Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

The match took place in the open air, on a cleared area of the town’s park. A cheerful crowd jostled around the ring. As I was getting ready to step up and join the referee, an Araberber in a gandoura whispered in my ear in a Kabyle accent: ‘Show them we’re not just shepherds.’ Cheers rang out when Rojo stepped over the ropes. He greeted his fans simply and walked slowly to his corner. His robe was taken off. He braced himself against the ropes, did a few knee bends then straightened up, his muscles tense and his face inscrutable. The first three rounds were well balanced. Rojo hit straight and hard and took my punches with Olympian calm. He was correct and polite, a real gentleman, following the referee’s instructions to the letter; conscious of his skill, he was managing the fight like the good technician he was. His feints and dodges delighted the crowd. De Stefano yelled at me to keep my distance, to avoid exposing myself to my opponent’s sudden jabs. Every time I hit home, he would bang his fist on the floor of the ring hard enough to dislocate his wrist. ‘Put him under pressure!’ he would cry out. ‘Keep your guard up! … Don’t cling to him! … Watch his right! … Back up, back up fast! …’ Rojo kept his composure. He had a plan and was trying to make me fall in with it, as if he knew me by heart — as soon as I prepared my ‘torpedo’, he would make sure he veered to the opposite side to throw me off balance. In the fourth round, as I trying to avoid being forced into a corner, he surprised me with his left. My gum shield shot out of my mouth and I saw the sky and earth merge. The floor of the ring fell away beneath me. De Stefano’s voice reached me as if through a series of walls. ‘Get up! … On your feet! …’ Salvo’s grimacing face looked like a carnival mask. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening. The referee was counting, his arm coming down like a machete. The yells of the crowd made me lose my bearings. I managed to grab hold of a rope and pull myself to my feet, my calves wobbling. The bell saved me … ‘What the hell got into you?’ De Stefano cursed while Salvo rubbed my face and neck with a towel soaked in water. ‘I told you to keep your distance. Don’t let him get you in a corner. It isn’t his right you should watch out for, it’s his left. Work on the body. I don’t think he likes it. As soon as he moves back, go in with all guns blazing … He was starting to hesitate, damn it! He’s yours for the taking …’ The fifth round was an ordeal for me. I hadn’t recovered and Rojo didn’t give me any respite. I sheltered behind my gloves and stoically withstood his onslaught; De Stefano was almost apoplectic. The minutes dragged on. The blows echoed inside me like explosions. I was choking, dehydrated and thirsty. Between two dodges, I looked for Gino in the crowd as if the smallest sign from him could save me; all I could see was the Duke’s disapproving pout as the mayor teased him mercilessly. In the seventh round, exasperated by my stamina, Rojo started to lower his guard. His punches became less and less precise and his moves had lost their spring. I took advantage of a badly managed clinch to land a series of punches that catapulted him onto the ropes. Just as he charged, I hit him with my left cut on the tip of his chin. He slumped and collapsed on his stomach. Silence fell over the park. The referee started counting. ‘Stay down!’ someone yelled at Rojo. ‘Get your strength back!’ On the count of eight, Rojo stood up. His eyes were blurred and his guard was weak. He tried to retreat and lean on the ropes, but I pursued him with a shower of blows that took him aback. He’d had enough of dodging; he punched in the air and clung to me, literally thrown off balance. By the time the bell came to his rescue, the champion of Perrégaux didn’t even know where his corner was. De Stefano was jubilant; he was yelling things in my ear, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I had my eyes fixed on my opponent. He was at the end of his tether and so was I. I had to find a flaw in his apparatus, a fatal flaw. I was shaken, exhausted, certain I couldn’t hold out much longer. Rojo handled the next two rounds bravely. I was leading on points; he knew it and was trying to catch up. In the eleventh round, just as my strength was about to give out, my left hook set off from deep inside me, drawing on the last ounce of its effectiveness, and split the air. I thought I could hear the bones in Rojo’s neck crack. My fist smashed into his temple with such power that I felt a terrible pain explode in my wrist; its shock wave went through my arm and inflamed my shoulder. Rojo whirled around and fell, throwing dust up from the floor. He didn’t get up. De Stefano, Salvo, Francis and Gino climbed into the ring and threw themselves on me, mad with joy. I had the vague feeling I was weightless.

The Duke came to see us in the changing rooms as we were packing up our things. He shook my hand without taking his cigar out of his mouth.

‘Congratulations, son. It was hard, but you held out.’

‘Thank you, Monsieur. It’s the first time I’ve fought a real champion.’

‘Yes, I like his technique a lot.’ This was said to the whole team. ‘To be quite honest with you, I’d have preferred Rojo to win. He’s a great artist.’ There was regret in his voice.

De Stefano scratched his head under his straw boater, puzzled by the Duke’s attitude. ‘Turambo didn’t let you down, Monsieur.’

‘I didn’t say that. He was perfect.’

‘But you don’t seem pleased, Monsieur.’

The Duke threw his cigar to the floor and crushed it with the tip of his shoe. ‘I still have to think about it. Turambo can take the blows, but Rojo’s more agile, more elegant and more technical.’

De Stefano grabbed his handkerchief and mopped his face. His Adam’s apple stuck in his throat and he had to swallow several times to dislodge it. ‘What is there to think about, Monsieur?’

‘Let’s just say your boy didn’t convince me.’

‘But, Monsieur,’ Francis said in a panic, ‘Turambo’s only just starting out. At this stage of his career, Rojo was spending most of his fights clinging to his opponents like an octopus.’

‘I said I’ll think about it,’ the Duke said resolutely. ‘I’m the one who’s going to invest heavily, not you. This is my money we’re talking about, and money doesn’t grow on trees. I want my own champion and I’m prepared to spare no expense to have him. But I need guarantees. Turambo didn’t give them to me today, not all of them. I found him less good than before. He was variable and lacked determination.’

That wasn’t how De Stefano saw things. He felt betrayed. His flushed face looked as if it was about to fall apart. He took his courage in both hands and dared stand up to the Duke. ‘Turambo won, didn’t he? That was your condition, Monsieur. Rojo has had sixteen professional fights and this was the first time he was knocked out.’

De Stefano could use all the arguments in the world, the Duke wouldn’t budge. He motioned to Frédéric Pau to follow him and left us standing there in the changing room.

We weren’t allowed a taxi on the way back.

We returned to Oran by bus, surrounded by rough peasants, baskets filled with cackling poultry and bundles smelling of manure.

De Stefano had cherished a lot of dreams since the Duke had dangled the prospect of financial help in front of him. He thought he might renovate the gym, install a new ring, along with punch bags and all the other paraphernalia that went with it, recruit potential champions and relaunch his career. It was too good to be true, but he had to believe in it after so many pious wishes. For years now he’d been asking luck for a helping hand, without ever giving up. Did he have any choice? The gym was his whole life; he’d fallen into it before he’d learnt to stand. He’d known highs and lows, gone from the peaks to the gutter, and not once had he considered throwing in the towel. For him, there was nothing after boxing, no income, no relaxation, just a total blank. With the Duke as his sponsor, he was sure he could force the hand of fate. Already, in boxing circles, people had started to be jealous of him. He himself had no qualms about telling everyone that the Duke had come to see him to discuss business and lay the groundwork for a fame that would mark entire generations. At night, in the bars, he would gather around his table a cluster of friends and make their heads spin with his staggering plans. To prove to them it wasn’t just wishful thinking, he’d buy rounds; his slate looked like a complicated maths puzzle, but the barman didn’t need to be asked twice, convinced as he was that the gym in Rue Wagram was getting a new lease of life.