Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘Will you tell me your life story one day?’

‘As often as you like.’

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at me, smiling, then again snuggled up to me. ‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then say it … Say you love me.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

‘I want to hear you say it. It matters to a woman, much more than a cockfight.’

‘I’m crazy about you.’

‘Say I love you …’

‘We don’t say that kind of thing in our tribes.’

‘Love isn’t a thing.’

‘I’ve never heard anyone say it at home.’

‘You aren’t at home, you’re with me. Go on, I’m listening …’

She closed her eyes and listened carefully. Little beads of sweat were glistening on her silky skin. Her smell filled my head with tiny sparks. I wanted to take her again and never let her go.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘Irène …’

‘Yes?’ she said, encouragingly.

‘Please …’

‘No, you’re going to say it or I won’t believe you, ever again.’

I turned towards the wall. She took my chin and turned my head so that I was facing her, although my eyes were closed. ‘This is where it happens, young man.’

I took a deep breath. ‘I …’

‘I …?’

‘I love you,’ I said at last.

‘You see? It’s so simple …’

She opened her eyes and I drowned in them. We made love until midday.

One hour before the fight with Marcel Cargo, an electricity blackout plunged the audience into an indescribable panic. There was talk of sabotage and a possible postponement of the match. The police brought in reinforcements in order to prevent intruders from getting into the hall and spectators from getting out. Nervousness spread through the changing rooms, which were lit by pocket torches. As the team of technicians were taking a long time to restore the current, lorries were dispatched to the scene and trained their headlights on the windows of the building to calm those people who were afraid of the dark. Frédéric kept going out for news and coming back empty-handed. The atmosphere was turning nightmarish. I tried to keep calm, but De Stefano’s anxiety was contagious. He couldn’t keep still, venting his anger now on the organisers, now on Salvo. Mouss came and paid us a visit in the changing room. ‘It’s only a power cut,’ he said. ‘Apparently, it’s common in Bône. Everything will soon be back to normal. In my opinion, it’s a diversion intended to distract the opponent. The people of Bône are famous for their loyalty to their own. They’re capable of all kinds of funny business to make life hard for champions from elsewhere.’ He gave me a few pieces of advice, insisted I keep a cool head and apologised that he had to go because he didn’t want to lose his seat.

A great cry of relief shook the hall when the lights came back on. From the changing rooms, we could hear people calling to each other, chairs being shifted; the return to normality relaxed us and De Stefano was at last able to sit on a bench and pray.

There was a huge crowd in the hall, which was shrouded in cigarette smoke. We had to elbow our way through to the ring. When Marcel Cargo appeared, the audience went wild. He was a tall, well-built fellow, so white-skinned he looked as if he was coated in flour, his hair close-cropped, his eyes inscrutable. He was quite a good-looking man in spite of his broken nose and thick mouth. He was a few pounds lighter than me, but he had a hard body and long arms. He threw himself at me before the bell had stopped ringing. It was obvious he’d prepared well. Quick, agile, he dodged my blows only to retaliate immediately with tremendous precision. He moved easily, his impressive reach keeping me at a distance, and evaded my traps with an elegance that delighted the audience. For the first three rounds, Marcel Cargo led on points. I found it hard to place my hook. Cargo was like an eel. Whenever I tried to get him in a corner, he would push me away and, with an acrobatic move, get back to the middle of the ring, his legs elusive, his right forceful. In the fourth round, he cut open my eyebrow. The referee checked the seriousness of my wound and declared me fit to continue the fight. My affected eye swelled: I could only half see, but my faculties were intact. I was just waiting for the moment to activate my left hook. Cargo was wonderfully supple and had great technique, but I knew I could get to him. In the fifth round, he made his fatal mistake. He knocked me to the ground for the second time. The referee started the count. I pretended to be dazed. Marcel took the bait. He put all his strength into a final attack, hoping to finish me off. In his frenzy, he let his guard down and my left struck him hard. He turned full circle, arms hanging loose, head tilted over towards his shoulder. I didn’t need to deliver the knockout blow; he was done for before he hit the floor. A deathly silence fell over the hall. The crowd froze in their seats, as stunned as my opponent. The only sound came from the manager, yelling at his protégé to get up. Cargo didn’t move. He lay on his back, unconscious, his gum shield askew. The referee finished the count and asked the seconds up into the ring. They couldn’t wake Cargo. There were more and more people on the platform. The referee sensed that things might get out of hand, climbed discreetly over the ropes and vanished into the crowd. Suddenly, the manager rushed at me, screaming, ‘I want to see what he’s got in his glove … I want to see what he’s got in his glove … Nobody’s ever knocked Marcel out like that … It’s not possible … That filthy Arab has something in his glove.’ Salvo repelled an assailant, received a headbutt, hit back, and the fight started. In a few minutes, the brawl spread through the hall, setting Christians against Muslims in a frenzy of flying chairs and fierce blows, accompanied by a cacophony of insults and threats. The police rushed into the hall and quickly evacuated the dignitaries and officials before rushing at the troublemakers and the Araberbers. It was a mad, insane spectacle. Screams and whistles rang out over the sound of chairs being smashed. The lights were switched off and everyone rushed to the emergency exits in total confusion.

We left Bône that same night, for fear we might be attacked in the hotel. The eight of us piled into the dilapidated van of an Arab grocer who, moved by our plight, agreed to get us out of town. He drove us to a station in the middle of nowhere, some forty miles away. We took the first train to Algiers, then from Algiers the first connection for Oran, where a delegation was waiting for us with flowers and pennants. My victory over Marcel Cargo had spread like wildfire throughout the city. L’Écho d’Oran devoted three whole pages to it. Even Le Petit Oranais got in on the act, for once praising the achievements of a ‘son of the city’.

The Duke gave a magnificent reception at the Bastrana Casino. The guests were hand picked. High-ranking officials, uniformed top brass, influential businessmen and local politicians mingled in a diffuse murmur. The Bollocqs received congratulations and declarations of allegiance at the entrance to the casino. All the guests were determined to greet them. The Duke played along, with the solemnity of a monarch. He loved being the centre of attention. I wasn’t the hero; he was. I hated the way he displayed me like a trophy before dismissing me a minute later so he could show off some more. What did I actually mean to him? A racket, a conjuring trick, a mere puppet? In truth, sandwiched between his shadow and mine, nobody was especially interested in me.

The Bastrana was bustling. A band played popular tunes. Gino was busy flirting with Louise, satisfying her every whim. De Stefano had disappeared. I didn’t know what to do with myself or whom to talk to. I felt cramped in my overly stiff suit, hemmed in by partygoers, their wine-soaked breath going right through me. From time to time, a stranger would introduce me to another stranger, who would chuckle a vague ‘So this is the champion’ before abandoning me to court one of the many movers and shakers there, because this kind of get-together was above all an opportunity to establish lucrative contacts and keep one’s address book up to date.