We had been at the farm for a week. At dawn, De Stefano, Salvo and I would set off to conquer the ridges, not to return until lunchtime, sweating, tongues hanging out, but happy. Once we had eaten, we resumed training. After working on the punch bag and practising my feints and dodges, I’d give myself over to Salvo’s restorative massage. In the evening, we joined Ventabren under a tree and drifted through more of his inexhaustible supply of stories. Apart from the spluttering van of the milkman, who appeared every day at nine, we might have been cut off from civilisation.
Whenever the milkman showed up, he shattered the peace of the countryside. He was a man in his early fifties who didn’t look anyone in the face, but was useful for passing on the juicy gossip he had picked up in the surrounding villages. I didn’t pay much attention to his indiscretions. I’d go so far as to say I didn’t like him. He was a strange, shady character, furtive and lecherous, with crafty eyes, and he was also a pervert – I had surprised him with his nose pressed to the window, spying on Fatma in the kitchen and masturbating. He really disgusted me. Seeing him jumping into his van and leaving the farm was, for me, a moment of deliverance, like the sudden disappearance of a splitting headache.
De Stefano, Salvo and I enjoyed ourselves a lot. One morning, we set off to see the sea. We hoisted bags filled with food and drink on our shoulders and climbed the mountain. It took us four hours to reach the dome of a saint’s tomb at the summit. There, we halted and gazed at the sea until we felt as if we were drowning in it.
Irène seldom had lunch with us. I had the impression she didn’t feel comfortable at the farm. Her relationship with her father left a lot to be desired. They hardly spoke to each other. Whenever Alarcon Ventabren started to talk about his life as a champion, Irène would ostentatiously slip away. Something wasn’t right between father and daughter. They lived together as if bound by a moral contract – he clinging to his bygone exploits, she glued to her saddle – but showed no real affection for each other.
Salvo asked if Ventabren was a widower or divorced, but Ventabren preferred to talk about his father. ‘I don’t miss him,’ he told me one evening between two glasses of Phénix anisette. ‘My old man was always either hanging around the seedy parts of town or in prison. When he was young, fascinated by easy money and the shenanigans that go with it, his ambition was to become a gang boss, except that he really wasn’t cut out for it. He hoped to pimp a herd of prostitutes, surround himself with a gang of crooks with scarred faces and live on his income until a rival unseated him. Having fleeced a few lonely old biddies and extorted money from one or two small shopkeepers, he could already see himself swaggering down the boulevards, a beret pulled down low, his fingers covered in huge rings. He’d get into fights at the drop of a hat, in the hope of creating a legend for himself, and never stopped getting his face smashed in by lowlifes on every street corner. The fact was, nobody took him seriously. They all knew he was a loudmouth, full of hot air, and they knew he’d never amount to anything. Coming out of a long stay in prison, my father dreamt of settling down, except that he wasn’t cut out for starting a family either. He lived like an animal, with no presence of mind and no sense of responsibility. He married my mother for her jewellery. Having stripped her of her last centime and gnawed her to the bone, he kept her for practical purposes – at least, that way, he could use our house as a hideout when he had thugs after him. He never took me in his arms. People in the street might ruffle my hair, but not him. Just once, when he’d come home to choose a piece of furniture to sell off, he found me sitting in the doorway of our house and called me by the wrong name. That was the day I realised how much of a stranger he was to me. Then overnight, he vanished into thin air. Some say he stowed away on a liner leaving for the Americas, others that he’d got himself killed in Marseilles. In the 1880s, a man’s life could just go up in smoke and leave no trace. No point searching for him. There were more urgent things to deal with, and not enough time.’
I couldn’t help thinking about my own father every time Ventabren dug up the ghost of his. I saw the Jewish cemetery again, that ragged man closing the gate as if closing the door on a chapter of my life, and a sense of grief again took root in me.
