses notes.
— Interprète (en détaillant) :
"Les codes HTTP sont des réponses données par un serveur lorsque vous tentez de vous connecter à un site. Ces chiffres ne sont pas simplement des codes, mais des messages précis sur l'état de votre demande."
Elle marque une pause avant de réciter quelques exemples.
— Interprète (avec un air sérieux) :
"Le code 404, par exemple, signifie que la page que vous cherchez n'existe pas. Cela signifie que le lien est brisé ou que la ressource a été déplacée. Le 403, lui, indique que l'accès vous est interdit, comme une porte fermée à clé. Enfin, le code 500 est l'erreur du serveur, un signe que quelque chose a mal tourné de son côté, comme si l'horloge d'une machine avait cessé de fonctionner."
Macron hoche la tête, mais son expression reste sérieuse, se demandant encore comment tout cela s'intègre dans l'image d'une société en constante évolution.
— Macron (pensif) :
"Donc, ces codes sont comme des signaux dans un océan numérique... mais pourquoi tant de mystère autour d'eux ?"
— Interprète (avec un sourire énigmatique) :
"Parce que, Monsieur le Président, derrière chaque code, chaque 'miroir', chaque erreur, il y a une réalité qui nous échappe, un monde parallèle, presque magique, qui tisse invisiblement notre réalité quotidienne. Les utilisateurs ne voient que la surface, mais ce qui se cache sous ces lignes de code est bien plus complexe que ce qu'il semble."
Le président Macron se penche en avant, contemplant les implications de ces mots. Il sait que, tout comme dans les discussions géopolitiques, chaque chiffre, chaque décision dans ce monde numérique peut avoir des répercussions profondes.
CHAPITRE 12.
Through golden halls of Olympian feast,
Hermes strides with news, a cunning priest.
Fresh from the shadows where souls do tread,
He brings grim whispers of the silent dead.
In Ares' glare and Athena’s keen,
He weaves his tale of the unseen:
“Lords of the heights, hear what I’ve found,
In Hades’ depths, a plot profound.
Lebanon’s land, where cedar trees sigh,
They’d cleave it in two beneath mortal skies.
Two realms of shadow, twin Aids to rise,
Each vying for favor in godly eyes.
One Aide to glimmer, with torches bright,
Mocking the other cloaked in endless night.
A tale of division, of pride and show,
To see which shadow the mortals follow.”
Apollo muses, his lyre in hand,
“Is this the fate of the sacred land?
To mirror mortal strife and pain,
As gods watch high from their golden plain?”
Zeus, in thunder, his voice then roars,
“Such schemes will darken both shadowed shores.
Hermes, return to the depths you know,
And tell them this: let division go!”
Hermes bows, with a glint in his eye,
His sandals swift, as clouds drift by.
To Hades again, his message he takes,
While Olympian halls in worry awake.
Two realms of shadow, one truth to see:
No Aide shall rule while the gods decree.
CHAPITRE 13. Patch.
A humble shoulder bag, plain and neat,
With quiet charm and purpose sweet.
But the soul of the bag, a tale untold,
Awakes when stitched with magic bold.
The sewing machine, its hum a spell,
Transforms the fabric, weaving well.
A patch appears—a butterfly's flight,
Dancing on fields of blossoms bright.
Now, not just a bag, but a story it weaves,
Of emotions nestled among its leaves.
Joy’s golden sun, or calm twilight’s hue,
Each patch a window, revealing the true.
Ambition gleams on a starry design,
While softer dreams in moonlight shine.
A fiery heart with flames ablaze,
Or gentle raindrops in misty haze.
Through colors and threads, the silence breaks,
The soul of the wearer the patch remakes.
A canvas of moods, stitched with care,
A glimpse of the world they choose to share.
For words may falter, shy or few,
But a patch on a bag speaks volumes true.
And when the spirit aches to confide,
The sewing machine works, side by side.
With each gentle thread, it fills the space,
Where silence lived, it leaves its trace.
A patch for the bag, a voice to impart,
Transforming the simple into wearable art.
CHAPITRE 16. Faisal at the Embassy: A Diplomatic Queue.
Faisal guided his camel to a shaded spot near the French Embassy in Amman, tethering it to a post as though parking an automobile. The guards at the gate exchanged curious glances but said nothing as he passed through the metal detector. Inside, the embassy’s cool marble floors and hum of air conditioning contrasted sharply with the dusty streets outside.
