Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

He threw his cigar out of the window and came back to me, his mouth quivering with rage.

‘As of today, as of now, as of this moment, I don’t want to hear any more about your escapades. You’re going to get back to work, and every evening I want to see a carafe filled to the brim with your sweat. Marcel Cargo also wants the title. For your information, Olivier, the manager of the French champion, has said he wouldn’t like to see his boy fight Cargo. That shows you the level he’s at. I haven’t slept since I heard that.’

The Duke had settled on a drastic programme. For the next ten days, I didn’t have a minute to myself. It was one training session after another, at a frantic pace. In the morning, I would run on the beach. In the afternoon, I trained constantly at the gym. At night, Gino and Frédéric watched over my sleep, double-locking me in my room. I needed their permission to go to the toilet. Once I was in bed, the lights were switched off as if we were in a barracks. But in the dark, there was nothing to stop me thinking about Irène.

One Sunday, I claimed a family emergency and took a bus to Lourmel. I’d had enough of waiting. Fatma had gone home to give birth and there was nobody to take care of Ventabren. So I was hoping to find Irène at the farm, and there she was.

She asked me to stay for lunch. Afterwards, we retired to the outhouse and made love.

The next day, after training, I refused to follow Gino and Frédéric to Boulevard Mascara. Gino protested, tried to reason with me, but I wouldn’t give in. I needed them to back off. Without Irène, the night was a deadly abyss. Filippi agreed to drop me outside Larbi the fruit seller’s hut, provided he didn’t go back without me. Nor would he drive all the way to the farm. He didn’t want to be seen there, because he might be fired. I accepted his offer.

The following nights, with or without Filippi, I saw Irène. Much to Gino’s dismay. But by six in the morning, I was back in Oran, right as rain. I would train intensively to make up for having ‘deserted my post’ the previous night.

‘If the Duke hears about our little outings,’ Filippi grumbled, ‘he’ll hang us on his coat rack.’

I didn’t care.

My nights with Irène were worth the risk.

Gino told me he was going on ahead to Bône with Frédéric and De Stefano. The Duke needed a team on the spot to supervise the preparations for the fight with Marcel Cargo. I went with them to the station to make sure it wasn’t a diversion. Once the train had left, I took a taxi to join Irène. We kept Ventabren company for much of the evening, then put him to bed. There was a fair in Saint-Eugène. Irène agreed to go with me.

The fair was in full swing. Families in their Sunday best bustled around the stands, some fishing for bottles, others shooting at cardboard targets. Loud old men, their sleeves rolled up to reveal withered biceps, attempted the high striker, much to the joy of the children. Mysterious fortune tellers looked for prey in the crowds. A garishly made-up clown juggled, surrounded by a flock of laughing kids. Everyone made merry, but I only had eyes for Irène, who looked wonderful in her guipure skirt. In that crowd, she was like the Pole Star in the Milky Way. She was wearing a pretty blouse decorated with fleur-de-lys, open at the neck; her black hair, hanging loose over her shoulders, emphasised her fine features. Young men turned to look at her as she passed, wolf whistles following in her wake. Irène burst out laughing, rather flattered. A squad of tipsy Zouaves started gravitating around us. I said a few words in Arabic and immediately we were left alone. I fired at rabbits for Irène without hitting a single one. Probably because of my over-excitement. I was so happy, and so proud when she put her arm round my waist. I’ll never forget that night. The lanterns and the stars in the sky all shone for us. I was rediscovering a lost world, feelings that were far from original, of course, but they were very intense. With Irène beside me, I was having the time of my life. She marvelled at everything, cheered the entertainers, happily lost at games, laughed when I too failed. It was magical. We had a snack at a stall, standing amid the throng, biting into our burning-hot sandwiches; we rode wooden horses on a merry-go-round packed with children. I don’t think I’d ever laughed so much in my life. I was laughing for nothing, laughing without reason, laughing because Irène was laughing. On the dodgems, where the vehicles mercilessly crashed into each other, parents were encouraging their kids to hit harder. Irène was game for a ride. There were no women on the track, but I didn’t care. Not for anything in the world could I have refused her her fun. There was a long queue in front of the ticket office. We waited our turn, jostled by soldiers who were the worse for drink and attempted to grope the women. A hand tried to touch Irène’s skirt; I showed my fist and the lout beat a retreat. We got in the cars and set off to attack the other drivers. The collisions lifted us out of our seats and we laughed uproariously. Irène was enjoying herself like a schoolgirl. The lights flooded her face with contrasting colours. She was happy; just watching her, I felt more content than I had ever thought I would be.

Intoxicated with ourselves, we left Saint-Eugène towards midnight, our heads buzzing with excitement, breathless but delighted.

It was late and there were no buses for Lourmel, and no taxis either.

‘I’ll have to learn to drive,’ I said. ‘That way, when I buy a car, we won’t have to keep checking the time.’

To tell the truth, I hadn’t looked for a taxi. I was hoping to force Irène to spend the night with me on Boulevard Mascara. Much to my delight, she didn’t see anything wrong with that.

‘Is this your place?’ she asked when she saw the flat.

‘It’s my friend Gino’s. He’s gone to Bône.’

‘I see,’ she said, giving me a knowing wink. ‘Could you run me a bath?’

‘Right away. I’ll heat the water.’

When she had finished washing, I brought her a big beach towel. She was standing in the bath, naked, hair plastered to her face. My hand shook as I wiped her back.

‘You have a mark on your buttock,’ I said.

‘It’s a birthmark.’

‘It looks like a red fruit.’

‘It’s a strawberry.’

She got out of the bath, took the towel from me, dropped it on the floor, took me by the hand, laid me down on the bed and covered me with her body.

Day was breaking; we hadn’t slept a wink. We wanted to savour every moment, we wanted the night to belong to us. We were monarchs in a room that was too small to contain our lovemaking; we no longer had to be quick about it, to make love on the sly. It was the first time in my life I had loved without constraint or anxiety, without a maid coming and knocking at the door or a client waiting impatiently in the corridor.

I would have liked the day to forget us, the minutes to reinvent themselves so that time could take its time . But time can’t be tamed. Day was breaking, and we had to leave a little of our dream for the future.

‘I leave for Bône on Tuesday,’ I said with regret.

‘What for?’

‘For my match with Marcel Cargo.’

‘Oh …’

‘It’s a very important match.’

‘As far as I’m concerned, a boxing match or a cockfight, it’s all the same.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘There are others.’ She moved her finger over my lips, gently, tenderly. ‘What’s your real name?’

‘Amayas.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘Leopard, I think, or something like that.’

‘Amayas … I like it. It sounds like a girl’s name. It’s certainly better than Turambo.’

‘Maybe, but there’s nothing behind it. Whereas Turambo tells my life story.’