The Angels Die

by Yasmina Khadra

  Trembling, more moved than I ever thought I could be, I crouched in front of him and reached out my hand to his. At the contact, a shudder went through me. He remained quite still, not moving a muscle.

  ‘Father,’ I said, almost inaudibly.

  He sniffed.

  With the tip of my finger, I lifted his head. His broken face was bathed in tears. I took him in my arms and clasped the bundle of bones he had become. We both wept, stifling our sobs as if the whole world might hear us.

  3

  When something keeps turning round and round in your head, the streets do the same. I wasn’t walking, I was going round in circles. I’d intended to go to the café on the corner of Boulevard Mascara and Rue de Tlemcen, but found myself at the bottom of Boulevard National. I’d passed the café without even noticing. My steps led me to the seafront. Again, leaning on the guardrail, I wondered what I was doing there. The harbour hid the sea from me, and the buildings behind me blocked my retreat. I climbed back up to Place d’Armes, only to stop at the foot of a monument and realise that I’d come the wrong way. I wasn’t in the street: I was in my head. It was as if a mischievous dream were playing with my sense of direction. At first, I thought it was my father’s return that had sent my head spinning, but I was wrong. My father was merely a vase abandoned in a corner, a shadow in the gloom. He didn’t speak, preferred to eat alone, locked inside his shell. In comparison with him, the sideboard cut a finer figure.

  A cooper stopped me outside a warehouse. ‘The people in my village have clubbed together to buy a wireless so we can listen to your fights.’

  His voice made my head hurt.

  It was Sunday. With families having left for the beach, Oran was drained of life. The avenues were almost empty. Only a few shops were open and there weren’t many people in the cafés. I had the feeling I was lost in an imaginary city stretching on all sides of me through an endless succession of elusive reflections, distorting mirrors, concealed doors and patches of quicksand. I heard voices, met people, shook hands in a kind of fog. I was drifting, not knowing what to do with myself.

  I hadn’t planned anything for that day. So I was surprised to end up outside the hut of Larbi the fruit seller. My shoes weren’t suited to the uneven path that led to the Ventabren farm, but that wasn’t a sufficient pretext to turn back. If I was here, twenty-five miles from home, on a whim, there must have been a reason.

  By the time I reached the farm, my feet were inflamed. Alerted by Fatma, Alarcon Ventabren was waiting for me under the tree in the courtyard, in his wheelchair. He was pleased to see me. He told me that since our departure the silence of the countryside had been like lead. Even the air, he added, smelt of stale ashes.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to come back and keep me company,’ he said in Arabic. ‘I’m really touched.’

  ‘I need your advice,’ I lied.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place, my friend. A drink before we eat?’

  ‘I’m a Muslim, Monsieur.’

  ‘Do you think God is watching us at this hour? At his age, he must be fast asleep in this heat.’

  ‘You mustn’t talk like that, Monsieur Ventabren. It makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘How can you possibly sit through my cock-and-bull stories if I don’t get you drunk beforehand?’

  ‘I’ll appreciate them more if I stay sober.’

  He laughed. ‘Show me your fist, son. Someone told me it’s carved out of bronze.’ He took my wrist, turned it over and over, weighed it up. ‘Fine piece of workmanship,’ he admitted. ‘Try not to stick it just anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll try, Monsieur.’

  After the meal, Fatma served us mint tea. A slight breeze ruffled the foliage above our heads. I helped Ventabren to sit up in his chair, straightening the cushion that protected him from the hard back.

  ‘Your next match is soon, isn’t it?’

  ‘The end of next month, Monsieur.’

  ‘I hear that Cargo fellow’s a tough customer.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘That’s a bad mistake. You have to know the man you’re going to meet. What do your staff do? Twiddle their thumbs? In my day, we sent spies to gather as much information as possible on the opponent. I knew everything about mine: how he boxed, his technique, his strong points, his failings, his latest fights, which hand he wiped his arse with, the kind of brush he used on his hair. And even then there was always something missing. You don’t climb into a ring blindly.’

  He fell silent.

  Irène had just come out of the house in her riding gear, her eyes more beautiful than the stars in the sky. She leant one shoulder against the pillar of the porch, arms folded over her chest. I immediately understood the reason that had led me to the farm: I needed to see her, to feel her close to me.

  ‘Don’t you have any more stories to tell each other?’ she berated us.

  With that, she headed for the stable. A few minutes later, she galloped away on her mare towards the plain. I was no longer prepared to listen to anyone.

  With Irène gone, the farm had lost its soul.

  When the heat eased off, I took my leave of Ventabren, walked back to the road and waited for the bus.

  *

  The next day, I demanded that Frédéric Pau send me back to the farm to get ready for my fight with Marcel Cargo. The Duke didn’t see any reason why not. De Stefano apologised: he wouldn’t be available before the end of the week because of a family problem. Only Salvo went with me. We found ourselves back in the outhouse, waking up at dawn, running up the vertiginous paths, climbing big rocks and staying up late round lanterns bombarded by insects, much to Ventabren’s delight; every night, I would watch the window opposite my skylight.

