The Angels Die

by Yasmina Khadra

‘As far as I’m concerned, a boxing match or a cockfight, it’s all the same.’

  ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘There are others.’ She moved her finger over my lips, gently, tenderly. ‘What’s your real name?’

  ‘Amayas.’

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Leopard, I think, or something like that.’

  ‘Amayas … I like it. It sounds like a girl’s name. It’s certainly better than Turambo.’

  ‘Maybe, but there’s nothing behind it. Whereas Turambo tells my life story.’

  ‘Will you tell me your life story one day?’

  ‘As often as you like.’

  She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at me, smiling, then again snuggled up to me. ‘Do you love me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then say it … Say you love me.’

  ‘Do you doubt it?’

  ‘I want to hear you say it. It matters to a woman, much more than a cockfight.’

  ‘I’m crazy about you.’

  ‘Say I love you …’

  ‘We don’t say that kind of thing in our tribes.’

  ‘Love isn’t a thing.’

  ‘I’ve never heard anyone say it at home.’

  ‘You aren’t at home, you’re with me. Go on, I’m listening …’

  She closed her eyes and listened carefully. Little beads of sweat were glistening on her silky skin. Her smell filled my head with tiny sparks. I wanted to take her again and never let her go.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  ‘Irène …’

  ‘Yes?’ she said, encouragingly.

  ‘Please …’

  ‘No, you’re going to say it or I won’t believe you, ever again.’

  I turned towards the wall. She took my chin and turned my head so that I was facing her, although my eyes were closed. ‘This is where it happens, young man.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I …’

  ‘I …?’

  ‘I love you,’ I said at last.

  ‘You see? It’s so simple …’

  She opened her eyes and I drowned in them. We made love until midday.

  One hour before the fight with Marcel Cargo, an electricity blackout plunged the audience into an indescribable panic. There was talk of sabotage and a possible postponement of the match. The police brought in reinforcements in order to prevent intruders from getting into the hall and spectators from getting out. Nervousness spread through the changing rooms, which were lit by pocket torches. As the team of technicians were taking a long time to restore the current, lorries were dispatched to the scene and trained their headlights on the windows of the building to calm those people who were afraid of the dark. Frédéric kept going out for news and coming back empty-handed. The atmosphere was turning nightmarish. I tried to keep calm, but De Stefano’s anxiety was contagious. He couldn’t keep still, venting his anger now on the organisers, now on Salvo. Mouss came and paid us a visit in the changing room. ‘It’s only a power cut,’ he said. ‘Apparently, it’s common in Bône. Everything will soon be back to normal. In my opinion, it’s a diversion intended to distract the opponent. The people of Bône are famous for their loyalty to their own. They’re capable of all kinds of funny business to make life hard for champions from elsewhere.’ He gave me a few pieces of advice, insisted I keep a cool head and apologised that he had to go because he didn’t want to lose his seat.

  A great cry of relief shook the hall when the lights came back on. From the changing rooms, we could hear people calling to each other, chairs being shifted; the return to normality relaxed us and De Stefano was at last able to sit on a bench and pray.

