The Angels Die

by Yasmina Khadra

  No sooner was he released back into the ring than Bonnot pursued me with his blows, determined to finish me off. I was on one knee, literally overwhelmed. The referee began the count again. I had the feeling he was counting too quickly. I got up, clinging to the ropes. The hall was swaying around me. My calves were wobbling. I felt groggy. Bonnot pushed me. My body felt like an old building shaken by an earthquake; I was collapsing on all sides. The round ended. The water-soaked sponge that Salvo wiped my face with felt like a blowtorch. The slightest grimace was like an electric shock. Bonnot was watching me intensely, as if his stool was too hot to sit on, impatient to get on with the fight. His arms were shaking with rage. Throughout the ninth round, he went after me without catching me. I kept my distance in order to recover my senses, convinced that a blow to my head would mean the end. My tactic provoked jeers from the hall. I don’t know why Bonnot turned to the referee. Perhaps to complain, annoyed by my refusal to fight. He shouldn’t have taken his eyes off me. Drawing on everything I’d got left, I threw a left hook. Bonnot’s neck cracked beneath my glove. He whirled round and fell back on the ropes, which threw him onto me; I immediately gave him a series of lefts and rights, and he staggered and fell on his backside, stunned. Trying to get up again, he lost his balance, sprawled on his back, and writhed feebly like an insect caught in glue. He was saved by the bell.

  ‘He’s done for,’ De Stefano yelled at me, his voice so feverish as to be unrecognisable. ‘He’s completely dazed. Finish him off now.’ The Duke was gloating in his seat. This time, Gino’s hands were clasped together in prayer. The audience held its breath. Bonnot wasn’t in good shape. An hour earlier, a king had climbed into the ring as if it were a throne. A few rounds later, the monarch had been reduced to a wild-eyed torture victim on a scaffold. I could see the distress in his desperate gaze and I almost felt remorse. The tenth round was horrible. Bloodstained, his eyebrows cut and his eyes swollen, and still the thunderbolts rained down on him. Now he was the one who was huddled in a corner, waiting for the storm to pass. He collapsed after a series of lefts and rights, winded. The referee started the count. Bonnot shook his head, determined to hold out as long as he could. I worked on his sides, methodically. His body arched beneath my uppercuts, lifted, twisted with suffering. Just when I thought he was about to give up, his right made me reel. The floor creaked beneath my weight. We were both at the end of our tether, he clinging to his reputation, me to my chance of taking it from him. The audience realised that one of the two of us was going to die. The shadow of death hovered over the ring, but neither manager wanted to throw in the towel, certain that victory was within reach, but all down to a roll of the dice. Things were obviously going to end badly, but we all felt a kind of euphoria as the life was sucked out of us, hypnotised by the constant and rapid shifts in the situation. Bonnot refused to yield one inch of his kingdom and I refused to give up. We were nothing now but the expression of our intense stubbornness. I no longer felt the blows. I kept falling and getting back on my feet, tossed about from one moment of dizziness to another, driven by the single thought that I was in mortal danger. It was as if I didn’t want to miss out on my own death. Snapshots of my life flashed through my mind at dizzying speed. I was certain I had come to the last stretch, a point of no return beyond which there would be only nothingness. Bonnot must have been living through the same ordeal and seeing things in the same way as me: he was swaying in his fog, collapsing, getting up again, powerless to retaliate, a pitiful puppet lurching about at the end of his strings. Exhausted, but with a bravery verging on the ridiculous. With each blow, his neck looked as though it was turning three hundred and sixty degrees. I felt his ribs crack beneath my gloves. Don’t get up, I begged him, horrified by his suicidal tenacity. He was refusing to abdicate, got up grimacing with pain, disorientated, drained of all energy. In a final burst of pride, he swung his right and his wrist smashed against the wooden ring post. His wounded arm hung suddenly at his side, vulnerable and useless. It was a tragic, unbearable moment. The reigning champion was finished, delivered, feet and fists tied, to the knockout blow. I was expecting him to call it quits, but no, Bonnot threatened to eat his manager alive if he threw in the towel. He went back to his stool, swaying, holding his wounded wrist up to his stomach to show that his arm was functioning normally.

  The twelfth round offered up a deeply disturbing spectacle. People were uncomfortable, held spellbound by the pathetic bravery of this champion who was risking his all, counting only on his one good arm to save face. He knew he was beaten, but he wasn’t giving up. It was pure madness. As I watched him charge head down and punch indiscriminately, unbalanced by his own clumsiness, driven mad by the blood that blinded him, wandering in the middle of the ring like a desperate spectre, the pertinence of Irène’s words came home to me. Bonnot was showing me my own image, the fate this life had in store for me. One day, refusing to relinquish my title, I’d behave in the same way; I’d give up my health, my life, everything that mattered to me for a hypothetical flash of pride as dizzying as a leap into the void. I would fall into a pernicious delirium, firmly convinced that death would be less painful than defeat, and I would let myself be taken apart piece by piece rather than acknowledge my opponent’s clear superiority. We weren’t idols, we were incapable of reason; fighting animals intoxicated by the cheers; two strange, exhausted characters cutting each other to shreds; two madmen drunk with fatigue and pain whose moans were drowned out by the uproar of the hundreds of spectators horrified, and at the same time fascinated, by the unbearable violence that defined us …

  When Bonnot at last collapsed and didn’t get up again, there was general relief.

