I had a champion’s instincts, he would say.
Rodrigo sometimes came back, playing the victim, brandishing an ‘enemy’ newspaper, inventing deadly conspiracies. He wasn’t just eccentric, he was insane. Some people at the gym didn’t rule out the possibility that one of these days the poor devil would end up killing someone or setting fire to a newspaper office. Tobias was convinced this case of split personality would end badly. Sometimes, in sheer exasperation, he would take it upon himself to throw the Portuguese kid out. Rodrigo would continue his performance in the street, rousing the kids and the dogs, in the hope of seeing De Stefano come out to calm him down, except that De Stefano no longer needed to encourage anyone now that he believed the good old days were back.
When at last, after months of waiting, I was allowed to get in the ring and face a sparring partner, it was as if all at once I was reborn, discovering a secret faith buried in my unconscious. I was on a pedestal, noisily demanding laurel wreaths a thousand times bigger than my head. I knew immediately, as my opponent tried in vain to dodge my punches, that I was made for boxing. People were already talking about my left hook and I hadn’t even had my first fight.
2
My first fight was on the third Sunday of February in 1932.
I remember there wasn’t a wisp of cloud in the sky.
We took the bus for Aïn Témouchent very early in the morning: De Stefano, Francis the pianist, who handled the gym’s paperwork, Salvo the second, Tobias and me. De Stefano hadn’t given permission for Gino to come with us.
I was nervous. I was shivering a little, probably because of the four days of hammam I’d imposed on myself to make weight. On the seat in front of me, a veiled old woman was trying to calm two unruly chickens in a basket. A few peasants in turbans were also on the bus, silent and morose. Some Roumis sat at the front, one of them smoking a pipe that made the atmosphere, which already smelt of petrol fumes, stink even more.
I opened the window to let in some air and watched the landscape drift past.
The countryside was green, glittering with dew in the rising sun like millions of sparks. On either side, the orange groves of Misserghin looked like Christmas trees.
De Stefano was leafing through a magazine. He was trying to appear confident, but I sensed how tense he was, clinging to his magazine, stooped, his face inscrutable. His silence spoke for him. For two years he’d been waiting to finally see one of his protégés in a ring that mattered. He was only a believer when he was forced to be, and I’d seen him cross himself before he got on the bus.
We were a few miles from Lourmel when I saw her …
A beauty, on horseback, her hair blowing in the wind; she was galloping flat out on the ridge of a hill, as if she had emerged from the blazing dawn to seize the day. As if drawn in Indian ink, her slender silhouette stood out clearly against the pale-blue horizon, like a magic pattern on a screen.
‘That’s Irène,’ De Stefano whispered in my ear. ‘She’s the daughter of Alarcon Ventabren, a former champion who’s now confined to a wheelchair. They have a farm behind the grove over there. Some really good boxers sometimes go there to recharge their batteries before big fights … Beautiful, isn’t she?’
‘She’s too far away to get a proper idea.’
‘Oh, I assure you she’s dynamite, is Irène. As pretty and wild as a freshwater pearl.’
The horsewoman climbed a hillock and disappeared behind a line of cypresses.
It was as if all at once the countryside had lost its beauty spot.
Long after she had gone, her image stayed in my head, giving rise to a strange feeling. I knew nothing about her, apart from a name whispered by De Stefano over the rumble of the bus. Was she young, blonde or brunette, tall or short, married or single? Why had she taken over the countryside, replacing the daylight and everything else? Why did that fleeting apparition refuse to go away? If I’d crossed her path, if I’d had her face directly in front of me, I would have attributed the quiver that went through me to a kind of love at first sight and thus found an explanation for the dizziness that followed. But she was only a remote, elusive figure speeding to some unknown destination.
Later, I would understand why an unknown horsewoman had, for no apparent reason, raised so many questions for me.
But that day, on the morning of that third Sunday in February 1932, I was a long way from guessing that I had just met my destiny.
