Yasmina Khadra - The African Equation

The grille squeaked, and a figure came in and put a tray down on the floor. I stood up, went out for my ‘walk’ … A hand tried to stop me, but I shook it off. I crossed the yard, heading for the gap in the rampart that looked out over the valley, that valley that seemed a place of utter perdition … ‘The prisoner’s getting away!’ a guard cried. Someone worked the breech of a rifle; I sensed that I was in the line of fire, felt it on the back of my neck like a burn, and waited for the shot, which would be immediately followed by my flesh exploding; it would be sure to hurt, but I wouldn’t cry out … ‘The prisoner’s getting away!’ I also heard Bruno’s voice: ‘Don’t be a fool, come back!’ I was walking on shifting sands. The rampart was twenty metres away, ten metres … ‘Let him go,’ Joma ordered. ‘Get back to work, I’ll deal with him …’ I went through the gap, tumbled down a steep path, and walked straight ahead, across the valley. The burning stones spurred the soles of my shoes. I walked. Without turning round. The sun beat down, cascaded over my shoulders like lava. The sweat steamed on my face, blinding me. I walked, walked … The soles of my shoes were nothing but molten lead; there was not a single tree to give me shade. The mouth of hell was breathing into my throat, setting my lungs on fire, turning my head into a brazier; I started to sway, but didn’t stop. I tried to speed up, but my legs wouldn’t follow me; I felt as if I were pulling a rock. After a few kilometres, my last strength abandoned me. I was a shadow swept along by its own laboured breathing. A jeep came up behind me and drew level. All I could see was its bonnet bumping along on my right. When I stumbled, it overtook me by a length and had to slow down to be level with me again. Joma was at the wheel. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said. ‘You aren’t in Trafalgar Square, you’re in the desert. There are no tempting shop windows around here, no street performers in the square, no pigeons to come and eat out of your hand …’ I dragged myself on, hallucinating, gasping for breath, but determined. ‘You’re not going anywhere, old man. In front of you, and behind you, there’s only madness and death. Sooner or later you’re going to pass out, and I’ll be forced to tie you to the back of the jeep and take you back to the starting post.’ Joma didn’t try to bar my way; he drove slowly by my side, amused and curious to see just how long I could stay upright.

I didn’t know how long I’d been walking. I could no longer feel the ground beneath my feet. My skull was rattling. I felt like throwing up. My eyes were like a broken mirror, a kaleidoscope; in front of me, the valley fragmented before darkening and sinking into a sea of soot.

I emerged from the fog, groped around me. Was I still alive? Thin filaments of light fell from the ceiling, revealing part of the place. I was confined in a space some two metres square, with a hatch above me perforated with lots of little air holes. My shoes, my trousers and my shirt had all been removed. I was stark naked and lying in my own vomit. I vaguely heard voices, sporadic noises which sounded over the thumping of my heart in amplified staccato. I tried to get up but not a single one of my muscles responded; my whole body was one horrendous pain.

The heat was unbearable. Unable to sit up, I lay there on the floor, hoping to conserve the little energy I needed to hold on. Soon, the filaments of light faded; I no longer knew if it was night or if I had fainted.

