Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

Filippi parked in a little courtyard and rushed to open the door for Monsieur Pau. Pau waited for me to get out first before getting out himself.

‘Where are we?’ I asked him.

‘Somewhere between heaven and hell.’

I looked up at the big house with its tiled roof. Tall windows with austere curtains cast their subdued light on the surrounding area. Pau motioned to me to climb the three front steps.

‘Isn’t Filippi coming with us?’ I said, a little disorientated.

‘Filippi’s a chauffeur. He’s fine where he is.’

An Arab dressed like an Abbasid eunuch — turban pinned at the front, a shimmering kameez above a baggy sirwal , horned slippers and a broad sash around his waist — bowed when he saw Pau on the steps.

‘Larbi, tell Madame Camélia that Monsieur Pau is here.’

‘Right away, sidi ,’ the man whispered before disappearing down a hidden passageway.

The main room, which had a faint odour of perfume and tobacco, was twice as large as that of the Bollocq house. At the time, I couldn’t have put a name to the gargantuan furniture in it. The walls, hung with cold materials, were adorned with dark frescoes, paintings of naked odalisques, sophisticated lamps, bevelled mirrors and hunting trophies. On potbellied chests, bronze statuettes rubbed shoulders with porcelain figurines and hieratic candelabra. Opposite the cloakroom, presided over by a pale-faced old lady, was a wood-panelled counter, blood-red in colour, above a silver cabinet filled with crystal objects. A smartly dressed young man in a bow tie was working the lever of a chrome-plated machine with all his might. He greeted us with a slight nod before being hailed by a client who seemed about to fall into a drunken coma. Couples kissed on sofas in alcoves covered in Florentine mosaics, not at all disturbed by prying eyes. Their casualness shocked me more than the brazenness of their embraces. I had thought that kind of shameless display only happened in shady bars where whores fleeced sailors and fights were always breaking out; seeing it in these hushed, opulent surroundings, practised with the most disgusting audacity by men in white collars and dance-hall starlets, was a great surprise to me. I had thought that distinguished people cared about appearances …

A red-carpeted marble staircase led to the upper floor, where an old harridan with exposed breasts sat on guard duty, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She watched over an assortment of young girls in suspenders, with arched backs and plump buttocks, perched on high stools at the counter, glasses in their hands. All around, on padded and brocaded banquettes, other slightly drunk women chatted with smartly dressed gentlemen, some of them sitting on their knees, others letting themselves be boldly groped.

‘Come, let me introduce you to a future champion of the world,’ Frédéric Pau said, bringing me back down to earth. He led me to the far end of the room where a tall black man in a three-piece suit was lounging on a sofa, with two barely pubescent girls all over him. The man was a force of nature. He was drinking a glass of brandy, knees crossed, crushing one of the girls, a blonde, with his free arm, while she writhed with pleasure. Both girls were carefully made up and wore satin lingerie through which their firm breasts and frilly knickers could be seen. They seemed captivated by the man.

‘Is it true you hit Jacquot?’ asked the other girl, a brunette with short hair, eyes half hidden by her curly fringe.

‘It was a misunderstanding,’ the man grunted in a lazy voice.

‘I saw him at the casino,’ the brunette went on, ‘and didn’t recognise him. What did you hit him with? His nose was completely flattened. The poor man’s profile was ruined.’

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Please tell us why you hit him,’ the blonde said excitedly, cuddling up closer to the man.

The tall black man put his glass down on a table in front of him, buried the blonde beneath his armpit and let his other hand run over the brunette’s thighs. ‘I was training hard when Jacquot said to Gustave, “What a stud, your boy.” So I punched him in the face.’

‘But that’s not an insult,’ the blonde cried, ‘in fact it’s a compliment. It means you’re in great shape.’

‘Yeah,’ the black man sighed, ‘except I’d never heard the expression before. Gustave explained it to me later. I told him Jacquot could have found another way to flatter me …’

The two girls fell silent when they saw us standing over them. Intrigued by his companions’ sudden silence, the tall man turned his head, frowning.

He drew his lips back displaying a row of gold teeth. ‘Are you listening at doors now, Frédo?’

‘Not at all,’ Frédéric Pau reassured him. ‘I wanted to introduce our new champion.’

The black man looked me up and down.

I held out my hand; he looked at it scornfully.

‘I haven’t got my white gloves on, boy,’ he grunted rudely.

‘I have a feeling we’ve met before,’ I said.

‘In your dreams, kid,’ he said, turning his back on me.

Frédéric took me by the arm and dragged me away.

‘Who is that brute?’

‘His name’s Mouss,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He’s a heavyweight. It’s hardly surprising you thought you knew him. You’ll have seen his posters on walls and his picture in the papers.’

‘Did you see how he treated us?’

‘He has a bad attitude. He’s very full of himself. One day, someone asked him, “Who are you?” He replied, “I’m Me.” “Don’t you have a name?” And Mouss replied, “I don’t need one because I’m unique.” See what I mean? I thought he’d be delighted to make the acquaintance of a promising colleague from his own community. I was wrong. But we shouldn’t let that stupid megalomaniac spoil our evening.’

A woman looking like a priestess, an artificial beauty spot on her cheek and her blue eyes adorned with false eyelashes, came towards us. With her hair swept back into a large bun and her haughty bearing, she carried her sixty years as if carrying a sceptre. She was beautiful, with an indefinable but impressive charm, but her hardness and arrogance immediately intimidated me.

‘How wonderful to see you again, Monsieur Pau,’ she said, wearily dismissing the servant scurrying behind her.

‘No happiness is complete if it isn’t shared, my dear Camélia.’

She briefly glanced at me with a regal eye. ‘Is this the young man Monsieur Bollocq told me about this morning?’

‘That’s right.’

In a hurry to get rid of me, she sent a coded sign to the old harridan sitting upstairs and told me to go up and join her. As I hesitated, not understanding what was expected of me, Frédéric Pau said encouragingly, ‘What are you waiting for? Go on.’

The woman passed her gloved hand under my companion’s arm and drew him over to the bar. ‘Let’s have a drink, dear Frédéric. People as polite as you are becoming increasingly rare around here. Tell me, how’s your lovely wife? Still a slave driver?’

They abandoned me on the spot.

I climbed the stairs unsteadily. I had an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The harridan, clearly some kind of maid, stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and seized a fan, which she waved over her garishly made-up face, her blouse open on the bulges of her belly, her navel as big as the barrel of a musket. She led me down a maze-like corridor with a polished floor. On either side there were doors. Through them, bursts of laughter, noises of lovemaking and orgasmic moans could be heard. My unease increased as I advanced. The old harridan opened a door at the end of the corridor and I found myself looking into a cosy room where a young woman sat at a pretty dressing table, brushing her long black hair, which fell all the way down her back. She threw me a look that made me freeze.