Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

*

By the time we got back, the gym was looking a bit livelier. A few young men in shorts were doing body-building exercises. De Stefano was talking to a thickset young man whom he dismissed when we arrived. He asked Tobias if Toni had had any objections. Tobias told him that the fellow in question had grumbled a fair amount, but that the misunderstanding had been resolved. De Stefano grunted something, then took me aside.

‘Get in the ring,’ he said.

‘I don’t have the right clothes, or gloves.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Get in as you are; don’t take your shoes off.’

I did as he asked. The thickset young man joined me on the platform. He had put on gloves and sports shoes. He came and stood in front of me, cracked his neck, did a few knee bends and took two steps back. I was expecting to be given instructions. There weren’t any. Without warning, the boy started punching me in the face. I lost my bearings, unsure if I was supposed to respond or just take it. My opponent kept pummelling my body. I felt as if a piston was trying to crush my sides. The floor gave way beneath my feet. While I was down, the boy continued jumping up and down on the spot.

‘Get up!’ De Stefano cried. ‘Defend yourself!’

No sooner was I on my feet than I had to shelter behind my arms to withstand my opponent’s frantic assault. My few counterattacks went nowhere. The boy was quick on his feet, elusive; he dodged my punches, pushed me away whenever I tried to hold on to him; he would feint at me, his head never in the same place for more than a second.

He knocked me down again.

De Stefano ordered the boy to leave, and me to get down from the ring.

‘Now you know that boxing is nothing like street fighting,’ he said. ‘On the ground, you’re a single person, a nobody. In the ring, you’re asked to be a god. Boxing is a science, an art and an ambition … I’d like you to remember this day, my boy. That way, you’ll realise how far you’ve come the evening you score your first victory. There’s a whole programme to get through, and you’ll have to follow it to the letter. Buy yourself a duffle bag, a pair of shorts, a vest and some sports shoes. The gloves are on the house. Tobias will explain the training schedule. As of tomorrow, I want to see you here every day.’

‘I have to look for a job.’

‘That’s what I mean by training schedule. There are three timetables, just choose the one that suits you. The members of my club also work. You have to have something to sink your teeth into before you can think of breaking other people’s teeth.’

For the first few weeks, I wasn’t allowed in the ring. De Stefano was waiting for me to earn that privilege. He had to clear away the cobwebs first, and so he started by testing my stamina: I had to go up and down the hills of the Ravin, run as far as the pine grove at Les Planteurs, climb the sides of Murdjadjo clinging to the bushes, listen to my body, push it to the limit, control my breathing, adjust my stride to the uneven terrain and end with a sprint. By the time I got home, I’d be all in, with my tongue hanging out and my throat burning. Mekki, who didn’t look kindly on this self-imposed ordeal, tried to discover what I was up to, suspecting I was in some kind of trouble. As I couldn’t admit to him that I’d chosen to be a boxer, our conversation ended very badly, and Gino, to put an end to my rebellion, suggested I stay with him. I accepted without hesitation.

I felt much better on Boulevard Mascara. Not having to give any account of myself to anyone, I devoted myself fully to my new vocation.

On Sundays, Gino would come with me to the gym, where we would see Filippi, the mechanic who’d worked with us at Bébert’s garage. Whenever he had time off, Filippi would come to De Stefano’s to keep fit. He had boxed in his younger days, without much success, and continued to go to the gym and train his athlete’s body. He was enthusiastic, a bit of a show-off, and he was good at motivating me. The three of us would set off together to tackle the hills and paths. Gino often gave up halfway, unable to maintain the pace we set ourselves, but Filippi, in spite of his age, excelled and really inspired me.

At home, on Boulevard Mascara, Gino and I made bodybuilding equipment from bits of scrap iron and cemented metal cans; we were proud to display our pectorals to the girls hanging out their washing on the neighbouring rooftops.

Sport proved to be excellent therapy for Gino and me. My friend was mourning his mother and I was mourning my love … Ah, Nora, how beautiful she was! She was as dainty, graceful and frail as a poppy, and when she smiled, the world glittered with promise. Our hearts had beat as one, I had thought. I had believed she was mine, believed it so firmly that I’d never even thought of a future without her … Alas, our future is determined in spite of us. We have no hold or rights over it, and it will still be there when we’ve gone.

In the evening, after a good sweat and a hot bath, we’d go out on the town, looking for fun. There’s nothing better than the bustle of the city to drown out nasty voices calling from the depth of torment, and nothing better than crowds to shake off missing loved ones.

Oran’s nights absorbed our anxieties like blotting paper. We couldn’t afford much, but we could still have a good time; we just had to go where our steps led us. Everything was worth looking at in Oran, the carriages and the cars, the drunks and the entertainers, and everything was there to be seen without any obligation to touch it, window shopping. The cinemas, lit up as bright as day, attracted as many night owls as a lantern attracts insects. The neon signs outside the nightclubs splashed colours on the façades opposite. The bistros never emptied and were always filled with noise and tobacco smoke.

Gino and I were the valiant surveyors of the night. After doing the rounds of the open-air dance halls or coming out of the cinema, we would go to the seafront to look at the lights of the harbour and watch the dockers bustling around the freighters. The sea breeze cradled our silences; we sometimes even daydreamed, our elbows on the parapet and our cheeks resting in the palm of our hands. Once we were tired of counting the boats, we would sit down on a terrace, eat lemon ices and watch the girls swaying their hips on the esplanade, looking wonderful in their guipure dresses. Whenever a pick-up artist made a teasing comment to them, the girls would turn to him, laugh and walk away like wreaths of smoke. The man would then flick away his cigarette end and swagger along behind them, before eventually returning to his post, empty-handed but determined to try his luck again and again until there was nobody left in the streets.

They were strange people, these pick-up artists. Gino was certain that they were more interested in the chase than the catch, that their happiness lay not in conquest, but in the process of picking up. We once watched one of them closely; as far as smooth talking went, he had no equal, but whenever a girl took the bait, he would realise that he was out of ideas and would stand there dumbly, not knowing what to suggest.

As there was no chance we’d find soul mates for the evening, Gino and I made do with going to the rough end of town and watching the prostitutes. They would emerge from the shadows like hallucinations, show us their big breasts, swollen by anonymous mouths, make dirty remarks and snap the elastic on their knickers. It made us laugh, and our laughter was a way of overcoming our fears and silencing those rasping voices that echoed inside us like warnings.

It was the days that were difficult. Once Gino had gone to work, I was back on the scrapheap again. Nothing interested me. Nora had given me back my heart, but I didn’t know what to do with it. It had been beating only for her. The sun would turf me out of bed like someone unclean, the streets made me go round in circles until I was seeing things and, when the time came for taking stock, I was convinced I had once again taken a wrong turn.