  Irène sometimes joined us at mealtimes. She often smiled at me, but I mistrusted her mood swings. The woman was like a rifle. She fired at point-blank range and hit home with every shot. Whenever she joined us, Ventabren would abandon his epic stories. As for Salvo, he would swallow his sarcastic remarks and keep his eyes on his plate. Put in his place on two occasions, he knew he was helpless against Irène, who didn’t really like him. He had tried to outsmart her and had ended up realising that this was no fun. Irène had the insolent self-confidence of challenges won in advance. As no ulterior motive ever escaped her, she would intercept ours before they were even conceived. Nevertheless, we enjoyed her company. She brought a kind of freshness to our meals.

  After my morning runs, while Salvo was walking back to the farm, I would go and cool down at the spring. In truth, I was hoping to meet Irène. The first few days, she didn’t go there to water her mare, then, just as I was starting to despair, she appeared like a blessed ray of sunlight.

  She dismounted, slapped her mare’s rump and crouched on a stone. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  ‘You should spare your animal.’

  ‘She’s my mobile garden.’ She stood up, approached her mare and caressed its coat. ‘When I was little, I wanted to be a champion rider.’

  ‘Didn’t your father approve?’

  ‘No, Jean-Louis came along. He was handsome, intelligent and funny. I was a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old. I fell into his arms like a ripe fruit. We married without waiting. I was happy, and I thought it was going to be like that all my life.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What usually happens in marriages that are too quiet. Jean-Louis started coming home later and later. He was from the city; the calm of the countryside made him nervous. One evening, he put his hands on my shoulders, looked me in the eye and told me he was sorry. And he walked out of my life.’

  ‘He was wrong. I’d never leave such a pretty girl.’

  ‘That’s what he said at the start.’ Her smile returned. ‘Do you like horses, Monsieur Turambo?’

  ‘We had a donkey once.’

  ‘It’s not the same. Horses are noble and they’re therapeutic. When I’m fed up, I jump in the saddle and gallop to the mountains. I feel so light that no anx
iety can weigh me down. I love to feel the wind in my face. I love it when it rushes under my shirt and takes me by the waist like a lover … Sometimes I even have an orgasm that way.’

  The crudity of her words took me aback.

  She burst out laughing. ‘You’re blushing.’

  ‘I’m not used to hearing women talk like that.’

  ‘That only shows you don’t spend enough time with them.’

  She pulled on the bridle of her mare and started on her way. I walked beside her, embarrassed. She kept throwing me sly glances and chuckling.

  ‘There’s nothing shameful about an orgasm, Monsieur Turambo. It’s a moment of grace that restores us to our cardinal senses.’

  Her theory only embarrassed me even more.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Our traditions don’t allow it.’

  ‘So it’s either marriage or sin?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Are you engaged to be married, then?’

  ‘Not yet. I have to think of my career.’

  ‘How do you plan to hold out until you marry?’

  I felt my ears burning.

  She burst out laughing again. With acrobatic agility, she got back in the saddle. ‘Is Turambo your real name?’

  ‘It’s my nickname.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s the name of my village.’

  ‘I see. What’s your real name?’

  ‘I prefer the name of my village. At least that way I know where I come from.’

  ‘Because you don’t know who your parents are?’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s my choice.’

  ‘Well, Monsieur Turambo, you may look like a brute, but you have the soul of a cherub. And though you may always lack daring, please keep your soul. I’ll leave you to your exercises and go back to my ovens. You can’t cook with secrets.’

  She spurred her mare, then stopped after a few paces.

  ‘There’s a dance in Lourmel tomorrow night. How would you like to be my partner?’

  ‘I can’t dance.’

  ‘We’ll watch the others.’

  ‘All right.’

  She raised her hand in a salute and rode off in the direction of the farm.

  I watched her until she disappeared behind the hillocks. As she galloped away, I dreamt of being the wind under her shirt. My heart was beating so loudly, I decided not to continue with my exercises. Irène had the power to elevate the basest instincts to the level of great exploits, and then to silence them just by raising a finger to her mouth.

  I felt an obsession growing in me, one that would never leave me.

  I had been on tenterhooks, waiting for evening to come. I sat in the drawing room, eyes turned to the staircase that led to the first floor. Irène was taking her time. I had heard her having a shower, but she was still getting ready. When at last she appeared at the top of the stairs, I thought she was like something out of a dream, in her white dress with its tight bodice and her hair down to her shoulders. She reminded me of those American actresses who burst through the screen, relegating the sets and their co-stars to the background.

  We cut across the fields to get to Lourmel. In the distance, villages dotted the plain like tiny will-o’-the-wisps. It was a fine night. The full moon wanted the sky for itself, reducing the stars to tiny glimmers. Along with the sound of rodents scurrying through the undergrowth, the air smelt of coral, seaweed engorged with salt and the foam of the reef. It was as if, pining for the earth that belonged to man, the sea had disguised itself as a breeze and had come to ruffle the orchards, move up and down the inlets and tease the church steeples.

  A jackal followed us as far as the asphalted road before turning back, empty-handed and disconcerted.

