Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

I accepted.

The same day, I announced to Irène that I was going across the Mediterranean for eight weeks’ training. We were in the stable. Irène was grooming her mare. She didn’t react, just continued brushing her animal as if she hadn’t heard me. Light rain was falling on the hill.

‘I’d like you to come with me to Marseilles.’

She gasped scornfully. ‘You want me to go with you to France?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about my father?’

‘We’ll take him with us.’

She put away her brush and threw a blanket over the mare. Her gestures were brusque. ‘My father will never want to leave here. This land is his flesh. Nothing in the world suits his soul better than these hills. What landscape could make him forget this magnificent view over the orange groves and vineyards stretching as far as Misserghin, and the scrub where the wolves howl at the moon every night?’

She pushed me aside slightly because I was standing in the light.

‘Neither my father nor I will ever agree to let this land out of our sight. To us, it’s the gods’ most perfect creation.’

‘We’ll come back here afterwards.’

‘After what? We’ll never agree to leave here, I tell you. Not for a day, not for a minute. Even when we sleep, it’s the only thing we see in our dreams.’

I followed her out into the courtyard. She was walking fast as if trying to shake me off.

‘This is my career, Irène.’

‘I never said it wasn’t. And I’m not stopping you from going wherever you like. We aren’t married yet. In fact, I don’t think we ever will be. I hate boxing.’

‘It’s a profession like any other. It’s my profession.’

She stopped abruptly and turned round to face me, her lips quivering with anger. ‘What kind of profession is it where you just have to go down twice in succession for the descent into hell to start? I know about it, you know, and I’m not thrilled about it. Pipo from Algiers, Fernandez, Sidibba the Moroccan — they all trained here. They slept in the same outhouse you’re sleeping in now, they ran on the same tracks. They all thought they were invincible. Girls fell into their arms and the crowds worshipped them. They had their photographs in the papers and their posters on the walls. They dreamt of money and adventure, and Pipo was even planning to build himself a palace on the heights of Kouba. And one night, in a hall full to bursting, with the spotlights on him, bang! He was down! Shock horror. The invincible Pipo is down! And everything collapses around him. The last I heard, he has more alcohol than blood in his veins and can’t even find his own way home.’

‘I’m not Pipo.’

‘It doesn’t matter, you’ll meet the same fate. It’s inevitable. One day, you’ll meet someone who’s stronger than you and you’ll find yourself on the floor. Your fans will turn away from you because their hearts only beat for new blood. You’ll try to make a comeback, fighting with nonentities. You’ll be displayed in a dilapidated ring like a fairground strong man. When you don’t have any power left in you, you’ll drown your sorrows in seedy bars and come home to ruin my nights. And if I don’t like it, you’ll beat me to prove to yourself that you’re not the lowest of the low.’

‘I’ll never raise my hand to you.’

‘That’s what men say when they aren’t dead drunk. My father always had a flower for my mother when he came home in the evening. He was attentive and affectionate, and he treated my mother with a lot of respect. She was the cherry on his cake … Like you, he climbed the ladder without slipping, sure that he’d reach the top and stay there. Like you, he won fight after fight at the beginning of his career. Everything went well for him. By the age of twenty-seven, he was champion of France and nearly became world champion. Then he met his tamer. Deprived of his title, he started doubting — and changing. Whenever he won, he reverted to being the father I knew. Whenever he lost, he turned into a monster I was just beginning to discover. When he came home, no more flowers for my mother, just complaints and excuses to cause scenes. From my bed, I’d hear him swearing like a trooper. In the morning, my mother would stay shut up in her room so that I wouldn’t see the marks on her face. In the evening, when she sensed that my father was about to return, she’d tremble like a goat waiting for a hyena’s approach. To overcome her fears, she started drinking. Sometimes, she’d climb out through the window and run off into the night. My father would have to look for her at the neighbours’ or else in the fields. He’d bring her home, promising never again to raise his hand to her, to stop drinking, to stop choosing the wrong enemy. The respite would last a few days, a week, then, without warning, the scenes would start again.’

Her face was right up against mine, contorted with sorrow; tears flooded her lashes.

‘My mother went through hell,’ she continued, hammering out her words. ‘She was as beautiful as an angel, but by the age of thirty-five she’d grown old. Her face reflected nothing but her ordeal. Until the night she ran away and didn’t come back. She left for good and we never heard from her again … That’s right, Amayas! My mother left because she was tired of being a punch bag for a boxer who’d fallen from favour … And since then, I’ve never stopped hating boxing. It isn’t a profession; it’s a vice! Deposed gods aren’t forgiven. Cheers are closer to jeers than disappointment is to madness. I have no desire to share my life with someone who’s damaged in body and spirit. I don’t see myself growing old scraping a washed-up drunkard off the ground. That’s not for me, Amayas. Fame in the ring is like a yo-yo, and I don’t like its highs and lows. I’m a stupid, innocent dreamer. My happiness is in the harmony of things. I want to live with a man who’ll look at my fields the same way I do and have the same contempt for wealth and show. That’s my price for believing you love me. And then I’ll love you too, with all my heart and strength.’

*

The Duke started tearing his hair out when he heard that I didn’t want to go to Marseilles to train. According to Frédéric, he’d been positively apoplectic. His shouts rang out through the entire building. Some members of his staff had deserted their desks, while others had barricaded themselves behind their files. It didn’t impress me. I refused to go to Marseilles. Gino called me all the names under the sun. ‘When are you going to stop behaving like an idiot?’ he cried, nervously loosening his tie. ‘I’ve had enough of cleaning up after you.’ His attempts to win me over failed. The Duke didn’t beat about the bush. He just threatened to fire Gino if he couldn’t make me see reason.

Francis declared it was a waste of time to reason with someone as stupid as me. ‘The police say that nationalist agitators are active in the mosques, hammams and cafés. Turambo must have risen to the bait. He’s easily influenced. A charlatan in a turban must have filled his head with stupid ideas.’

‘I’m not interested in politics,’ I cried.

‘Then it’s a relative or a jealous neighbour who’s driven you crazy. Arabs battle for advantages. As soon as one of them manages to keep his head above water, the others try to cut it off.’

‘What are you trying to insinuate, Francis?’

‘I’m trying to save you from a fall. You mustn’t listen to your people. They’re envious. They resent you because you’re less and less like them, because you’re a success. They’re jealous. They’re not looking out for you, they want you to fail. They want you to fade away, to become a shadow of yourself so that everyone can go back to the darkness. That’s why you people lag behind other nations. Always fighting each other, blowing each other apart, destroying each other with slander and betrayal.’