The ring had been set up in the middle of a cleared stretch of waste ground at the entrance to the town. The scaffolding left a lot to be desired, but the organisers had transformed the place into a party zone. Hundreds of pennants and tricolour flags flapped on ropes and around poles erected for the occasion. From the bus, you could see workmen hurrying to put up the last garlands before the match, which was due to start at one in the afternoon. A little welcoming committee greeted us as we got off the bus. We were quickly shown to an isolated policeman’s hut, not far from the stadium. De Stefano wasn’t happy. He had been promised a hotel, photographers and journalists, as well as a good meal before the match, and now it looked almost as if they were hiding us. A large man in a severe suit tried to explain to us that the mayor’s instructions were clear and he was merely carrying them out. De Stefano refused to be fobbed off and threatened to return to Oran immediately. Someone ran off to fetch one of the organisers. He appeared, a broad smile on his face, took De Stefano aside, put his arm round his shoulders and spoke into his ear. De Stefano demonstrated his anger, stamping on the ground to underline his threats, then, when the man slipped an envelope into his pocket, he lowered his voice and his gestures grew less brusque.
‘More funny business,’ sighed Francis the pianist, who hadn’t missed a thing.
De Stefano came back to us, pretending to be indignant. He ordered us to go into the hut and get ready, then went back to the organiser.
The hut smelt like a putrid coffin. There was a thin metal wardrobe in a corner, a school desk with a fitted bench and a corroded inkwell on the rim, two stools and a ramshackle camp bed. The paneless window looked out onto a path that led to a bare hillock where an old dog was looking in all directions, its tongue hanging out. For a historic day, it was depressing.
‘You’d better get changed,’ Salvo said. ‘And please try to knock the bastard out in the first round. I don’t want to be gathering dust here.’
Salvo had also been expecting a warm welcome. As a native of Oran, he couldn’t stand being treated this way by provincials.
Tobias wasn’t exactly delighted either. Something was bothering him. He hadn’t liked the way De Stefano had become less forceful because of an envelope he hadn’t even opened.
For his part, De Stefano pretended to take exception to everything, but he was totally unconvincing. The organiser, aware that he had the upper hand, was more relaxed; he spoke with an affected air, his hands in his pockets, and, at the slightest thing, he would throw his head back and let out a neighing laugh, pleased to see the first spectators converging on the stadium in their best clothes and straw boaters.
I opened my bag and started to change.
Tobias began fidgeting on the camp bed. He leant over to Salvo and said, ‘I have more and more problems with women.’
‘What kind of problems?’ Salvo said, scratching behind his ear.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I don’t live in your head.’
Tobias leant closer and said in a low voice, ‘Before going to the brothel, I’m on heat, and, as soon as I’m in the room with a whore, it’s like I’ve taken a cold shower.’
‘You don’t have to take just any of them.’
‘I’ve tried with several and it still hasn’t worked.’
‘What do you want me to do about it, Tobias? If you can’t manage with your cock, use your wooden leg, that’ll be a real thrill.’
‘I’m not joking. It’s serious … You’re good at healing things. I thought maybe you had some tricks, potions, something like that
. I’ve tried all kinds of methods, but I’m getting nowhere.’
Salvo assumed a solemn air and put his hands together under his nose to think. After meditating like a Buddhist monk, he looked up at Tobias. ‘Have you tried the Hindu method?’
‘I don’t know it.’
Salvo nodded sagely and said, ‘Well, according to a revered fakir, to obtain the ideal erection, what you have to do is sit down on your finger.’
‘Ha-ha. I suppose you think you’re funny?’
Angry now, Tobias went out into the yard, pursued by Salvo’s sardonic laughter.
A little boy in short trousers arrived on his bicycle, with a basket full of fruit, bottles of pop and sandwiches. Before leaving again, he asked me if I was the boxer and wished me good luck. De Stefano thanked him on my behalf and pushed him gently towards the exit. We ate in silence. Outside, we could hear the roar of the crowd around the ring.
