The Angels Die

by Yasmina Khadra

  I found his ideas questionable, but I respected his age and experience too much to ask him what he had done to his wife and what he was doing in a wheelchair, turning his back on the rest of the world. I felt too sorry for him in his decrepit state to tell him that no field of honour can equal a woman’s bed, that no glory can make up for a lost love.

  Gino was depressed. According to a neighbour, he’d been shut away at home for four days, with the door and shutters closed. His face lined, his hair dishevelled, he sat bent over the kitchen table, his head in his hands, an empty bottle of brandy next to an overturned glass. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him drunk before. His braces dangled on either side of the chair and his vest was an embarrassment.

  He looked up at me with a hangdog expression.

  ‘Were you with the guys who went to bother Ventabren?’

  He made a vague movement with his wrist. ‘Piss off.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question, Gino. Were you with them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask them?’

  ‘Who were they?’

  Gino swept the table with the back of his hand. The bottle and the glass fell to the floor and smashed. ‘Wasn’t that performance of yours enough for you? Now you have to come and piss me off in my own home.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘The two guys from Marseilles. You don’t want to rub them up the wrong way, I warn you. When they invest a penny, they see to it that it makes them a fortune. They’re counting on you and they’re very bad losers.’

  ‘Are you trying to scare me, Gino?’

  ‘What’s the point when you can’t see the danger?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because you don’t listen.’ He pushed back his chair and got unsteadily to his feet, his mouth twisted with rage. ‘You’re pigheaded, Turambo. Because of you, our team is suspended and our efforts may end in failure. You struggled to get to the well, but once you got there, you spat in it. It’s true, you don’t see any further than the tip of your nose, but not seeing a mountain crumble, not hearing it crashing down on you, isn’t shortsightedness, it isn’t blindness, it’s worse than irresponsibility and stupidity put together. I don’t understand you and I’m afraid you don’t understand yourself. Anyone else in your place would be thanking heaven day and night. You were just a down-and-out doing crummy jobs and getting his arse kicked left, right and centre.’

  ‘You think I’ve gone up in the world, Gino? I’m still the same wretch I was. The only difference is that now I get my arse kicked by expensive shoes.’

  ‘Who put that nonsense in your bird brain? That whore who can’t find shoes to fit her and is trampling all over you?’

  ‘Watch your language, Gino.’

  He braced himself against the wall and launched himself at me. ‘Go on, hit me. You’ve just floored me. Carry on. Knock me out. You’d be doing me a favour. I haven’t slept a wink for three nights. Knock me senseless. That way, for a few hours I’ll forget the mess you’re got me into. Because of your stubbornness, I’ve lost my job, lost my bearings, lost my prospects.’

  6

  I left for Marseilles.

  My training period was revised downwards because of my reluctance and reduced to three weeks; for me, it might as well have been months. I didn’t tell Irène. I didn’t have the guts. One morning, I threw my things in two duffle bags and jumped into a car with the two men from Marseilles, who were waiting for me at the corner of Rue du Général-Cérez. The Duke and his men were at the quay, getting impatient. They were relieved to see me and promised me I wouldn’t regret it. The crossing was rough. I’d never been on a boat before. I was violently seasick. It took me several days and many infusions to get over it.

  The only thing I remember about Marseilles is a remote camp, massive trials, days as strict as a prison regime, relentless sparring partners and cold nights howling with mistral. That was enough to develop my aggressiveness. I was treated like an animal that’s starved in order to prepare it for a most gruesome slaughter. I thought more about Pascal Bonnot than Irène; I was only waiting for the moment I’d meet him in the ring and reduce him to a pulp. I hated my new trainers, their rough manners, their arrogance; they were obtuse, sinister, conceited people; they didn’t speak, they yelled, convinced that anyone from the colonies was a savage picked straight from a baobab tree. From the start, I sensed that things were going to work out badly. I hated being sprayed with spittle when I was yelled at. I came to blows with a stunted, swollen-headed assistant who kept making racist remarks about Arabs. Later, I realised that these provocations and hostilities were a tactic. They were driving me mad with hatred with the clear aim of making my next opponent, Pascal Bonnot, a walkover.

