Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

I didn’t want to hear any more. I wasn’t equipped to defend my decision. I knew I was vulnerable because I was dealing with emotions. The doubt was always there. I wondered if I wasn’t going off course, but at the same time hardened myself against anything that could disturb me further. As far as I was concerned, Irène was worth all the risks I’d be called upon to take. I couldn’t wait to see her again, to draw confidence from her way of seeing things.

*

I didn’t go with Gino to Boulevard Mascara. His sorrow would only have weakened my resolve and I wasn’t going to force myself to accompany him.

At the farm, Ventabren’s condition was getting worse. But Irène was there and her proximity protected me from my moments of doubt.

One Sunday, as I was just walking into a park to try and clear my head, Mouss grabbed me by the wrist. It clearly wasn’t a chance encounter. Maybe he’d followed me all the way from Rue du Général-Cérez.

‘Will you promise to keep your fists in your pockets if I tell you something in confidence?’ he asked.

‘Why do you want me to keep my fists in my pockets?’

‘Because I’m a heavyweight and I wouldn’t want to take you apart like an old carcass.’

‘Don’t you think I’m a match for you?’

‘No chance.’

‘In that case, let’s stop this right now.’

He stood in my way. ‘It’s for your own good, Turambo, I promise you.’

‘Have you been asked to lecture me?’

‘So what if I have?’

He may have been trying to act tough, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was genuine. ‘Why are you all so worried about me?’

‘We’re a family, little brother. Times are hard and we have to stick together.’

‘All right. Say what you have to say and let’s have done with it. I need to get some fresh air.’

‘Let’s go in the park. They say it’s more romantic.’

Mouss was patronising me, his voice throaty and drawling as if he was trying to put me to sleep. I suppose his phenomenal strength made people look tiny to him. The journalists hated him for his arrogance, but he didn’t give a damn. As long as he punched right, he didn’t care about anything else. But he was generally credited with being honest, he wasn’t the kind to flirt with trouble or fix matches — which was common enough in that world. I think he admired me, and even respected me. He didn’t come and congratulate me after fights, but he’d watch me from a distance, stand to one side so that I could see him give me a secret sign, then stride off into the crowd. I admit I didn’t like him much. He often made a fuss about nothing to draw attention to himself. His narcissism irritated me. We both came from the same terrible beginnings, from the lowest of the low, but we weren’t climbing the ladder for the same reasons. In the ring, Mouss was a bulldozer. He hit to kill. His gloves were fashioned out of flesh. He didn’t fight to make his career or fortune, he fought to prove to himself that he hadn’t died with his family, to get his revenge for the blows he had received without being allowed to return them. He had lost his family very young. His father, a slave, had been whipped to death by an overseer and his mother had thrown herself off a cliff … For Mouss, when the bell rang, it brought back to life the dead and the absent and awoke old demons. He saw his opponent simply as an antidote: by making mincemeat of him, he was able to cure himself.

It wasn’t the same for me.

As far as I was concerned, boxing was neither a cure nor a redemption, it was just a way of making a living.

We walked to a little paved courtyard lined with wrought-iron benches and opted for the shade of a weeping willow leaning over a fountain. Mouss stretched his neck to the right and left, pushed back his tartan cap, placed his big bear-like mitts on my shoulders and looked me full in the eyes.

‘De Stefano wants what’s best for you,’ he said. ‘He’s a man who knows what he’s talking about. If I hadn’t listened to him when I was starting out, I wouldn’t be wearing these smart clothes and I wouldn’t be sleeping in a bed …’

Swaying slightly, he sniffed loudly and looked to the right and left like some pick-up artist.

‘I could have taken a wife and settled down,’ he went on. ‘That’s not enough for me, little brother. Before, I was just another Negro good for nothing except unloading carts. By boxing I’ve become somebody. Who even notices the colour of my skin? My gloves are my visiting card now, and they can open any door. I weigh a hundred and twenty kilos, but I feel as light as a feather. I can have all the women I want, and all the privileges, and nobody asks questions. You know why? For one reason, and one reason only: I’m alive, and I take full advantage of it … You mustn’t get things mixed up, boy. Making love is one thing. Love itself is another matter entirely; it limits you. You don’t reduce the world to a woman, however wonderful she is … Why be content with a queen when you can have a harem? That’s just being stupid. You can’t put a rope round your neck without condemning yourself to the leash or the gallows.’

‘Is that what you have to tell me in confidence?’

‘I’m coming to that. I’m a heavyweight after all, I move slowly … Personally, I agree with De Stefano. He’s not just a sage, De Stefano, he’s a saint. When he tells you to throw in the towel, you throw in the towel and don’t try to understand.’

‘Please get to the point, my head’s going to explode.’

Mouss took his hands off my shoulders and folded his arms over his chest. An enigmatic smile hovered on his lips. ‘Irène isn’t the right girl for you. She’s playing with your innocence.’

‘Oh, really? And where do you know Irène from? Did your ancestors have a word with her while you were in a trance?’ I was deliberately trying to wound him.

He ignored my provocation. He merely strutted about on the spot then said, ‘Does she still have that strawberry-shaped mark on her right buttock?’

My fist flew of its own accord.

He swayed, but didn’t fall. ‘You promised to keep your fists in your pockets, Turambo,’ he grunted, casually rubbing his jaw. ‘It isn’t right not to keep your word … Sorry you’re taking it like this. I wasn’t trying to offend you or manipulate you. I thought you had a right to know and I had a duty to tell you the truth. As far as I’m concerned, I did what I had to do. You do what you want now. It’s not my problem any more.’

He lifted one finger to his temple in farewell, pulled his cap down over his eyes and strode back to the bustle of the streets.

It was dark by the time I got to the farm. Drizzle was falling on the mist-shrouded countryside. Big clouds jostled in the low sky while a cold that was unusual for the time of year was sharpening its claws. A small, dirt-encrusted car stood outside the house, its door wide open. The Ventabrens had a visitor. A young doctor dressed in black was examining Alarcon Ventabren, who lay on his bed looking pale, sweating profusely, laid low by fever, rings under his eyes, his mouth cracked and dry. Irène stood in a corner of the room, wringing her hands, overcome with anxiety.

The doctor put his gear in his bag. He looked ill at ease. ‘I’ve given him a sedative,’ he said. ‘That should bring his temperature down. It isn’t a chill and it isn’t indigestion, and I can’t explain the vomiting. It may be a virus, maybe not. If his condition doesn’t improve, drive him to hospital.’

Irène walked the doctor to his car. I stayed by Alarcon’s bedside, upset and useless, my mind full of Mouss’s revelations. During the drive from Oran to the farm, his voice had reverberated in my head until it felt as if it would explode. I couldn’t see the road winding in front of me or the mist on my windscreen. Torn between sorrow and the fear of confronting Irène, I twice almost missed a bend and nearly ended up in a ditch.