Salvo bandaged my fists, tied my gloves and realised he had forgotten my gum shield. De Stefano shrugged his shoulders and asked everyone else to leave except me.
‘You have to take it easy, son,’ he said, embarrassed, when we were alone. ‘This is a friendly match.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning there are no bets. It’s the show that matters, not the result. People are here to have a good time. So don’t get too excited and make the pleasure last. Keep your left hook for next time.’
‘What is all this? I thought this was going to be a serious match.’
‘I thought so too. The mayor of Aïn Témouchent lied to me.’
‘In that case, why not cancel and go home?’
‘I don’t want any problems with the council, Turambo. And besides, it’s not the end of the world. It’s still a fight. You’ll get a chance to see what it’s like to have a hostile audience. You have eight rounds. The organisers decided on that. Try and see it through to the end. You don’t have to finish off your opponent before that. In fact, you shouldn’t. It’d spoil the party.’
‘The party?’
‘I’ll explain later.’
He wiped his face with a handkerchief and asked me to follow him outside. He was so sad for me that I stopped complaining.
The stadium was divided in two by wire fencing. Inside, the stony part of the waste ground had vanished beneath the crowd. There were only men in suits and white hats, some with their children on their shoulders. Behind the fence were a few Araberbers in burnouses and Arab kids perched at the height of the barbed wire to see over the heads of the crowd.
I waited a good twenty minutes in the ring before my opponent arrived. And what an arrival! The town hero appeared in a horse-drawn carriage, preceded by a blaring brass band. Cheering wildly, the crowd stood back as the procession passed. Standing on his seat, my opponent raised his arms to greet his fans. He was a tall, strapping, fair-haired fellow, his head shaven over his temples, with a long thick lock of hair falling over his face. He was hamming it up, shadow-boxing, flattered by the pennants frantically waving around him. Servants helped him out of his carriage and into the ring. The clamour grew even louder when he again brandished his gloves. He gave me just a quick glance before once again offering himself up to the crowd.
De Stefano avoided my eyes in embarrassment.
The referee motioned my opponent and me to approach. He gave us our instructions and sent us back to our corners. As soon as the bell rang, that huge mass of muscle, who was a whole head taller than me, rushed at me and started to grind me down, galvanised by the lively yells of the crowd. He had no technique, he was banking on his strength. His aim was rough; he simply lashed out. I let the squall pass and managed to push him away. My first left hook made him take several steps back. Shaken, he stood there for a few seconds in bewilderment before coming back to his senses. He hadn’t been expecting my counter. After moving around me, sizing me up, he got me in a corner and covered me with his hulking body. De Stefano yelled at me to use my right, just to remind me of his instruction to ‘make the pleasure last’. I was disgusted. My opponent kept letting his guard down; I could have knocked him out any time I wanted. At the end of the third round, he started to tire. I begged De Stefano to let me finish him off. I couldn’t stand being just a punchbag for a conceited idiot any longer. But De Stefano wouldn’t yield. He admitted to me, while Salvo was cooling me down, how much he regretted the way things had turned out, and promised me it wouldn’t happen again. Just this once, he said, I had to play the game through to the end because he’d given his word to the organisers.
The rottenness of it stuck in my throat. I tried as best I could to dismiss my black thoughts, but anger kept gaining the upper hand. I was punching now to hurt. My opponent reacted in a surprising way. When my blows hit home, he deliberately staggered from one rope to the other or else bent double, waggling his behind and pretending to throw up over the referee. Clearly he was just playing to the gallery. There was no tension in his face, no doubt in his eyes, just a theatrical, grotesque, ridiculous aggressiveness. Only one thing mattered to me: I wanted this nonsense to stop! This wasn’t my day; there was nothing historic about this damned Sunday. And to think that the night before, I had been so worried about my first fight that I hadn’t slept a wink! I was so incensed that I found myself popping out my left, which stopped my opponent’s clownish kicks dead in their tracks. He again had a few seconds of confusion, as if he suddenly couldn’t place me, then resumed his attacks, hitting any old how before retreating, pleased with himself, and monkeying around for the audience. He was playing the clown, concerned more about the amusement of the crowd than my retaliation.
