Yasmina Khadra: What the day owes the nigth

‘I can imagine.’

Would Monsieur Mahieddine Younes please come immediately to gate 14, your flight is closing.

‘What about Río Salado, how are things in Río?’

‘Why don’t you come and see for yourself?’

‘Have I been forgiven?’

‘What about you, have you forgiven?’

‘I’m too old, Jonas, I don’t have the energy to bear a grudge any more; just getting annoyed wears me out.’

‘You see? I still live in the same house, right opposite the vineyards. It’s just me, these days; my wife died ten years ago. I have one son who’s married and living in Tamarasset and a daughter who’s a professor at Concordia University in Montreal. It’s not like I don’t have the space. You can have your pick of bedrooms, they’re all empty. The wooden horse you gave me to apologise for beating me up over Isabelle is right where you last saw it, on the mantelpiece.’

An Air Algérie employee comes up to me.

‘Are you flying to Oran?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mahieddine Younes?’

‘That’s me.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, the plane is waiting to leave. You need to board now.’

Jean-Christophe gives me a wink.

‘ Tabqa ‘ala kher, Jonas. Go in peace.’

He hugs me again, and I can feel his body trembling in my arms. Our embrace lasts for an eternity – to the irritation of the Air Algérie attendant. Jean-Christophe is the first to break away. His voice choked, his eyes red, he says in a small voice:

‘Go on, get going . . .’

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ I say.

‘I’ll come, I promise.’

He smiles.

I hurry to make my flight, the Air Algérie attendant in front, clearing a path through the queues, through the baggage scanner, through immigration. As I arrive airside, I turn around one last time to see what I am leaving behind, and I see them all, the living and the dead, standing at the window waving me goodbye.