Yasmina Khadra - What the day owes the nigth

‘Isn’t that Fabrice’s car?’ Simon pointed to a car parked beneath a lone eucalyptus in the scrubland.

I pulled up on the hard shoulder and in the distance saw Fabrice with two girls having a picnic. Intrigued by the sudden appearance of the car, Fabrice got up and put his hands on his hips, clearly on the defensive.

‘I always said he was short-sighted,’ Simon whispered as he clambered out.

Fabrice walked a hundred metres before realising it was my car. Relieved, he stopped where he was and waved for us to join them.

‘Did we give you a scare?’ said Simon, hugging Fabrice.

‘What are you guys doing out here?’

‘We’re just out for a drive. Are you sure we’re not interrupting?’

‘Well, we didn’t bring enough cutlery, but if you can wait while we finish our apple tarts, it’s no problem.’

The two girls readjusted blouses and tugged their skirts down past their knees to appear decent when they greeted us. Émilie Cazenave gave us a smile; the other girl simply looked quizzically at Fabrice, who quickly reassured her:

‘Jonas and Simon, my best friends.’

Then, turning to us, he said, ‘This is Hélène Lefèvre, a journalist with the Écho d’Oran. She’s writing an article about the area.’

Madame Cazenave’s daughter turned her deep, dark eyes on me and I had to look away.

Fabrice went back to his car and found a beach towel, and laid it out on a patch of grass so that Simon and I could sit down. Simon crouched down by the wicker basket, rummaged inside and found a piece of bread, then, taking a penknife from his pocket, cut slices of saucisson. The girls glanced at each other quickly, clearly amused by his nerve.

‘Where were you headed?’ Fabrice asked us.

‘Down to the port to see the fishermen unload,’ said Simon. ‘What about you, what are you doing out here with these two charming girls?’

Émilie stared at me again. Could she read my thoughts? And if so, what did they say? Had her mother said something about me? Had Émilie detected some hint of me in her mother’s bedroom, a scent I had been unable to erase, the trace of a kiss, the memory of an embrace? Why did I suddenly feel that she could read me like a book? And her eyes . . . They held me hypnotised. How could they plunge into mine, know my every thought, my every doubt? For an instant I saw her mother’s eyes back in their vast house on the marabout road – eyes so radiant that one needed no other light to see into the deepest depths, discern the most secret weaknesses . . . I felt unsettled.

‘I think we’ve met before. A long time ago.’

‘I don’t think so, mademoiselle. I’m sure I would remember.’

‘It’s strange, your face seems familiar,’ she said, then added, ‘What do you do for a living, Monsieur Jonas?’

Her voice had the gentle murmur of a mountain stream. She said ‘Monsieur Jonas’ just as her mother had, accentuating the ‘s’, and it roused the same feelings in me, stirred the same emotions.

‘Nothing much,’ said Simon, jealous of the attention I was getting from his first real crush. ‘Me, I’m a businessman. I’m setting up an import-export business. In two, three years, I’ll be rich.’

Émilie ignored Simon’s teasing. I could feel her eyes on me, waiting for my answer. She was so beautiful I could not meet her gaze without blushing.

‘I work in a pharmacy, mademoiselle.’

A lock of hair fell over her eyes and she swept it away with an elegant hand, as though lifting a veil to reveal her beauty.

‘A pharmacy, where?’

‘Río Salado, mademoiselle.’

Something flitted across her face, she arched her eyebrows and the piece of apple pie between her fingers crumbled. Fabrice noticed her confusion, and now, confused himself, quickly rushed to pour me a glass of wine.

‘You know he doesn’t drink,’ Simon said.

‘Oh, sorry . . .’

The journalist took the glass and brought it to her lips.

Émilie did not take her eyes off me.

Twice, she came to visit me at the pharmacy. I made sure that Germaine was with me. What I saw in her face disconcerted me and I had no intention of hurting Fabrice.

I began to avoid her. I told Germaine that if Émilie phoned she should say I was out and she didn’t know when I would be back. Émilie quickly realised that I found her attentions unsettling, that I could not deal with the friendship she was offering. She stopped trying to see me.

The summer of 1950 swaggered into Río Salado like a carnival strongman. The roads teemed with holidaymakers, the beaches were overrun. Simon’s new business secured its first big contract and he took us all to dinner in one of the most fashionable restaurants in Oran. Simon – who had always been the life and soul of the party – surpassed himself. His antics and his clowning had the whole restaurant in stitches; the priggish women at the adjoining tables giggled whenever he raised his glass and launched into some hilarious new tirade. It was a wonderful evening. Fabrice and Émilie had come, as had Jean-Christophe, who spent the whole evening asking Hélène to dance. Seeing Jean-Christophe enjoying himself after the months of black depression put the finishing touch to the celebrations. The four of us were together again, inseparable as the tines of a pitchfork, and all would have been for the best in the best of all possible worlds had it not been for that one awkward, inappropriate gesture. Under the table, I felt Émilie’s hand slide along my thigh. My drink went down the wrong way and I almost passed out, gasping and choking as the others thumped me on the back. When I came to, it seemed that most of the restaurant was leaning over me. Simon heaved a sigh of relief when he saw me grab the table leg and hoist myself back on to my chair. Émilie’s eyes had never seemed so dark, nor her face so pale.

The following day, when Germaine and my uncle had gone out – they were in the habit of walking in the vineyards every morning now – I was shocked to see Madame Cazenave come into the pharmacy. Although silhouetted against the sunlight, I recognised the curve of her figure, the singular way she held herself, shoulders back, head high.

She hesitated in the doorway for a moment, probably to be sure that I was alone, then strode into the shop, a rustle of shadows and light, her heady perfume pervading the space.

She was wearing a grey trouser suit and a hat adorned with cornflowers pulled down slightly over her turbulent face.

‘Good morning, Monsieur Jonas.’

‘Good morning, madame.’

She took off her dark glasses . . . but the magic did not work now. She was just another customer, and I was no longer the teenage boy who felt he might faint at the sight of her smile. This realisation disconcerted her somewhat, and she began drumming her fingers on the counter top.

‘Madame . . . ?’

My innocent tone irritated her. Fire flickered in her eyes but she kept her composure; she could be uncompromising only if she was in control. Madame Cazenave was the sort of person who planned everything she did in meticulous detail; she chose the battleground and calculated her entrance to the last second. Knowing her as I did, I imagined she had spent the night plotting every move, every word of her performance. What she had not realised was that the boy she was expecting was no longer in the audience. My composure unsettled her; it was something she had not expected. She tried to adapt her plans, but the cards had already been dealt, and spontaneity had never been her strong suit.

She pressed the tip of her sunglasses to her lips to stop them quivering, but there was nothing she could do to hide her apprehension – her whole face was trembling; it seemed as though it might crumble like a piece of chalk.