Yasmina Khadra - What the day owes the nigth

He set his pen back in the inkwell and looked at me pensively.

‘What’s the matter, son?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Germaine thinks there is something bothering you.’

‘I can’t think of anything. I haven’t said anything.’

‘Sometimes, when we think our problems only concern ourselves, we don’t talk about them . . . I just want you to know that you are not alone, Younes, that you can talk to me any time. Never think that you might be disturbing me. You are the person I love most in all the world. You are my future. You are at an age when young men have great concerns. You’re thinking of marrying, of having a home of your own, of earning a living. That’s normal. Every bird yearns to fly on his own wings.’

‘Germaine is talking nonsense.’

‘That’s not a bad thing. You know how much she loves you. Her every prayer is for you. Don’t hide things from her. If you need money, if you need anything at all, we are here for you.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘I’m glad.’

Before he let me go, he picked up his pen, scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

‘Could you go to the bookshop and pick this up for me?’

‘Of course. I’ll go now.’

I slipped the piece of paper into my pocket and headed out, wondering what could have made Germaine think that I was worried.

The sweltering heat of recent weeks had calmed somewhat. In a sky exhausted by the heatwave, a big cloud ravelled its wool, using the sun as its spinning wheel, its shadow gliding over the vineyards like a ghost ship. Old men began to emerge from their shacks, relieved to have survived the heat; they sat on their stools in shorts and sweat-soaked shirts, eating lunch, their red faces half hidden by their broad-brimmed hats. It was almost dark; the breeze from the coast was cool and gentle. I touched the scrap of paper in my pocket and headed for the bookshop. The shop window was groaning with books and crude watercolours by local amateurs. When I pushed open the door, I was shocked to see Émilie standing behind the counter.

‘Hello,’ she said, taken aback.

For several seconds I forgot why I had come. My heart hammered like a demented blacksmith on his anvil.

‘Madame Lambert hasn’t been well,’ she explained. ‘She asked me to fill in for her.’

My hand rummaged for a moment before finding the piece of paper at the bottom of my pocket.

‘Can I help you?’

Speechless, I simply handed her the piece of paper.

‘The Plague, by Albert Camus,’ she read, ‘published by Gallimard.’

She nodded and hurried off behind the bookshelves, while I tried to catch my breath. I could hear her pushing a stepladder, searching along the shelves, repeating: ‘Camus . . . Camus . . .’, climbing down from the stepladder, pushing it down the aisle, then crying:

‘Ah, here it is . . .’

She reappeared, her eyes more vast than a prairie.

‘It was right under my nose,’ she said, increasingly bewildered.

As I took the book, my hand grazed hers and I felt a spark thrill through me just as I had in the restaurant in Oran when she made a pass at me under the table. I looked at her and her face was flushed, but I knew it was a mirror image of my own.

‘How is your uncle?’ she asked, still blushing.

I didn’t understand what she meant.

‘You seemed worried that night at Fabrice’s house . . .’

‘Oh . . . yes, yes . . . No, he’s much better now.’

‘I hope it wasn’t serious.’

‘No, it wasn’t serious.’

‘I was really worried when you left.’

‘It was just a scare . . .’

‘I was worried about you, Monsieur Jonas, you were so pale.’

‘Oh me . . . you know . . .’

She was no longer blushing now, she was in control, and her eyes held mine, determined not to let go.

‘It was a pity you had to leave. I’ve barely had a chance to talk to you. You don’t say much.’

‘I’m shy.’

‘I’m shy too. It can be so exhausting. And we miss out on so much. After you left, I was bored.’

‘Simon seemed to be having fun . . .’

‘I wasn’t.’

Her hand slipped from the book on to my wrist and I quickly jerked it away.

‘What are you afraid of, Monsieur Jonas?’

Her voice! Now the quavering had stopped, it had gained in confidence; it was clear, powerful, as commanding as her mother’s.

Her hand took mine again; I did nothing to stop her.

‘I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while now, Monsieur Jonas, but you always seem to disappear. Why are you avoiding me?’

‘I’m not avoiding you . . .’

‘That’s not true, I can tell. When people try to lie there are little things that betray the truth. I would so like us to spend some time together, Monsieur Jonas. I think we have a lot in common, don’t you?

‘I . . .’

‘We could meet up, if you like.’

‘I’m busy at the moment.’

‘I need to speak to you in private.’

‘What about?’

‘This isn’t the time or the place . . . Why don’t you come to my house. It’s out on the marabout road. It won’t take long, I promise.’

‘But I don’t know what we have to talk about. Besides, Jean-Christophe . . .’

‘What about Jean-Christophe?’

‘This is a small town, mademoiselle, people talk. Jean-Christophe might not appreciate . . .’

‘Might not appreciate what? We’re not doing anything wrong. Besides, what business is it of his? Jean-Christophe is a friend, there’s nothing between us.’

‘Don’t say that, please. He is in love with you.’

‘Jean-Christophe is a lovely person, I like him . . . but I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life with him.’

I was shocked.

Her eyes glittered like the blade of a scimitar.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Monsieur Jonas. I’m telling the truth. There is nothing between us.’

‘Everyone in the village thinks you’re engaged.’

‘Then they’re mistaken . . . Jean-Christophe is a friend, nothing more. My heart belongs to someone else,’ she said, and pressed my hand to her breast.

‘Bravo!’

The voice was like an explosion. Émilie and I froze: in the doorway of the bookshop stood Jean-Christophe, holding a bouquet of flowers. I could feel his hatred like scalding lava. He stood, appalled, incredulous, trembling beneath the ruins of the sky that had fallen. Face distorted with rage, he struggled to express his fury.

‘Bravo!’ he said again, then threw the flowers on the floor and stamped on them. ‘I bought these roses for the woman I love. It turns out they’re a funeral wreath. I’ve been so stupid . . . and you, Jonas, you are an utter bastard!’

He raced out, slamming the glass door so hard it cracked, and I rushed after him. He zigzagged wildly through the side streets, lashing out at everything in his path. Seeing me behind him, he turned and pointed an accusing finger.

‘Stay where you are, Jonas, don’t come near me or I swear I’ll kill you.’

‘You’re making a mistake. There’s nothing between me and Émilie, I swear.’

‘Go to hell, and take her with you! You’re a bastard, a fucking bastard!’

Furious, he rushed at me and slammed me against the wall, spraying spittle in my face as he screamed insults at me. He punched me hard in the stomach. I fell to my knees.

‘Why do you have to ruin my happiness?’ He was close to tears, his eyes bloodshot, his lips flecked with spittle. ‘Why, for God’s sake, why did you have to ruin everything?’

He kicked me in the side.

‘Curse you, and curse the day I ever met you,’ he shouted, running off. ‘I never want to see you again, I never want to hear your name, you miserable two-faced bastard!’