  There was a huge crowd in the hall, which was shrouded in cigarette smoke. We had to elbow our way through to the ring. When Marcel Cargo appeared, the audience went wild. He was a tall, well-built fellow, so white-skinned he looked as if he was coated in flour, his hair close-cropped, his eyes inscrutable. He was quite a good-looking man in spite of his broken nose and thick mouth. He was a few pounds lighter than me, but he had a hard body and long arms. He threw himself at me before the bell had stopped ringing. It was obvious he’d prepared well. Quick, agile, he dodged my blows only to retaliate immediately with tremendous precision. He moved easily, his impressive reach keeping me at a distance, and evaded my traps with an elegance that delighted the audience. For the first three rounds, Marcel Cargo led on points. I found it hard to place my hook. Cargo was like an eel. Whenever I tried to get him in a corner, he would push me away and, with an acrobatic move, get back to the middle of the ring, his legs elusive, his right forceful. In the fourth round, he cut open my eyebrow. The referee checked the seriousness of my wound and declared me fit to continue the fight. My affected eye swelled: I could only half see, but my faculties were intact. I was just waiting for the moment to activate my left hook. Cargo was wonderfully supple and had great technique, but I knew I could get to him. In the fifth round, he made his fatal mistake. He knocked me to the ground for the second time. The referee started the count. I pretended to be dazed. Marcel took the bait. He put all his strength into a final attack, hoping to finish me off. In his frenzy, he let his guard down and my left struck him hard. He turned full circle, arms hanging loose, head tilted over towards his shoulder. I didn’t need to deliver the knockout blow; he was done for before he hit the floor. A deathly silence fell over the hall. The crowd froze in their seats, as stunned as my opponent. The only sound came from the manager, yelling at his protégé to get up. Cargo didn’t move. He lay on his back, unconscious, his gum shield askew. The referee finished the count and asked the seconds up into the ring. They couldn’t wake Cargo. There were more and more people on the platform. The referee sensed that things might get out of hand, climbed discreetly over the ropes and vanished into the crowd. Suddenly, the manager rushed at me, screaming, ‘I want to see what he’s got in his glove … I want to see what he’s got in his glove … Nobody’s ever knocked Marcel out like that … It’s not possible … That filthy Arab has something in his glove.’ Salvo repelled an assailant, received a headbutt, hit back, and the fight started. In a few minutes, the brawl spread through the hall, setting Christians against Muslims in a frenzy of flying chairs and fierce blows, accompanied by a cacophony of insults and threats. The police rushed into the hall and quickly evacuated the dignitaries and officials before rushing at the troublemakers and the Araberbers. It was a mad, insane spectacle. Screams and whistles rang out over the sound of chairs being smashed. The lights were switched off and everyone rushed to the emergency exits in total confusion.

  We left Bône that same night, for fear we might be attacked in the hotel. The eight of us piled into the dilapidated van of an Arab grocer who, moved by our plight, agreed to get us out of town. He drove us to a station in the middle of nowhere, some forty miles away. We took the first train to Algiers, then from Algiers the first connection for Oran, where a delegation was waiting for us with flowers and pennants. My victory over Marcel Cargo had spread like wildfire throughout the city. L’Écho d’Oran devoted three whole pages to it. Even Le Petit Oranais got in on the act, for once praising the achievements of a ‘son of the city’.

  The Duke gave a magnificent reception at the Bastrana Casino. The guests were hand picked. High-ranking officials, uniformed top brass, influential businessmen and local politicians mingled in a diffuse murmur. The Bollocqs received congratulations and declarations of allegiance at the entrance to the casino. All the guests were determined to greet them. The Duke played along, with the solemnity of a monarch. He loved being the centre of attention. I wasn’t the hero; he was. I hated the way he displayed me like a trophy before dismissing me a minute later so he could show off some more. What did I actually mean to him? A racket, a conjuring trick, a mere puppet? In truth, sandwiched between his shadow and mine, nobody was especially interested in me.

  The Bastrana was bustling. A band played popular tunes. Gino was busy flirting with Louise, satisfying her every whim.
De Stefano had disappeared. I didn’t know what to do with myself or whom to talk to. I felt cramped in my overly stiff suit, hemmed in by partygoers, their wine-soaked breath going right through me. From time to time, a stranger would introduce me to another stranger, who would chuckle a vague ‘So this is the champion’ before abandoning me to court one of the many movers and shakers there, because this kind of get-together was above all an opportunity to establish lucrative contacts and keep one’s address book up to date.

