Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘Aïda,’ the maid announced before withdrawing, ‘here’s the young man you were expecting.’

Aïda smiled at me. With her finger, she motioned me to enter. As I stood stunned in the doorway, she got up, gently drew me inside and closed the door. She smelt good. Her big doe-like eyes enveloped me with an intensity that choked me. My heart was pounding in my chest, I had a lump in my throat, and I was sweating profusely.

‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.

I couldn’t swallow.

She examined me, amused by my embarrassment, then went over to a low table covered with bottles. ‘Would you like a drink?’

I shook my head.

She came back to me, a little disconcerted this time. ‘I assume preliminaries are a waste of time for young Arabs.’

With a mystical gesture, she undid the braid of her shirt and the thin muslin veil that covered her slid silently to the floor, revealing a perfect body, with high breasts, full hips and slender legs. The woman’s sudden nakedness threw me completely. I turned on my heel and almost ran out of the room. I got lost several times on the way back.

The maid frowned when she saw me beating a retreat.

Once in the little courtyard, I braced myself against my knees and breathed deeply to shake off my dizzy spell, which was now turning to nausea. The breeze outside refreshed me a little.

Filippi got out of the car. ‘Are you all right?’

With my hand, I motioned him away.

I needed to snap out of it. Frédéric Pau joined me, completely taken aback by my reaction. I demanded that he take me home immediately. He asked me to calm down and tell him what had happened.

‘You should have told me,’ I said.

‘Told you what?’

‘That we were going to a brothel.’

‘Why?’

‘I wasn’t prepared.’

‘It isn’t a boxing match, Turambo. Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with a girl …’

Filippi guffawed. ‘Is that why you’re so upset?’

‘Filippi!’ Frédéric snapped. ‘Get back behind the wheel and start the engine.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ Filippi exclaimed. ‘The giant slayer collapses at the sight of a nice frizzy pussy. I wasn’t prepared ,’ he aped me in a grating voice. ‘I suppose you should have got some training in first in the toilets.’

Frédéric put his arm round my shoulders and moved me away from Filippi. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were a virgin. It was the Duke’s idea. Camélia’s is the most prestigious brothel in the region. Only important people go there. The girls are healthy, they know how to hold a conversation and they get regular medical checks. Plus, you don’t have to spend any money. It’s all on Monsieur Bollocq.’

He turned me towards him and looked me in the eye.

‘You’re still young, Turambo. At your age, starting out on what looks like being a fabulous career, the only thing you should think about is victory in the ring. I know that in your community, people marry very young. But you don’t belong to your tribe now. You have a legend to build. Everyone in Oran, from the dignitaries to the flunkies, the ladies to the harlots, is behind you, the Duke at the head of them. You want a wife? We can offer you concubines by the shovelful. At Camélia’s, no scenes, no worries, no judges and no dowries. Just a bit of well-earned relaxation. You come, you have a good time, and it’s thank you and goodbye … Imagine you have an important fight and your wife is ready to go into labour, imagine you have a title fight the night your kid complains of appendicitis, imagine that as you get in the ring you’re told your daughter has fallen down the stairs, what would you do? Do you put your gloves on or do you jump in a taxi and rush home? … So, girlfriends, marriage, all that mess, forget about it. You have mountains to climb, titles and trophies to win. To get there, the first thing you have to do is get rid of anything that could slow you down or distract you.’

It was clear that Gino was behind this ‘trap’. He had said the same kind of thing the other day when I had told him about Louise. Angrily, I pulled Frédéric’s hands off my shoulders and said, ‘I want to go home now.’

Gino was waiting for me calmly in the kitchen, eating a sandwich of kosher sausage, a napkin round his neck, his braces undone. A lock of hair dangled over his forehead, adding an unusual serenity to his charm. The way I slammed the door behind me and climbed the stairs four steps at a time, cursing, didn’t disturb his mocking, slightly distant smile. He seemed more interested in the gramophone droning in the living room than my bad mood.

‘What are you playing at?’ I screamed.

He cut me off before I’d finished giving vent to my temper. ‘You chose me to run your affairs,’ he reminded me, ‘so do as I say and shut up.’

The following evening, he himself went with me to Madame Camélia’s. The fact was, I wanted to go back. I was angry at myself for not having kept a cool head and dodged things honourably. Filippi’s sarcastic laughter was still ringing in my ears. I had to make amends for my self-inflicted insult …

Aïda received me with exaggerated solicitude. In spite of her efforts to put me at ease, I couldn’t relax. She told me about herself, asked me questions about my life, my plans, told me innocent jokes that barely raised the ghost of a smile, then took my jacket off, laid me on the bed and began touching me very carefully and whispering in my ear, ‘Let me see to it.’

I was in a kind of stupor when I got back in the car, where Gino and Filippi were waiting for me and sniggering. Filippi suppressed his giggling and ran out to crank up the car. Gino joined me in the back seat.

‘How was it?’ he asked.

‘Fantastic!’ I cried, drained of all my toxins.

Three days before my fight, not quite sure if it was to overcome the pressure Sigli was putting me under with his thunderous declarations or simply to rediscover a corner of paradise in Aïda’s arms, I took my courage in both hands and went back to Madame Camélia’s. All by myself, like a grown-up. With the private conviction that I had reached a turning point and was now in a position to decide my own fate. I was determined to take control. I stopped Aïda from undressing me, anxious to prove to her that I was capable of doing it myself. Aïda had no objection.

I undid her bodice, gazed admiringly at the undulation of her hips, followed the voluptuous swelling of her breasts with my finger, kissed her lips, which quivered with desire, then, after switching the light off in the room to make my senses fully alert and reduce the world to nothing but my sense of touch, I carried her in my arms and put her down on the bed as if placing a wreath at the foot of a monument. All I could see were her eyes shining in the darkness, but that was all I asked.

And so I discovered the sweet, irrepressible torments of the flesh.

The Duke was determined to put his own stamp on the event. He called on the best photographers and drummed up support from a whole lot of journalists to make my match the fight of the year. His photograph had been appearing on the front page of L’Écho d’Oran for several days. To ensure the greatest impact, he hired a huge hall in the centre of town used by the city council for big occasions and galas. When I got there, the street outside was swarming with onlookers. Flashbulbs popped and the men of the press jostled one another to get an opinion or statement from me. Gino and Filippi had to elbow their way through the crowd to let me through. On the opposite pavement, a group of Araberbers were shouting and gesticulating in the hope of attracting my attention. They were all in their early thirties, with ties and parted hair.

‘Hey, Turambo!’ one of them shouted at me. ‘Why won’t they let us in? We have money to buy tickets.’