Irène loathed her father’s stories. She’d stay as far away from us as possible in order not to hear a word. Ventabren couldn’t tell a story without turning a party into a wake. He was perfectly well aware of it, but couldn’t help it.
We had dinner later and later to allow our host to make the most of our presence. He was pleased to have us with him, and doubly so when he realised how receptive we were. At the age of fifty-five, Ventabren’s eyes were turned to the past; ahead of him, there was nothing but a terrible blank.
Every night, when we switched off the light in the outhouse to sleep, I would look through my skylight at the lighted window on the first floor of the main house and wait to see Irène’s silhouette. When it appeared on the curtain, I’d watch, unable to take my eyes off it, until the darkness stole it from me; and if it didn’t appear, the shadows would creep over even my most private thoughts and I would get no sleep.
My first face-to-face encounter with Irène was a disaster. I was sitting on the edge of the well. Irène appeared with a rubber bucket, attached it to the pulley rope and flung it into the hole. I took hold of the rope to help her raise the bucket back up. Instead of thanking me, she told me to mind my own business.
‘I was only trying to help, Madame.’
‘I have a servant for that!’ she retorted, grabbing the rope from me.
The next day, as I was finishing my morning cross-country run, our paths crossed again. There was a spring in the hollow of a talweg a few miles from the farm. I liked to dip my feet in it after a last sprint. The water was as cold as if it had come from a block of ice. That morning, Irène had got there ahead of me. She was squatting on a mound of earth, watching her mare drink. I turned back so as not to have to say anything to her. She rode after me and caught up with me on the hillside.
‘Nobody owns that spring,’ she said. ‘You can use it.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘I don’t know what was the matter with me yesterday.’
‘It’s not important.’
‘Are you angry with me?’
‘It’s all forgotten.’
‘Really?’
‘…’
She dismounted and walked beside me. Her perfume wafted around her. She had tied her shirt around her waist, uncovering her flat belly. Her luxuriant breasts jiggled at each step, barely contained by the shirt.
‘I don’t like people doing things for me that I can do myself,’ she said. ‘It annoys me. I have the feeling they confuse me with my father, don’t you see?’
‘No.’
‘You’re right. It was stupid. I see you’re still angry.’
‘With good reason.’
‘I was horrible, but it’s not in my nature.’
I nodded.
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three, Madame.’
‘Madame? Do I look like a constipated old tart?’
‘Not at all.’
‘I’m only six years older than you.’
‘You don’t look it, Madame.’
‘Stop calling me Madame. It doesn’t make me feel any younger.’
I wished she would go away.
She stooped to pick a twig up from the ground and her shirt gaped open even more, freeing a firm white breast. She replaced it as if nothing had happened.
‘In the evening, from my room, I can hear my father pestering you with his stories and I feel sorry for you. You should stop him; he could go on all night.’
‘It doesn’t bother us.’
‘How touching! I suppose he’s letting you know what awaits you when you retire. All boxers end up as mad as him.’
‘Why mad?’
‘You have to be mad to choose getting knocks on your head and blood on your face as a career, don’t you?’
&
nbsp; ‘I don’t believe that.’
‘What do you believe in? Glory? There’s only one kind: a settled family life. That’s all that matters. You can be in heaven, talking to the angels, but if, when you go home, you go back to hell, you’ve really missed the point. My father had everything you need to be happy, a loving wife, a healthy daughter. He never saw them. The only things he cared about were the ringing of the bell and the cheers of the crowd. He died the day he hung up his gloves. Even now, he hasn’t come back to life.’
‘That’s how it goes,’ I said, short on arguments.
‘I don’t agree. No career lasts. One day, you’ll come up against someone stronger than you. Your fans will yell at you to get up, but you won’t hear them. Because everything will be vague and blurred around you. They’ll insult you and curse you, and then they’ll cheer on another gladiator with fresher blood than yours. It’s always been like that in the arena. The spectators have memories as short as their arms. Nobody will dream of helping you back on your feet. In boxing, the gods must have short lives for the passion to be recycled.’
