Embarrassed, I did as she said.
She tried to raise her hand to my face, but her arm remained stuck in the mass of flesh. ‘You look like a good boy, Turambo.’
I said nothing. I was still in a state of shock.
‘Your mother takes care of me like a sister … Gino has told me a lot about you. I think the two of you are going to get along well. Come closer still, right next to me.’
Gino noticed my growing unease and came to my rescue, grabbing me by the wrist. ‘I’m taking him to my room, Mother. I have things to show him.’
‘Povero figlio, ha solo stracci addosso. Devi sicuramente avere degli abiti che non indossi più, Gino. Daglieli.’
‘That’s what I was planning to do, Mother.’
Gino led me to his room. There was a bed that could be taken apart, a table with a chair in a corner, a little wardrobe that was falling to pieces, and that was all. The walls were peeling and there were greenish stains on the cracked ceiling crossed by beams. It was a sad room, with a broken window looking out onto the façade of a repulsively ugly building.
‘What language does your mother speak?’ I asked Gino.
‘Italian.’
‘Is that a Berber language?’
‘No. Italy’s a country on the other side of the sea, not far from France.’
‘Aren’t you Algerian?’
‘Oh, yes. My father was born here. So were his parents. His ancestors had been here for centuries. My mother’s from Florence. She met my father on a liner. They got married and my mother followed him here. She speaks Arabic and French, but when she and I are together we speak Italian. So that I don’t lose the language of my uncles, you know? Italians are very proud of their origins. They’re quite temperamental.’
What he was trying to explain was beyond me. All I knew of the world was what everyday life and its vileness showed me. When I was small, standing on a rock in the hills above Turambo, I’d thought the horizon was a precipice, that the earth stopped at its feet, and that there was nothing beyond it.
Gino opened the wardrobe and took a packet of photographs from a drawer. He selected one to show me. The photograph, taken on a terrace overlooking the sea, showed a woman laughing, her siren-like body held snugly in a pretty bathing suit. She was as beautiful as the actresses you saw on posters outside cinemas.
‘Who is she?’
Gino gave a sullen pout. His eyes glistened as he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘The lady rising like dough in the next room.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I swear to you it’s my mother in the photograph. She used to turn heads in the street. She was offered a part in a film, but my father didn’t want an actress in his house. He said you never know when an actress is being sincere and when she’s acting. A real macho man, my father, from what I’ve been told. He left us to fight in the war in Europe. I don’t remember him very well. He died in the trenches, gassed. My mother went mad when she found out. She even had to be committed. When she recovered her senses, she started putting on weight. She hasn’t stopped since. She’s been prescribed all kinds of treatments, but neither the hospital doctors nor the Arab healers have been able to control her obesity.’
I took the photograph from his hands to get a better look at it. ‘How beautiful she was!’
‘She still is. Did you see her face? It’s like an angel’s. It’s the only part of her body that’s been spared. As if to save her soul.’
‘To save her soul?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m talking this way. When I see what’s become of her, I say all sorts of nonsense. She can’t even sit up any more. She weighs as much as a cow on the scales. And a cow doesn’t need anybody to help it relieve itself.’
‘Don’t talk like that about your mother.’
‘I don’t blame her. But I can’t help it, it makes me bitter. My mother’s a generous woman. She’s never harmed anybody. She gives her money away and expects nothing in return. People have often robbed her, but not once has she held it against them. She’s even turned a blind eye when she’s caught them red-handed. It isn’t fair, that’s all. I don’t think she deserves to end up like this.’
He took the photograph from me and put it away in a cardboard box.
He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and looked at me warily. Then he cleared his throat to summon up courage and said, ‘I have a few shirts, one or two sweaters, and a pair of trousers I don’t wear any more. Would you be offended if I gave them to you? I’d be very happy to. I don’t want you to take it badly. I’d really like it if you said yes.’
There was a mixture of sadness and fear in his eyes. He was awaiting my reaction as if it were a verdict.
