Yasmina Khadra - The African Equation

‘Hey, Gerima!’ he cried. ‘Gerima, can you hear me? Come out of your lair, you son of a bitch!’

I ran to him and tried to calm him; he pushed me away and started yelling again.

‘What are you waiting for to sell us on the black market, you bastard? You’re an expert in that, aren’t you? You did well for yourself when you filched rations from your unit. What’s the difference between a hostage and a can of food? Can you hear me, Gerima?’

I put my hand over his mouth to stifle his cries; he bit me and, still clinging to the grille, screamed out all his rage and frustration. A guard hit his fingers with his rifle butt to make him let go; Bruno didn’t even notice. He continued to pour out his anger at the captain, who emerged now from his command post, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

‘Ah, there you are at last!’ Bruno cried. ‘I thought you were hibernating! I order you to let us go right now. This farce has lasted long enough. You’re going to release us, you piece of shit. What right do you have to keep us in this hole?’

The captain signalled to two guards to fetch Bruno. I wanted to go with him, but I was pushed back inside the cell and the grille was banged shut.

Bruno was forced by the two guards to kneel at the captain’s feet. He immediately got up again and resumed taunting the captain.

‘Who do you think you are? Just because you’re surrounded by a gang of nutcases, do you think you can lay down the law for the whole world? You’re just a common highwayman, Gerima, a bastard of a deserter heading for ruin.’

The captain slapped Bruno.

‘Didn’t even hurt,’ Bruno said.

A second, harder slap.

‘Put a bit more strength into it, captain.’

A third slap.

Stunned, Bruno swayed a little. But then he regained his self-control and, driven by some kind of suicidal stubbornness, put his hands around his mouth like a funnel and cried, ‘You’re nothing but a loser, Gerima!’

Gerima threw his head back in a Homeric laugh, then, contorting his features into an expression of outraged hatred, grabbed Bruno by the throat. ‘Now that you’ve made a spectacle of yourself, why don’t you unplug your ears and listen to me for two seconds. I’m not a crook, I’m a soldier. You’re not a can of rations, you’re part of the spoils of war. You’re going to go back to your fridge and be a well-behaved vegetable until the cook comes for you. And if you ever again bring out this pathetic Spartacus act of yours, I swear to God and all his saints that I’ll hang you by the balls until you crumble to dust.’

‘I’m not part of the spoils of war, and you’re nothing but a trafficker of the worst kind.’

A guard made to hit Bruno, but the captain lifted his finger to stop him. He leant over Bruno and said, ‘We’re at war, and I wage mine as I see fit.’

‘Rubbish! You pillage, rape, massacre poor defenceless devils, kidnap foreigners, blackmail governments that are in no way involved in the mess you’ve made …’

‘That’s war!’ the captain exploded. ‘What do you know about war? TV newsflashes that come on between the adverts while you’re drinking aperitifs in your cosy living room, with your arms around your girlfriend? Newsflashes that you register briefly and then forget almost immediately?’

‘Don’t give me that!’ Bruno retorted, totally unimpressed. ‘We’re following your pseudo-war in close-up, and in real time. We aren’t in our living rooms, we’re up to our necks in your shit, putting up with you morning, noon and night. You’re nothing but a pack of bandits who don’t believe in anything, scavenge on corpses and rob from the poor.’

‘That’s war, too.’

‘I’ll tell you what war is. War is a balance sheet. And yours is disastrous. Lots of murderers like you thought that a uniform would lessen their punishment. That doesn’t work any more. Soldiers or not, the International Criminal Court is ready and waiting for them. You’ll end up in front of it, too, and you’ll be judged for your crimes.’

Mention of the International Criminal Court shook the captain: intoxicated as he was with the impunity he enjoyed in this territory where every abuse was allowed, he had probably not foreseen that eventuality.

He swallowed, then grunted with a flagrant lack of conviction, ‘Your court can go to hell!’

‘That’s what genocidal tyrants cry out loud when they swagger around their village squares. Where are they now? In the dock, trying to make themselves very small. However many witnesses you get rid of, however hard you sweep around your mass graves to wipe out all trace of your crimes, your own accomplices will blab every last detail of your murders and rapes.’

Gerima was taken aback by Bruno’s threats. He tried to appear composed, but in vain. Sweat was pouring down his face, and his nostrils were quivering. Bruno realised that he had knocked him off balance, and that emboldened him to deliver the final blow.

‘The world has changed, captain. There’s nowhere you can escape punishment. The new laws reach far and wide. Wherever you go to ground, they’ll find you …’

Gerima gave a bloodcurdling cry, threw Bruno to the ground and started beating him with his studded belt. Bruno covered his face with his arms and pulled his knees up to his chest to protect himself. In a frenzy now, the captain beat him and beat him, beat him with all his strength, again and again, extinguishing his moans and groans one by one. Bruno could neither get up nor hide behind his bruised limbs. Soon, his convulsions became less frequent and, after a few last jerks and shudders, eventually ceased altogether. The captain continued to strike Bruno’s shattered body as if trying to reduce it to a pulp. It was the first time in my life I had witnessed such a violent, bestial scene. I was overcome, unable to resign myself to the idea that you could attack a defenceless person like that and still call yourself a man.

Bruno spent two nights in the infirmary.

When they brought him back to the cell, they had to drag him. Blackmoon was holding him by the armpit, and another pirate by the waist; Joma followed behind, a revolver in his belt. They laid him down very carefully on his cloths. Bruno asked for something to quench his thirst; they helped him to lift his head and drink from the neck of his flask. The water gushed over his cracked lips and onto his shirt. After three gulps, he choked and fell back on his straw mattress.

The two porters took off his shoes and prepared to leave.

‘Thanks, Blackmoon,’ I said.

From the way he suddenly clenched his jaws, I realised I had made a blunder. Blackmoon gave me a look that was a mixture of annoyance and fear. I had simply wanted to thank him for Hans’s message; in my pressing need to resume my old habits in order to believe that I was still among human beings, I had forgotten to choose the right moment to express my gratitude. My fear grew all the greater when I noticed that Joma had also given a start.

Much to my relief, I realised that it wasn’t the ‘thanks’ but the name ‘Blackmoon’ that had caught Joma’s attention.

‘What did he call you?’ Joma asked his boy.

Blackmoon swallowed.

Joma gave him a shove. ‘What have you been telling this white man?’

‘I don’t know what he’s talking about,’ Blackmoon said in a small voice.

‘No kidding! So he can read your thoughts now, can he? You have a loose tongue, Chaolo. Make sure I don’t tear it out.’

The three men went out, leaving the door of our jail open.

I went to Bruno. He was in a terrible mess. A clumsy bandage had been tied around his head. His face was battered; one eye was closed thanks to a nasty wound above it; his lips were bleeding in places … He groaned when I touched him with my fingertips.