Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘It isn’t fair,’ another cried. ‘You have to box for us too. You’re the jewel in our crown.’

‘You’re the champion,’ the first one went on. ‘You can demand it. Insist that they let us watch the match. We’re here to support you. Those are just your enemies around the ring.’

A big red-faced man keeping watch outside the main door of the establishment asked me to go to the changing rooms without delay.

‘Why won’t they let them in?’ I asked him.

‘They didn’t provide any animal skins in the hall,’ he retorted, ‘and these apes don’t know how to sit properly on chairs.’

Gino seized me round the waist to stop me hitting the man and pushed me into the lobby, where a welcoming committee were waiting impatiently. From the hall, the din of the audience reached us. Frédéric Pau immediately led me to the changing rooms. Salvo and De Stefano were already there, nervous and sweating.

‘All the elite of the city are here,’ Frédéric said. ‘It’s up to you to get them on your side. If you win, the sky’s the limit for us.’

Frédéric wasn’t exaggerating. The hall was packed and overheated. In the front few rows sat the dignitaries, the journalists, the judges, and a restless character surrounded by microphones for a live radio broadcast. Behind, a tide of faces crimson with excitement, cooling themselves with fans and newspapers. There were just Roumis in suits here, yelling at each other, jumping up and down on their seats, or looking for each other in the chaos. Not a tarboosh or fez in sight. I suddenly felt alone in the midst of a hostile throng.

As I got in the ring, jeers rang out, soon drowned out by the clamour of a crowd getting ready to celebrate. Spotlights shone down fiercely on the ring. I thought I recognised Mouss in a corner, but the blinding lights forced me to turn away. Applause came from the left side of the hall and spread in a crescendo through the whole room. Whistles and the squeaking of chairs were added to the loud cheers. Sigli emerged from the shadows and made his way through the crowd in a white robe. He was a big, fair-haired man, his head shaven at the temples, with skinny legs. I had seen him fight two or three times and he hadn’t made a particularly good impression on me. He was one metre ninety tall, which protected his head, and he used his long arms to keep his opponents at a distance, his punches being much more of a reflex than genuine aggressiveness. I knew he was only fairly good at taking blows, and there weren’t many people who rated him highly. All the same, everyone was expecting a miracle and praying that someone would shut the mouth of the dirty Arab whose meteoric rise was starting to upset people. Sigli raised his arm to greet his fans and did a quick dance step before climbing over the ropes to thunderous applause. Below the ring, cigar in mouth, the Duke gave me a thumbs-up. Salvo gave me a drink and adjusted my gum shield. ‘Let him come,’ De Stefano whispered in my ear. ‘Walk him around a bit and then get in there with your right to rile him up. He’s a madman. If you hit him first, he’ll try and get back at you at all costs, and that’s when he’ll lower his guard.’ The referee asked the seconds to leave the ring and Sigli and me to approach. He began by reciting the instructions. I didn’t hear him. I saw my opponent’s muscles quivering, his jaws clenching in his tense face, his faltering breathing, and I sensed that he was sick to his stomach and that all his loud declarations were just a feeble attempt to help him overcome his doubts.

Sigli folded at the first blow. He fell onto one knee, his hand to his side, his mouth grimacing with pain. People stood up in the hall, stunned by my ‘lightning move’. Jeers rang out across the ring. Sigli staggered to his feet. What I read in his eyes was a mixture of terror and rage. He knew that he was outclassed, but was hoping he could hold out for three or four rounds. He charged at me in a desperate surge. My left caught him on the tip of his chin. He collapsed to the floor, determined to stay there to the end of the count. The fight had lasted less than a minute. The audience showed its annoyance and started leaving the hall, overturning chairs and whistling in anger. Even the Duke was disappointed. ‘You should have made their pleasure last,’ he said to me in the changing rooms. ‘When a whole lot of people take the trouble to attend a show, they want their money’s worth. Especially when the seats are so expensive. You were too quick. The latecomers didn’t even have time to sit down.’

I didn’t care.

I had won and I didn’t give a damn about the rest. There was only one thing I wanted to do: run and throw myself into Aïda’s arms.

As soon as I had done up my bag and put on my suit, I apologised to my comrades that I couldn’t celebrate my victory with them as planned, jumped into Filippi’s car and went straight to Camélia’s to give myself a well-earned bit of relaxation.

Place d’Armes was in jubilant mood. The trams disgorged their hordes of passengers; the carriages swayed under the weight of their occupants. The few policemen didn’t know which way to turn in the carousel of cars and pedestrians. Beneath the gigantic trees around the fountain, families in their Sunday best were taking the air, the men with their jackets over their arms, the women under their parasols, the children trailing along behind like reluctant chicks. On the steps of the theatre, a throng of spectators was waiting for the box office to open, ignoring the Arab shoeshine boys fluttering around them. Soldiers in dress uniforms were vying with eccentric young men for the attentions of the girls, each using his seductive skills with the care of someone lighting fireworks. It was a gorgeous, colourful day, as only Oran could provide, softened by the breeze coming up from the harbour and fragrant with delicate scents from the gardens of the Military Club. We were sitting at a table on the terrace of a brasserie — De Stefano, Salvo, Tobias, Gino and I — some of us drinking anisette, others iced lemonade. Gino was telling me about the party the previous evening, to which many local personalities had been invited. Salvo was praising in great detail the succulence of the dishes served at the banquet.

‘You shouldn’t have run off,’ De Stefano said reproachfully. ‘It was your victory we were celebrating. Lots of the guests were upset not to see you at the restaurant.’

‘You’re not a street pedlar any more, you’re a champion,’ Tobias said.

‘The Duke wasn’t pleased to see that you weren’t there. He gave Frédéric an earful because of you.’

‘I was tired,’ I said.

‘Tired?’ Gino said. ‘That’s no excuse. There are conventions.’

‘What conventions? I have a right to rest after a fight, don’t I?’

‘They were honouring you,’ Tobias reminded me. ‘Honours are important. The same people whose shoes you used to shine were there to shake your hand, damn it! To congratulate you. To cheer you. And you run off and throw yourself into the arms of a whore.’

‘What of it?’

‘It’s unreasonable behaviour,’ De Stefano said calmly.

‘ Inadmissible ,’ Tobias corrected him.

‘It’s time you learnt good manners, Turambo,’ De Stefano went on. ‘When people honour you, the least you can do is be there at the ceremony.’

‘It was just a dinner,’ I said. ‘A big one, but a dinner. Plus, there was pork and wine on the menu.’

‘Do you ever stop for two seconds and think?’ Gino said angrily. ‘Try to understand what we’re telling you instead of listening only to yourself. You’ve become someone, Turambo, a hero of the city. And honours can’t be negotiated. When an event is organised in your honour, things turn sour if you’re not there. Do you follow me? There were highly placed people who’d come specially for you; even the mayor was on time, and you were nowhere to be seen.