This farce went on until the sixth round. Against all expectation, the referee decided to stop the match and officially declare my opponent the winner. The crowd went wild. I looked for De Stefano. He had retreated behind our corner. My opponent swaggered around the ring, arms raised, eyes popping out of his head in childish joy … It was only on the way back, on the bus, that I learnt that the hero of the day was called Gaston, that he was the eldest son of the mayor of Aïn Témouchent, and that he wasn’t a boxer at all but had fought this, his first fight, as a way of celebrating his father’s birthday. Next year, he might pay for a swimming contest, or else a football match during which his teammates would make sure that he scored the winning goal after the referee had rejected those of the opposing team.
De Stefano tried to talk me round. I changed seats every time he came and sat down next to me. Tiring of it, he went and sat at the back of the bus. I felt his eyes on the back of my neck all the way to Oran.
‘I told you I’m sorry, damn it!’ he exploded when we got off the bus. ‘You want me to go down on my knees or what? I swear I didn’t know. I genuinely thought the boxer was a local champion. The organisers assured me he was.’
‘Boxing isn’t a church service,’ Francis the pianist said, anxious to see De Stefano take out the envelope the official had slipped into his pocket. ‘The paths of glory are paved with trapdoors and banana skins. When money’s involved, the devil is never very far away. There are sponsored fights, fixed fights, fights lost in advance, and when you’re an Arab, the only way to deal with biased referees is to drop your opponent so that he doesn’t get up again.’
‘This is between me and my champion,’ De Stefano cut in. ‘We don’t need an interpreter.’
‘Understood,’ Francis said, looking significantly at De Stefano’s pocket.
De Stefano took out the envelope, extracted a wad of banknotes, counted it and gave each person his share. Tobias and Salvo took theirs and left, pleased that they hadn’t come back empty-handed in spite of my ‘defeat’. Francis remained where he was, not happy with his cut.
‘What do you want, my photograph?’ De Stefano said.
Francis immediately beat a retreat.
‘His eyes are bigger than his belly, that Francis,’ De Stefano grunted. ‘I’ve divided it equally, but because he knows how to sort out the paperwork and do the typing, he thinks
he deserves more than the rest of us.’
‘I don’t want your money, De Stefano. You can give it to Francis.’
‘Why? It’s fifty francs, damn it. Some people would sell their mother-in-law for less than that.’
‘Not me. I don’t want money that’s haram.’
‘What do you mean, haram? You didn’t steal it.’
‘I didn’t earn it either. I’m a boxer, not a comedian.’
I left him standing there in the middle of the street and ran to join Gino on Boulevard Mascara.
*
Gino wasn’t in a good mood. He didn’t look up when he heard me come in. He was sitting barefoot at the table in the kitchen in his vest, dipping a piece of bread into an omelette he had just taken off the stove. Since the death of his mother, he had been unusually moody and no longer turned a deaf ear when he was provoked. His language had grown harsher, and so had his look. At times, I had the feeling I was disturbing him, that he didn’t want me in his home. Whenever I slammed the door to go back to my mother’s, he wouldn’t try to run after me. The next day, he would waylay me on my way out of the gym. He wouldn’t apologise for his behaviour the day before and would act as if nothing had happened.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me how it went in Aïn Témouchent?’
Gino shrugged.
‘The only things missing were Buster Keaton and a pianist in the hall.’
‘I don’t care,’ he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
‘Are you angry with me?’
He pounded furiously on the table. ‘How dare you let that imbecile treat me that way? I’m not a dog. You should have shut his mouth and demanded that I go with you.’
The Angels Die Page 14
