Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

I didn’t like social occasions. They bored me! Always the same fake camaraderie, the same forced laughter, the same subtly poisonous words. In the midst of these prestigious people, surrounded by warbling ladies and distinguished gentlemen, I was nothing but a fighting cock arousing more curiosity than admiration. Many merely congratulated me from a distance in order not to have to shake my hand. I had the feeling I’d got off at the wrong floor, that I was in exile. This wasn’t my world. I hated this pack of social climbers, substitute snobs and timeservers. Such people made me uncomfortable. They were only interested in gain: gaining ground, gaining money, coming out on top. Careerists, industrialists, men of independent means or retired buccaneers, they were all from the same mould, thought only of making a profit and getting ahead, devoid all the while of the slightest generosity, like handsome faces without a shadow of a smile. In their view, if you had money, you were worth money. If you were broke, you were of no interest. This was a long way from Medina Jedida, Eckmühl, the Derb, Saint-Eugène, Lamur or Sidi Lahouari, where good humour defied hardship. We had our show-offs, our tough guys, our big shots, but our kind had heart and at times even restraint. For those of us in the poor neighbourhoods, putting on airs was merely a good-natured bit of fun, whereas for the elite in the centre of town it was second nature. I was conscious that the world was made that way, that there were well-off families and poor families, and that there must be a rhyme and reason for this. But with these individuals in their white collars stepping on my feet without apologising because I was so invisible to them, I didn’t think I could ever get anywhere; as far as they were concerned, I was simply a goose that laid golden eggs but would go straight in the cooking pot when I stopped laying.

I went out to get some air.

There is nothing worse than an idol nobody is interested in.

Outside, an endless queue of cars waited on the avenue. The chauffeurs chatted here and there in small groups, puffing at their cigarettes; some dozed behind their wheels.

I asked Filippi to drive me to Boulevard Mascara.

‘I’m waiting for Gino,’ he said.

‘He’s enjoying himself. He’ll be in there for a while.’

‘I’m sorry. Those are my instructions.’

I took the tram to Place d’Armes and got back to Rue du Général-Cérez on foot. I was furious.

Alarcon Ventabren wasn’t unaware of my feelings for his daughter. I was at the farm practically every day and sometimes spent the night there. Irène seemed happy with me. We loved to stroll in the woods and go shopping together. In Lourmel, people were getting used to seeing us side by side. At first, unkind comments marred our shopping expeditions, then, because Irène would give as good as she got, we were left alone.

I was learning to drive in order to buy a car. I wanted to take Irène far away, where nothing could spoil our romance. A moment with her filled me with happiness. Whenever the time came for me to get back to Oran, I grew bad-tempered.

I felt like giving it all up.

At the gym, I had become so thin-skinned that the slightest criticism seemed huge to me. I couldn’t bear anyone’s remarks. Gino had given up trying to lecture me. He did as he pleased when it came to Louise. If he had the right to play the seducer, why not me? De Stefano tried not to upset me, but his sentimentality got on my nerves too.

Only at the farm did I regain a little calmness.

One Sunday, on a deserted beach, as Irène let the waves lap against her legs, her dress pulled up over her knees, I started drawing geometric shapes on the sand with a piece of wood.

‘What are you writing?’ she called, her hair flowing in the midday breeze.

‘I’m drawing.’

‘What are you drawing?’

‘Your face, your eyes, your mouth, your shoulders, your chest, your hips, your legs …’

‘Can I see?’

‘No. You might distract me.’

She emerged from the water, amused and curious, and bent to look at my childish scribble. ‘Is that what I look like?’

‘It’s just a sketch.’

‘I didn’t know my legs were so thin, my head’s as round as a pumpkin, and my hips, my God, how horrible! … How can you be in love with a fright like me?’

‘The heart doesn’t ask questions. It ploughs straight on, and that’s it.’ I took her in my arms. ‘I’m only happy when I’m with you.’

She abandoned herself to my embrace and tenderly moved her fingers over my cheek. ‘I love you, Amayas.’

A bolder wave than the others came up and licked at our ankles. As the water receded, it erased my drawing as if by magic.

Irène kissed me on the mouth.

‘I want to share my life with you,’ I said.

She gave a start. With all my might, I prayed she wouldn’t burst out laughing. She didn’t. She looked at me in silence, her lips brushing mine; she trembled against me. ‘Do you mean it?’

‘Very much so.’

She broke free and walked over to a rock. We sat down side by side. Between our feet, little greenish crabs were playing hide and seek, almost imperceptible in the eddying of the foam. The horizon was veiled in sea spray. The squawking of the seagulls bounced off the reef, as sharp as razor cuts.

‘You’ve caught me off guard, Amayas.’

‘We’ve been together for months. When I think about the future, I can’t imagine it without you.’

Her eyes ran to question the sea, then returned to put me to the test. ‘I’m older than you.’

‘I don’t care about your age.’

‘But I do.’

‘I love you, that’s all that matters. I want to marry you.’

The lapping of the backwash sounded a hundred times louder.

‘This kind of decision can’t be taken lightly,’ she said.

‘I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. There isn’t the slightest doubt in my mind: it’s you I want.’

She put her hand on my mouth to stop me. ‘Be quiet and let’s listen to the sound of the sea.’

‘It won’t teach us anything we don’t already know.’

‘And what do we know, Amayas?

‘What we want with all our heart.’

‘What do you know about my heart?’

Her voice was soft and measured. My heart was pounding. I dreaded rejection, dreaded the thought that she would snub me like Aïda. Irène was thinking. She looked sad. I took her hands, and she didn’t remove them.

‘I’d like to start a family,’ she said. ‘But not at any price.’

‘Name your price.’

She looked me up and down, a dubious gleam in her eyes. ‘I’m a country girl, Amayas. I love simple things. To have a simple husband, a simple life, no clamour, no commotion.’

‘Don’t you think I can give you that?’

‘No, I don’t. A wife can’t share her husband with the crowd.’

I tried to object, but she placed her hand on my mouth again and kissed me.

‘Let’s not complicate things,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s enjoy the present and let the future look after itself.’

I wasn’t disappointed. Irène hadn’t said no.

A young carter took us as far as the road. Sitting in the back, our hands gripping the edge of the cart and our feet hanging out, we watched the sea launch its regiments of foam onto the beach. Irène was silent. Whenever she saw me looking at her, her shoulders contracted.

We waited for the bus in silence, sitting under a tree.

In the evening after dinner, we helped Ventabren into bed and then went for a walk around the estate to clear our heads. In our part of the world, autumn is a spoilsport. Once summer is over, the cicadas fall silent and faces turn grey. We are a people of the sun; the slightest imperfection in our sky unsettles us. When the weather is fine, our thoughts are bright and any small thing excites us. But all it takes is for a cloud to blot out our sun and our soul darkens. Irène was procrastinating because of the cold, I was sure of it. We sat down on the edge of the well to gaze at the countryside. On the plain, shrouded in mystery, the lights of the village shimmered like dying fireflies. Irène had her shawl pulled tight around her, and her hands lay in her lap. She hadn’t said a word since the beach. I suffered her silence like a wound. Had I been clumsy? Had I upset her? She didn’t seem to be angry with me, but I couldn’t understand the sadness on her face.