  I returned to Oran transformed, thin-skinned, sensitive. My interactions with my former friends in Rue Wagram were limited to good morning and good night. Nothing was the way it had been before. Apart from Tobias, all the others got me down. The laughter that had once echoed round the gym had given way to cold formality. De Stefano was unhappy. Whenever he started a conversation with me, I quickly climbed into the ring. My attitude saddened him, but he realised that it was what I wanted. I’d become embittered, unpleasant, taciturn, even arrogant. Even Irène had noticed that I almost never smiled now, that I lost my temper over nothing, that I enjoyed nights on the town and cinema trips less and less. She still didn’t know where I had been during those three horrible weeks and didn’t ask me. I might have changed, but I was back, and that was all that mattered to her. In truth, I was asking myself a lot of questions. At night, I would wake up with my head in a vice and go out into the courtyard to get a bit of fresh air. Irène would join me, wrapped in a sheet, and walk beside me in silence. I didn’t know what to say to her.

  Nestled in hills garlanded with gardens and palaces, Algiers was bathed in bright sunshine that March morning in 1935. I was discovering the city for the first time in my life. It was beautiful, its seafront lined with luxurious apartment buildings that seemed to smile at the Mediterranean. In Oran, we thought people from Algiers were very affected. We didn’t like them. When they came to us, they put on airs that marked them out, proud of their sharp accent, convinced they belonged to a superior class. They had a highly developed sense of repartee which often led to arguments in our streets, since all that the people of Oran had to counter the coolness of their rivals’ words was their skill with their fists. But in Medina Jedida and the Araberber quarters, you couldn’t separate Algiers from politics. There was talk of ulemas, Muslim associations, in other words, groups of our fellow citizens who lived in Algiers in neighbourhoods identical to ours, but who refused to be like dumb cattle: they created ideological movements that spoke of a glorious past and claimed rights about which I understood very little. And when Muslims came from Algiers to Oran, unlike the Christians, we treated them with respect. Discussions continued long into the night, and in the morning, in our cafés, everyone talked in low voices and kept a discreet eye on the street. Informants were at work, the police increased their numbers, and the crowds in the souks were infiltrated. To be honest, I wasn’t interested in this occasional unrest in our cities. For me, it was a mystery as impenetrable as the ways of the Lord. The acclaim I received made me deaf even to the call of the muezzin.

  Leaning out of the window of the railway carriage, I gazed at the light-filled city, its white buildings, its cars racing along the boulevards, its hordes of pedestrians who seemed to multiply at terrifying speed. Frédéric was standing next to me, telling me about the sites, the neighbourhoods, the holy places of the capital: the Jardin d’Essai, one of the most fantastic places in the world, Notre-Dame-d’Afrique overlooking the bay, the Casbah huddled around its centuries-old courtyards, Bab el-Oued where little people saw things in a big way, Square Port-Saïd overrun with pick-up artists and poets, closely flanked by the Military Club and the municipal theatre.

  �
��It’s a city of legend,’ Frédéric said. ‘No passing stranger leaves it without taking something away in his suitcase. When you pass through Algiers, you go through a mirror. You arrive with one soul and leave with an entirely new, sublime one. Algiers changes a person with a click of her fingers. It was in Algiers that the Goncourt brothers, who thought they were destined for a life creating art on canvas, finally turned their backs on painting to devote themselves body and soul to literature. It was in Algiers, at an ordinary barber’s shop in the Casbah, on 28 April 1882, that Karl Marx, who was famous for his beard, had it shaved off in order to be able to recognise himself in the mirror …’

  ‘You might as well talk to him about Cervantes’ five years in captivity and Guy de Maupassant’s sexual exploits while you’re about it,’ Francis muttered, making sure he stayed as far as possible from my fists. ‘He probably doesn’t even know the name of the President of France.’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ De Stefano grunted.

  A swarm of journalists greeted us when we got off the train, immediately drawing a crowd on the platform. A handful of policemen tried in vain to contain it. Flashbulbs went off on all sides. Frédéric agreed to answer a few questions. The photographers jostled one another to get a picture of me. They yelled at me to turn and look at the camera, to pose in front of the train carriage. I didn’t listen to them.

  ‘How many rounds do you think you’ll last, Turambo?’ cried a puny fellow hiding behind his notebook.

  ‘Is it true you made a will before coming to Algiers?’

  ‘What’s in your gloves this time, Monsieur Turambo?’

  ‘His fists, nothing but his fists,’ De Stefano said irritably.

  ‘That’s not what they say in Bône.’

