Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

He looked us all up and down — Francis, De Stefano and me, Tobias having left — one after the other, in a silence like the lull before a storm. It was hard to know whom we were dealing with, gangsters or bankers. De Stefano couldn’t keep still on his chair. He stood up slowly, eyes alert.

The man with the cigar abruptly took his hand from his pocket and held it out to De Stefano. Startled, De Stefano took a step back before realising that he didn’t have a gun pointed at him.

‘My name’s Michel Bollocq.’

‘And what do you do for a living, Monsieur Bollocq?’

‘He calls the shots,’ the thin man said, visibly annoyed that his companion’s name meant nothing to us.

‘That’s quite something,’ De Stefano said ironically.

‘You’re telling me,’ Michel Bollocq said. ‘I have an appointment and I’m in a hurry. Let’s get down to business: I’m here to make a deal with you. I saw the last match and your boy made an excellent impression on me. I’ve never seen such a strong, quick left. A real torpedo.’

‘Are you involved in boxing, Monsieur?’

‘Among other things.’ He gave me a sidelong look, chewed his cigar and came up to me. ‘I see you’re more interested in my clothes than my words, Turambo.’

‘You look very smart, Monsieur.’

‘Just the coat costs an arm and a leg, my boy. But you’ll be able to afford one just like it one of these days. It all depends on you. You may even be able to afford several, in different colours, made to measure by the best tailor in Oran, or in Paris, if you prefer, although our suits are just as good … Would you prefer a tailor from Oran or Paris?’

‘I don’t know, Monsieur. I’ve never been to Paris.’

‘Well, I can give you Paris on a silver platter, however big Paris is. And you could walk around in a coat and a suit like this, with a red flower in your buttonhole matching your silk tie, diamond-studded gold cufflinks, a hundred-gram signet ring on your finger, and snakeskin shoes so classy that any arse-licker would be happy to wipe his tongue on them.’

He went to the window and gazed out at the backyard, his hands behind his back, his cigar in his mouth.

The second visitor bent over De Stefano and said in such a way as to be heard by all of us, ‘Monsieur Bollocq is the Duke.’

De Stefano turned pale. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat. ‘I’m truly sorry, Monsieur,’ he stammered, his voice barely audible, almost obsequious. ‘I didn’t mean to show you any disrespect.’

‘That would have been very stupid,’ the man said threateningly, without turning. ‘Can I speak frankly? From what I’ve seen, things aren’t exactly going well around here. Even a fugitive with a price on his head wouldn’t want to hide out in this fucking circus. Your gym’s on the skids, your safe’s clearly full of cobwebs, and your ring leaves a lot to be desired.’

‘We lack funds, Monsieur,’ Francis cut in, ‘but we have ambition by the barrel.’

‘That certainly makes up for a lot of difficulties,’ the man admitted, puffing his smoke out over the fly-blown window pane. ‘I like fools who wade through shit while keeping their head in the clouds.’

‘I don’t doubt it, Monsieur,’ De Stefano said, glaring at Francis.

‘Shall we talk business now?’

‘I’m all ears!’ De Stefano almost cried out, pushing a chair of chrome tubing in the man’s direction.

I’d heard of the Duke. It was the kind of name you didn’t have to remember since he moved in high circles, in other words, in a world beyond the reality of people in our situation, but which, once you were aware of it, became imprinted on your subconscious, remaining lodged there in dormant form, so that the first time it was mentioned, the memory of it came flooding back. In boxing circles, people instinctively lowered their voices when the name came up in conversation. The Duke was a real bigwig; he had a stake in everything lucrative in Oran and aroused as much fear as admiration. Nobody was sure of the exact nature of his business, his stamping grounds, the people he rubbed shoulders with. For many people, the Duke was someone to be mentioned fleetingly in idle talk, like the prefect, the governor or the Pope, a kind of fictitious character who was the subject of rumours or news items and whom you were never likely to run into. Seeing him in the flesh had a strange effect on me. The top dogs you hear about are seldom like the image you have of them. When they come down off their clouds and land at your feet, they disappoint you a little. Stocky, with stooped shoulders and a paunch, the Duke reminded me of the Buddha I had glimpsed in a second-hand shop on Place Sébastopol. He had the same solemn, morose air. His round, shiny face formed flabby jowls at the sides before ending in a resolute chin that was almost out of place in that mass of fat. His hairy hands were like tarantulas waiting for their prey as they lay on the armrests, and the gleam in his eyes, barely perceptible above his excessively high cheekbones, went through you like darts from a blowpipe. In spite of all that, seeing him sitting in a worn armchair in our dilapidated cubbyhole in Rue Wagram, where respectable people seldom ventured, was a huge privilege for us. Our gym wasn’t highly regarded. It hadn’t produced any champions for ages, and lovers of boxing cold-shouldered it, calling it a ‘factory for failures’. The fact that an important man like the Duke should honour it with his presence was a rehabilitation in itself.

The Duke puffed on his cigar and sent the smoke swirling up to the ceiling. His stern eyes came to rest on me. ‘What exactly does Turambo mean? It isn’t a local name. I’ve asked educated friends and nobody could explain it.’

‘It’s the name of my native village, Monsieur.’

‘Never heard of it. Is it in Algeria?’

‘Yes, Monsieur. Near Sidi Bel Abbès, on the Xaviers’ hill. But it’s vanished since. A rise in the water level swept it away seven or eight years ago.’

The other visitor, who hadn’t moved from his place since he’d come in, pursed his lips and scratched his chin. ‘I think I know where it is, Michel. I’m sure he means Arthur-Rimbaud, a village that was buried in a landslide at the beginning of the twenties near Tessala, not far from Sidi Bel Abbès. The press reported it at the time.’

The Duke looked at his cigar, turning it between his thumb and index finger, a grin at the corner of his mouth. ‘Arthur-Rimbaud, Turambo. What an abbreviation! Now I understand why, when you’re dealing with Arabs, you can never find the right address.’ He turned to De Stefano. ‘I saw your boy’s last three fights. When he knocked out Luc in the second round, I said Luc was getting old and it was time for him to hang up his gloves. Then your boy polished off Miccellino in one minute twenty. I couldn’t figure that out at all. Miccellino’s a tough customer. He’d won his last seven fights. Had he been caught unprepared? Maybe … But I admit I was impressed. I wanted to be certain in my own mind, so I made sure I attended the match with the Stammerer. And again, your boy took my breath away. The Stammerer didn’t last three rounds. That’s quite something. True, he’s thirty-three, he boozes and runs after whores, and he skips training sessions, but your boy made short work of him, and I was staggered. So my adviser Frédéric Pau here’ — he gestured reverently to his companion — ‘suggested I sponsor your boy, De Stefano. He’s convinced he’s a good investment.’

‘He’s right, Monsieur.’

‘The problem is that I hate buying the wrong merchandise and I hate losing.’

‘Quite rightly, Monsieur.’

‘This is what I propose. I believe your champion’s meeting Rojo in Perrégaux in three weeks’ time. Rojo’s young, strong and dedicated. He has his eye on the title of North African champion, which is no easy task. He’s already seen off Dida, Bernard Holé, Félix and that bruiser Sidibba the Moroccan. I was on the verge of sponsoring him, but Turambo’s really come on in the past few months and I told myself the next match will clinch it for me. If Turambo wins, he’ll be my protégé. If not, it’ll be Rojo. Have I made myself clear, De Stefano?’