  I didn’t like social occasions. They bored me! Always the same fake camaraderie, the same forced laughter, the same subtly poisonous words. In the midst of these prestigious people, surrounded by warbling ladies and distinguished gentlemen, I was nothing but a fighting cock arousing more curiosity than admiration. Many merely congratulated me from a distance in order not to have to shake my hand. I had the feeling I’d got off at the wrong floor, that I was in exile. This wasn’t my world. I hated this pack of social climbers, substitute snobs and timeservers. Such people made me uncomfortable. They were only interested in gain: gaining ground, gaining money, coming out on top. Careerists, industrialists, men of independent means or retired buccaneers, they were all from the same mould, thought only of making a profit and getting ahead, devoid all the while of the slightest generosity, like handsome faces without a shadow of a smile. In their view, if you had money, you were worth money. If you were broke, you were of no interest. This was a long way from Medina Jedida, Eckmühl, the Derb, Saint-Eugène, Lamur or Sidi Lahouari, where good humour defied hardship. We had our show-offs, our tough guys, our big shots, but our kind had heart and at times even restraint. For those of us in the poor neighbourhoods, putting on airs was merely a good-natured bit of fun, whereas for the elite in the centre of town it was second nature. I was conscious that the world was made that way, that there were well-off families and poor families, and that there must be a rhyme and reason for this. But with these individuals in their white collars stepping on my feet without apologising because I was so invisible to them, I didn’t think I could ever get anywhere; as far as they were concerned, I was simply a goose that laid golden eggs but would go straight in the cooking pot when I stopped laying.

  I went out to get some air.

  There is nothing worse than an idol nobody is interested in.

  Outside, an endless queue of cars waited on the avenue. The chauffeurs chatted here and there in small groups, puffing at their cigarettes; some dozed behind their wheels.

  I asked Filippi to drive me to Boulevard Mascara.

  ‘I’m waiting for Gino,’ he said.

  ‘He’s enjoying himself. He’ll be in there for a while.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Those are my instructions.’

  I took the tram to Place d’Armes and got back to Rue du Général-Cérez on foot. I was furious.

  Alarcon Ventabren wasn’t unaware of my feelings for his daughter. I was at the farm practically every day and sometimes spent the night there. Irène seemed happy with me. We loved to stroll in the woods and go shopping together. In Lourmel, people were getting used to seeing us side by side. At first, unkind comments marred our shopping expeditions, then, because Irène would give as good as she got, we were left alone.

  I was learning to drive in order to buy a car. I wanted to take Irène far away, where nothing could spoil our romance. A moment with her filled me with happiness. Whenever the time came for me to get back to Oran, I grew bad-tempered.

  I felt like giving it all up.

  At the gym, I had become so thin-skinned that the slightest criticism seemed huge to me. I couldn’t bear anyone’s remarks. Gino had given up trying to lecture me. He did as he pleased when it came to Louise. If he had the right to play the seducer, why not me? De Stefano tried not to upset me, but his sentimentality got on my nerves too.

  Only at the farm did I regain a little calmness.

  One Sunday, on a deserted beach, as Irène let the waves lap against her legs, her dress pulled up over her knees, I started drawing geometric shapes on the sand with a piece of wood.

  ‘What are you writing?’ she called, her hair flowing in the midday breeze.

  ‘I’m drawing.’

  ‘What are you drawing?’

  ‘Your face, your eyes, your mouth, your shoulders, your chest, your hips, your legs …’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘No. You might distract me.’

  She emerged from the water, amused and curious, and bent to look at my childish scribble. ‘Is that what I look like?’

  ‘It’s just a sketch.’

  ‘I didn’t know my legs were so thin, my head’s as round as a pumpkin, and my hips, my God, how horrible! … How can you be in love with a fright like me?’

  ‘The heart doesn’t ask questions. It ploughs straight on, and that’s it.’ I took her in my arms. ‘I’m only happy when I’m with you.’

  She abandoned herself to my embrace and tenderly moved her fingers over my cheek. ‘I love you, Amayas.’

  A bolder wave than the others came up and licked at our ankles. As the water receded, it erased my drawing as if by magic.

  Irène kissed me on the mouth.

  ‘I want to share my life with you,’ I said.

  She gave a start. With all my might, I prayed she wouldn’t burst out laughing. She didn’t. She looked at me in silence, her lips brushing mine; she trembled against me. ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  She broke free and walked over to a rock. We sat down side by side. Between our feet, little greenish crabs were playing hide and seek, almost imperceptible in the eddying of the foam. The horizon was veiled in sea spray. The squawking of the seagulls bounced off the reef, as sharp as razor cuts.