  ‘The people there are bad losers. My boxer’s gloves were checked by experts. We even gave them as a gift to the mayor.’

  The aggressiveness of the journalists and their insinuations were exasperating. We hurried out of the station and got in the cars waiting for us on the other side of the street. The Duke had booked us rooms in the Hôtel Saint-Georges. There too, photographers and journalists lay in wait for us, including some British ones speaking French nasally and some Americans flanked by interpreters. A bellboy showed me to my room, made sure I had everything I needed and lingered in the entrance as if looking for something. I dismissed him; he left reluctantly, a disappointed pout replacing the smile that had stretched from ear to ear two minutes earlier. We had lunch in the hotel restaurant. In the afternoon, a group of Araberbers came to reception and asked to meet me. It was a small committee sent by a Muslim movement to invite me to the football match between Mouloudia of Algiers and the Christian team of Ruisseau. Frédéric firmly declined the invitation, claiming that my fight was the next day, that the streets weren’t safe, and that I needed calm and rest. I curtly told him to mind his own business. Since I’d come back from Marseilles, there’d been no love lost between my staff and me. I didn’t listen to anyone and made it clear I wasn’t going to be bossed about. Fearing that things might turn nasty, Frédéric reluctantly agreed, but asked Tobias to go with me. In the packed stadium, Muslim dignitaries came and congratulated me on my career and assured me of their blessing. Mouloudia beat the opposing team roundly by six goals to one. The committee offered me a guided tour of the Casbah. Tobias categorically refused; I don’t know if it was because of his wooden leg or because he had been given strict instructions.

  A few minutes before dinner, the hotel reception informed me that someone wanted to talk to me. I changed and went down to the foyer, where a man dressed like an effendi – a three-piece suit and a fez pulled down over his temples – was waiting on a sofa. He stood up and shook my hand. He was tall, with a massive nose in a chiselled face. His piercing eyes betrayed a concealed authority, a rock-solid determination.

  ‘My name is Ferhat Abbas.’ He paused, then, realising his name meant nothing to me, went on, ‘I’m an activist for our people’s cause … I assume you’ve heard of the Association of Muslim Students?’

  ‘The Association of what?’

  The man swallowed, surprised by my ignorance. ‘You don’t know the Association of Muslim Students?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What planet have you been living on, my brother?’

  ‘I never went to school, sir.’

  ‘This has nothing to do with school, but with our nation. It’s sometimes necessary to listen to what is being whispered in dark corners and behind bars … I’m a pharmacist by profession, but I write articles in the press and organise political debates and clandestine congresses. I’ve come from Sétif specially to meet you, and I’m obliged to leave for the Aurès tonight, as soon as we’ve finished here.’

  ‘You’re not staying for the match?’

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  He unfolded a newspaper on the table and tapped a picture of an athlete running on the track of a packed stadium.

  ‘His name’s Ahmed Bouguerra el-Ouafi. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s our Olympic champion, our first and only gold medallist. He won by a long way at the Amsterdam Games in 1928, but many of our countrymen don’t know him because he isn’t talked about in the papers or on the radio. We’re going to remedy that injustice and make sure we boast of his merits everywhere in our cities and even in our remote douars. Sport is an extraordinary political argument. No nation can hold its head up high without idols. We need our champions. They’re as indispensable as air and water. That’s why I’ve come to see you, my dear brother. Tomorrow, you have to win. Tomorrow, we want to have our North African champion to prove to the world that we exist …’

  He abruptly picked up his newspaper and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Two suspicious-looking individuals had just entered the foyer and were walking towards the reception desk.

  ‘I have to go,’ the activist whispered. ‘Don’t forget, my brother, your fight is ours; we’re already claiming your victory. Tomorrow, all the Muslims in our country will be glued to their radios. Don’t disappoint us.’

  He walked behind a row of columns, dabbing himself with a handkerchief in order to hide his face, and quickly escaped through a service door.

  A forest of spectral heads were jabbering in the huge hall. The city elite had turned out for the match. There was not a free seat or a clear aisle to be seen. It was boiling hot in spite of the subdued light streaking the corners with thin shadows. People were fanning themselves with whatever they could find.

  Surrounded by a delegation of dignitaries from Oran, the Duke was lounging in one of the front boxes. Local celebrities and politicians were fidgeting with impatience near the ring. There were women too, stylish, haughty-looking women. I couldn’t remember ever having seen women at a boxing match in Oran or anywhere else – was it because they had this head start that people from Algiers assumed the right to look down on us?