‘My bottom is almost showing through the seat of my trousers,’ I said.
He gave a little laugh and, relieved, started rummaging through the shelves, throwing me a quick glance to make sure I wasn’t offended.
Later, several years later, I asked him why he’d been so defensive when he was only trying to help a friend. Gino replied that it was because Arabs were sensitive and had a sense of honour so excessive they would be suspicious even of a good deed.
Returning home that day, proud of my bundle of almost new clothes, I surprised Mekki and my mother talking about my father. They fell silent when they saw me come in. Their faces were twisted with anger. My mother seemed on the point of imploding. Her face was trembling with indignation and there were tears in her eyes. I asked what was going on. Mekki told me it was none of my business and shut the door of his room in my face. I listened carefully, hoping to catch a few scraps of their conversation, but neither my uncle nor my mother carried on speaking. I shrugged my shoulders and went to the other room to try on the clothes Gino had given me.
Mekki joined me a few moments later, his cheek twitching.
‘Has my father been found dead?’ I asked.
‘After all these years?’ he retorted, annoyed at my naivety, then changed the subject. ‘You have to find a job. Rokaya’s sick. She needs care. Your mother and I don’t earn enough.’
‘I look for one every day.’
‘But you don’t knock on the right doors. I don’t want to see you hanging around the streets any more.’
*
I set off again in search of a livelihood, but didn’t change my habits; I didn’t know where the right doors were. In any case, whether I turned up before or after they had employed someone, it was always the same old story: either the job was already taken or I didn’t look suitable.
I was sitting on a low wall, longing for a piece of the goat’s cheese wrapped in vine leaves that a child was trying to sell to passers-by, when a boy approached me. He must have been about fifteen or sixteen. He was tall for his age and quite thin; his glasses made him look like one of those educated boys who were good at picking up girls outside school. He was wearing a check shirt and smart, neatly ironed trousers. His brown hair was cut short at the sides and his hands were spotlessly clean.
‘Don’t you live opposite the artillery barracks?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I live quite near to you. My name’s Pierre.’ He didn’t hold out his hand. ‘I heard you asking about a job at the warehouse earlier. I can arrange it. I have contacts. Neighbours should stick together, don’t you think?’
‘Sure.’
‘It isn’t easy to sway an employer these days. You don’t have any experience and of course you don’t have any education. If you let me recommend you for jobs, you can start earning your living tomorrow.’
‘All right then.’
‘What about this then: I find you work and whatever you make we split fifty-fifty. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds fine.’
‘You do understand the deal, don’t you? What you make we share fifty-fifty. I don’t want you to try and short-change me later. Is that understood? Fifty-fifty on what you make?’
‘Yes, I got that.’
>
He held out his hand. ‘Let’s shake on it. Giving your word of honour is better than any contract.’
I shook his hand enthusiastically. ‘When do I start?’
‘You do live in the house with the balcony over the esplanade, the one with the door opposite the barracks?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Wait for me outside your house at five tomorrow morning. But let’s get this straight once again, it’ll be fifty-fifty. And don’t try to double-cross me, because I’m the one who’s going to negotiate your wages.’
‘I’m not a cheat.’
He looked at me thoughtfully, then relaxed. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Turambo.’
‘Well, Turambo, God has put me in your path. If you do exactly what I ask and you’re as honest as you claim to be, in less than a year we’ll be doing a lot of business together.’
