Yasmina Khadra: The Angels Die

Pedro had lots of talents. He could wrap his feet round the back of his neck and stand on his hands, he could juggle with torches; his great ambition was to join a circus. He’d describe it to me: a big tent with corridors and a ring where people went to cheer wild animals that could do amazing things and acrobats who performed dangerous stunts ten metres above the ground. Pedro would gush, telling me how they would also exhibit human monsters, dwarfs, animals with two heads and women with bodies you could only dream about. ‘They’re like us,’ he’d say. ‘They’re always travelling, except that they have bears, lions and boa constrictors with them.’

I thought he was making it all up. I found it hard to picture a bear riding a bicycle, or men with painted faces and shoes half a metre long. But Pedro was good at presenting things, and even when the world he raved about was far beyond my understanding, I happily went along with his crazy stories. Besides, everybody in the camp let their imagination run riot. You’d think you were at an academy for the greatest storytellers on earth. There was old Gonsho, a little man with tattoos from his thighs up to his neck, who claimed he’d been killed in an ambush. ‘I was dead for a week,’ he’d say. ‘No angel came to play me a lullaby on his harp, and no demon stuck his pitchfork up my arse. All I did was drift from sky to sky. Believe it or not, I didn’t see any Garden of Eden or any Gehenna.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Pepe, the elder of the group, who was as ancient as a museum piece. ‘First, everybody in the world would have to be dead. Then there’ll be the Last Judgement, and only then will some be moved to heaven and others to hell.’

‘You’re not going to tell me that people who kicked the bucket thousands of years ago are going to have to wait for there to be nobody left on earth before they’re judged by the Lord?’

‘I’ve explained it to you before, Gonsho,’ Pepe replied condescendingly. ‘Forty days after they die, people become eligible for reincarnation. The Lord can’t judge us on one life alone. So he brings us back wealthy, then poor, then as kings, then as tramps, as believers, as brigands, and so on, to see how we behave. He isn’t going to create someone who’s in the shit and then condemn him without giving him a chance to redeem himself. In order to be fair, he makes us wear all kinds of hats, then he takes an overall look at all our different lives, so that he can decide on our fate.’

‘If what you say is true, why is it I’ve come back with the same face and in the same body?’

And Pepe, like an infinitely patient teacher, replied, ‘You were dead for only a week. It takes forty days to pass on. And besides, gypsies are the only ones who have the privilege to be reborn as gypsies. Because we have a mission. We’re constantly travelling in order to explore the paths of destiny. We’ve been given the task of seeking the Truth. That’s why since the dawn of time, we’ve never stayed in one place.’

Making a circular movement with his finger at his temple, Pepe encouraged Gonsho to think for a few moments about what he’d just told him.

The debate could have gone on indefinitely without either of them agreeing with the other. For gypsies, arguing wasn’t about what you believed, it was about being stubborn. When you had an opinion, you held on to it at all costs because the worst way to lose face was to abandon your point of view.

Gypsies were colourful, fascinating, crazy characters, and they all had a religious sense of responsibility towards their families. They could disagree, yell at one another, and even come to blows, but they all deferred to the Mama, who kept an eye on everything.

Ah, the Mama! She’d given me her blessing the moment she’d seen me. She was a kind of impoverished dowager, lounging on her embroidered cushions at the far end of her caravan, which was piled high with gifts and relics; the tribe worshipped her like a sacred cow. I’d have liked to throw myself into her arms and sink into her flesh.

I felt comfortable among the gypsies. My days were filled with fun and surprises. They gave me food and let me enjoy myself as I wished … Then, one morning, the caravans were gone. All that was left of the camp was a few traces of their stay: rutted tracks, a few shoes with holes in them, a shawl hanging from a bush, dog mess. Never had a place seemed to me as ruined as this patch abandoned by the gypsies and returned to its bleak former state. For weeks I went back, conjuring up memories in the hope of hearing an echo, a laugh, a voice, but there was no answer, not even the sound of a violin to act as an excuse for my sorrow. With the gypsies gone, I was back to a grim future, to dull, endless days that went round in circles like a wild animal in a cage.

The days passed but didn’t advance, monotonous, blind, empty; it was as if they were walking over my body.

At home, I was an extra burden. ‘Go back to the street; may the earth swallow you. Can’t you see we’re working?’

I was scared of the street.

You couldn’t go to the military dumping ground any more since the numbers of scavengers had increased, and woe betide anyone who dared fight them over a piece of rubbish.

I fell back on the railway and spent my time watching out for the train and picturing myself on it. I ended up jumping on. The local train had broken down and was stuck on the rails, like a huge caterpillar about to give up the ghost. Two mechanics were fussing around the locomotive. I approached the last carriage. The door was open. I hoisted myself on board with my partner in misfortune, sat down on an empty sack, and gazed up at the sky through the slits in the roof. I imagined myself travelling across green countryside, bridges and farms, fleeing the ghetto where nothing good ever happened. Suddenly, the carriage started moving. The boy staggered and clung to the wall. The locomotive whistle made me leap to my feet. Outside, the countryside began slowly rolling by. I jumped off first, almost breaking my ankle on the ballast. But the boy wouldn’t let go of the wall. Jump off, I’ll catch you , I shouted. He was paralysed and wouldn’t jump. The more the train gathered speed, the more I panicked. Jump, jump … I started running, the ballast cutting into my feet like broken bottles. The boy was crying. His moaning rose above the din of the livestock carriages. I realised he wasn’t going to jump. It was up to me to get him. As usual. I ran and ran, my chest burning, my feet bleeding. I was two fingers away from gaining a handhold, three fingers, four, ten, thirty … It wasn’t because I was slowing down; the iron monster was growing bolder as the locomotive increased its output of smoke. At the end of a frantic run, I stopped, my legs cut to pieces. All I could do was watch the train get further away until it vanished in the dust.

I followed the track for many miles, limping under a blazing sun … I caught sight of a figure and rushed towards it, thinking it was the boy. It wasn’t him.

The sun was starting to go down. I was already a long way from Graba. I had to get home before nightfall, or I might get lost too.

The widow was at our house, pale with worry. When she saw me on my own, she rushed out into the street and turned even paler than before.

‘What have you done with my baby?’ She shook me angrily. ‘Where’s my child? He was with you. You were supposed to look after him.’

‘The train —’

‘What train?’

I felt a tightness in my throat. I couldn’t swallow.

‘What about the train? Say something!’

‘It took him away.’

Silence.

The widow didn’t seem to understand. She furrowed her brow. I felt her fingers go limp on my shoulders. Against all expectations, she gave a little laugh and turned pensive. I thought she’d bounce back, sink her claws into me, break up our shack and us with it, but she leant against the wall and slid down to the ground. She stayed like that, with her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands, a dark look in her eyes. A tear ran down her cheek; she didn’t wipe it away. ‘Whatever God decides, we must accept,’ she sighed in a muted voice. ‘Everything that happens in this world happens according to His will.’