  ‘You’ve caught me off guard, Amayas.’

  ‘We’ve been together for months. When I think about the future, I can’t imagine it without you.’

  Her eyes ran to question the sea, then returned to put me to the test. ‘I’m older than you.’

  ‘I don’t care about your age.’

  ‘But I do.’

  ‘I love you, that’s all that matters. I want to marry you.’

  The lapping of the backwash sounded a hundred times louder.

  ‘This kind of decision can’t be taken lightly,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. There isn’t the slightest doubt in my mind: it’s you I want.’

  She put her hand on my mouth to stop me. ‘Be quiet and let’s listen to the sound of the sea.’

  ‘It won’t teach us anything we don’t already know.’

  ‘And what do we know, Amayas?

  ‘What we want with all our heart.’

  ‘What do you know about my heart?’

  Her voice was soft and measured. My heart was pounding. I dreaded rejection, dreaded the thought that she would snub me like Aïda. Irène was thinking. She looked sad. I took her hands, and she didn’t remove them.

  ‘I’d like to start a family,’ she said. ‘But not at any price.’

  ‘Name your price.’

  She looked me up and down, a dubious gleam in her eyes. ‘I’m a country girl, Amayas. I love simple things. To have a simple husband, a simple life, no clamour, no commotion.’

  ‘Don’t you think I can give you that?’

  ‘No, I don’t. A wife can’t share her husband with the crowd.’

  I tried to object, but she placed her hand on my mouth again and kissed me.

  ‘Let’s not complicate things,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s enjoy the present and let the future look after itself.’

  I wasn’t disappointed. Irène hadn’t said no.

  A young carter took us as far as the road. Sitting in the back, our hands gripping the edge of the cart and our feet hanging out, we watched the sea launch its regiments of foam onto the beach. Irène was silent. Whenever she saw me looking at her, her shoulders contracted.

  We waited for the bus in silence, sitting under a tree.

&nbs
p; In the evening after dinner, we helped Ventabren into bed and then went for a walk around the estate to clear our heads. In our part of the world, autumn is a spoilsport. Once summer is over, the cicadas fall silent and faces turn grey. We are a people of the sun; the slightest imperfection in our sky unsettles us. When the weather is fine, our thoughts are bright and any small thing excites us. But all it takes is for a cloud to blot out our sun and our soul darkens. Irène was procrastinating because of the cold, I was sure of it. We sat down on the edge of the well to gaze at the countryside. On the plain, shrouded in mystery, the lights of the village shimmered like dying fireflies. Irène had her shawl pulled tight around her, and her hands lay in her lap. She hadn’t said a word since the beach. I suffered her silence like a wound. Had I been clumsy? Had I upset her? She didn’t seem to be angry with me, but I couldn’t understand the sadness on her face.

  ‘No,’ she said, sensing I was about to take her hand, ‘leave me alone.’

  ‘Did I hurt you?’

  ‘You upset me.’

  ‘I’ll be a good husband.’

  ‘You can’t be. I’m the daughter of a boxer. I know what a boxer’s family life is like. It’s no laughing matter.’

  ‘I know some who —’

  ‘Please,’ she cut in, ‘you don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘I’m not going to be a boxer all my life.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’ll be too old for you by the time you hang up your gloves. And you’ll be too damaged to make up for lost time.’

  Droplets of rain started falling here and there. The wind rose a notch, cold, almost icy. A large cloud moved in front of the moon, swallowing it as it passed.

  ‘I don’t like depending on something I can’t control,’ she sighed. ‘I want to stay mistress of my marriage, do you understand? I don’t want to have to worry myself sick because my husband is gambling with our life in a boxing ring … I love this hill. One day, I’ll plant vines here and watch them grow. The sea salt will give me good grapes, which I’ll gather with my own hands. I’ll have a few cows too. That way, my mornings won’t be disturbed by the disgusting spluttering of the milkman’s van. With a bit of luck, I’ll raise three or four horses. I’ll spend my days watching them graze and rear in the open air. That’s my dream, Amayas. As simple as that.’