The hatch lit up and darkened again twice. Nobody came to see how I was. There was a ghastly taste of modelling clay in my mouth. I imagined nauseating food, and found myself chewing it. In the silence of my hole, the sound of my jaws was like that of two stones being rubbed together. I thought of my mother, saw her silhouette on the wall. She had close-cropped hair, which was not the way I remembered her, a face like a convict’s and a stoical look in her eyes. Smells from time immemorial came back to me: the smell of the soap my mother used to wash me; the smell of the maple syrup pancakes that I loved. Then the smell of my childhood was drowned out by others, the smells of analgesics and chloral hydrate and damp sheets and grim wards at the end of interminable corridors. Outside, the noises and the voices faded again with the holes in the hatch. I wanted to cry out, but I didn’t have enough breath to raise my voice, which stuck in my throat like a blood clot. I was hungry and thirsty … I caught a glimpse of Jessica’s smile. I think it was that smile that had once given me the strength to overcome my shyness. I had never been good at expressing my private emotions to the people I loved. My mother would have appreciated it; she had felt alone ever since, one evening after a big argument, my father had gone out to buy cigarettes and hadn’t come back. Maybe because my mother didn’t know how to smile. Otherwise, I would have told her of all the love I had for her. Just as I had managed to tell Jessica, in that lovely little restaurant in the fifteenth arrondissement in Paris called La Chaumière. We were sitting at a window table looking out at Avenue Félix Faure. Jessica was holding her translucent hands up to her cheeks. I found it hard to meet her intimidating gaze. We had only known each other for two days. It was the first time we had been alone together. She had finished her seminar that morning, and my conference was due to end the following day. I had left her a note at the hotel reception: I would be delighted if you would agree to have dinner with me . And she had. There are opportunities you don’t miss; if you don’t grab them, you can spend the rest of your life regretting them in vain. True luck only comes along once in a lifetime; other pieces of good luck are merely combinations of circumstances. I don’t remember what we ate that evening. I was feasting on Jessica’s smile, which was better than any banquet. ‘Did you know I was going to accept your invitation?’ she had asked me. ‘I wouldn’t have dared leave you that note if I hadn’t,’ I had replied boldly. ‘Can you read thoughts, Dr Krausmann?’ ‘Only eyes, Fräulein Brodersen. Everything goes through the eyes.’ ‘And what do you see in my eyes, Dr Krausmann?’ ‘My happiness …’ At the time, I had found my declaration pathetically innocent and pretentious, but Jessica hadn’t laughed. I think she had appreciated it. Sincerity has no talent or refinement; and if it doesn’t have the elegance of flattery, it has at least the merit of its convictions. She put her hand on my wrist, and I immediately knew that Jessica was meant for me.

It was night again. I recognised it by its silence. A wild, sleepless night, full of self-disgust, which fled at the first glimmer of dawn. I felt myself leaving with it, piece by piece, my body jolted by muscular contractions. My nerves had become blunted; the moorings that had held me were coming loose. How many days had I been kept in this pit? Hunger and thirst made my delirium a premonition: I was dying … A funnel was sucking me into a swirling aurora borealis. I passed through a succession of rings of fire at dizzying speed. ‘Wake up, Kurt,’ said a voice from beyond the grave. ‘I don’t want to wake up.’ ‘Why don’t you want to wake up, Kurt?’ ‘Because I’m having a dream.’ ‘And what are you dreaming about, Kurt?’ ‘I’m dreaming of a world where joys and sorrows are forbidden, where a stone doesn’t mind being trodden on because it can’t defend itself or move away; a world so deeply silent that prayers subside, and a night so gentle that the day does not dare dawn … I’m dreaming of a motionless journey in space and time where I am safe from anxiety, where no temptation has any effect on me; a world where God himself looks away so that I can sleep until time stops turning.’ ‘What is this motionless world, Kurt?’ ‘My eternal kingdom in which I will be earth and worm, then earth and earth, and then infinitesimal dust on the breath of nothingness.’ ‘That’s not yet a place for you, Kurt. Go back to your fears, they are better than this sidereal chill. And wake up, wake up now before it’s too late.’ I woke with a start, like a drowning man thrusting his head out of the water at the last moment. I was in Essen, the town where I was born. In short trousers. Buried in the skirts of my mother who was taking me to mass. We were walking together along a narrow, colourless street. The church stood out against a gloomy sky. Inside, it was freezing cold. The rough vaults weighed heavily on the shadows, making the place of meditation as cold as a refrigerator. The penitent sat on rustic pews, praying. The pastor was preaching a sermon. I couldn’t remember his face, but his voice was clear in my memory. I was only six — I couldn’t remember or understand what he was saying and yet his voice emerged from deep down in my subconscious with amazing clarity and precision: ‘It is true that we are insignificant. But in this perfect body which age breaks down as the seasons pass and which the smallest germ can lay low, there is a magical territory where it is possible for us to take our lives back. It is in this hidden place that our true strength lies; in other words, our faith in what we believe to be good for us. If we can only believe, we can overcome any disappointment. For nothing, no power, no fate can stop us lifting ourselves up and fulfilling ourselves if we truly believe in our dreams. Of course, we will be called upon to go through terrible trials, to fight titanic battles that could easily discourage us. But if we don’t surrender, if we continue to believe, we will overcome any obstacle. For we are worthy only of what we deserve, and our salvation draws its inspiration from this elementary logic: “When two opposing forces meet, the less motivated of the two will fail.” So if we want to accomplish what we set out to do, let us make sure that our beliefs are stronger than our doubts, stronger than adversity .’