Yasmina Khadra - What the day owes the nigth

Fabrice came back from the dance floor bathed in sweat, dabbing his face with a handkerchief. He leaned over to us and whispered:

‘Have you seen the girl sitting on her own, at the far end of the terrace?’

‘You bet we have,’ Simon replied. ‘I don’t think there’s a man here who can look at anyone else.’

‘I’ve just been dumped because of her,’ Fabrice explained. ‘The girl I was dancing with nearly gouged my eyes out when she caught me looking at her. Have you any idea who she is?’

‘She must be visiting family,’ I said. ‘From her dress and the way she acts, she looks like a city girl. I’ve never seen any girl around here who looks like that.’

Suddenly the girl turned and looked at the three of us, and we froze as though we’d been caught trying to steal her handbag. Her smile broadened a little and the brooch on the neckline of her dress seemed to flash like a lighthouse in the darkness.

‘Isn’t she stunning?’ Jean-Christophe said, appearing from nowhere. He took the empty chair, spun it round and straddled it.

‘There you are,’ said Fabrice. ‘Where did you get to?’

‘Where do you think?’

‘Have you and Isabelle been fighting again?’

‘Let’s just say that for once, I sent her packing. Can you believe it? She couldn’t decide what jewellery to wear. I waited in the living room, I waited in the hall, I waited outside, and mademoiselle still couldn’t decide which brooch to put on.’

‘So you left her there?’ Simon was incredulous.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Congratulations!’ Simon got to his feet, clicked his heels and saluted Jean-Christophe. ‘It’s about time someone told that priggish bitch where to go. I salute you!’

Jean-Christophe tugged Simon’s arm and pulled him down. ‘Sit down, you’re blocking my view, you big lump.’ He nodded to the girl at the table. ‘Who is she?’

‘Why don’t you go over and ask her?’

‘With the Rucillio clan over there in the corner? I might be stupid, but I’m not crazy!’

Fabrice crumpled his napkin, took a deep breath, pushed back his chair and announced:

‘Well, I’m going.’

He didn’t even have time to get up from the table before a car pulled up and the girl got to her feet and walked towards it. The four of us watched as she climbed into the passenger seat, and flinched when she slammed the door.

‘I know I’ve got no chance,’ said Simon, ‘but I have to try. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to take my glass slipper and go round every girl in the village until I find one my size.’

We all burst out laughing.

Simon picked up a teaspoon and unthinkingly began stirring his coffee again. He had stirred it three times now and still had not taken a sip. We were sitting on a café terrace in the village square, making the most of the glorious weather. The sky was clear and the March sun spilled its silver light over the avenue. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. In the silence of the morning, broken only by the babble of the fountain, the village heard an echo of itself.

The mayor, shirtsleeves rolled up, stood watching a group of workers paint the curb of the pavements red and white. In front of the church, the priest was helping a carter unload sacks of coal, which a boy was stacking against the wall. On the far side of the square, housewives stood gossiping around the market stalls, watched over by Bruno, a policeman who was barely out of his teens.

Simon set the teaspoon down.

‘I didn’t sleep a wink at Dédé’s last night,’ he said.

‘Is this about that girl?’

‘You catch on fast . . . I’ve got a serious crush on her.’

‘Really?’

‘What can I say? I’ve never in my life felt the way I feel about this dark-haired girl with the mysterious eyes.’

‘Did you find out who she is?’

‘Of course! First thing I did the morning after the party was track her down. The only problem is, I found out I’m not the only person interested. Even that brainless moron José is hanging around her. You can’t have a fantasy in this godforsaken town without a bunch of cretins gatecrashing it.’

He swatted an imaginary fly with a brutal, angry gesture, then picked up the spoon and went back to stirring his coffee.

‘I wish I had your blue eyes, Jonas, and your angelic face!’

‘Why?’

‘So I could try my luck. Just look at me: I’ve got an ugly mug, a pot belly, a pair of stumpy legs . . . I’ve even got flat feet.’

‘Girls aren’t just interested in looks . . .’

‘Maybe, but as it happens, I don’t have much else to offer them. I don’t have a vineyard or a wine broker’s or a fat bank account.’

‘You’ve got other things – your sense of humour, for a start. Girls love guys who can make them laugh. And you’re honest, you’re sincere, you’re not a drunk, you’re not two-faced. That stuff means a lot.’

Simon batted away my compliments.

There was a long silence. He bit his lip and looked awkward.

‘Jonas,’ he asked, ‘do you think love trumps friendship?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well . . . I saw Fabrice flirting with our vestal virgin the day before yesterday . . . It was down by Cordona’s wine cellars. Fabrice was leaning on the hood of his mother’s car, arms folded, looking cool . . . and she didn’t look like she was in a hurry to go home.’

‘It’s only because Fabrice is everyone’s favourite person in Río Salado these days. Girls, guys, even old men stop him in the street – he’s our poet.’

‘I know, but I didn’t get the impression they were talking about literature, and it didn’t look like a one-off thing.’

‘Hey, peasants!’ André called to us, parking his car across the street. ‘Why aren’t you down at my diner initiating yourself into the glories of pool?’

‘We’re waiting for Fabrice.’

‘You want me to go on ahead?’

‘We’ll come over in a little while.’

‘I’m counting on you.’

‘We’ll be there.’

André brought two fingers to his temple in a salute and floored the accelerator, raising a growl from an old dog curled up in a doorway.

Simon grabbed my hand.

‘I haven’t forgotten how you and Chris fell out about Isabelle. I don’t want that happening to me and Fabrice. His friendship means a lot to me.’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’

‘Even thinking about it, I feel ashamed of my feelings for this girl.’

‘There’s no reason to be ashamed of our feelings when they’re positive – even if they seem unfair.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Everyone has an equal chance in love; everyone has the right to try his luck.’

‘Do you think I’ve got a chance? I mean, Fabrice is rich and he’s famous.’

‘Do I think, do I think . . . Every time you open your mouth these days you ask me that. Well, I’ll tell you what I think – I think you’re a coward. I think you’re going round in circles when you should be getting somewhere. Anyway, here’s Fabrice – let’s change the subject.’

André’s diner was crowded and too noisy for us to really enjoy our escargots à la sauce piquante. Besides, Simon obviously felt awkward. More than once he seemed about to confess everything to Fabrice, only to change his mind as soon as he opened his mouth. For his part, Fabrice was oblivious to what was going on. He took out his notepad and began scribbling down a fragment of a poem, crossing out and rewriting as he went. His blond fringe fell over his eyes like a barrier between his thoughts and Simon’s.

André came over to ask if we needed anything, leaning over the poet’s shoulder to read what he was writing.

‘Do you mind?’ Fabrice said, irritated.