Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

The pretty square in Lourmel glowed with a thousand lights. A festive throng danced amid tables whose white cloths were covered with food and bottles of wine. Couples old and young whirled to the sound of an inspired band. On a stage garlanded with pennants, a singer in a dark-red suit acted like a god come down from Olympus. Pomaded, seductive, glittering, he flung his stentorian voice at the sky, his gestures theatrical, his chest all-conquering, his eyes coming to rest on the ladies sitting in the front rows. He knew he had seduced them, they were already crazy for him; in order to finish them off he lowered his eyebrows over his gleaming eyes. Bewitched and floating, they swayed gently on their chairs, pressing handkerchiefs to chests heaving with emotion.

Irène found us a free bench overlooking the festive esplanade. Children in short trousers frolicked beneath the trees. Young lovers took refuge behind the low wall of the park; some were asleep on the grass. Adolescents were being initiated into the trials of their first flirtations, away from prying eyes. Here and there, a few kisses were exchanged in the darkness, as furtive as the frisson they provoked. It was nice to see, and nice to sense. My native douar was a long way away, slowly dying in a parallel world.

Irène went off to fetch me some pop and returned with a large plate. ‘I brought you some barbecued meat and some lemonade. Are you sure you don’t want any wine? It’s the best in the region.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Well, well,’ said a man, approaching us. ‘Our George Sand has come down off her high horse to walk among the hoi polloi.’

Irène put the plate down next to me.

The man was in his thirties, handsome, poised, well-dressed. He wasn’t especially tall, but he had a proud bearing. He took a big drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. The glowing end burst into a multitude of sparks as it hit the ground.

‘Good evening, André,’ Irène said in a neutral voice.

‘So you still remember my name?’

‘How’s your wife?’

The man pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘She’s down there, dancing like a madwoman.’

‘You should join her. Someone might steal her from you.’

‘He’d be doing me a favour.’ He clicked his fingers at an Arab waiter who was circulating among the partygoers with a tray, grabbed two glasses of champagne and offered one to Irène. ‘I’m pleased to see you again, my dear.’

‘I thought you’d been transferred to Algiers.’

‘Have you been spying on me?’

‘I heard Jérôme the milkman tell my father.’

‘No, they’re keeping me in Aïn Témouchent until further notice. Tell me about yourself. What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, it seems to suit you. You’re prettier than ever. What do you do all day long, so far from civilisation?’

‘I have no complaints.’

‘But I feel sorry for you. You should be having fun, not turning your back on the world … I’ve bought a little boat. There are wonderful creeks and unspoilt beaches to the west of Rachgoun. They can only be reached from the sea. I can show them to you if you like.’

‘I’m sure your wife would appreciate them more than I would.’

‘I’m talking about you.’

‘I’m not available.’

The man swallowed a gulp of champagne and smacked his lips as he searched for more persuasive arguments. Suddenly, he pretended to notice my presence. He took Irène by the elbow and led her away from the bench a little. ‘Did you win your pet in a shooting gallery?’

He spoke about me so rudely that if I’d been in his way he would probably have walked straight over me. As far as he was concerned, I didn’t count; I was merely a speck in his eye, which would vanish if he blinked.

‘Please, André. I’ve only just arrived. Don’t force me to go home.’

‘You still haven’t told me where you won your guard dog.’

‘I warn you, he bites.’

‘In that case,’ he said, turning her to face him, ‘you should put a muzzle on him.’

With a peremptory gesture, Irène asked me to keep out of what she considered a strictly personal matter.

Amused, André sneered. ‘Still as wild and unconventional as ever.’

‘André, I don’t like what you’re doing.’

‘Why, do you think what you’re doing is right? You come here with a dirty Arab and you think nobody’s going to mind. You like showing off, don’t you? Whenever you emerge from your cave, everybody has to know about it. But be careful, people have venomous tongues around here. There’ll be a lot of gossip.’

‘I don’t give a damn.’

‘I thought as much. Provocation is second nature to you. Only this time, you’ve gone too far. You can’t come to a dance with an Arab. Arabs aren’t allowed here. They can’t tell a light bulb from a magic spell … Look at him. He’s only just got down from his tree.’

‘Please, André.’

‘Tell me, what has he got that I haven’t?’

‘He’s polite.’

‘I don’t suppose that’s the only thing.’

‘There are others.’

‘How is he in bed?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘From what I’ve heard, their women don’t have orgasms. Not surprising, when you think their men ejaculate before they even get hard.’

‘I must go, André. I left my gas mask at home and there’s a really nasty smell coming from you tonight.’

André again seized Irène by the arm and drew her to him. She pushed him away. As he returned to the attack, I grabbed his wrist in mid-air and forced him to move back. He glanced around; much to his relief, nobody was taking any notice of us. To save face, he shrieked, ‘Never put your dirty ape hand on me, you little shit, or I swear by all that’s holy I’ll thrash you in this very square until you’re just blood and pus … I’m a police officer. You don’t want to stick around here, trust me. If you’re still here in ten minutes, you’ll spend the rest of the night at the station.’

For Irène and me, the party was over.

We set off back to the farm.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Irène as we passed the last orchards in the village.

‘It’s not your fault. I thought André had calmed down, but he’s got worse.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Someone I used to know. Someone who thinks he can get away with anything.’

‘He called you George. Isn’t that a man’s name?’

She burst out laughing and wagged her finger at me. ‘I see through you, Monsieur Turambo. But it’s not what you think.’

When we got to the farm, she walked with me to the outhouse. Salvo’s snores could be heard through the walls, making the window panes shake. They sounded like a faulty engine. Even the crickets seemed intimidated by his nasal thundering, which would have kept the boldest of predators at bay.

‘Are you going to be able to sleep with that din, champion?’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘Sorry about the dance,’ she said. ‘I’d have liked to teach you a few steps.’

‘Another time, I hope.’

‘People are stupid.’

‘Not all of them.’

‘You think we should have stayed?’

‘That wouldn’t have been a good idea.’

‘You’re right. That idiot would have come back. I didn’t want him to get you into any trouble.’

‘I’d have left of my own accord. The police really scare me.’

She nodded. Just as I was about to open the door of the outhouse, she put her arms round my neck and pressed her lips to my mouth. Before I had time to realise what was happening, she was gone.

She didn’t put the light on in her room.

Nor did she join us for breakfast the following morning.