by JULIET WATERS

The first time I saw Montreal writer/visual artist/cab driver Rawi Hage was on a panel a few months ago at Blue Metropolis. Asked what he thought was the most important quality a writer should have, Hage deadpanned, “Luck.” The moderator waited for him to elaborate. He didn’t.

This makes a lot of sense if you’ve read the first few chapters of Hage’s first novel, DeNiro’s Game. Luck is pretty much the only thing worth having in early-’80s war-torn Beirut. Luck and money. For those without the resources to escape, every day is a game of Russian roulette. True whether you’re an ordinary citizen walking the streets amidst the constant risk of bombs, or a young alpha thug like George, who plays the game regularly as a tribute to his favourite movie, The Deerhunter. Better to be a thug, decides Bassam, the novel’s narrator and George’s best friend. “Thugs never waited in line.”

Luck is clearly gone for the once pampered dogs of Beirut’s upper classes. “The rich were leaving for France and letting their dogs roam loose on the streets: orphan dogs, expensive dogs, potty-trained dogs, dogs with French names and red bowties, fluffy dogs, well-bred dogs, China dogs, genetically modified dogs, and incestuous dogs that clung to each other in packs, covered the streets in tens, and gathered under the command of a charismatic three-legged mutt. The most expensive pack of wild dogs roamed Beirut and the Earth, and howled to the big moon, and ate from mountains of garbage in the corners of our streets.”

The next time I see Hage is right after a flurry of early summer reviews and a profile in Maclean’s. Over mint tea and espresso we talked about his novel, and his recent press. Some critics clearly would have preferred a more redemptive plotline and central characters who maybe weren’t poor, desperate sociopaths. And Hage is a little perturbed that none seem to get his very dark but very funny sense of humour. But largely the news is good, and the consensus is clear. Hage is a writer to watch.

And a writer who probably will be watched, given the visceral, visual nature of his writing. It’s no surprise DeNiro’s Game has been optioned by Atom Egoyan’s producer. The novel also shows some clear influences of Martin Scorsese. It’s there in the opening scenes of cocky young criminals, reminiscent of Goodfellas. It’s there in the crime mixed with tribal violence. And it’s there in the occasionally flat language the scenario demands.

But it’s also clear that Hage can be impressively lyrical when he puts his mind to it, even writing in a third language. Why English? “When I tell my friends, those I went to school with, that I wrote a book, they laugh,” he says. “I never wanted to be in class. I always wanted to sit in the back. I studied Arabic and French, but I was such a bad student. But all along in my life I read because my father always had books. He comes from a very poor background. But he was taught by Jesuits, so there were always books. When I lived in New York, I read. I read in English because there were no Arab or French books. And then after New York I came here and went to Concordia and I kind of became an anglophone.”

Writing in English has another advantage. At the risk of giving too much away, Hage doesn’t sidestep the ’82 massacre of Palestinian refugees by the Christian Lebanese militia. Critics who dwell on the character disorders of Bassam and George seem to have overlooked the character strength it takes to write unflinchingly about the worst crimes of your own community. Though there hasn’t been a significant negative reaction from that community, it helps that most read only French. Criticism will no doubt come as his career advances. In the meantime, English has given him a bit of a safety zone. A lucky break, for now.

Deniro’s Game by Rawi Hage, Anansi, hc, 277pp, $29.95