Pierre kept his word. At dawn the next day, he came for me and took me to a huge depot where I had to carry crates of fruit and vegetables. I thought I was going to drop dead with all the kicks I got from a fat lump who kept yelling at me. In the evening, Pierre was waiting for me at the corner of Rue du Général-Cérez. He counted out my money, pocketed half and handed me the rest. It was the same ritual each time. He didn’t find me work every day, but whenever a job fell vacant, it was mine. Pierre was the son of a court clerk who spent his money on prostitutes. He pointed him out to me one night, coming out of a brothel. He was a smart-looking man in a good suit, his hat pulled down over his face in order to remain incognito in such a seedy place. Pierre didn’t mince his words when he talked about him. He told me that arguments were common at home. His mother knew what kept her husband out so late at night and that made her hysterical because, in addition to his shameful sexual relations, his father had no qualms about drawing on the family savings. The reason Pierre, who was still at school, skipped classes was to help his mother make ends meet. And he was counting on me to save his family from bankruptcy. In a way, I was his golden goose. I didn’t see any disadvantage in that. As long as I didn’t return home empty-handed, I was prepared to do anything he suggested. Although the work tired me out, I wasn’t discouraged. But Pierre wanted me for himself. He kept an eye on me, noted who I mixed with, ordered me to go to bed early, in order to save my energy for work; in short, he ruled me with a rod of iron. He was particularly unhappy if I hung around with Gino in the evenings and made it quite clear what he thought about it.
‘Get rid of that fellow, Turambo. He’s not good for you. Plus, he’s a Yid.’
‘What’s a Yid?’
‘A Jew. Come on, what planet are you from?’
‘How do you know that Gino’s a Jew?’
‘I saw him having a pee.’ Pierre grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye. ‘Haven’t I been straight with you? We’ve always split things fifty-fifty. If you want to carry on as my partner, keep away from that queer. The two of us are going to make a ton of money, and in a few years, we’ll start a business and drive around in a car like nabobs. Have you seen how well connected I am? I can get you as many jobs as you like. Well? Do you trust me?’
‘Gino’s my friend.’
‘No sentiment in business, Turambo. That’s for little girls and mummy’s boys. When you were going round in circles, starving hungry, did anybody care? Yes, I did. Without you asking me. Because I have your best interests at heart. Forget that camp idiot. He’s earning his own living. Nice and safe there in his garage, polishing rich people’s cars. Did he ever suggest you work with him? Did he ever talk to his boss about you?’
He fell silent, waiting for a sign from me that didn’t come. He puffed out his cheeks and let his arms drop to his sides.
‘Well,’ he went on, irritably, ‘it’s up to you. If you think that mariquita matters more than your career, that’s up to you. Just don’t come and tell me I didn’t warn you.’
I didn’t know what was so wrong with being a Jew or what I risked by associating with one. But Pierre’s warning and his covert blackmail threw me. When I next saw Gino, as we were sitting on the pavement watching two carters having an argument, I asked him if he was a Jew. Gino frowned oddly; I realised that my question wasn’t so much a surprise as a shock. He stared at me as if he couldn’t place me. His lips were quivering. He took a deep breath, then sighed sadly and said, ‘Would that change anything between us?’
I told him it wouldn’t.
‘Then why did you ask me such a stupid question?’ He stood up, leaving me sitting there, and went back home.
He was very angry.
Over the next few days, he avoided me, and I realised how tactless I’d been.
Pierre had got his gold mine back and he was delighted that I was now his, and his alone. ‘You see?’ he said. ‘As soon as you pointed out his little secret, he dropped you. He’s not honest, your Gino.’
I tried to make it up with Gino, but in vain; he was giving me the cold shoulder. I realised how much I’d hurt him, however inadvertently. I hated seeing him angry with me, and doubly so because I’d never meant to cause him any pain. As far as I was concerned, it had been just a casual question. I didn’t care if he was black or white, a believer or an atheist. He was my friend, and his company mattered to me. He’d often taken me to his home, where we would spend hours chatting away in his room. He was a devoted, obedient son. He read to his mother every evening. He would sit down next to her, on the edge of the bed, open a book, and the silence of the house would be filled with magical characters and stories of adventure. Gino’s mother couldn’t get to sleep without this little excursion into the world of books. She would ask her son to continue with such and such a chapter, or reread such and such a poem, and Gino would go back over the pages with an enthusiasm that gave me food for thought. I couldn’t read, but I loved to sit on a stool and listen to him. He had a soft, spellbinding voice which would transport me from one setting to another.
