Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

For his part, De Stefano pretended to take exception to everything, but he was totally unconvincing. The organiser, aware that he had the upper hand, was more relaxed; he spoke with an affected air, his hands in his pockets, and, at the slightest thing, he would throw his head back and let out a neighing laugh, pleased to see the first spectators converging on the stadium in their best clothes and straw boaters.

I opened my bag and started to change.

Tobias began fidgeting on the camp bed. He leant over to Salvo and said, ‘I have more and more problems with women.’

‘What kind of problems?’ Salvo said, scratching behind his ear.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I don’t live in your head.’

Tobias leant closer and said in a low voice, ‘Before going to the brothel, I’m on heat, and, as soon as I’m in the room with a whore, it’s like I’ve taken a cold shower.’

‘You don’t have to take just any of them.’

‘I’ve tried with several and it still hasn’t worked.’

‘What do you want me to do about it, Tobias? If you can’t manage with your cock, use your wooden leg, that’ll be a real thrill.’

‘I’m not joking. It’s serious … You’re good at healing things. I thought maybe you had some tricks, potions, something like that. I’ve tried all kinds of methods, but I’m getting nowhere.’

Salvo assumed a solemn air and put his hands together under his nose to think. After meditating like a Buddhist monk, he looked up at Tobias. ‘Have you tried the Hindu method?’

‘I don’t know it.’

Salvo nodded sagely and said, ‘Well, according to a revered fakir, to obtain the ideal erection, what you have to do is sit down on your finger.’

‘Ha-ha. I suppose you think you’re funny?’

Angry now, Tobias went out into the yard, pursued by Salvo’s sardonic laughter.

A little boy in short trousers arrived on his bicycle, with a basket full of fruit, bottles of pop and sandwiches. Before leaving again, he asked me if I was the boxer and wished me good luck. De Stefano thanked him on my behalf and pushed him gently towards the exit. We ate in silence. Outside, we could hear the roar of the crowd around the ring.

Salvo bandaged my fists, tied my gloves and realised he had forgotten my gum shield. De Stefano shrugged his shoulders and asked everyone else to leave except me.

‘You have to take it easy, son,’ he said, embarrassed, when we were alone. ‘This is a friendly match.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning there are no bets. It’s the show that matters, not the result. People are here to have a good time. So don’t get too excited and make the pleasure last. Keep your left hook for next time.’

‘What is all this? I thought this was going to be a serious match.’

‘I thought so too. The mayor of Aïn Témouchent lied to me.’

‘In that case, why not cancel and go home?’

‘I don’t want any problems with the council, Turambo. And besides, it’s not the end of the world. It’s still a fight. You’ll get a chance to see what it’s like to have a hostile audience. You have eight rounds. The organisers decided on that. Try and see it through to the end. You don’t have to finish off your opponent before that. In fact, you shouldn’t. It’d spoil the party.’

‘The party?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

He wiped his face with a handkerchief and asked me to follow him outside. He was so sad for me that I stopped complaining.

The stadium was divided in two by wire fencing. Inside, the stony part of the waste ground had vanished beneath the crowd. There were only men in suits and white hats, some with their children on their shoulders. Behind the fence were a few Araberbers in burnouses and Arab kids perched at the height of the barbed wire to see over the heads of the crowd.

I waited a good twenty minutes in the ring before my opponent arrived. And what an arrival! The town hero appeared in a horse-drawn carriage, preceded by a blaring brass band. Cheering wildly, the crowd stood back as the procession passed. Standing on his seat, my opponent raised his arms to greet his fans. He was a tall, strapping, fair-haired fellow, his head shaven over his temples, with a long thick lock of hair falling over his face. He was hamming it up, shadow-boxing, flattered by the pennants frantically waving around him. Servants helped him out of his carriage and into the ring. The clamour grew even louder when he again brandished his gloves. He gave me just a quick glance before once again offering himself up to the crowd.

De Stefano avoided my eyes in embarrassment.

The referee motioned my opponent and me to approach. He gave us our instructions and sent us back to our corners. As soon as the bell rang, that huge mass of muscle, who was a whole head taller than me, rushed at me and started to grind me down, galvanised by the lively yells of the crowd. He had no technique, he was banking on his strength. His aim was rough; he simply lashed out. I let the squall pass and managed to push him away. My first left hook made him take several steps back. Shaken, he stood there for a few seconds in bewilderment before coming back to his senses. He hadn’t been expecting my counter. After moving around me, sizing me up, he got me in a corner and covered me with his hulking body. De Stefano yelled at me to use my right, just to remind me of his instruction to ‘make the pleasure last’. I was disgusted. My opponent kept letting his guard down; I could have knocked him out any time I wanted. At the end of the third round, he started to tire. I begged De Stefano to let me finish him off. I couldn’t stand being just a punchbag for a conceited idiot any longer. But De Stefano wouldn’t yield. He admitted to me, while Salvo was cooling me down, how much he regretted the way things had turned out, and promised me it wouldn’t happen again. Just this once, he said, I had to play the game through to the end because he’d given his word to the organisers.

The rottenness of it stuck in my throat. I tried as best I could to dismiss my black thoughts, but anger kept gaining the upper hand. I was punching now to hurt. My opponent reacted in a surprising way. When my blows hit home, he deliberately staggered from one rope to the other or else bent double, waggling his behind and pretending to throw up over the referee. Clearly he was just playing to the gallery. There was no tension in his face, no doubt in his eyes, just a theatrical, grotesque, ridiculous aggressiveness. Only one thing mattered to me: I wanted this nonsense to stop! This wasn’t my day; there was nothing historic about this damned Sunday. And to think that the night before, I had been so worried about my first fight that I hadn’t slept a wink! I was so incensed that I found myself popping out my left, which stopped my opponent’s clownish kicks dead in their tracks. He again had a few seconds of confusion, as if he suddenly couldn’t place me, then resumed his attacks, hitting any old how before retreating, pleased with himself, and monkeying around for the audience. He was playing the clown, concerned more about the amusement of the crowd than my retaliation.

This farce went on until the sixth round. Against all expectation, the referee decided to stop the match and officially declare my opponent the winner. The crowd went wild. I looked for De Stefano. He had retreated behind our corner. My opponent swaggered around the ring, arms raised, eyes popping out of his head in childish joy … It was only on the way back, on the bus, that I learnt that the hero of the day was called Gaston, that he was the eldest son of the mayor of Aïn Témouchent, and that he wasn’t a boxer at all but had fought this, his first fight, as a way of celebrating his father’s birthday. Next year, he might pay for a swimming contest, or else a football match during which his teammates would make sure that he scored the winning goal after the referee had rejected those of the opposing team.