Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘It sounds fine.’

‘You do understand the deal, don’t you? What you make we share fifty-fifty. I don’t want you to try and short-change me later. Is that understood? Fifty-fifty on what you make?’

‘Yes, I got that.’

He held out his hand. ‘Let’s shake on it. Giving your word of honour is better than any contract.’

I shook his hand enthusiastically. ‘When do I start?’

‘You do live in the house with the balcony over the esplanade, the one with the door opposite the barracks?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Wait for me outside your house at five tomorrow morning. But let’s get this straight once again, it’ll be fifty-fifty. And don’t try to double-cross me, because I’m the one who’s going to negotiate your wages.’

‘I’m not a cheat.’

He looked at me thoughtfully, then relaxed. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Turambo.’

‘Well, Turambo, God has put me in your path. If you do exactly what I ask and you’re as honest as you claim to be, in less than a year we’ll be doing a lot of business together.’

Pierre kept his word. At dawn the next day, he came for me and took me to a huge depot where I had to carry crates of fruit and vegetables. I thought I was going to drop dead with all the kicks I got from a fat lump who kept yelling at me. In the evening, Pierre was waiting for me at the corner of Rue du Général-Cérez. He counted out my money, pocketed half and handed me the rest. It was the same ritual each time. He didn’t find me work every day, but whenever a job fell vacant, it was mine. Pierre was the son of a court clerk who spent his money on prostitutes. He pointed him out to me one night, coming out of a brothel. He was a smart-looking man in a good suit, his hat pulled down over his face in order to remain incognito in such a seedy place. Pierre didn’t mince his words when he talked about him. He told me that arguments were common at home. His mother knew what kept her husband out so late at night and that made her hysterical because, in addition to his shameful sexual relations, his father had no qualms about drawing on the family savings. The reason Pierre, who was still at school, skipped classes was to help his mother make ends meet. And he was counting on me to save his family from bankruptcy. In a way, I was his golden goose. I didn’t see any disadvantage in that. As long as I didn’t return home empty-handed, I was prepared to do anything he suggested. Although the work tired me out, I wasn’t discouraged. But Pierre wanted me for himself. He kept an eye on me, noted who I mixed with, ordered me to go to bed early, in order to save my energy for work; in short, he ruled me with a rod of iron. He was particularly unhappy if I hung around with Gino in the evenings and made it quite clear what he thought about it.

‘Get rid of that fellow, Turambo. He’s not good for you. Plus, he’s a Yid.’

‘What’s a Yid?’

‘A Jew. Come on, what planet are you from?’

‘How do you know that Gino’s a Jew?’

‘I saw him having a pee.’ Pierre grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye. ‘Haven’t I been straight with you? We’ve always split things fifty-fifty. If you want to carry on as my partner, keep away from that queer. The two of us are going to make a ton of money, and in a few years, we’ll start a business and drive around in a car like nabobs. Have you seen how well connected I am? I can get you as many jobs as you like. Well? Do you trust me?’

‘Gino’s my friend.’

‘No sentiment in business, Turambo. That’s for little girls and mummy’s boys. When you were going round in circles, starving hungry, did anybody care? Yes, I did. Without you asking me. Because I have your best interests at heart. Forget that camp idiot. He’s earning his own living. Nice and safe there in his garage, polishing rich people’s cars. Did he ever suggest you work with him? Did he ever talk to his boss about you?’

He fell silent, waiting for a sign from me that didn’t come. He puffed out his cheeks and let his arms drop to his sides.

‘Well,’ he went on, irritably, ‘it’s up to you. If you think that mariquita matters more than your career, that’s up to you. Just don’t come and tell me I didn’t warn you.’

I didn’t know what was so wrong with being a Jew or what I risked by associating with one. But Pierre’s warning and his covert blackmail threw me. When I next saw Gino, as we were sitting on the pavement watching two carters having an argument, I asked him if he was a Jew. Gino frowned oddly; I realised that my question wasn’t so much a surprise as a shock. He stared at me as if he couldn’t place me. His lips were quivering. He took a deep breath, then sighed sadly and said, ‘Would that change anything between us?’

I told him it wouldn’t.

‘Then why did you ask me such a stupid question?’ He stood up, leaving me sitting there, and went back home.

He was very angry.

Over the next few days, he avoided me, and I realised how tactless I’d been.

Pierre had got his gold mine back and he was delighted that I was now his, and his alone. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘As soon as you pointed out his little secret, he dropped you. He’s not honest, your Gino.’

I tried to make it up with Gino, but in vain; he was giving me the cold shoulder. I realised how much I’d hurt him, however inadvertently. I hated seeing him angry with me, and doubly so because I’d never meant to cause him any pain. As far as I was concerned, it had been just a casual question. I didn’t care if he was black or white, a believer or an atheist. He was my friend, and his company mattered to me. He’d often taken me to his home, where we would spend hours chatting away in his room. He was a devoted, obedient son. He read to his mother every evening. He would sit down next to her, on the edge of the bed, open a book, and the silence of the house would be filled with magical characters and stories of adventure. Gino’s mother couldn’t get to sleep without this little excursion into the world of books. She would ask her son to continue with such and such a chapter, or reread such and such a poem, and Gino would go back over the pages with an enthusiasm that gave me food for thought. I couldn’t read, but I loved to sit on a stool and listen to him. He had a soft, spellbinding voice which would transport me from one setting to another.

There was a book that his mother loved more than any other. It was called The Miracle Man , written by a parish priest named Edmond Bourg. At first, I thought it was a prayer book. It was all about forgiveness, charity and solidarity, and Gino’s mother would cry over certain passages. It was so moving, my heart contracted like a fist as I listened. I wanted to find out more about the author: was he a prophet or a saint? Gino told me the story of Edmond Bourg, who had apparently hit the headlines in the previous century. Before becoming a priest, Edmond Bourg had been a railway engineer. He was an ordinary man, a bit of a lone wolf, but amiable and considerate. One evening, he caught his wife having torrid sex with one of his colleagues in his own bed. He killed both of them and cut them up into little pieces. The police found the pieces scattered in the woods. Every day, the newspapers would announce the discovery of a piece of flesh or an organ, as if the killer was deliberately trying to traumatise everyone. This macabre story fascinated and horrified the public to such an extent that the trial had to be adjourned several times because of the crowds wanting to attend. Edmond Bourg’s lawyers pleaded that he was insane when he committed the crime. The people demanded blood, and the court sentenced the murderer to death. But on the day of the execution, the blade of the guillotine jammed. As the penal code demanded that the operation continue until the head was separated from the body, the executioner pulled the lever again, without success. Curiously, when the condemned man was removed from the block, the mechanism worked, and when his head was once more placed on the blosk, the blade again refused to fall. The chaplain claimed it was a sign from heaven; Edmond Bourg’s sentence was commuted to hard labour for life. He was sent to Devil’s Island, a penal colony not far from Cayenne, in Guyana, where he was a model prisoner. Some twenty years after he was sentenced, a famous journalist revived the story of Edmond Bourg, and a national debate ensued, with articles and petitions, which resulted in his being pardoned. Edmond Bourg became a priest and spent the rest of his life doing good, spreading the word and helping people come to terms with their own demons. His book was a huge success when it came out in 1903. Souls in torment drew a great deal of comfort from it, and Gino’s mother always kept it on her bedside table, next to the Bible.