Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

The Duke lived in a big villa in the south of Saint-Eugène, or to be more accurate a magnificent manor house surrounded by a huge, luxuriant garden. An Arab guard opened the gate, which had a gold thistle on it. We had to go a good thirty metres along a gravel drive lined on either side with hydrangeas and small bushes pruned into cubes before we reached the canopied front steps of the house.

Frédéric Pau was waiting for us on the top step in a charcoal-grey frock coat that made him look like a heron. He adjusted De Stefano’s tie, asked him to take off his straw boater, then looked me over and adjusted a few things, a crease in my jacket, a hair out of place.

Members of polite society were chatting in a big, high-ceilinged room, beneath a massive chandelier. There were elegant ladies with elbow-length gloves, accompanied by distinguished-looking gentlemen with outlandish moustaches. When he saw me, the Duke opened his arms wide and cried, ‘Ah, there’s our hero!’ He didn’t embrace me, or even hold out his hand; he merely introduced me briefly to his guests, who looked me up and down, some with interest, others with curiosity, before turning away from me and returning to the sophisticated hubbub. They were all of a certain age, women and men, probably married couples, reeking of successful business and high positions. De Stefano whispered in my ear that the fat man with the swollen nose was the mayor and the skinny gentleman with the greying temples was the prefect. Out on the veranda, a Parisian dignitary in a tailcoat and top hat was pretending to take the air in order to distance himself from the locals and enhance his metropolitan aura.

A servant passed between the guests with a tray of glasses. De Stefano eagerly accepted a glass of champagne; I didn’t take anything, intimidated by the luxury around me, the ladies’ sophisticated clothes, their companions’ regal disdain.

A neat, bouncy young girl approached me, hands twisted behind her back, her face red with embarrassment and curiosity.

She was cute, with her blonde plaits and her big blue eyes.

‘I’m Louise, Monsieur Bollocq’s daughter.’

I didn’t know what to say in reply. In the distance, De Stefano winked at me, which annoyed me for some reason.

‘Papa’s convinced you’re going to be world champion.’

‘The world’s a big place.’

‘When Papa says something, it always happens.’

‘…’

‘I love boxing. Papa won’t take me to see matches, so I listen to them on the radio. Georges Carpentier’s fights are amazing. But I won’t cheer him on the way I used to now that Papa has his own champion …’

Shyly she went up on tiptoe. Her tongue moved back and forth over her thin lips.

‘How can you take the blows round after round? The announcer almost fainted when he described the flurry of blows you exchanged in the ring.’

‘You train a lot to keep going.’

‘And does it hurt when you box?’

‘Not as much as a toothache.’

A refined lady came along and cut short our conversation. She must have been in her forties and was very grand and aggressive. Barely glancing at me, she seized the girl by the arm and led her away from me.

‘Louise, my dear, you should leave this young man alone. We’ll be sitting down to eat soon.’

She was Madame Bollocq.

Louise turned several times and gave me a sad smile before disappearing among the guests.

At the table, the Duke delivered a solemn speech in which he promised that Oran would soon have its North African champion — me, of course. This fine city deserved to have idols it could flaunt in the faces of those snobs in Algiers, and it was imperative that we all work together, politicians, businessmen and sponsors, to restore the lustre of the most emancipated city in Algeria. He spent a long while boasting of my potential and my achievements, insisted on the need to stay with me until I reached the top, and warmly thanked the mayor, the prefect and the other dignitaries who had agreed to join him and make this evening the beginning of a new era crowned with trophies, sensational titles and outstanding sportsmen. At the end of his speech, he raised his glass to all those who, in a large or small way, out of self-interest or loyalty, with their money or simply with their hearts, were contributing to the rise of the wonderful city of the two lions.

All through the dinner, while the ladies and gentlemen stuffed their faces and laughed at the Duke’s anecdotes — he was on truly entertaining form — Louise kept looking at me and sending me friendly signs from the end of the banqueting table.

*

Gino came to my room, curious as to why I hadn’t switched the light off, or why I was lying fully clothed on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. He sat down on a chair next to me, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Do I look like something’s wrong?’

‘No, but you’re up to something. Your silence worries me, and your insomnia too. Have you signed something behind my back?’

‘I’ve already agreed with De Stefano. It’s you, and you alone, who’ll handle my business affairs.’

‘So why aren’t you asleep? You have two training sessions tomorrow and your next fight’s in three weeks.’

I was silent for a while before confessing, ‘I think I’m in love.’

‘So soon?’

‘I guess you’d call it love at first sight.’

‘Is it serious?’

‘Yes, seeing that I can’t sleep.’

‘And who’s the lucky girl?’

‘Her name’s Louise. She’s the Duke’s daughter. The problem is that she’s only fourteen or fifteen.’

‘Are you sure that’s the only problem?’

‘I’m a man now. I need a wife and children.’

‘Stop putting a spoke in your own wheels. You really don’t need to complicate your life with all that. You’re too young to have a noose round your neck. Get that idea out of your head, and fast. A champion needs a good punch bag and his freedom. And anyway, the Duke would give you a beating if he found out you had a crush on his daughter.’

‘What do you know anyway?’

The next day, halfway to the gym, I turned round and hopped on the first tram that came along. In a florist’s in Saint-Eugène, I bought a pretty bunch of pink peonies and found myself ringing at the Bollocqs’ gate. The Arab asked me what I wanted. I showed him my flowers. He asked me to follow him to the front steps of the manor and await Madame’s instructions. Madame Bollocq didn’t seem pleased to see me. I told her I’d brought a gift for her daughter. She told me that was kind of me, but that there was no need, and asked the guard to walk me back to the gate. I didn’t have a chance to catch a glimpse of Louise.

Towards midday, Frédéric Pau informed me that the Duke wanted to talk to me. Immediately. I got down from the ring and went to change. Frédéric was waiting impatiently in the car. He drove me straight to the Duke’s office, which was on the seafront.

The Duke dismissed his adviser and closed the door behind him. We were alone in a big room adorned with old paintings and figurines.

‘It seems you came to the house,’ he said, taking a big cigar from a gold case on a chest of drawers.

‘That’s right, Monsieur. I was in the area and I thought —’

‘I have an office, Turambo,’ he cut in, putting the cigar down and glaring at me.

‘I wanted to give Louise flowers.’

‘She has a whole garden full of them or didn’t you notice?’

I’d been expecting to sign papers or talk about matches, and the Duke’s remark threw me. I had no idea where he was going with this, but it was clear he blamed me for something.

With his finger, he motioned to me to follow him. We crossed his wood-panelled office and went out onto the balcony, which overlooked an inner courtyard in the middle of which stood a huge plane tree. The Duke leant on the wrought-iron balustrade, sniffed the air, moved his face into the sun’s rays then, without turning to me, pointed to the tree.