  The nightmare was over.

  In no time at all, the ring had been taken by storm. De Stefano and Salvo showed me off like a trophy. Gino was weeping with joy. Even Francis was dancing. The Duke climbed on his seat to make sure everyone could see him, arms open wide to receive manna from heaven.

  Dazed, on the verge of passing out, I gave myself up to the jubilation of my fans, my eyes fixed on Bonnot, who they were trying in vain to revive.

  7

  The consequences of my fight with Bonnot became clear as soon as I got back to Oran. I started vomiting blood and was plagued by headaches, which would wear off only to return with greater intensity, as fierce as a toothache. At times, the ground fell away beneath my feet, pins and needles riddled my thighs and my arms, and my breathing became irregular.

  I was taken to a clinic run by a doctor who was a friend of the Bollocqs. The X-rays weren’t alarming: I had two cracked ribs, that was all. For three days, I was given all kinds of medication, but the pains didn’t go away. My sight was sometimes blurred and whatever I ate I’d immediately throw up. The mirror showed me a poor devil with a dented face, cut eyebrows, swollen lips and cheeks covered in bruises. When my bandages were removed, skin came off with them.

  Gino would come to see me from time to time. I almost hated him for his intact beauty. He looked invulnerable in his smart suit.

  The news from Algiers wasn’t good. Bonnot still hadn’t woken up. They feared for his life. Even the most optimistic couldn’t see him getting back in the ring.

  I felt bad for him. He had fought like a lion and earned my respect.

  The mayor held a huge reception to celebrate my victory. I didn’t go. I didn’t want to display my wounds to satisfy people’s curiosity.

  Irène asked me where I’d been. I told her I had waited for my face to start looking more the way it had before so that she could recognise me. Her father wasn’t well. Confined to bed in his untidy room, his skin sallow, the sheets stained with sweat, he summoned up the strength to hug me to him.

  ‘Jérôme the milkman told me,’ he said. ‘Quite a match, it seems. The whole village followed it on the radio, biting their nails. I’m proud of you.’

  Irène went away, leaving us alone, no doubt exasperated by her father’s words.

  ‘Sit down next to me,’ he s
aid. ‘I want to smell your warrior smell. Do you realise? You’re the new North African champion. I’d give anything to be in your shoes. I suppose you haven’t quite grasped your achievement yet. It’s fantastic … What about Bonnot? They say he’s hovering between life and death.’

  ‘Who isn’t, Monsieur Ventabren? Who isn’t?’

  I went out into the courtyard. Irène was bent over the edge of the well, staring down at the bottom as if looking into a deadly mirror.

  ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ she said. ‘You’ve killed a man you didn’t even know. Do you ever think of his family, his children if he’s married?’

  I didn’t feel up to challenging her.

  Filippi found me lying at the foot of a tree. Irène had left on her mare, abandoning me to my thoughts. Since I’d left the clinic, the same questions had been nagging at me relentlessly. I had to make a choice and I wasn’t feeling my best.

  ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere,’ Filippi cried, pulling up level with me.

  ‘I’ve been looking for myself too, and I can’t seem to get hold of me.’

  ‘The Duke wants to see you.’

  ‘Not today. I need to be on my own.’

  He left disappointed.

  Next day at the gym, I surprised everyone by announcing my decision. If a bomb had gone off in Rue Wagram, it wouldn’t have caused such a shock. De Stefano almost choked. Francis, Tobias and Salvo all looked at each other, thoroughly shaken. Frédéric, who was just coming out of the office, almost fell over backwards. As for Gino, the blood completely drained from his face.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ Francis cried.

  ‘It isn’t about you. I’m making a fresh start. I’m through with boxing.’

  A crushing stupefied silence fell over the room. Nobody had expected me to give up. Wasn’t I the centre of the world now? Wasn’t my name on everyone’s lips? For a long while, they just stood there, stunned.

  ‘Have we done something wrong?’ Frédéric said at last, in a toneless voice.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why are you punishing us?’

  ‘It’s not about punishment, it’s my life.’

  ‘You’re the new North African champion, Turambo. Do you realise how happy your people are? You’re the one topic of conversation in the streets, the cafés, the houses, the factories, the prisons. You have no right to stop when things are going so well. Your life isn’t just your own any more, it’s an epic tale that belongs to everybody.’

  ‘Don’t try to sidetrack me, Frédéric. I’m not listening to you.’