‘It’s the risk we take.’
She got back on her mare. ‘No risk is worth it, champion.’
‘There’s no life without risk.’
‘I agree. But there are those who are subjected to it against their will and those who provoke it and even demand it as a kind of blessing.’
‘Everyone has their own way of seeing things.’
‘Men don’t see things, they fantasise about them.’
‘What about women?’
‘Women don’t think like men. We think the right way; you just think about yourselves. We can immediately home in on what’s essential while you spread yourselves too thinly. Happiness for us is in the harmony of our surroundings. For you, happiness is in conquest and excess. You distrust what’s obvious like the plague and look elsewhere for what’s within your reach. That’s why you end up losing sight of what was yours from the start.’
She pulled on the bridle, made an about-turn and rode off across the plain.
When Filippi came to fetch us, Irène wasn’t there to say goodbye to us. She had left at dawn on her mare, giving our stay an unfinished feeling. Something in that young woman was calling out to me, but I refused to listen. I needed to keep a cool head, not let myself get drawn into any more adventures where the heart has no grip on reason. All the same, getting in the back seat of the car, I couldn’t help turning in all directions in the hope of seeing her come galloping back to the house.
The little square along Rue Wagram was fluttering with pennants. Garlands of paper lanterns and paper stars intertwined in the air. The road had been swept and the paving stones and tree trunks at the crossroads had been whitewashed. The shopkeepers stood in their doorways, arms folded over their chests; kids waited impatiently at the foot of the fences, feverish and unruly; journalists were scribbling in their notepads; all eyes were on the gym with its freshly painted front. The masons and craftsmen had surpassed themselves: the window panes gleamed; the wooden door looked brand new; inside, photographs and framed posters of some of the gods of world boxing adorned the now white walls. Turkish-style toilets had been installed, with taps and showers, and instead of the cubicle there was a real office complete with metal filing cabinet, shelves and cane chairs. As for the ring, it was a magnificent piece of work lit by a spotlight.
De Stefano was smiling from ear to ear. His dream was taking shape. He had been waiting for this moment for years. Stamping nervously, he walked up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
Shaved and scented, his hair washed and oiled, Tobias must have turned his attic upside down to unearth the faded but newly ironed suit he wore with pride.
‘Did you have that undertaker’s costume made by a stonecutter?’ Salvo teased him.
‘No, by your fat sow of a sister.’
‘You should have put on a pair of shorts. How else are they going to admire your fabulous wooden leg?’
‘You know why you’re still alive, Salvo?’ Tobias said, annoyed. ‘Because ridicule has never killed anyone.’
‘No, I mean it. A wooden leg is quite a draw.’
‘Let me tell you something, egghead. I don’t believe in God for a second, but when I see the mug he gave you, I almost feel like singing his praises.’
‘They’re coming!’ someone yelled from the street.
Immediately, the kids left their fence and came and formed two lines outside the door of the gym. Six cars drew up at the crossroads. The Duke, the mayor and a delegation of dignitaries got out with great pomp and gladly posed for the frenzy of photographers. ‘Oran has a fine history,’ the mayor declared to the journalists. ‘Now it is up to us to give her heroes. Soon, due to everyone’s hard work, this establishment will produce great champions.’ The journalists trooped into the gym behind the dignitaries, while the police pushed back the children. Flashbulbs exploded. A film camera was turning.
The delegation inspected the various parts of the gym and congratulated Monsieur Bollocq on the remarkable work he had carried out.
‘Who are these strapping fellows on the posters, Michel?’ the prefect asked.
The Duke, who couldn’t answer, turned to Frédéric, who was at the back. He elbowed his way through the swarm of journalists and reverently indicated the pictures on the walls.
‘These are the greatest boxers in the world, Monsieur. That one’s our national hero, Georges Carpentier, middleweight champion of the world.’