  I watched the hundreds of people shifting in their seats, like vultures hovering before the feeding frenzy. In the midst of this human chaos, I felt as lonely as a sacrificial lamb. A bottomless fear made my stomach churn. It wasn’t because of Pascal Bonnot or the thousands of Muslims I imagined glued to their radios. My anxiety had nothing to do with what was at stake that evening: it was made up of nagging questions I couldn’t make sense of. I would have liked time to stop because it was already exhausting me; I would have liked the match to have taken place the day before, or the week before, or else the year before. The sense of anticipation made it hard to focus. My arms had gone numb. My temples felt as if they were being squeezed by pincers, causing shooting pain at the back of my head. I was sweating profusely and the fight hadn’t started yet.

  A spotlight swept over the terraces and came to rest on a tall, strapping man in a three-piece suit straight from the tailor, with a long red scarf around his neck. It was Georges Carpentier in the flesh, a victorious centurion back from the war, acclaimed by the people and praised by the
gods. The world champion raised his arms to thank the audience, the spotlight surrounding him with a halo …

  It was a fight to the death. Pascal Bonnot hadn’t come to defend his title but to dissuade contenders from fighting for it. North African champion three years in succession, he knocked out his opponents one after the other with the clear aim never to see them back in the ring again. It wasn’t by chance that he was nicknamed ‘the tank’. Pascal Bonnot didn’t box, he demolished. He didn’t have Marcel Cargo’s technique or elegance, but he was as formidable as a thunderbolt and as efficient as a howitzer. Most of the legends who had crossed his path had gone into decline. Pipo, Sidibba the Moroccan, Bernard-Bernard, all kings of the ring who had enthused the crowds and set starlets’ hearts a-flutter, had endured a fight with Bonnot like a blow of fate. The sun would never again rise for them. Bonnot’s blows were simply intended to remove obstacles from his path. His reputation laid low his rivals before his punches did. His fights never went past the fifth round, which suggested he might have stamina problems. That was the one likely chink in his armour, hence the intensive training I had been put through in Marseilles. My trainers were banking on my ability to wear out my opponent, while Bonnot counted on brute force to wipe out his opponents in the opening rounds. He put all his strength into that, without holding anything back. My one chance might lie in taking advantage of his carelessness. Put doubt in his mind, De Stefano kept telling me. If you hold out past the sixth round, he’ll lose his nerve and start to have doubts. Every time you hit him, you’ll unsettle him …

  Bonnot pounced on me like a bird of prey. He hit hard. A real blacksmith. His intentions were clear. He aimed at my shoulders to soften my guard. If he kept up the pace, he was sure to get me by the third round. His tactics were clear. I got away quickly, moved around him, dodged his traps. The audience whistled, blaming me for avoiding confrontation. Bonnot charged repeatedly. He was about the same height as me. His powerful torso was in marked contrast to his thin legs. I found his figure grotesque. He hit me twice on the head, not very effectively. In the fourth round, my left hook sent him onto the ropes. It was at that exact moment that his expression darkened. I was no longer just a common punch bag as far as he was concerned. I let him come, huddling in a corner, well protected by my gloves. Bonnot unleashed his fury on me, galvanised by the deafening clamour in the hall. As soon as his panting became feverish, I pushed him away, made him run, then I went back into a corner and invited him to use up his energy. The fight turned into a bloodbath from the seventh round on. Bonnot was starting to tire, doubt settling in his mind. He increased his attacks and his blunders. His growing irritation replaced his previous concentration, botched his feints. It was time for me to set the pace. For the first time, he retreated. My uppercut knocked him twice to the floor. In the hall, the yelling died down. People were starting to fear the impossible. Bonnot recovered quickly, and then he sent me to the floor. His right plunged me into a soundless world. Dazed, I vaguely saw the referee starting to count me out. When he moved away, Bonnot was on me again. His blows echoed through me like underground explosions. Creaking beneath me, the floor felt like the trapdoor of a gallows. I went back to my corner, swaying, too shaken to get what De Stefano was droning on about. Salvo hurt me as he tended to me. My right eye was blurred, there was blood on my cheek, the gum shield in my mouth was torturing me. The Duke approached the ring and yelled something at me. Gino was holding his head in both hands. I couldn’t have looked very good.