Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

‘No,’ she said, sensing I was about to take her hand, ‘leave me alone.’

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘You upset me.’

‘I’ll be a good husband.’

‘You can’t be. I’m the daughter of a boxer. I know what a boxer’s family life is like. It’s no laughing matter.’

‘I know some who —’

‘Please,’ she cut in, ‘you don’t know anything about it.’

‘I’m not going to be a boxer all my life.’

‘Maybe, but I’ll be too old for you by the time you hang up your gloves. And you’ll be too damaged to make up for lost time.’

Droplets of rain started falling here and there. The wind rose a notch, cold, almost icy. A large cloud moved in front of the moon, swallowing it as it passed.

‘I don’t like depending on something I can’t control,’ she sighed. ‘I want to stay mistress of my marriage, do you understand? I don’t want to have to worry myself sick because my husband is gambling with our life in a boxing ring … I love this hill. One day, I’ll plant vines here and watch them grow. The sea salt will give me good grapes, which I’ll gather with my own hands. I’ll have a few cows too. That way, my mornings won’t be disturbed by the disgusting spluttering of the milkman’s van. With a bit of luck, I’ll raise three or four horses. I’ll spend my days watching them graze and rear in the open air. That’s my dream, Amayas. As simple as that.’

She stood up and walked back to the house. She went up to her room but didn’t switch the light on. She hadn’t invited me to join her. She didn’t come to the outhouse as she had on previous nights. I waited for her, then, unable to bear the sense of abandonment that had taken hold of my refuge, I decided to leave the farm. There was no bus for Oran at that hour, but I needed air.

I slept in the hut of Larbi the fruit seller.

My mother was beside herself. She hated people dropping in unexpectedly. She liked to make sure that her guests had the best possible reception; in other words, in a house that was clean and tidy. It was after midday when I surprised her at lunch, the low table littered with scraps of food. The look she gave me was full of reproach. Especially as I wasn’t alone: Irène was with me. My mother looked her up and down, her gaze lingering on her short skirt, her red-painted mouth, her bare neck. She ordered us to stay in the courtyard until she had finished clearing up. Irène was laughing to herself, amused by this surly woman who hadn’t even taken the trouble to say hello.

The neighbour’s children giggled in their corner, watching us, their impish little heads arranged one on top of the other in the doorway.

I had told my mother about Irène, but she wasn’t expecting to see her in her own home. In our traditions, it wasn’t done. Taken by surprise, my mother had to resign herself to the situation. She began by closing the door of the room where my father was rotting away and admitted us to the living room.

Irène handed her a little package. ‘Chocolate for you, Madame.’

We sat down on mats. Irène found it hard to pull her skirt down over her knees. I offered her a cushion, which she hurriedly put against her legs. My mother served us mint tea. As we sipped it, she weighed up my companion, examining her thoroughly, ostentatiously, evaluating her age, her strength, her curves, her freshness, the way she held herself, increasing Irène’s embarrassment and making her put down her glass for fear of her tea going down the wrong way.

‘Does she speak Arabic?’ my mother asked me in Kabyle.

‘Yes.’

‘Is she a Muslim?’

‘She’s a believer.’

‘I think she’s too old for you.’

‘And I think she’s very pretty.’

‘Yes, she’s pretty. But she doesn’t look easy to handle, not the kind to let herself be ruled with an iron fist.’

‘Maybe that’s why I chose her.’

‘I get the feeling she’s knows a thing or two about men.’

‘She’s been married before.’

‘I suspected as much. She’s too beautiful to have been spared that.’

Irène was smiling as she listened to us. She knew we were talking about her and guessed the sense of our words. ‘You have a beautiful house, Madame,’ she said in Arabic.

My mother made a maraboutic sign to ward off the evil eye. She said nothing more and even allowed herself to withdraw in order to leave us alone. Mekki arrived with a shopping bag, which he put down on the ground when he discovered us in the living room. The look he gave Irène was unambiguous. He went straight back out into the street, horrified by the ‘outrageous dress of that painted foreigner’.

‘You don’t bring a half-naked woman to the house,’ he yelled at me later. ‘I bet she drinks and smokes. Women who dare to look men in the eyes are not desirable. What are you hoping for by going with her? To be the same as her people? They’ll reject you. To impress the people of your community? They already feel sorry for you.’ He turned to my mother. ‘Why don’t you say something, Taos? He’s your son.’

‘Since when do women have an opinion?’

‘He’s planning to marry an unbeliever. One who’s been rejected, what’s more. A wreck her own people are tired of. What does she have that our virgins don’t? Make-up? Her offensive dress? Her shamelessness? It’s all too obvious that she’s older than him.’

‘I’m older than my husband.’

‘Am I to understand that you approve of your son?’

‘He can do what he likes. It’s his life.’

Mekki smashed his fist against the wall. ‘We’ll be the laughing stock of the neighbours.’

‘Have we ever been anything else?’ my mother retorted.

‘I’m still the head of this family and your husband’s return doesn’t change that. I shan’t approve a union the saints would never bless. Your son’s being corrupted. He’s spent so much time with unbelievers, he’s starting to be like them. If he’s making money, why not benefit a girl from his own people?’

I let him curse and went out to join Gino on Boulevard Mascara.

The Duke advanced me part of the money to buy a Fiat 508 Balilla sports car. I was in seventh heaven. In Medina Jedida, the urchins ran after me, shrieking as if at a carnival. They threw their chechias into the air and almost got run over. My mother refused categorically to get in and let me take her for a ride. She didn’t trust me, unable to resign herself to the idea that her son might own a car and drive it without crashing into a wall.

I loved driving along the avenue, my elbow resting on the windowsill, the wind on my face. I savoured the intoxication of a freedom I had never imagined. Irène and I went everywhere, even going as far afield as Nemours. Tlemcen was ours, as were the still-rudimentary resort at Hammam-Bouhadjar, the beaches of Cap-Blanc and picnics in the woods. Occasionally, we took Ventabren with us. We’d sit him at the foot of a tree and bustle around a campfire. Our grilled meat made us smell of smoke for the whole day. In the evening, we’d go to the cinema. I had a particular liking for swashbuckling adventures, but Irène hated violence and couldn’t bear stories that ended sadly; she preferred romantic films with happy endings, where the two lovers embraced and the audience cheered.

I was living through the happiest days of my life.

Five months before the big match for the North African title — Pascal Bonnot, the reigning champion, twice postponed our match for dubious reasons — the Duke summoned me to his office. Gino, Frédéric and De Stefano were there, as were two tough-looking men I’d never seen before who could easily have been gangsters. The Duke told me his plan. As far as he and his advisers were concerned, a stay in Marseilles was essential, on the one hand to prepare in secret, and on the other hand to benefit from the help of the best trainers in France.