Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘I’ll be delighted to work for you, Monsieur.’

‘Not so fast, my friend. The ring still has to decide.’

The Duke threw his cigar on the floor, stood up and left, with his adviser hard on his heels.

We were speechless for two whole minutes before De Stefano started mopping himself with a handkerchief.

‘You know what you have to do,’ he said to me. ‘If the Duke takes us under his wing, nothing can harm us. The man is manna from heaven. When he bets on a cat, he turns it into a tiger. How would you like to dress like a nabob, Turambo?’

‘It’d make a change. Right now, my clothes are falling apart.’

‘Then go and kick the arse of that cocky Rojo.’

‘Just watch me! Luck only smiles on you once, and I have no intention of letting it slip through my fingers.’

‘That’s the wisest resolution I’ve heard in my whole damned life,’ he said, taking me in his arms.

Gino found me on a café terrace in Medina Jedida, a pot of mint tea on the table. He sat down next to me, poured himself three fingers of tea in my glass and casually lifted it to his lips. Opposite us, on the esplanade, Moroccan acrobats in shorts were performing amazing feats.

‘Guess who came to see us today.’

‘I have a bit of a headache,’ he said wearily.

‘The Duke.’

That woke him up. ‘Wow!’

‘Do you know him? They say he’s rolling in it.’

‘No doubt about that. He’s so rich he hires people to shit for him.’

‘He came and said that if I beat Rojo, he’ll take me under his wing.’

‘Then you have to win … But watch out, if he offers you a contract, don’t sign anything if I’m not there. You’re not educated and he might put a leash round your neck that even a dog wouldn’t want.’

‘I won’t sign anything without you, I promise.’

‘If things work out for you, I’ll leave the printing works and take care of your affairs. You’re starting to make a name for yourself. Would you like me to be your manager?’

‘I’ll hire you right now. We’ll share everything fifty-fifty.’

‘A normal salary would be fine … Let’s say ten per cent.’

We shook hands to seal the deal and burst out laughing, amused by our own fantasies.

The Duke wanted to make sure we got to Perrégaux feeling fresh and on good form, so he sent a taxi to pick us up from Rue Wagram. The five of us bundled in, Francis and Salvo on the fold-up seats, Gino, De Stefano and I on the back seat. The driver was a tense little fellow, his cap pulled down as far as his ears, so tiny behind the wheel that we wondered if he could see the road. He drove slowly, in a stiff and sinister way, as if he was going to a funeral. Whenever Salvo tried to lighten the atmosphere by telling dirty jokes, the driver would turn to him with an icy look and ask him to show some restraint. Unsure if he was the Duke’s official driver or an ordinary cabman, De Stefano didn’t want to take any risks, but he didn’t like the idea of this obscure celebrity teaching us good manners.

It was a fine May day. Summer had come early, and although it wasn’t yet quite at its height, the hills were carpeted in yellow and the farms glittered in the sun. The luxuriant fields and orchards meant that the cows would be nice and fat this year. We took the road to Saint-Denis-du-Sig by way of Sidi Chami, much to the dismay of Francis, who couldn’t understand why we had to make so many detours when the railway led straight there from Valmy. The driver told us this was the route decided on by the Duke himself … It was nine in the morning. A horde of veiled women were climbing a goat path in the direction of a saint’s tomb, their children limping along far behind in single file. I looked up at the tomb, which was at the top of a hillock, and made a solemn vow. I hadn’t slept well in spite of my mother’s herbal teas. My sleep had been disturbed by tortured dreams and heavy sweating; by the time I woke up, my head was burning hot.

Opposite me, Francis was excited, his eyes shining. Discreetly, he rubbed his thumb against his index finger and batted his eyelids to amuse me. All he thought about was money, but seeing him like that made me less anxious. Gino gazed out at the landscape, fists clenched. I was sure he was praying for me. As for De Stefano, he just kept staring at the back of the driver’s furrowed neck as if trying to melt it with his eyes.

Perrégaux appeared after a bend in the road. It was a small town in the middle of a plain dotted with orchards. Here and there in the distance, patches of swamp shimmered like pearls. At the side of the road, amid the fig trees, Arab carters offered their harvest, while kids, their containers filled with snails, waited patiently for buyers. In a field, a thermal spring gurgled, shrouded in white steam. A fat colonist with a guard dog was watching a male donkey circle a female donkey on heat. I had the feeling I was seeing scenes from my native countryside.

The taxi slowed down at the entrance to the town, jolting over the railway track so cautiously that it almost stalled.

De Stefano looked at his watch; we were an hour late.

Frédéric Pau, the Duke’s adviser, was waiting for us on the steps of the town hall. He took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and looked at it meaningfully when he recognised our taxi. He was angry and at the same time relieved that we’d arrived at last. The pavement was packed with cars all the way to the post office. The driver chose to park under the palm trees on Place de France, near the covered market. Curious people came to take a look at us. Someone cried, ‘That’s him, that’s the boxer from Oran. Our Rojo will polish him off in no time at all.’ Two policemen, sent by someone or other, held back the hordes of kids who had started to scream when we got out of the car.

‘I was starting to get worried,’ Frédéric Pau cried. ‘Where did you get to, damn it? We’ve been waiting for you for more than an hour.’

‘It’s the driver’s fault,’ De Stefano said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Where did you get him from? An undertaker’s?’

‘It was the boss who insisted he get you here in one piece, but I think he overdid it. Now let’s get a move on, they’re getting impatient inside.’

The Duke was lounging in an armchair, facing the mayor’s desk, his cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a white linen suit, with a hat and moccasins of the same colour. He didn’t stand to greet us and simply gestured with his arm at the man sitting behind the desk.

‘Let me introduce Monsieur Tordjman, the patron saint of the town.’

‘Let’s not exaggerate, Michel,’ the mayor said without moving from his seat. ‘I’m just a humble servant of this place. Now how about some food?’

‘Provided you give us a taster you can vouch for,’ the Duke said, heaving himself up. ‘I don’t want any cook with bad intentions laying my champion low before the fight.’

‘Our Rojo doesn’t need that kind of help, Michel. He’ll make short work of your little town mouse.’

‘We’ll see, Maklouf, we’ll see.’

The mayor was offering a ‘light meal’ on a colonial estate; it was actually a mammoth feast. The banqueting table stretched for several metres, covered in white tablecloths and bristling with an assortment of trays and baskets of fruit. There were about forty guests sitting on either side, mostly colonists and civil servants as well as dignitaries from Sig; the mayor sat in the middle, opposite the Duke. There were no women anywhere to be seen, just men with thick moustaches and bulging bellies, their cheeks scarlet and their mouths dripping with gravy, who laughed at anything and greeted every remark of the mayor’s as if it were the word of a prophet. Salvo dug in, sucking in his cheeks, his eyes darting greedily from dish to dish. Francis kept kicking him under the table, trying to restrain him, but he just grunted like an animal being disturbed and ate twice as much, completely unconcerned. As for De Stefano, he was sizing up Rojo, who was sitting next to the mayor. The local champion was eating calmly, heedless of the commotion around him. He was as tall and broad as an advertising hoarding, his face copper-coloured, his jaw square, his nose so flat you could have ironed a shirt on it. Not once did he look up at me. Cheers went up when servants in djellabas appeared with the méchoui , whole roast lambs served on large dishes strewn with lettuce leaves and onion slices. At that moment, Rojo raised his head; he gave me an enigmatic pout and took advantage of the scramble to leave discreetly.