Taking a numbered ticket from the machine, Faisal settled into a chair in the waiting area. Beside him sat a young couple, their demeanor polite but reserved. Faisal glanced at them, his attention drawn to the young man’s soft Egyptian cadence.
A Conversation Begins
Faisal smiled warmly. “Forgive me for asking, but your Arabic has a touch of Egypt in it. Might your family be from there?”
The man, surprised but not offended, nodded. “Yes, my grandfather was Egyptian. He worked as a tour guide before the Second World War, taking European visitors from Cairo to Damascus and beyond. But in 1948, while his group was in Jordan, history caught up with him. Borders closed, and life took its own course. He met my grandmother here, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“And why do you ask?”
Faisal leaned back, feigning casual curiosity. “I suppose because I, too, am Egyptian—at least in spirit. I spent much of my youth there. Tell me, is it true that even today, drinking water for many homes in Egypt is delivered by water trucks?”
Before the man could respond, his wife, a confident young woman in a neatly arranged hijab, interjected. “Centralized water supply might seem modern, but it often leads to monopolies. Private suppliers, on the other hand, create competition, which keeps prices fair for everyone.”
A Tactical Dance
Faisal recognized her sharpness and adjusted his tone, playing along but maintaining his point. “True, competition protects against monopolies. But isn’t it also true that not everything in life can—or should—be bought? Wouldn’t you agree?”
The couple exchanged a glance, a silent exchange of thoughts.
Faisal pressed further, turning back to the young man. “How do you think Egypt’s labor market would react if the president announced free drinking water for all citizens?”
The man hesitated, then replied carefully. “The public would welcome it, no doubt. But those who control the water truck routes and distribution points might see it as a threat to their livelihoods.”
Faisal nodded approvingly, shifting his attention to the wife. “Your husband is absolutely correct. Innovation—whether it’s in water distribution or politics—is always a challenge to the existing order.”
Not to be outmaneuvered, the wife quipped, “Like when Parisian taxi drivers revolted against Uber’s cheaper fares?”
Faisal chuckled, his admiration evident. “Exactly. And in some ways, that resistance mirrors the shifts in political climates—like in France—when disruptive ideas gain traction.”
A Farewell
The electronic board above them buzzed, displaying a new number. Faisal stood and offered a courteous nod. “It seems my turn has come. Thank you for the conversation. May your journey, wherever it leads under this Middle Eastern sun, bring you success and peace.”
As he walked toward the reception desk, Faisal couldn’t help but smile. Even in the most mundane settings, he had found a way to plant seeds of thought in fertile minds. And though his time in the embassy would be brief, he was confident the echoes of his words would linger long after he had left.
CHAPITRE 17. Au même moment, au Caire.
Un restaurant français niché sur un balcon élégant, offrant une vue imprenable sur le ciel matinal du désert et les majestueuses pyramides. L'air est frais, empli d'une lumière douce, et une brise discrète caresse les nappes immaculées des tables impeccablement dressées.
Ombre et lumière.
Dans la cuisine, un échange se déroule entre un serveur un peu nerveux et un chef-cuisinier d’un calme olympien.
— Serveur (agité) :
"Chef, tout est prêt, absolument tout. Je vous le garantis. Si jamais une nappe se tâche – une goutte de vin, un accident – j'ai dix nappes de rechange. Dix ! Chaque chaise a été testée, elles ne vacillent pas. J'ai vérifié personnellement. Et pour les olives... vingt variétés, Chef. Mariné à la perfection, chaque bocal un trésor pour les palais les plus exigeants."
— Chef (tranquille, coupant le serveur) :
"Et la musique ?"
Le serveur cligne des yeux, pris de court.
— Serveur (hésitant) :
"La musique ?"
— Chef :
"Oui. Quelle musique accompagnera le repas ?"
— Serveur (visiblement embarrassé) :
"Je... je n'y ai pas pensé."
Le chef incline la tête, un sourire discret jouant sur ses lèvres.
— Chef (philosophe) :
"Vois-tu, la musique, ce n’est pas juste un fond sonore. C’est l’âme de l’instant. Elle crée l’atmosphère, elle donne le ton, elle lie toutes les choses ensemble. Comme un hymne. Prends notre hymne national, par exemple. La Marseillaise n’est pas qu’une chanson ; c’est une déclaration d’identité, une force qui résonne dans chaque fibre du peuple. La musique n’est pas seulement entendue, elle est ressentie, elle guide."