There was a book that his mother loved more than any other. It was called The Miracle Man, written by a parish priest named Edmond Bourg. At first, I thought it was a prayer book. It was all about forgiveness, charity and solidarity, and Gino’s mother would cry over certain passages. It was so moving, my heart contracted like a fist as I listened. I wanted to find out more about the author: was he a prophet or a saint? Gino told me the story of Edmond Bourg, who had apparently hit the headlines in the previous century. Before becoming a priest, Edmond Bourg had been a railway engineer. He was an ordinary man, a bit of a lone wolf, but amiable and considerate. One evening, he caught his wife having torrid sex with one of his colleagues in his own bed. He killed both of them and cut them up into little pieces. The police found the pieces scattered in the woods. Every day, the newspapers would announce the discovery of a piece of flesh or an organ, as if the killer was deliberately trying to traumatise everyone. This macabre story fascinated and horrified the public to such an extent that the trial had to be adjourned several times because of the crowds wanting to attend. Edmond Bourg’s lawyers pleaded that he was insane when he committed the crime. The people demanded blood, and the court sentenced the murderer to death. But on the day of the execution, the blade of the guillotine jammed. As the penal code demanded that the operation continue until the head was separated from the body, the executioner pulled the lever again, without success. Curiously, when the condemned man was removed from the block, the mechanism worked, and when his head was once more placed on the blosk, the blade again refused to fall. The chaplain claimed it was a sign from heaven; Edmond Bourg’s sentence was commuted to hard labour for life. He was sent to Devil’s Island, a penal colony not far from Cayenne, in Guyana, where he was a model prisoner. Some twenty years after he was sentenced, a famous journalist revived the story of Edmond Bourg, and a national debate ensued, with articles and petitions, which resulted in his being pardoned. Edmond Bourg became a priest and spent the rest of his life doing good, spreading the word and helping people come to terms with their
own demons. His book was a huge success when it came out in 1903. Souls in torment drew a great deal of comfort from it, and Gino’s mother always kept it on her bedside table, next to the Bible.
The story of Bourg had impressed me so much that I had asked Gino to teach me to read and write, just as Rémi and Lucette, Xavier’s children, had once taught me arithmetic … And then there had been that one mistake and everything had come crashing down. Since my stupid question, I didn’t know what to do with my evenings. Sometimes, without realising it, I caught myself walking up and down Boulevard Mascara. I would see the light on in Gino’s room and wonder if he too was thinking of me, if he missed me as much as I missed him. Sometimes, driven by an irresistible urge, I would stop outside the door of his house, on the verge of knocking on it, but didn’t dare go further. I was afraid he would close his heart to me once and for all.
Pierre could see how unhappy I was. To keep my mind off Gino, he undertook to wear me out with jobs as exhausting as they were badly paid. In the next few months, he made me do all kinds of things. I was in turn a shop assistant, a stable boy, an upholsterer, a wafer seller, a delivery boy and a coalman. I never did the same job two weeks in a row. Pierre would negotiate my wages without any concern for the trials he was inflicting on me. He would pick me up from my home, leave me at work, pick me up at the end of the day and relieve me of half my pay. When he had nothing for me, he would abandon me. I could knock at his door but he wouldn’t open. If I insisted, he would come out onto the balcony and yell at me. After quarrelling with Gino, I hated him for treating me like that. My pride was hurt, and I decided I wouldn’t take the bait any more. After a few instances of ‘insubordination’, he was the one who started running after me. Now I didn’t open my door to him. I’d look at him from the balcony and ignore his efforts to tempt me. He’d scratch his head, pretending to think, then offer me all kinds of benefits. He’d promise me the moon, but I’d just shake my head.
‘Be reasonable, Turambo. I’m your lucky star. Without me, you won’t go far. I know it’s hard, but we have to stick together. One day, thanks to me, you’ll stand on your own two feet.’
The Angels Die Page 8
