Yasmina Khadra: The Angels Die

I had made my choice. Podium or scaffold, I didn’t really care, I was beyond any doubts. Paradoxically, my serenity took the form of a great tiredness: I felt an enormous need to lie down somewhere, anywhere, and sleep. I drank one coffee after another and stuffed myself with doughnuts without even realising.

When I asked for the bill, the owner told me that someone had settled it for me, but wouldn’t tell me who. In our world, in spite of poverty, that kind of thoughtfulness was common; the main thing was not to insist on learning your benefactor’s identity.

I went out into the street, thanking the people sat at tables outside at random. My heartbeat had slowed down. I felt fine.

Some old men were playing dominoes in a doorway. I stopped to exchange pleasantries with them. In the square, a gang of urchins were having fun on the bonnet of my car; when they saw me, they scattered, screaming, then came back and ran after me. The more agile of them ran level with my door, their mouths wide open, laughing triumphantly. I waved goodbye to them and accelerated.

Evening was knocking on the doors of the city. My mother was chatting with her Kabyle neighbour in the courtyard, an oil lamp placed on the edge of the well. In order not to disturb them, I went straight into our flat. My father was talking to himself in his room, his hands shaking. I kissed his forehead and sat down on a cushion facing him. He looked at me, tilting his neck to the side, a vague smile on his face. For some weeks now, he had been talking to himself, giving the impression he had entered a world of shadows and echoes.

My mother shook me. I woke with a start. I had dozed off. Remembering Alarcon Ventabren, I jumped in my car and sped to the hospital. Dr Jacquemin received me very courteously. He admitted he had recognised me the day before, but given the circumstances, hadn’t dared tell me how much he admired me as a boxer. He took me to Alarcon’s room. Alarcon was looking well. The doctor explained to me that there was nothing seriously wrong, that his dizzy spell had been brought on by a fleeting anxiety attack, the kind sometimes caused by paralysis and the physical and mental discomfort that came with it.

‘You can take him home now, but just to be on the safe side it might be advisable for him to stay here another night. After a good sleep, he’ll be able to go home singing.’

‘I’d prefer to wait until tomorrow morning,’ Alarcon agreed. ‘I don’t like travelling at night, especially not in the rain.’

The doctor went away.

Alarcon pointed with his chin to a plate on the bedside table. ‘The food here is disgusting. Would it be too much trouble for you to bring me a bowl of soup from the stand on the corner?’

‘They must have shut up shop by now.’

‘You can’t imagine how much I’d like a nice spicy chorba, with vermicelli and a pinch of cumin, a nice hot scented chorba.’

I went back to my mother’s. She was fast asleep, but when I told her it was for a sick man, she got up and herself made the chorba that Alarcon gulped down later, chuckling with delight.

‘I should go and tell Irène,’ I said. ‘She must be worried.’

‘We can both surprise her tomorrow. Stay with me. I’m so glad to be alive. I really thought I’d had it. And besides, I could do with the company.’

I sat down on a metal chair near the bed and got ready to listen, certain this was going to last all night. Alarcon was still talking when I dozed off.

At about ten in the morning, Alarcon was carried to my car on a stretcher. He chose to sit in the front seat, to get a good view. He told me he hadn’t set foot in Oran for ages. But the city looked grim beneath the rain-laden gusts of wind. The pavements were empty, the shop fronts gloomy and the signs above the shady dives creaked in a sinister and maddening way.

In bad weather, Oran is like a botched spell.

I bought fresh bread from a bakery, lamb chops and a string of merguez from a kosher butcher, some provisions too, and we set off for Lourmel. The trees writhed at the side of the road and a stream of mist rolled down from the mountain over the elegant village of Misserghin. Alarcon gazed out at the hills and the orchards, a dreamy smile on his face. In the sky, the dismal clouds that had pressed down on Oran were starting to disperse. In places, the daylight showed through the gaps. The further we got from the coast, the less the mist flowed across the road. It was still drizzling, but the wind was abating in the orange groves and vineyards. Alarcon started humming a military tune, beating time on the dashboard with his fist. I listened to him, lost in thought. I couldn’t wait to tell Irène that I’d broken with the Duke once and for all.

The hut of Larbi the fruit seller shook in the breeze, the curtains blown back. On the path leading to the farm, amid the potholes, there were recent tyre tracks. My car skidded in the ruts.

The presence of two vans in the Ventabrens’ courtyard puzzled me. When they saw us, a handful of men armed with sticks and poles regrouped near the house, surrounded by three uniformed policemen. In my suddenly dry throat, my Adam’s apple leapt in panic.

One of the policemen waved his kepi, signalling me to come towards him. He was a stunted little man with a toothbrush moustache, a pointed nose and large, protruding ears. He seemed exhausted.

‘Thank God you’re alive, Monsieur Ventabren,’ he cried, recognising my passenger. ‘My men and some volunteers have been combing the area for hours looking for you. We thought someone had abducted you and thrown your body in the scrub.’

Alarcon couldn’t grasp what the policeman was babbling about, but the presence of strangers on his land was a bad omen.

‘How could I get to the scrub in a wheelchair? What’s going on? Why are you in my house?’

‘Something’s happened, Monsieur Ventabren. Something terrible …’

I jumped out of the car, ran to the house and stopped dead in the hall. The table in the drawing room had been moved, the chairs overturned, some broken, and a painting had fallen to the floor. I called out for Irène; in the bathroom, around the full tub, pools of soapy water were turning black on the tiled floor. There were signs of a violent struggle, but no blood. Irène! Irène! My cries echoed inside me, louder than hammer blows. In the kitchen, a metal jug lay in a pool of spilt milk. I went upstairs, then came back down again; Irène didn’t reply, didn’t show herself.

A policeman grabbed me by the arm. ‘She isn’t here. Her body’s been taken to the village.’

What was he talking about?

‘She’s been murdered. Jérôme the milkman found her dead in the drawing room this morning.’

A sudden deafness struck me with full force. I could see the policeman’s lips moving, but no sound reached me. My head started spinning and I couldn’t breathe. I leant against the wall in order not to collapse, but my legs gave way under the shock. I fell on my backside, in a daze, repeating to myself: I’m going to wake up, I’m going to wake up …

A policeman took my place at the wheel of the car. I was incapable of starting the engine, incapable of driving. My legs had stopped working properly.

In the village, the police took us to a clinic where Irène’s body lay. I was unaware of sounds or movements; everything appeared blurred, confused, surreal.

The sergeant wouldn’t let me go in with Alarcon to see his daughter’s body, but ordered me to stay in the car and told a subordinate to keep an eye on me.

A crowd had gathered outside the clinic. It was moving in slow motion, silent, wild-eyed. Supported by policemen, Alarcon let himself be dragged towards his grief. When he came out again, he was pale and broken, but was trying to appear dignified.