‘It’s an old photograph,’ the mayor said in a learned tone, indicating to Frédéric that it was to him, the elected head of the city, that explanations were due.
‘No, Monsieur, it’s quite recent.’
‘I thought he was older.’
Frédéric realised that the mayor didn’t know much about boxing and that his intervention was a pure formality. ‘Battling Levinsky, an American our Georges knocked out in the fourth round in Jersey City on 12 October 1920,’ he went on. ‘To his right, Tommy Loughran, another American. This one’s Mike McTigue, he’s Irish. Maxie Rosenbloom, American, he’s the current world champion; Jack Delaney, Canadian; Battling Siki, French …’
De Stefano had been expecting to be invited to the ceremony, but neither he nor I nor anyone from our team were shown any consideration. The dignitaries blithely ignored us.
‘If you’d put on shorts, these venerable gentlemen would have been curious enough to ask you if your wooden leg blossomed in the spring,’ Salvo whispered to Tobias. ‘You could have told them about your bravery in the trenches, and in less than a week a medal would have arrived in the post. And we wouldn’t be here gathering dust in the shadows.’
‘We don’t count,’ De Stefano grumbled.
‘It’s because of Tobias’s suit,’ Salvo said. ‘It stinks of bad luck and these gentlemen are afraid it’ll contaminate their fine clothes.’
‘That’s enough,’ De Stefano said. ‘You’re bad jokes are staring to piss us off.’
His speech over, Frédéric was relegated once again to the background, and the Duke invited his guests to continue their visit.
Aggrieved, I went out in the street. The kids had gone back to their corner. Francis, who’d been giving us the cold shoulder since the biased article in Le Petit Oranais, was standing in a carriage entrance, puffing on a cigarette and distractedly stroking a cat with the tip of his shoe. Further back, Gino was leaning on the door of the Duke’s personal car. He hadn’t even taken the trouble to come and say hello to us. Elegant in his neatly fitting three-piece suit, his smile radiant and his face half hidden by dark glasses, he was flirting with Louise, the Duke’s daughter, who was wriggling with pleasure in the back seat. I felt my chest tighten and I quickly turned into an adjoining alley and hurried back to Medina Jedida.
My mother was relaxing in the courtyard. Her Kabyle neighbour, who’d been keeping her company, slipped away when she heard me open the outside door. She walked through the beams of lig
ht that filtered through the gaps in the trelliswork like an optical effect. We had been living together for years, but not once had I managed to glimpse her face. She was a discreet, self-effacing woman; all we knew of her were the hoarse cries she aimed at her little devils all day long.
Wearily, my mother sat up. She had aged. Her tattooed face was like a chewed-up old parchment. Of course, with the money I was earning she was eating and dressing properly but, cut off from her sister Rokaya, she lived mechanically, disorientated in this city with its overwhelming noise and bustle. She missed her native village and the people she had once known. My gifts gave her less and less pleasure. My chosen profession worried her. Whenever I got back from a fight, my face bearing the marks of my opponents’ punches, she would go to her room and pray. As far as she was concerned, I was merely a madman who got into fights all the time, and she dreaded the day when the police would throw me into prison. However much I tried to explain to her that it was a sport, all she could see in my new vocation was violence and distress.
I kissed her on the head. She put her arm round my neck. ‘He’s back,’ she said in a toneless voice.
There was a gleam in her eyes that was impossible to decipher, but I didn’t need to ask her who she meant. I headed for the main room, and there he was, sitting cross-legged on a mat, wrapped in a frayed cape, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched, barely visible beneath its shroud of misery. I stood in the doorway, waiting for him to look up. He didn’t move. It was as if he had died while meditating. His hands rested in his lap like two dead crustaceans. His trousers were torn at the knees and clumsily patched on the sides. He smelt of cold sweat and the dust of remote roads, and in the way he held himself bent over his silence there was a kind of surrender that was pathetic in its despair.
The Angels Die Page 24