Le serveur, touché par ces mots, esquisse un sourire nerveux mais semble encore chercher une idée.
— Serveur (hâtivement) :
"Peut-être... quelque chose d'allemand ? Du top des charts, vous savez ?"
Le chef arque un sourcil, intrigué.
— Chef :
"Allemand ? Pourquoi allemand ?"
— Serveur :
"Eh bien... aujourd'hui, cette réunion pourrait tout changer. Peut-être que les Palestiniens auront enfin leur foyer au Sud-Liban. En Allemagne, personne ne comprend vraiment leur douleur, mais... les Palestiniens, eux, comprennent la musique allemande. Cela pourrait devenir un symbole, Chef, une promesse. Une mélodie qui dit : 'Voici votre maison, votre terre, et votre chance d'exister en tant que nation indépendante.'"
Le chef hoche la tête lentement, contemplatif, son regard dérivant vers les pyramides au loin.
— Chef (pensif) :
"Reconnaître une nation, ce n'est pas simplement admettre son existence ou céder face à sa puissance militaire. Non, c'est beaucoup plus profond. C'est dire : 'Oui, nous croyons en vous. Nous voyons une promesse dans votre culture, une capacité à offrir non seulement la paix, mais aussi un avenir brillant et sûr.' La musique est comme cela aussi. Elle transcende les armes, elle unit. Elle ne déclare pas la guerre, elle déclare l’espoir."
Le serveur, soudain inspiré, acquiesce.
— Serveur :
"Allemand alors. Mais... rien de trop techno. Quelque chose de calme, Chef."
Le serveur file vers la caisse, ouvre un ordinateur portable, et se met à chercher frénétiquement des playlists. Pendant ce temps, le chef reste immobile, contemplant le lever du soleil sur l’Égypte, les pyramides se découpant majestueusement sur un ciel d’un rose orangé.
Une nouvelle journée commence, et avec elle, une possibilité de paix, portée par les arômes subtils de la cuisine française et une mélodie encore à choisir.
CHAPITRE 19. Яшин дозвонился в прямой эфир на «Эхо Москвы.» Он срочно требует прислать подкрепление в Берлин для митинга за свободу слова в Москве.
Звонок в студию раздается в самый разгар передачи. Латынина, не ожидая такого поворота, поднимает трубку. На другом конце — Яшин.
Яшин (с горячностью):
— Юля, это Яшин! Я срочно требую, чтобы в Берлин прислали подкрепление! Нам нужно больше людей на митинг за свободу слова в Москве! Я стою на площади, но без поддержки мы не сможем ничего сделать! Срочно, Юлия Леонидовна, срочно!
Латынина (сдержанно, но с любопытством):
— А, Яшин, это ты! Митинг в Москве, говоришь? И что именно ты хочешь, чтобы я сделала? Какое подкрепление в Берлин? Ты сам в Берлине? Почему ты вообще в Берлине?
Яшин (нетерпеливо):
— Мы сейчас здесь, в Берлине, но митинг — в Москве! Я требую, чтобы вы организовали поддержку для митинга там, потому что только так мы сможем гарантировать свободу слова! Немедленно!
Латынина (делая вид, что не понимает):
— Подожди, Яшин, но я не совсем понимаю, как это работает. Ты требуешь подкрепление в Берлин, чтобы провести митинг в Москве. Но если мы привезем людей сюда, как это поможет там, в Берлине? Тут что, русская рекурсия какая-то получается?
Яшин (с отчаянием):
— Госпожа Латынина, ты что, не понимаешь? Мы должны устроить митинг, и люди, которые будут на этом митинге, должны поддержать наших друзей в Москве! Мы делаем это не просто для митинга, а для демонстрации силы демократии, рекурсивно поддерживая друг друга в этой борьбе!
Латынина (делая вид, что всё ещё не понимает):
— Ах, так ты имеешь в виду, что митинг в Берлине — это как митинг в Москве, а митинг в Москве — это как митинг в Берлине? Поняла, получается, рекурсия. Но мне все равно кажется, что что-то не так. Мы сейчас все запутались, Яшин.
Яшин (вздыхая):
— Юля, ты все понимаешь, но говоришь не то! Это не просто митинг! Это символическая борьба за свободу слова. Люди, которые будут здесь, должны осознать, что они поддерживают Москву не напрямую, а через нас, через Берлин!
