Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

He fell silent.

Irène had just come out of the house in her riding gear, her eyes more beautiful than the stars in the sky. She leant one shoulder against the pillar of the porch, arms folded over her chest. I immediately understood the reason that had led me to the farm: I needed to see her, to feel her close to me.

‘Don’t you have any more stories to tell each other?’ she berated us.

With that, she headed for the stable. A few minutes later, she galloped away on her mare towards the plain. I was no longer prepared to listen to anyone.

With Irène gone, the farm had lost its soul.

When the heat eased off, I took my leave of Ventabren, walked back to the road and waited for the bus.

*

The next day, I demanded that Frédéric Pau send me back to the farm to get ready for my fight with Marcel Cargo. The Duke didn’t see any reason why not. De Stefano apologised: he wouldn’t be available before the end of the week because of a family problem. Only Salvo went with me. We found ourselves back in the outhouse, waking up at dawn, running up the vertiginous paths, climbing big rocks and staying up late round lanterns bombarded by insects, much to Ventabren’s delight; every night, I would watch the window opposite my skylight.

Irène sometimes joined us at mealtimes. She often smiled at me, but I mistrusted her mood swings. The woman was like a rifle. She fired at point-blank range and hit home with every shot. Whenever she joined us, Ventabren would abandon his epic stories. As for Salvo, he would swallow his sarcastic remarks and keep his eyes on his plate. Put in his place on two occasions, he knew he was helpless against Irène, who didn’t really like him. He had tried to outsmart her and had ended up realising that this was no fun. Irène had the insolent self-confidence of challenges won in advance. As no ulterior motive ever escaped her, she would intercept ours before they were even conceived. Nevertheless, we enjoyed her company. She brought a kind of freshness to our meals.

After my morning runs, while Salvo was walking back to the farm, I would go and cool down at the spring. In truth, I was hoping to meet Irène. The first few days, she didn’t go there to water her mare, then, just as I was starting to despair, she appeared like a blessed ray of sunlight.

She dismounted, slapped her mare’s rump and crouched on a stone. ‘I’m exhausted.’

‘You should spare your animal.’

‘She’s my mobile garden.’ She stood up, approached her mare and caressed its coat. ‘When I was little, I wanted to be a champion rider.’

‘Didn’t your father approve?’

‘No, Jean-Louis came along. He was handsome, intelligent and funny. I was a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old. I fell into his arms like a ripe fruit. We married without waiting. I was happy, and I thought it was going to be like that all my life.’

‘What happened?’

‘What usually happens in marriages that are too quiet. Jean-Louis started coming home later and later. He was from the city; the calm of the countryside made him nervous. One evening, he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye and told me he was sorry. And he walked out of my life.’

‘He was wrong. I’d never leave such a pretty girl.’

‘That’s what he said at the start.’ Her smile returned. ‘Do you like horses, Monsieur Turambo?’

‘We had a donkey once.’

‘It’s not the same. Horses are noble and they’re therapeutic. When I’m fed up, I jump in the saddle and gallop to the mountains. I feel so light that no anxiety can weigh me down. I love to feel the wind in my face. I love it when it rushes under my shirt and takes me by the waist like a lover … Sometimes I even have an orgasm that way.’

The crudity of her words took me aback.

She burst out laughing. ‘You’re blushing.’

‘I’m not used to hearing women talk like that.’

‘That only shows you don’t spend enough time with them.’

She pulled on the bridle of her mare and started on her way. I walked beside her, embarrassed. She kept throwing me sly glances and chuckling.

‘There’s nothing shameful about an orgasm, Monsieur Turambo. It’s a moment of grace that restores us to our cardinal senses.’

Her theory only embarrassed me even more.

‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

‘Our traditions don’t allow it.’

‘So it’s either marriage or sin?’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Are you engaged to be married, then?’

‘Not yet. I have to think of my career.’

‘How do you plan to hold out until you marry?’

I felt my ears burning.

She burst out laughing again. With acrobatic agility, she got back in the saddle. ‘Is Turambo your real name?’

‘It’s my nickname.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the name of my village.’

‘I see. What’s your real name?’

‘I prefer the name of my village. At least that way I know where I come from.’

‘Because you don’t know who your parents are?’

‘It’s not that. It’s my choice.’

‘Well, Monsieur Turambo, you may look like a brute, but you have the soul of a cherub. And though you may always lack daring, please keep your soul. I’ll leave you to your exercises and go back to my ovens. You can’t cook with secrets.’

She spurred her mare, then stopped after a few paces.

‘There’s a dance in Lourmel tomorrow night. How would you like to be my partner?’

‘I can’t dance.’

‘We’ll watch the others.’

‘All right.’

She raised her hand in a salute and rode off in the direction of the farm.

I watched her until she disappeared behind the hillocks. As she galloped away, I dreamt of being the wind under her shirt. My heart was beating so loudly, I decided not to continue with my exercises. Irène had the power to elevate the basest instincts to the level of great exploits, and then to silence them just by raising a finger to her mouth.

I felt an obsession growing in me, one that would never leave me.

I had been on tenterhooks, waiting for evening to come. I sat in the drawing room, eyes turned to the staircase that led to the first floor. Irène was taking her time. I had heard her having a shower, but she was still getting ready. When at last she appeared at the top of the stairs, I thought she was like something out of a dream, in her white dress with its tight bodice and her hair down to her shoulders. She reminded me of those American actresses who burst through the screen, relegating the sets and their co-stars to the background.

We cut across the fields to get to Lourmel. In the distance, villages dotted the plain like tiny will-o’-the-wisps. It was a fine night. The full moon wanted the sky for itself, reducing the stars to tiny glimmers. Along with the sound of rodents scurrying through the undergrowth, the air smelt of coral, seaweed engorged with salt and the foam of the reef. It was as if, pining for the earth that belonged to man, the sea had disguised itself as a breeze and had come to ruffle the orchards, move up and down the inlets and tease the church steeples.

A jackal followed us as far as the asphalted road before turning back, empty-handed and disconcerted.

Irène strode on calmly in her summer dress and canvas sandals. I had become used to seeing her in shirt and trousers, looking like a tomboy; discovering her as a radiant young girl was a delight. Her perfume filled the countryside with fragrance. A thousand times, my hand brushed against hers without catching hold of it. I was afraid she would react angrily and put me in my place. Irène was as unpredictable as lightning, capable of going from hot to cold in a fraction of a second. She was unusually sensitive, and the same words could make her laugh out loud or fly into a temper. There was a mystery about her I couldn’t fathom. Distant with her father, horrible to Salvo, she aroused an unease in me that faded whenever she rewarded me with a smile. I think she was trying to prove to me that she wasn’t the same with everybody. Ever since our altercation at the well, Irène had treated me with respect. At the same time, her rebellious temperament hadn’t lessened in any way. She wasn’t asking for my forgiveness; she enjoyed my company, nothing more. She felt at peace with herself. And I had the feeling I was privileged.