Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘It’s not the end of the world,’ I said, anxious for them to change the subject.

‘Maybe not, but take care, it might be the end of everything for you. A champion mustn’t snub his people, especially if he depends on them. And he mustn’t do the first thing that comes into his head …’

‘Provided he even has one,’ Tobias sighed.

‘Why, do you?’ Salvo retorted.

Tobias didn’t take the bait. Since his arguments with Salvo often ended up to the latter’s advantage, Tobias wasn’t keen to make a spectacle of himself. The few jibes at me were mere diversionary tactics. The fact was, he was bored in his corner, and his expression was sombre. He kept staring at the jug in front of him, without touching it.

‘Weren’t you at the party?’ I asked him, determined to move on.

‘Oh, yes,’ he grunted, scowling so that his eyebrows met like two hairy caterpillars.

‘He’s hopping mad because Félicie refused to dance with him,’ Salvo said. ‘Was she scared he’d stick his wooden leg in her foot?’

‘Wrong. Félicie is sulking because I didn’t give her a jewel for her birthday. I gave her flowers instead. That’s more romantic, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe,’ Salvo said, ‘but it doesn’t count.’

Tobias scratched himself behind the ear. ‘Mind your own business, egghead. I don’t like your insinuations.’

The two men looked stonily at each other.

‘What have you done with your ring, you randy bastard? Did you leave it up the arse of some old bag?’

‘Watch it, Tobias, I wasn’t being vulgar.’

‘Don’t worry. It might get jammed.’

‘You’re on good form, pegleg. What did you eat this morning?’

‘You’re the one who smells bad. Your mouth’s a sewer — when you open it the whole city starts to stink. Men like you can only do it up the arse.’

De Stefano laughed, making his paunch wobble.

‘You’re lucky I don’t have my knife on me,’ Salvo muttered.

‘I’d gladly lend you mine,’ Tobias said. ‘What would you do with it? Circumcise me?’

Gino and I were convulsed with laughter.

Francis joined us, his nostrils quivering with rage and indignation. He brandished a newspaper as if it were a tomahawk. ‘Have seen today’s paper?’

‘Not yet,’ Gino said. ‘Why?’

‘Those bastards on Le Petit Oranais didn’t pull their punches.’

Without taking a seat, preferring to remain standing to dominate us with his fury, Francis opened the newspaper with a peremptory gesture and spread it in front of him. ‘It’s the most disgusting article I’ve ever read in my life.’

‘It’s just an article, Francis,’ De Stefano said, trying to calm him. ‘Don’t have a fit.’

‘It isn’t an article, it’s a hatchet job.’

‘Someone from the editorial board told me about it this morning,’ De Stefano said calmly. ‘I know pretty much what it says. Sit down and have a beer. And don’t spoil our day, please. Look around you. Everything’s going well.’

‘What’s in it?’ Tobias asked.

‘Crap,’ De Stefano said wearily.

‘Yeah, but we want to know what,’ Tobias insisted.

Francis, who had just been waiting for permission to start, cleared his throat, took a deep breath and began reading so feverishly that his nostrils dilated even more.

‘THE SHOCK OF EXTREMES.’

‘What a headline!’

‘Spare us your comments and let’s hear what’s in the damned article,’ Tobias said.

‘Here we go then!’ His voice throbbing, Francis read:

‘Our dear city of Oran invited us to a truly dismal spectacle at the Salle Criot yesterday. We were expecting a boxing match and we were treated to a fairground attraction in very bad taste. In a ring transformed into a Roman arena, we were forced to witness a display of absurd sacrilege. On one side there was a fine athlete who practises boxing in order to contribute to the development of our national sport and who had come to impress the audience with his technique, his panache and his talent. Opposing him was a fighter like a wild beast who should never have been released from its cage. He was devoid of ethics. What can we say about this terrible farce other than express our intense indignation at seeing two conflicting worlds confront each other in defiance of the most elementary rules of decorum? Is it right to set the noble art up against the most primitive barbarity? Is it right to apply the word “match” to the obscene confrontation of two diametrically opposed conceptions of competition, one athletic, beautiful, generous, the other animalistic, brutal and irreverent? Yesterday, in the Salle Criot, we witnessed a vile attack on our civilisation. How can we not consider it as such when a good Christian is placed at the mercy of a troglodyte barely escaped from the dawn of time? How can we not cry scandal when an Arab is allowed to raise his hand to the very person who taught him to look at the moon rather than his own finger, to come down out of his tree and walk among men? Boxing is an art reserved for the world of the enlightened. To allow a primate access to it is a grave mistake, a false move, an unnatural act …’

‘What’s a troglodyte?’ I asked.

‘A prehistoric man,’ Francis said, eager to continue reading out the article.

‘Let us be under no illusion. To treat Arabs as our equals is to make them believe that we are no longer much use for anything. To allow them to face us in a boxing ring implies that they will one day be granted the opportunity to face us on a battlefield. Arabs are genetically destined for the fields, the mines, the pastures and, for those able to take advantage of our vast Christian charity, for the signal honour of serving us with loyalty and gratitude by doing our washing, sweeping our streets and looking after our houses as devoted and obedient servants …’

‘What prehistoric man are they talking about?’ I asked.

‘Don’t you get it?’ Francis cried, annoyed at being forced to interrupt his reading. ‘He’s talking about you.’

‘Do I look as old as that?’

‘Let me finish the article and I’ll explain.’

‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ Gino cut in. ‘We’ve heard enough. That article is just like its author: only good for wiping your arse on. We know the journalists who work on Le Petit Oranais. Fanatical racists, with as much restraint as a bout of diarrhoea. They don’t even deserve to be spat at. Remember the anti-Semitic massacre they caused in the Derb a few years ago. In my opinion, we should ignore them. They’re just low-grade provocateurs who prove, through their editorial line, that the civilised world isn’t always where we think it is.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Francis yelled, spittle showing at the corner of his mouth. ‘The man who wrote this rubbish has to pay for it. I know him. He used to go to the Eldorado cinema when I worked there as a pianist. He wrote film reviews for his paper. A pathetic nobody with a face like a barn owl, as thin as a pauper’s wages, ugly and untrustworthy. He lives not far from here. I suggest we go and have words with the bastard.’

‘Calm down, my boy,’ De Stefano grunted.

‘No Algerian can keep calm without forcing himself. If we give in, we lose face.’

‘Shut up, Francis!’ Tobias roared. ‘You can’t fight journalists. They’ll always have the last word because they’re what counts as public opinion.’

‘Tobias is right,’ De Stefano said. ‘Remember how those bastards on Le Petit Oranais treated Bad-Arsed Bob, or Angel Face, or Gustave Mercier. They lifted them up only to dump them. Bob ended up in an asylum. Angel Face killed his poor wife and ended his career in jail. Gusgus works as a bouncer … Fame is also paid in kind. What matters isn’t the occasional blows we take, but the nature of the marks they leave on us.’