Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘I don’t like people doing things for me that I can do myself,’ she said. ‘It annoys me. I have the feeling they confuse me with my father, don’t you see?’

‘No.’

‘You’re right. It was stupid. I see you’re still angry.’

‘With good reason.’

‘I was horrible, but it’s not in my nature.’

I nodded.

‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-three, Madame.’

‘Madame? Do I look like a constipated old tart?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I’m only six years older than you.’

‘You don’t look it, Madame.’

‘Stop calling me Madame. It doesn’t make me feel any younger.’

I wished she would go away.

She stooped to pick a twig up from the ground and her shirt gaped open even more, freeing a firm white breast. She replaced it as if nothing had happened.

‘In the evening, from my room, I can hear my father pestering you with his stories and I feel sorry for you. You should stop him; he could go on all night.’

‘It doesn’t bother us.’

‘How touching! I suppose he’s letting you know what awaits you when you retire. All boxers end up as mad as him.’

‘Why mad?’

‘You have to be mad to choose getting knocks on your head and blood on your face as a career, don’t you?’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘What do you believe in? Glory? There’s only one kind: a settled family life. That’s all that matters. You can be in heaven, talking to the angels, but if, when you go home, you go back to hell, you’ve really missed the point. My father had everything you need to be happy, a loving wife, a healthy daughter. He never saw them. The only things he cared about were the ringing of the bell and the cheers of the crowd. He died the day he hung up his gloves. Even now, he hasn’t come back to life.’

‘That’s how it goes,’ I said, short on arguments.

‘I don’t agree. No career lasts. One day, you’ll come up against someone stronger than you. Your fans will yell at you to get up, but you won’t hear them. Because everything will be vague and blurred around you. They’ll insult you and curse you, and then they’ll cheer on another gladiator with fresher blood than yours. It’s always been like that in the arena. The spectators have memories as short as their arms. Nobody will dream of helping you back on your feet. In boxing, the gods must have short lives for the passion to be recycled.’

‘It’s the risk we take.’

She got back on her mare. ‘No risk is worth it, champion.’

‘There’s no life without risk.’

‘I agree. But there are those who are subjected to it against their will and those who provoke it and even demand it as a kind of blessing.’

‘Everyone has their own way of seeing things.’

‘Men don’t see things, they fantasise about them.’

‘What about women?’

‘Women don’t think like men. We think the right way; you just think about yourselves. We can immediately home in on what’s essential while you spread yourselves too thinly. Happiness for us is in the harmony of our surroundings. For you, happiness is in conquest and excess. You distrust what’s obvious like the plague and look elsewhere for what’s within your reach. That’s why you end up losing sight of what was yours from the start.’

She pulled on the bridle, made an about-turn and rode off across the plain.

When Filippi came to fetch us, Irène wasn’t there to say goodbye to us. She had left at dawn on her mare, giving our stay an unfinished feeling. Something in that young woman was calling out to me, but I refused to listen. I needed to keep a cool head, not let myself get drawn into any more adventures where the heart has no grip on reason. All the same, getting in the back seat of the car, I couldn’t help turning in all directions in the hope of seeing her come galloping back to the house.

The little square along Rue Wagram was fluttering with pennants. Garlands of paper lanterns and paper stars intertwined in the air. The road had been swept and the paving stones and tree trunks at the crossroads had been whitewashed. The shopkeepers stood in their doorways, arms folded over their chests; kids waited impatiently at the foot of the fences, feverish and unruly; journalists were scribbling in their notepads; all eyes were on the gym with its freshly painted front. The masons and craftsmen had surpassed themselves: the window panes gleamed; the wooden door looked brand new; inside, photographs and framed posters of some of the gods of world boxing adorned the now white walls. Turkish-style toilets had been installed, with taps and showers, and instead of the cubicle there was a real office complete with metal filing cabinet, shelves and cane chairs. As for the ring, it was a magnificent piece of work lit by a spotlight.

De Stefano was smiling from ear to ear. His dream was taking shape. He had been waiting for this moment for years. Stamping nervously, he walked up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

Shaved and scented, his hair washed and oiled, Tobias must have turned his attic upside down to unearth the faded but newly ironed suit he wore with pride.

‘Did you have that undertaker’s costume made by a stonecutter?’ Salvo teased him.

‘No, by your fat sow of a sister.’

‘You should have put on a pair of shorts. How else are they going to admire your fabulous wooden leg?’

‘You know why you’re still alive, Salvo?’ Tobias said, annoyed. ‘Because ridicule has never killed anyone.’

‘No, I mean it. A wooden leg is quite a draw.’

‘Let me tell you something, egghead. I don’t believe in God for a second, but when I see the mug he gave you, I almost feel like singing his praises.’

‘They’re coming!’ someone yelled from the street.

Immediately, the kids left their fence and came and formed two lines outside the door of the gym. Six cars drew up at the crossroads. The Duke, the mayor and a delegation of dignitaries got out with great pomp and gladly posed for the frenzy of photographers. ‘Oran has a fine history,’ the mayor declared to the journalists. ‘Now it is up to us to give her heroes. Soon, due to everyone’s hard work, this establishment will produce great champions.’ The journalists trooped into the gym behind the dignitaries, while the police pushed back the children. Flashbulbs exploded. A film camera was turning.

The delegation inspected the various parts of the gym and congratulated Monsieur Bollocq on the remarkable work he had carried out.

‘Who are these strapping fellows on the posters, Michel?’ the prefect asked.

The Duke, who couldn’t answer, turned to Frédéric, who was at the back. He elbowed his way through the swarm of journalists and reverently indicated the pictures on the walls.

‘These are the greatest boxers in the world, Monsieur. That one’s our national hero, Georges Carpentier, middleweight champion of the world.’

‘It’s an old photograph,’ the mayor said in a learned tone, indicating to Frédéric that it was to him, the elected head of the city, that explanations were due.

‘No, Monsieur, it’s quite recent.’

‘I thought he was older.’

Frédéric realised that the mayor didn’t know much about boxing and that his intervention was a pure formality. ‘Battling Levinsky, an American our Georges knocked out in the fourth round in Jersey City on 12 October 1920,’ he went on. ‘To his right, Tommy Loughran, another American. This one’s Mike McTigue, he’s Irish. Maxie Rosenbloom, American, he’s the current world champion; Jack Delaney, Canadian; Battling Siki, French …’

De Stefano had been expecting to be invited to the ceremony, but neither he nor I nor anyone from our team were shown any consideration. The dignitaries blithely ignored us.