Yasmina Khadra - The African Equation

We recognised Ewana and a second pirate, the driver of the sidecar motorcycle. Consulting his files, the colonel told us that the two suspects had been admitted to the same rural dispensary on the same night; that the first, whose real name was Babaker Ohid — thirty-one, married, four children, a cattle dealer by profession — had been shot twice, once in the thigh and once in the buttock; and that the second, Hamad Tool — twenty-six, married, two children, a former athletics champion who’d become a scrap merchant — had been shot in the hip. He asked us if we were absolutely certain we recognised them. We hadn’t the slightest doubt, we told him. He switched off his computer, put away his files, asked us another dozen questions, noting down our responses in a register, and dismissed us.

Bruno went off to find his ‘brothers’, and I my patients.

In the evening, Elena offered to show me a quiet spot a few hundred metres to the east of the camp. We went there on foot. The sun hadn’t yet set, and our shadows were long on the ground. It wasn’t very hot. There was a cool breeze in the air. Elena untied her hair, and shook it so that it spread over her shoulders. She took my hand in hers and we walked side by side like lovers. She told me about an old school friend of hers, but I wasn’t listening. Her voice was enough for me. It cradled my silence. Soon, the camp was merely a shimmering patch behind us. Coming to an area where the ground fell away abruptly, we stopped at the edge of the precipice. Below, at the bottom of a vast basin, shaggy shrubs grew alongside wild grasses and plants besieged by midges. The vegetation was green and luxuriant, hard to imagine in this part of the desert. A spring-like aroma filled the air, which was alive with the chirping of insects. Elena photographed me from several angles, then sat down cross-legged and invited me to do the same.

‘The other day,’ she said, ‘I saw a group of antelopes grazing down there, with their young. It was magical.’

‘It’s a real haven of peace,’ I admitted.

‘I often come here to unwind. I put a hat on in order not to get sunburnt, have a flask full of cold water close at hand, and stay here for hours waiting for the antelopes to return. I’ve also seen a jackal. It had gone to ground down there. When it saw me looking at it, it stared at me suspiciously. I got the impression it could see right through me.’

‘It might have attacked you.’

‘I don’t think so. Jackals are secretive, cowardly animals, who never take risks. If they aren’t sure they’ll succeed, they give up. Wild dogs, on the other hand, don’t need to feel threatened to attack. An old night watchman discovered that to his detriment. He got lost in the dark and we found him torn to pieces not far from the camp.’

‘Doesn’t anything nice ever happen here?’

She laughed. ‘Don’t you think this is a beautiful place, Kurt?’

I wanted to tell her that she was very beautiful, but didn’t dare. She took my chin between her pretty fingers, and looked deep into my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest. Elena noticed. She moved her face closer to mine and searched for my lips, but her kiss was cut short by the laughter of two little children who had just jumped up out of the undergrowth below us. They climbed the embankment as fast as they could, stopped to make fun of us, miming languorous hugs and kisses, and ran off towards the camp, laughing triumphantly.

‘Where did they spring from?’ I said.

Elena now also laughed fondly at the antics of the two kids. ‘In Africa,’ she said, ‘even if God turns his head modestly away when two people are ready to make love, you can be surethere’s always a little boy watching somewhere.’

A week had passed since the visit from the delegation. I had moved in with Elena. By day, I took care of my patients. In the evening, Elena and I wandered around the outskirts of the camp and only came back when night had fallen. Every now and again, Bruno would join us with one or two of his mythical ‘brothers’. As far as the Frenchman was concerned, every African was a novel. But it was he, Bruno, who wrote it. Thus it was that he introduced us to Bongo, a teenage boy who had walked three thousand kilometres, without a guide and without a penny in his pocket, to see the sea. He had left his village in Nigeria in order to get to Europe. A people smuggler had promised to take him there in return for his mother’s jewellery, but had abandoned him in the Ténéré. The boy had wandered for months and months in the desert, somehow getting by, until he had come upon the camp by chance. The day after we were introduced to him, he disappeared. He had stolen some provisions from the kitchen, a bag and some walking shoes, and had set off in search of the sea. Bruno had no doubt in his mind: sooner or later the young man would realise his dream. It was written all over his face that nothing would stop him.

One evening, Bruno came running into the canteen in a state of great excitement. He demanded silence, stretched his arms out wide in a melodramatic gesture, and with a lump in his throat declaimed:

I am a man of flesh like you

And I have spilt blood

As if pouring wine

Into the cup of infamy

I have dreams like yours

Forbidden dreams

That I keep within me

For fear they will die in the air

I am the sum of your crimes

The funeral urn of your prayers

The soul expelled from your body

The twin brother you reject

I am merely an old mirror

A mirror cut to your disproportions

In which you hope one day to see

Yourself big even though you are small

He gave a reverential bow, then rose to his full height to savour the applause, of which there was a little. ‘ Black Moon , by Joma Baba-Sy,’ he said, advancing through the middle of the room, where a dozen of us were having dinner.

He again asked for our attention and declared in a mocking tone, ‘My dear friends, I am leaving you. I am leaving you to your struggles, your suffering, your miseries. I’m going. I leave you courage, sacrifice, the nobility of grand causes … Yes, I yield them to you graciously. And if you wish, I bequeath you my virtues for they no longer make my soul tremble. As far as I’m concerned, the odyssey ends tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll be back with my fat partner and we’ll reinvent the world under a mosquito net …’

A few people laughed indulgently. Bruno came over to the table I was sharing with Elena, Lotta and Orfane, grabbed a free chair and sat down astride it, between the gynaecologist and the virologist. His bulging, joyful eyes rolled like white-hot marbles.

‘I’ve just come from Monsieur Pfer’s office. Guess who I had on the phone? None other than the French ambassador! He told me officially that my case had been examined with the greatest care and that I no longer had anything to worry about. I’m going to be given a new passport and an entry visa to Djibouti. Tomorrow, I’m flying to Khartoum on the freighter aircraft. The pilot has received instructions.’

‘Congratulations,’ Lotta said.

‘I’ve already told my partner the good news. She was so happy we cried like kids. My beard is still wet with my tears.’ He turned to me. ‘I’m going to miss you, Monsieur Krausmann.’

My throat was too tight to utter a sound.

He nodded his head and addressed the others. ‘And you too.’

‘You’re a likeable person, Bruno,’ Lotta said. ‘A bit scatterbrained, but very likeable.’

‘It’s the African sun that’s melted my brain. Which is all to the good. The less you think, the more chance you have of making old bones … Oh my God, how happy I am! I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight, and tomorrow will take for ever to arrive. I can already see myself at home, in my scruffy but comfortable little room … If you ever happen to be passing through Djibouti, come and see me. No need to tell me you’re coming. There’s no protocol in our house. Just go to the souk, ask after Bruno the African — that’s what they call me — and any kid will bring you to me. You won’t even have to ring the doorbell, because we don’t have one. You open the door and you’re immediately at home … Isn’t that so, Kurt?’