  Irène strode on calmly in her summer dress and canvas sandals. I had become used to seeing her in shirt and trousers, looking like a tomboy; discovering her as a radiant young girl was a delight. Her perfume filled the countryside with fragrance. A thousand times, my hand brushed against hers without catching hold of it. I was afraid she would react angrily and put me in my place. Irène was as unpredictable as lightning, capable of going from hot to cold in a fraction of a second. She was unusually sensitive, and the same words could make her laugh out loud or fly into a temper. There was a mystery about her I couldn’t fathom. Distant with her father, horrible to Salvo, she aroused an unease in me that faded whenever she rewarded me with a smile. I think she was trying to prove to me that she wasn’t the same with everybody. Ever since our altercation at the well, Irène had treated me with respect. At the same time, her rebellious temperament hadn’t lessened in any way. She wasn’t asking for my forgiveness; she enjoyed my company, nothing more. She felt at peace with herself. And I had the feeling I was privileged.

  The pretty square in Lourmel glowed with a thousand lights. A festive throng danced amid tables whose white cloths were covered with food and bottles of wine. Couples old and young whirled to the sound of an inspired band. On a stage garlanded with pennants, a singer in a dark-red suit acted like a god come down from Olympus. Pomaded, seductive, glittering, he flung his stentorian voice at the sky, his gestures theatrical, his chest all-conquering, his eyes coming to rest on the ladies sitting in the front rows. He knew he had seduced them, they were already crazy for him; in order to finish them off he lowered his eyebrows over his gleaming eyes. Bewitched and floating, they swayed gently on their chairs, pressing handkerchiefs to chests heaving with emotion.

  Irène found us a free bench overlooking the festive esplanade. Children in short trousers frolicked beneath the trees. Young lovers took refuge behind the low wall of the park; some were asleep on the grass. Adolescents were being initiated into the trials of their first flirtations, away from prying eyes. Here and there, a few kisses were exchanged in the darkness, as furtive as the frisson they provoked. It was nice to see, and nice to sense. My native douar was a long way away, slowly dying in a parallel world.

  Irène went off to fetch me some pop and returned with a large plate. ‘I brought you some barbecued meat and some lemonade. Are you sure you don’t want any wine? It’s the best in the region.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

  ‘Well, well,’ said a man, approaching us. ‘Our George Sand has come down off her high horse to walk among the hoi polloi.’

  Irène put the plate down next to me.

  The man was in his thirties, handsome, poised, well-dressed. He wasn’t especially tall, but he had a proud bearing. He took a big drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. The glowing end burst into a multitude of sparks as it hit the ground.

  ‘Good evening, André,’ Irène said in a neutral voice.

  ‘So you still remember my name?’

  ‘How’s your wife?’

  The man pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘She’s down there, dancing like a madwoman.’

  ‘You should join her. Someone might steal her from you.’

  ‘He’d be doing me a favour.’ He clicked his fingers at an Arab waiter who was circulating among the partygoers with a tray, grabbed two glasses of champagne and offered one to Irène. ‘I’m pleased to see you again, my dear.’

  ‘I thought you’d been transferred to Algiers.’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘I heard Jérôme the milkman tell my father.’

  ‘No, they’re keeping me in Aïn Témouchent until further notice. Tell me about yourself. What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Well, it seems to suit you. You’re prettier than ever. What do you do all day long, so far from civilisation?’

  ‘I have no complaints.’

  ‘But I feel sorry for you. You should be having fun, not turning your back on the world … I’ve bought a little boat. There are wonderful creeks and unspoilt beaches to the west of Rachgoun. They can only be reached from the sea. I can sho
w them to you if you like.’

  ‘I’m sure your wife would appreciate them more than I would.’

  ‘I’m talking about you.’

  ‘I’m not available.’

  The man swallowed a gulp of champagne and smacked his lips as he searched for more persuasive arguments. Suddenly, he pretended to notice my presence. He took Irène by the elbow and led her away from the bench a little. ‘Did you win your pet in a shooting gallery?’

  He spoke about me so rudely that if I’d been in his way he would probably have walked straight over me. As far as he was concerned, I didn’t count; I was merely a speck in his eye, which would vanish if he blinked.

  ‘Please, André. I’ve only just arrived. Don’t force me to go home.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me where you won your guard dog.’

  ‘I warn you, he bites.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, turning her to face him, ‘you should put a muzzle on him.’

  With a peremptory gesture, Irène asked me to keep out of what she considered a strictly personal matter.

  Amused, André sneered. ‘Still as wild and unconventional as ever.’

  ‘André, I don’t like what you’re doing.’

  ‘Why, do you think what you’re doing is right? You come here with a dirty Arab and you think nobody’s going to mind. You like showing off, don’t you? Whenever you emerge from your cave, everybody has to know about it. But be careful, people have venomous tongues around here. There’ll be a lot of gossip.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn.’

  ‘I thought as much. Provocation is second nature to you. Only this time, you’ve gone too far. You can’t come to a dance with an Arab. Arabs aren’t allowed here. They can’t tell a light bulb from a magic spell … Look at him. He’s only just got down from his tree.’

  ‘Please, André.’

  ‘Tell me, what has he got that I haven’t?’