Yasmina Khadra - What the day owes the nigth

On the landing, he pushed me against a wall, listening to the clatter of dishes being washed in the kitchen. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

‘Call her.’

‘She’s old, she’s not well . . . Why don’t you put the gun away?’

‘Call her.’

I called to Germaine. I expected her to scream when she saw the gun and was bewildered to find her perfectly calm. The sight of the pistol barely raised an eyebrow.

‘I saw him coming through the fields,’ she said.

‘I’m with the Maquis,’ the boy said in an arrogant tone he hoped was commanding. ‘Both of you, sit in there in that big room. If the phone rings or there’s someone at the door, don’t answer. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’

He jerked the gun towards the sofa. Germaine sat down, crossing her arms over her chest. Her coolness made me feel more calm. She tried not to look at me, probably hoping I would do the same. The boy crouched down in front of us, staring at us as though we were just two more pieces of furniture. He seemed to be holding his breath. I couldn’t work out what was going on in his head, but I was relieved to see he was less nervous than when he first arrived.

The living room was utterly dark. His gun pressed against his thigh, the boy crouched in the darkness; there was no movement but for the glitter of his eyes in the darkness. I suggested turning on the lights. He didn’t respond. After several hours, Germaine started to fidget. She was not nervous or even tired – she obviously needed to go to the toilet and, out of a sense of propriety, could not bring herself to ask this strange boy for permission. I did it for her. The boy clicked his tongue.

‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked.

Germaine nudged me to signal me to stay calm. A flash of lightning lit up the room, and the darkness afterwards seemed more opaque. I could feel the sweat on my back grow cold; I had a fierce urge to pull my shirt away from where it clung to my skin, but the boy’s stillness persuaded me otherwise.

The sounds of the village grew less frequent. A car engine roared somewhere in the distance, then faded, and a deafening silence fell over the streets and the fields. Towards midnight, a stone rapped against the shutter. The boy ran and peered into the shadows below, then turned to Germaine and ordered her to go downstairs and open up. While she was going down, he pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of my neck and forced me to walk to the head of the stairs.

‘If you try to scream, madame, I’ll kill him.’

‘I understand,’ Germaine said simply.

She shot back the bolt and suddenly there was the sound of a scuffle downstairs. I wanted to know what was happening, but the gun kept my face pressed against the wall.

Germaine reappeared; I could just make out her shadow faltering on the staircase. ‘Turn the light on, you idiot!’ growled a hoarse voice. Germaine flicked the switch and the landing light revealed four armed men clumsily attempting to carry a body on a makeshift stretcher. I recognised Jelloul, André’s former manservant. He had a machine gun slung over one shoulder and was wearing a tattered combat uniform and muddy boots. He pushed me aside and helped the other three lug their burden up the stairs and set it down in the living room. He paid no attention to us, but told his cohorts to be careful laying the patient out on the dining table.

‘Dismissed,’ he barked. ‘Return to your units. Laoufi, you stay with me. There’s no need to come back for us. If there are any problems, I’ll manage.’

Two of the men went back downstairs and disappeared silently into the night. Not once had they acknowledged our presence. The boy took the barrel of his gun from my neck and pushed me into the living room.

‘Thanks, kid,’ Jelloul said. ‘You were great. Now get going.’

‘You want me to wait outside?’

‘No, go back to you know where.’

The boy gave a military salute and disappeared.

Jelloul winked at me.

‘How are things?’

I didn’t know how to answer this.

‘Do something useful, go lock the door.’

Germaine looked at me imploringly. She was pale, her whole face a mask of fear. I went downstairs. When I got back, Jelloul was removing a bloody commando jacket from the man on the table.

‘If he dies, you’ll be going to the next world with him.’ His voice was menacing but calm. ‘This man is more important to me than my life. He took a bullet during a clash with the police. It wasn’t around here, don’t worry. I brought him here so you can get that lump of lead out of him.’

‘What with? I’m not a surgeon.’

‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’

‘A pharmacist.’

‘I don’t care. Your life depends on saving his. I haven’t come all this way for him to die now.’

Germaine pulled my arm.

‘Let me examine him.’

‘That’s better . . .’

Germaine bent over the wounded man, carefully pulling aside his bloodstained shirt; the entry wound, just above his left nipple, was hidden by a thick layer of congealed blood. It was an ugly wound and would be difficult to treat.

‘He’s lost a lot of blood—’

‘Well then, let’s not waste any time.’ Jelloul cut her off. ‘Laoufi,’ he said to his colleague, ‘you help the lady. Laoufi here is our nurse. Go down to the pharmacy with him and get whatever you need to operate on the captain. Do you have everything you need to sterilise the wound and extract the bullet?’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ Germaine said. ‘Jonas wouldn’t be any help. And if you don’t mind, I won’t have guns in my living room. I need to be able to work in peace. Your nurse can stay, but you and my son . . .’

‘That’s exactly what I planned to do, madame.’

Germaine was trying to protect me; she was doing her utmost to stay calm but having me there made her anxious. I couldn’t see how she could possibly deal with this. She had never held a scalpel in her life. What was she thinking? What if the man died? She glanced at me, urging me to leave the room, wanting me as far away as possible. She was trying to tell me something, but I could not understand her. She was obviously afraid for me and trying to shield me. Later she told me she would have brought the dead back to life if it would have saved me.

‘Go into the kitchen and get yourself something to eat. I’ll be more comfortable without you breathing down my neck.’

Jelloul nodded. I led him into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out a plate of boiled potatoes, cheese, slices of cured meat, some fruit and a bottle of milk and set them on the table next to his machine gun.

‘Have you got any bread?’

‘In the larder, on your right.’

He took out a large baguette and bit into it as he sank into a chair; he ate with astonishing voracity, picking at random a piece of fruit, a piece of cheese, a potato, a slice of meat . . .

‘I’m starving,’ he said, burping loudly. ‘You’ve got it easy here, haven’t you? The war doesn’t affect you; you go on living the good life while we’re out breaking our balls in the bush. Some day you’re going to have to pick a side, you know.’

‘I don’t like war.’

‘It’s not a question of liking or not liking. Our people have had enough of suffering in silence; they’ve revolted. Of course, being caught between two stools, you can do what you like, you can side with whoever suits you.’

He took a penknife from his pocket and cut a slice of cheese.

‘Do you see much of André?’

‘Not these days.’

‘They say he and his father have set up a militia.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I can’t wait to come face to face with him . . . He does know I escaped?’

‘I’ve no idea.’