Латынина, улыбаясь, кладет трубку и смотрит в камеру. Словно в ответ на его последнюю реплику, она начинает говорить с выдуманным пониманием, будто сама разобралась в "рекурсии" Яшина.
Латынина (к камере):
— Видите, как легко можно понять, что Яшин прав. Мы должны поддерживать Москву не напрямую, а через призму Берлина. Это и есть самая настоящая рекурсия! Ну что ж, на этом заканчиваем наш эфир. Ждите еще больше репортажей и митингов, где каждый будет поддерживать другого через других!
CHAPITRE 23. Hurghada.
Faisal and the Guardian of Shadows
The streets of Hurghada whispered secrets as Faisal guided his camel through the labyrinth of Sheraton's alleys. It was a peculiar sight—an anachronism against the neon glow of modernity. He finally stopped near a dimly lit corner, tethering his beast to an old iron post. Nearby, the faint hum of music and laughter leaked through a heavy wooden door, painted to blend with the unassuming facade.
A burly figure stood by the door, arms crossed, his silhouette cutting an imposing shape against the flickering light of a streetlamp. Faisal approached with measured steps, his keffiyeh trailing lightly in the warm breeze.
Opening the Gate
“Good evening,” Faisal began, his tone smooth, his words carefully chosen. “You know, those muscle-enhancing supplements young guards seem to favor these days—they may help them pass the physical exams, but they disrupt the natural harmony of the body.”
The guard’s face betrayed no emotion, his silence more a shield than an invitation. Faisal pressed on, his voice softening into a conspiratorial tone.
“Imagine if British scientists invented pills to instantly improve memory. A student could read a textbook once, the night before an exam, and become a certified expert. What was your favorite subject in school?”
The guard hesitated, his carefully neutral demeanor cracked slightly by the unexpected question. “Uh... history. Egyptian history.”
Faisal nodded, as if the answer had unlocked something long-awaited. “Ah, Egyptian history. Thousands of years of wisdom. Even Moses found himself in these lands, at a time when Egypt had already built at least a millennium of pharaonic traditions.”
The guard shifted, visibly more comfortable in familiar terrain. “Nefertiti,” he blurted, grasping at the fragment of history nearest to his mind. “She was... a great queen.”
The Queen and the Gods
“Indeed,” Faisal said, his voice laced with admiration. “Nefertiti—a paragon of power and beauty. Yet even she, with her supreme authority, had to invoke divine myths to secure her rule. A delicate dance of faith and politics.”
The guard nodded vaguely, the corners of his memory piecing together fragments overheard from the local tour guides who frequented the bar.
“But tell me,” Faisal continued, his voice low and probing. “What would Nefertiti have done if, on her borders, a new kingdom arose—one led by Moses himself, wielding divine authority?”
The guard stiffened, the weight of the question pressing on him like a Pharaoh’s curse. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I... I think you should discuss such matters on a higher level.”
The Hidden Path
Faisal’s gaze shifted subtly, landing on a nondescript door just behind the guard. “You will permit me?” he asked, his voice soft but commanding, his eyes sharp as a blade.
The guard hesitated, his composure faltering for the briefest moment. “What’s your business here?”
Faisal’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “They still serve apple-flavored shisha inside, don’t they?”
A flicker of recognition passed across the guard’s face. He stepped aside without a word, his large hand reaching for the latch. The heavy door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit staircase descending into the shadows.
“Proceed,” the guard said gruffly, though his voice carried a note of reluctant respect.
Faisal adjusted his robes, casting a final glance at the street before disappearing into the depths. Somewhere below, beneath the city’s vibrant surface, lay the connections he needed to secure an audience with Egypt’s president.
CHAPITRE 29. Cairo.
Солнечные Геометрии Каира
Утро окрасило горизонт нежными золотыми оттенками, и из окон Фейсала открывался вид на город, медленно оживающий под лучами солнца. На балконе пятизвёздочного отеля всё было приготовлено к неспешному завтраку: хрустящие круассаны, апельсиновый сок, горячий кофе. Фейсал сидел, легко скрестив ноги, одетый в элегантный светлый костюм. Он задумчиво смотрел на линию горизонта, где в дымке вырисовывались силуэты пирамид, словно призраки древней мощи.
