Yasmina Khadra - The African Equation

Evening was starting to fall. The old man had finished his wood gathering, still walking back and forth in front of us, still ignoring us. Only once had he raised his hand, stopping Bruno dead in his tracks as he went to help him, and waited for the Frenchman to step back before continuing to gather branches; not once did he so much as glance at us. We had now been waiting there for half an hour, hoping he would pay us a moment’s attention. We needed to know where we were, if there was a town not too far from here, or a barracks, or anybody who could take charge of us. Bruno had tried to talk to the old man, taking care not to upset him, but it was as if he had been addressing a djinn, as if they walked right through each other like shadows. Was the old man blind and deaf? No, he could see and hear, he was simply refusing to talk to us. He stood there, dignified, outside the hut. From the way his lips were moving, we realised he was praying. Next, he grabbed a can of petrol that stood at his feet, poured its contents over the lifeless bodies, sprinkled the branches and the walls, struck a match and threw it into the hut. A blue flame spread over the bundles of wood, making first the foliage, then the straw flare up, and becoming thicker as it reached the walls. Soon, acrid smoke was escaping through the cracks in the roof while the crackling grew louder. The old man watched the fire spread its greedy tentacles, twist the branches in its flames, then, like a whirlwind, engulf the bodies and the few pieces of makeshift furniture surrounding them.

‘Let’s go,’ Bruno said.

‘What about him?’

‘He won’t tell us anything and he won’t follow us.’

‘At least ask him. He might point us in the right direction.’

‘Monsieur Krausmann,’ Bruno cried irritably, ‘that man is just as dead as his family.’

We got back in the pick-up. Bruno noisily engaged the gear stick, did a U-turn and set off into the gathering night. Turning, I saw the old man standing outside the blazing hut like a condemned soul at the gates of hell.

We had chosen to bivouac near a cave.

The stale smell of the regs spread through the coolness of the evening. A jackal barked somewhere. The night had returned to relieve the day of its mirages and give the darkness back its emptiness. Bruno and I hadn’t exchanged a word for more than an hour. We were each too busy putting our thoughts in order. We had lit a fire in the shelter of the cave, eaten dried meat, emptied a few cans of food and drunk a bitter coffee that hurt my palate, then, exhausted by all the driving, we got ready to sleep.

Bruno threw a handful of sand over the fire to extinguish it and, unable to hold on any longer, went and urinated on a dune. Relieved, he spread a blanket over the ground, wiped the dust off his backside and lay down. I heard him moving about in search of a comfortable position. After a great deal of twisting and turning, he at last moaned with contentment, curled up and stopped moving. I knew he wouldn’t close his eyes until he had relived his old wanderings and reviewed, one by one, the people who had meant something to him. Every night until now, he had told me an episode of his African adventures, his encounters and his setbacks, his lost loves, his little deaths and his redemptions … I hoped against hope that he wouldn’t make an exception tonight. I needed him to talk to me, to make me drunk on his tribulations, to tell me about the women he hadn’t been able to hold on to, the opportunities he hadn’t been able to seize. His inspired voice might perhaps allow me to shrug off the guilty conscience that was infiltrating the furthest corners of my mind. Bruno was extraordinarily gifted at giving any disaster its dignity and finding a meaning in the unlikeliest things.

‘You haven’t uttered a single woman’s name since we’ve known each other,’ he said all at once.

The wind began to whistle through the cave while the shadows cast their spell over the nocturnal beasts you sensed in the darkness, far from their lairs, raking over a hunting field as dry as a bone. All the same, I was pleased to hear his voice. I would have liked him to talk about himself, and about Africa — his romanticism and his optimism would have been good therapy for me — but he had chosen to focus on me and, not expecting it, I didn’t know what to say.

‘I can’t remember you ever having talked about women, Monsieur Krausmann. Is there someone in your life?’

‘I’m a widower,’ I said, hoping that he would change the subject.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment’s embarrassment. ‘Illness?’

‘An accident.’

‘A road accident?’

‘No.’

‘Work-related?’

‘In a way.’

He lifted himself on one elbow and looked at me, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand. ‘Curiosity is an African flaw,’ he admitted. ‘Nobody here knows where curiosity ends and impoliteness begins. But you’re not obliged to answer me.’

‘Actually, I don’t have anything very interesting to say about the subject,’ I assured him.

‘Then I shan’t insist.’

‘It’s more complicated than that.’

‘I assume it is …’

He lay back down, crossed his hands over his stomach, and gazed up at the myriad of stars in the sky.

‘I often think about Aminata,’ he said. ‘I wonder what’s become of her, if she’s happy with her cousin, if she has children, if she still remembers the two of us … She seemed happy with me. I made her laugh a lot. I think she liked me. Maybe not as a lover, but at least as a friend … I’d picked her out among the girls in her tribe. She was very beautiful. A bit on the plump side, but really attractive. Eyes that sparkled like diamonds. And a smell like a meadow in springtime … I asked for her hand without consulting her, and the elder gave his permission. It’s a common practice among the Azawed … She could have refused. Nobody would have forced her. The elder informed her of my intentions, and she didn’t object … I don’t understand why she left. I try to find excuses for her, but I can’t. I can’t remember ever depriving her of anything. I was no thunderbolt in bed, but I performed my conjugal duties decently … Her cousin didn’t visit us often, and never alone or outside a religious or family celebration. Never once did I catch him and Aminata looking at each other in a suspicious way. Then suddenly, away they flew like turtle doves. Without any warning, without a word of explanation. I was devastated.’

‘Are you still angry with her?’

‘I’ve often been angry with myself, but never with her … There are things we can’t really explain. They come down on our heads like tiles off a roof, and that’s it … Do I miss her? I’m not sure. She was a good girl, a generous girl. I don’t have the feeling she betrayed me. She simply made a choice. Did she realise how much she was hurting me? Not for a second. Aminata didn’t have a bad thought in her head. She was sweet-natured, and quite innocent.’

‘You still love her.’

‘Mmm … I don’t think so.’

‘Oh, yes, you still love her.’

‘No, I assure you. It’s ancient history … Aminata, for me, remains a vague regret. A misunderstanding of the flesh … Anyway, that’s life: it only takes from us what it’s given us. Neither more nor less.’

In the sky, the stars were trying to outshine each other.

Now Bruno was waiting for me to speak, to tell him something. I think he really wanted to hear what I had to say. Just as he was turning his back on me to sleep, convinced that I wasn’t going to tell him any secrets, my voice anticipated my thoughts and I heard myself say, ‘She killed herself.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘My wife … She committed suicide.’