Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

Every day for a week after we got back from Perrégaux, De Stefano would go through the press, hoping to come across an article praising my victory over Rojo, one that might make the Duke see reason. But neither L’Écho d’Oran nor the evening paper Le Petit Oranais said anything about my fight. Not even a short item. De Stefano was outraged. It was as if the gods were conspiring against him.

I didn’t really grasp what was at stake. I’d go so far as to say that De Stefano’s dismay didn’t affect me. I knew that the Roumis had a strange mentality, that they complicated their lives because they didn’t really believe that ‘everything is written’. As far as I was concerned, things obeyed imperatives that were outside my control; I just had to make the best of it. To rebel against fate, far from averting it, might bring even greater misfortunes down on your head, pursuing you even to your grave … I trained morning and evening, with growing flair, certain that fortune was smiling on me and that my salvation was at the end of my gloves. The press might have ignored me, but the Arab bush telegraph was buzzing to its heart’s content, spicing up my matches and building statues to me on every street corner. In Medina Jedida, not a single café owner would allow me to pay for what I consumed. The children cheered me and old men stopped telling their prayer beads when I passed and called down blessings on my head.

I invited Gino to dinner at my mother’s. My latest victories having brought me a small fortune, I wanted to celebrate that with the family. Mekki joined us reluctantly. He didn’t like the fact that I’d become a boxer, but he didn’t hold it against me too much. I wasn’t a child any more.

My mother made us a wonderful dinner of chorba with chickpeas, roast chicken stuffed with Jerusalem artichokes, grilled liver kebabs, seasonal fruits and two large bottles of Hamoud Boualem pop bought from an Algiers grocer.

Before we sat down to eat, I begged her not to rekindle Gino’s grief. My mother had a tendency to lament the dead woman every time he came to share our meals, which rather spoilt our get-togethers. My mother gave a maraboutic sign and promised to avoid painful subjects. She kept her word. At the end of the meal, as she was getting ready to clear the table so that she could serve tea, I took a box wrapped in a kaftan from my bag and gave it to her.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Open it and see.’

She took the gift cautiously and undid the ribbons. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of the solid gold kholkhal in its casket.

‘It’s not as beautiful as yours, but it’s heavy. I looked in all the Arab jewellers’ and it was the best one I could find.’

My mother was stunned. ‘It must have cost you an arm and a leg,’ she panted.

In his turn, Mekki stood up, went to his room and came back with a cloth tightly wrapped with string, knelt in front of my mother and undid it. On the table, he placed the kholkhal with the lions’ heads.

‘I didn’t dare sell it or pawn it,’ he said. ‘I kept it for you because it’s yours. I wouldn’t have let another person have it for anything in the world.’

Moved, shaking all over, my mother put her arms around him, then around me. She kissed me. I felt her heart beating against my chest and her tears sliding down my neck. Embarrassed by Gino’s presence, she hid her face with her scarf and ran to take refuge in the kitchen.

I walked Gino home. It was a magnificent night, fragrant with amber and mint. The sky glittered with millions of constellations. A group of young men were laughing their heads off under a street lamp. We walked in silence to Boulevard Mascara. An empty tram passed us. I felt light, fresh; an honest joy filled my lungs. I was proud of myself.

‘I’m sleeping at my mother’s tonight,’ I said to Gino when we got to his door. ‘I’ll just go up and drop my bag.’

Gino put on the stair light and went up ahead of me.

When he reached his mother’s room, transformed into a living room, he gave a start. On the chest of drawers stood a brand-new horn gramophone and a pile of records in their sleeves.

‘It’s my gift to you,’ I said.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said with a lump in his throat.

‘Do you like it?’

‘Of course I do!’

‘And I got you all the Jewish-Andalusian music I could find. This way, you won’t have to venture out into dangerous areas at ridiculous hours.’

Gino looked through the pile of records. ‘Where did you buy these?’

‘In a very smart shop in the centre of town.’

Gino burst out laughing. ‘Well, smart or not, they took you for a ride. These are all military band records.’

‘No!’ I said in astonishment.

‘They definitely are. Look, it’s even written on the sleeves.’

‘The crook! How did he know I couldn’t read? I was all dressed up like a matinee idol, with brilliantine in my hair. I swear I insisted on records of Jewish-Andalusian music. I told him it was for someone who loves that kind of thing … The bastard! Plus, they cost me a fortune. I’m going to have a word with him tomorrow morning.’

Touched by my disappointment, Gino let out another boyish laugh. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. Now I won’t need to go to the bandstand to hear this kind of music, that’s all.’ He gave me a big hug. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

*

Two weeks later, De Stefano stopped me in the doorway of the gym. His face was radiant with a joy he couldn’t contain. The Duke had thought it over ! ‘It’s in the bag,’ Francis said, rubbing his hands. Frédéric Pau was perched on the edge of the ring, his legs crossed, his thumbs in his braces, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Put it there, son,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘From now on, we’re partners.’ He told me that his boss was inviting De Stefano and me to his house to seal the deal. I told him I wouldn’t sign anything without Gino, much to the dismay of Francis, whose face immediately darkened. Frédéric told me we hadn’t got to that point yet, that this was just a friendly meeting. In the afternoon, a gleaming car pulled up outside the haberdasher’s on Boulevard Mascara. Gino and I were on the balcony, sipping orangeade. Filippi got out of the car in a tight-fitting bellboy’s tunic, a cap jammed on his head. He stood to attention and gave us a military salute.

‘Did Bébert fire you from his garage?’ Gino shouted down to him.

‘No.’

‘Then what are you doing in that uniform? You look like a soldier in his Sunday best.’

‘I’m a chauffeur. The Duke was looking for a driver. De Stefano told him about me, and the Duke hired me immediately. He has a good business head, the Duke. For the price of one employee, he’s got himself a chauffeur and a mechanic … I have something for Turambo.’

‘Come up, it’s open.’

Filippi carefully took a package from the back seat and joined us upstairs. There were two suits in their wrapping, one black and the other white, two shirts and two ties.

‘They’re from the boss,’ he said. ‘He wants to see you looking handsome tonight. Go to the hammam and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Make sure you’re ready; the Duke’s a stickler for punctuality.’

Filippi came back at sunset. I’d had my bath and put on the black suit, and Gino had helped me knot my tie. I stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, combed, scented … and barefoot. I didn’t have any suitable shoes. Filippi offered me his own shoes, not the ones he was wearing, but the ones he had at home, in Delmonte. It was on our way. We made a detour to pick up De Stefano and, at eight on the dot, we were at the Duke’s door.