Дверь открылась. Вошли двое: один — слегка напряжённый, старающийся казаться опытным официантом, но выдаваемый слишком резкими движениями и неумелыми попытками повторить ритуалы сервировки. Второй, старше и собраннее, молча наблюдал за коллегой, его взгляд говорил: «Вот ведь, блин. Никогда такого не видел».
Игры с официантами
Фейсал, не оборачиваясь, спокойно заметил:
— Если вы действительно хотите убедить меня в своей роли, вам следовало бы нарочно совершить ошибку. Например, перевернуть чашку, поймать мой взгляд и тут же исправить ситуацию. Это любимый приём в Хургаде.
"Официант" оживился, видимо решив вступить в диалог:
— Возможно, в Хургаде так, но в Каире стиль иной.
Фейсал повернулся, улыбаясь:
— Ах, знаменитый каирский стиль. Господин президент, присаживайтесь. Ваш коллега закончит сервировку.
Второй официант, с профессионализмом, достойным египетской армии, за считаные секунды расставил всё на свои места. Президент взглядом показал ему, что тот свободен.
Прямой разговор
Президент, одетый в униформу официанта, сел напротив. Взгляд у него был жёстким, испытующим.
— Не знаю, как вы это делаете, но раз уж Я здесь, то готов вас выслушать. И скажу прямо: мне, как военному человеку, нужны ясные предложения, без скрытых намёков.
Фейсал ответил с лёгкой улыбкой:
— Прекрасно понимаю, господин президент. Вы устали от загадок и недомолвок. Вас беспокоит вопрос, можно ли доверять советникам, которые интерпретируют новости исключительно в том ключе, который вам приятен.
Президент нахмурился, рубанув разговор:
— Египетская армия — сильнейшая в Африке. Если вы хотите нашей поддержки, то должны озвучить достойную цену.
Фейсал молча потянулся к чашке кофе, глядя на пирамиды.
— Геометрия, — начал он, не глядя на собеседника, — хоть и родилась в Греции, обрела своё развитие именно здесь, в Египте. Фараоны нуждались в ней для измерения земель после разливов Нила.
Президент фыркнул:
— Это знает каждый египетский школьник.
— Совершенно верно, — кивнул Фейсал. — Геометрия стала обыденностью. Но мир идёт дальше. Сегодня фермеру нужно знать не только площадь своей земли, но и как превратить её в источник стабильного дохода.
Президент перебил:
— Для этого нужны технологии. Комбайны, системы орошения.
Фейсал продолжил, кивая:
— Точно так. Например, израильтяне выращивают картофель практически из воздуха. Впечатляет, не правда ли? Но я говорю о другом.
Президент быстро достаёт из кармана спутниковый телефон и, по мере набора абонента, спрашивает Фейсала:
— Кальян будете?
— Какой у вас любимый?
— Банан-ананас, — сухо ответил президент.
Фейсал улыбнулся:
— Пусть будет так.
Будущее на ладони
Когда кальян был подан и первая пауза заполнена ароматным дымом, Фейсал продолжил:
— Фермер должен продать урожай, чтобы купить технологии. Но как быть, если урожая ещё нет?
Президент усмехнулся:
— Просить жрецов открыть портал в будущее и взять часть урожая, чтобы купить технологии сейчас?
Фейсал кивнул:
— Именно так работает банковская система. Но даже тут нужны гарантии. Жрецы — или банкиры, если хотите — должны быть уверены, что предсказанное будущее станет реальностью.
Президент задумчиво глянул в сторону.
— Солнце всегда светило над Египтом, — заметил он.
Фейсал откинулся на спинку стула, втягивая ароматный дым кальяна:
— Именно так. Солнце — символ стабильности и предсказуемости. Но мир меняется. И вы, господин президент, понимаете это лучше других.
Президент встал, энергично стряхнув невидимую пыль с рукавов.
— Чьи интересы вы представляете?
Фейсал поднял взгляд:
— Сирийского народа и американских... как вы сказали, жрецов.
Президент задержал взгляд на собеседнике, затем коротко кивнул.
— Благодарю за прямоту. Наслаждайтесь кальяном. У меня ещё много работы.
Когда дверь за ним закрылась, Фейсал вновь обратил взгляд к пирамидам. Он думал о жрецах древности, оставивших в наследство магию геометрии, и о новых «жрецах,» чьи законы формируют будущее уже не чертежами, а цифрами.
