Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

A few minutes before dinner, the hotel reception informed me that someone wanted to talk to me. I changed and went down to the foyer, where a man dressed like an effendi — a three-piece suit and a fez pulled down over his temples — was waiting on a sofa. He stood up and shook my hand. He was tall, with a massive nose in a chiselled face. His piercing eyes betrayed a concealed authority, a rock-solid determination.

‘My name is Ferhat Abbas.’ He paused, then, realising his name meant nothing to me, went on, ‘I’m an activist for our people’s cause … I assume you’ve heard of the Association of Muslim Students?’

‘The Association of what?’

The man swallowed, surprised by my ignorance. ‘You don’t know the Association of Muslim Students?’

‘No.’

‘What planet have you been living on, my brother?’

‘I never went to school, sir.’

‘This has nothing to do with school, but with our nation. It’s sometimes necessary to listen to what is being whispered in dark corners and behind bars … I’m a pharmacist by profession, but I write articles in the press and organise political debates and clandestine congresses. I’ve come from Sétif specially to meet you, and I’m obliged to leave for the Aurès tonight, as soon as we’ve finished here.’

‘You’re not staying for the match?’

‘I’d rather not.’

He unfolded a newspaper on the table and tapped a picture of an athlete running on the track of a packed stadium.

‘His name’s Ahmed Bouguerra el-Ouafi. Have you heard of him?’

‘No.’

‘He’s our Olympic champion, our first and only gold medallist. He won by a long way at the Amsterdam Games in 1928, but many of our countrymen don’t know him because he isn’t talked about in the papers or on the radio. We’re going to remedy that injustice and make sure we boast of his merits everywhere in our cities and even in our remote douars. Sport is an extraordinary political argument. No nation can hold its head up high without idols. We need our champions. They’re as indispensable as air and water. That’s why I’ve come to see you, my dear brother. Tomorrow, you have to win. Tomorrow, we want to have our North African champion to prove to the world that we exist …’

He abruptly picked up his newspaper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Two suspicious-looking individuals had just entered the foyer and were walking towards the reception desk.

‘I have to go,’ the activist whispered. ‘Don’t forget, my brother, your fight is ours; we’re already claiming your victory. Tomorrow, all the Muslims in our country will be glued to their radios. Don’t disappoint us.’

He walked behind a row of columns, dabbing himself with a handkerchief in order to hide his face, and quickly escaped through a service door.

A forest of spectral heads were jabbering in the huge hall. The city elite had turned out for the match. There was not a free seat or a clear aisle to be seen. It was boiling hot in spite of the subdued light streaking the corners with thin shadows. People were fanning themselves with whatever they could find.

Surrounded by a delegation of dignitaries from Oran, the Duke was lounging in one of the front boxes. Local celebrities and politicians were fidgeting with impatience near the ring. There were women too, stylish, haughty-looking women. I couldn’t remember ever having seen women at a boxing match in Oran or anywhere else — was it because they had this head start that people from Algiers assumed the right to look down on us?

I watched the hundreds of people shifting in their seats, like vultures hovering before the feeding frenzy. In the midst of this human chaos, I felt as lonely as a sacrificial lamb. A bottomless fear made my stomach churn. It wasn’t because of Pascal Bonnot or the thousands of Muslims I imagined glued to their radios. My anxiety had nothing to do with what was at stake that evening: it was made up of nagging questions I couldn’t make sense of. I would have liked time to stop because it was already exhausting me; I would have liked the match to have taken place the day before, or the week before, or else the year before. The sense of anticipation made it hard to focus. My arms had gone numb. My temples felt as if they were being squeezed by pincers, causing shooting pain at the back of my head. I was sweating profusely and the fight hadn’t started yet.

A spotlight swept over the terraces and came to rest on a tall, strapping man in a three-piece suit straight from the tailor, with a long red scarf around his neck. It was Georges Carpentier in the flesh, a victorious centurion back from the war, acclaimed by the people and praised by the gods. The world champion raised his arms to thank the audience, the spotlight surrounding him with a halo …

It was a fight to the death. Pascal Bonnot hadn’t come to defend his title but to dissuade contenders from fighting for it. North African champion three years in succession, he knocked out his opponents one after the other with the clear aim never to see them back in the ring again. It wasn’t by chance that he was nicknamed ‘the tank’. Pascal Bonnot didn’t box, he demolished. He didn’t have Marcel Cargo’s technique or elegance, but he was as formidable as a thunderbolt and as efficient as a howitzer. Most of the legends who had crossed his path had gone into decline. Pipo, Sidibba the Moroccan, Bernard-Bernard, all kings of the ring who had enthused the crowds and set starlets’ hearts a-flutter, had endured a fight with Bonnot like a blow of fate. The sun would never again rise for them. Bonnot’s blows were simply intended to remove obstacles from his path. His reputation laid low his rivals before his punches did. His fights never went past the fifth round, which suggested he might have stamina problems. That was the one likely chink in his armour, hence the intensive training I had been put through in Marseilles. My trainers were banking on my ability to wear out my opponent, while Bonnot counted on brute force to wipe out his opponents in the opening rounds. He put all his strength into that, without holding anything back. My one chance might lie in taking advantage of his carelessness. Put doubt in his mind, De Stefano kept telling me. If you hold out past the sixth round, he’ll lose his nerve and start to have doubts. Every time you hit him, you’ll unsettle him …

Bonnot pounced on me like a bird of prey. He hit hard. A real blacksmith. His intentions were clear. He aimed at my shoulders to soften my guard. If he kept up the pace, he was sure to get me by the third round. His tactics were clear. I got away quickly, moved around him, dodged his traps. The audience whistled, blaming me for avoiding confrontation. Bonnot charged repeatedly. He was about the same height as me. His powerful torso was in marked contrast to his thin legs. I found his figure grotesque. He hit me twice on the head, not very effectively. In the fourth round, my left hook sent him onto the ropes. It was at that exact moment that his expression darkened. I was no longer just a common punch bag as far as he was concerned. I let him come, huddling in a corner, well protected by my gloves. Bonnot unleashed his fury on me, galvanised by the deafening clamour in the hall. As soon as his panting became feverish, I pushed him away, made him run, then I went back into a corner and invited him to use up his energy. The fight turned into a bloodbath from the seventh round on. Bonnot was starting to tire, doubt settling in his mind. He increased his attacks and his blunders. His growing irritation replaced his previous concentration, botched his feints. It was time for me to set the pace. For the first time, he retreated. My uppercut knocked him twice to the floor. In the hall, the yelling died down. People were starting to fear the impossible. Bonnot recovered quickly, and then he sent me to the floor. His right plunged me into a soundless world. Dazed, I vaguely saw the referee starting to count me out. When he moved away, Bonnot was on me again. His blows echoed through me like underground explosions. Creaking beneath me, the floor felt like the trapdoor of a gallows. I went back to my corner, swaying, too shaken to get what De Stefano was droning on about. Salvo hurt me as he tended to me. My right eye was blurred, there was blood on my cheek, the gum shield in my mouth was torturing me. The Duke approached the ring and yelled something at me. Gino was holding his head in both hands. I couldn’t have looked very good.