Yasmina Khadra - The Angels Die

The voice belonged to a shopkeeper standing in the doorway of his establishment with his hands on his hips. His tarboosh was tilted at a rakish angle over one eye and his moustache was turned up at the ends. He moved his fat carcass to adjust his Turkish sirwal and, advancing into the sunlight, looked around at the gang before letting his keen eyes fall on the twins.

‘If you want to take him on, do it one at a time.’

I’d been expecting the shopkeeper to come to my rescue, but all he was doing was organising my beating in a more conventional way, which wasn’t exactly a lucky break for me.

Daho One accepted the challenge. Sneering, his eyes shining with wicked glee, he rolled up his sleeves.

‘Move back,’ the shopkeeper ordered the rest of the gang, ‘and don’t even think of joining in.’

A wave of anticipation went through the gang as they formed a circle around us. Daho One’s snarl increased as he looked me up and down. He feinted to the left and tried to punch me but only brushed my temple. He didn’t get a second chance because my fist shot out in retaliation and, much to my surprise, hit its target. The scourge of the local kids flopped like a puppet and collapsed in the dust, his arms outstretched. The gang gasped in outraged amazement. The other twin stood there stunned for a few moments, unable to understand or admit what his eyes were telling him, then, in a rage, he ordered his brother to get up. But his brother didn’t get up. He was sleeping the sleep of the just.

Sensing the turn things seemed to be taking, the shopkeeper came and stood beside me and we both looked at the gang picking up their martyr, who was deep in an impenetrable dream filled with bells and birdsong.

‘You didn’t play fair,’ cried a frizzy-haired little runt with legs like a wading bird. ‘You tricked him. You’ll pay for that.’

‘We’ll be back for you,’ Daho Two vowed, wiping his snotty nose with the back of his hand.

The shopkeeper was a little disappointed by my rapid victory. He had been hoping for a more substantial show, full of falls and suspense and dodges and devastating punches, thus getting a decent slice of entertainment for free. Reluctantly he admitted to me that, all things considered, he was delighted that someone had succeeded in soundly thrashing that lowlife, who blighted the ghetto and thought he could get away with anything because there was nobody to take him on.

‘You’re really quick,’ he said, flatteringly. ‘Where did you learn to hit like that?’

‘That’s the first time I was ever in a fight, sir.’

‘Wow, such promise! How would you like to work for me? It isn’t difficult. All you have to do is keep guard when I’m not there and handle a few little things.’

I took the bait without even asking about my wages, only too happy to be able to earn my crust and make a contribution to the family’s war chest.

‘When do I start, sir?’

‘Right away,’ he said, pointing reverently at his dilapidated shop.

I had no way of knowing that when charitable people intervene to save your skin, they don’t necessarily plan to leave any of it on your back.

The shopkeeper was called Zane, and it was he who taught me that the devil had a name.

What Zane referred to as little things were more like the labours of Hercules. No sooner had I finished one task than I was given another. I wasn’t allowed a lunch break or even a moment to catch my breath. I was told to tidy the shambles that was the premises (a veritable Ali Baba’s cave), stack the shelves, polish the bric-a-brac, dislodge the spiders, a bucket of water in one hand and a ceiling brush in the other, and deal with deliveries. Before giving me a trial, Zane subjected me to ‘loyalty’ tests, leaving money and other bait lying around to see how honest I was; I didn’t touch a thing.

Within a few months, I learnt more about human nature than an old soldier. Zane was like a first-class school, and the people he came into contact with provided wonderful lessons in life. The most curious characters would creep into his shop, some with suspect packages, others with futile projects. Zane — smuggler, blackmailer, fence, snitch and pimp — controlled his circle with an iron fist, and he had a finger in every pie; there wasn’t a single deal, even the most insignificant, carried out in Graba that he didn’t get a cut from. He would buy for next to nothing and sell at exorbitant prices, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Everyone in Graba owed him something. People would go down on their knees to him, prepared to do any dirty work to merit his generosity. Zane had no qualms. For a can of food or a trifling bit of credit, he would ask for the moon. He shamelessly exploited every opportunity and took every advantage he could of people’s misfortunes. He was a pawnbroker too. When the item was something of value, a decent piece of jewellery for example, he would make the excuse that he didn’t have enough money available and ask the customer to come back the following day, which gave him time to arrange a trap. The next day, the customer would reappear, deposit his jewel, count his money and leave … only to come back ten minutes later, his face covered in blood and his clothes torn to shreds as if he’d just been in a fight with a bear. ‘I was attacked and robbed not far from here.’ To which Zane would reply imperturbably, ‘What’s that to me? Am I supposed to give my customers an escort to make sure they get home safely?’ And with this he would dismiss the poor devil. It was perfectly obvious that the ambush had been set up by my employer. He had henchmen who just waited for a sign from him to pounce. Zane wasn’t content with these practices, which weren’t all that unusual; he also boasted of having policemen under his thumb and claimed he could have anyone sent to jail just by clicking his fingers. He was widely feared and nobody haggled with him. Often, humble women draped from head to foot in filthy veils, with just a tiny opening at the front to see where they were going, would come into the shop. They were usually at the end of their tether and were prepared to make any sacrifice for a piece of sugar or a small coin. Zane would push them into the back room, pin them up against a big table cluttered with all kinds of implements, pull their dresses up over their naked buttocks and possess them unceremoniously. He loved humiliating them and making them suffer before throwing them out like dishcloths. I think he was mad. You had to be mad to put down roots in Graba when you could afford a house in the city; you had to be completely demented to flaunt your fortune in front of people so broke they’d think a bit of spittle was cash; and you had to be suicidal to rape mothers, sisters and aunts, one after the other, when you knew that in that deadly place no secret could be kept for very long, public condemnation was swift, and a knife was as sharp as it was accurate. Zane didn’t give a hoot, convinced he could cross a minefield with his eyes closed. He carried with him amulets stronger than spells and curses combined. He had been born under a cast-iron star and feared neither gods nor men.

According to a marabout, when Zane finally gave up the ghost, with his sins intact, he wouldn’t go to either heaven or hell because the good Lord would deny he’d ever created him.

For the first few weeks, the Daho brothers would come by and remind me that they had a debt to settle with me. They would stand at the corner of the alley to avoid confronting my formidable employer and yell challenges at me as if casting a spell. They would make obscene gestures and mime cutting my throat. I kept calm, sitting on the steps in front of the shop … In the evening, my uncle Mekki would come to fetch me, carrying a nail-studded club over his shoulder.