  Gino leant against the wall. Bent double, he gave a terrible groan and threw up.

  The others were still speechless.

  Frédéric dabbed at his temples with a handkerchief. He was as white as his shirt collar. ‘Let’s not rush things,’ he stammered. ‘You’ve worked hard in the last few months. You’ll feel better after you’ve taken a break. You certainly deserve it. It’s only natural, the pressure you’ve been under has taken a toll on your nerves.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell the Duke?’ Francis thundered, foaming at the mouth. ‘Why have you come to piss us off with your mood swings? It’s Monsieur Bollocq who coughs up the money for you, not us. Go and tell him to his face, if you have the balls for it.’

  ‘Shut up!’ De Stefano shouted, on the verge of jumping on him.

  ‘It’s for him to shut up,’ Francis protested. ‘Does he think he can get away with this? Monsieur here believes he’s already made it. He thinks he can cold-shoulder us, that he can just waltz in and out as he likes. He isn’t alone in the world. There are people around him, people who depend on him. He can’t just allow himself to bow out as he sees fit. What are we to him? Skittles to be knocked down? We have families, we have kids to feed. This bastard is suffocating us. It’s blackmail. He wants to bring us down, force us to kiss his dirty feet. He’s always been like this, ungrateful and narrow-minded. I swear he’s doing it deliberately.’

  ‘Get out of here before I tear your eyes out!’ De Stefano threatened him. ‘Go on, clear off!’

  Francis straightened his jacket and stormed outside, stopping only at the door to say, ‘I knew from the start you were nothing but an out-and-out bastard. I knew you’d bite the hand that fed you one of these days. Everybody knows that if you hold out your hand to Arabs, they pull you down. The other problem is that when they get to the well, they don’t drink, they piss in it. That’s why they poison everything they touch and bring bad luck to anyone who goes near them.’

  He spat in my direction and walked out.

  Frédéric thought it was too soon to tell the Duke of my decision. He was playing for time. Two days later, he invited us to his villa near Choupot. The meal was served in the garden, in the shade of a scruffy palm tree. The whole team was there, except Francis. De Stefano looked as if he was at a funeral. Salvo and Tobias, who had stopped bickering, were like two orphans. Gino had lost weight overnight. Nervous, he went to the toilet every fifteen minutes.

  When the maid came to clear the table, we realised that none of us had touched the food.

  Frédéric lit cigarette after cigarette, his hand shaking. ‘We all need to have had a childhood,’ he said at last. ‘It gives us stability. That didn’t happen with you, Turambo. Hunger and poverty took yours away. It’s left a gap in your life. And the first woman you met has filled it. What you think is love is nothing but a return to childhood, and children don’t love with reason, they love out of instinct.’

  ‘Who said anything about a woman?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘We look out for you.’

  ‘You’re backing the wrong horse, my boy,’ De Stefano said. ‘You won’t win at that game. You have to push that mirage away if you don’t want to lose control. You have a career to build, rings to conquer. Only blows are capable of waking you up to reality. The day you raise your arms above your head to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd, the whole world will throw itself at your feet, and then you’ll be able to choose the woman you want without owing anything to anyone.’

  ‘Is it you talking to me like this, De Stefano?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me, it’s really me talking to you like this. How would you live without your gloves? Doing little jobs that bring in nothing, just like before?’

  ‘I’ve made enough money to start again from scratch.’

  ‘You can never make enough money for your old age, Turambo.’

  ‘I’ll get by. I’ll go back to the land. I’m a peasant.’

  De Stefano shook his head sadly. ‘I have a wife and kids. In the evening when I go home, I find them waiting for me. The first thing they look at is what I have in my hands. If I bring something to eat, they relax and take it off me before I’ve even closed the door. If my hands are empty, I become invisible to them. I don’t want you to have to endure the same thing, Turambo. Love is made up of dreams and generosity; it can’t survive when you’re broke. You’re a champion. Your destiny lies in your fists. Make yourself a pile of money and then you can do whatever you like with your life. For the moment, you’re still scrambling about at the bottom of the ladder. Don’t waste your energy anywhere but in the ring.’

  I didn’t want to hear any more. I wasn’t equipped to defend my decision. I knew I was vulnerable because I was dealing with emotions. The doubt was always there. I wondered if I wasn’t going off course, but at the same time hardened myself against anything that could disturb me further. As far as I was concerned, Irène was worth all the risks I’d be called upon to take. I couldn’t wait to see her again, to draw confidence from her way of seeing things.

  *

  I didn’t go with Gino to Boulevard Mascara. His sorrow would only have weakened my resolve and I wasn’t going to force myself to accompany him.

  At the farm, Ventabren’s condition was getting worse. But Irène was there and her proximity protected me from my moments of doubt.r />
  One Sunday, as I was just walking into a park to try and clear my head, Mouss grabbed me by the wrist. It clearly wasn’t a chance encounter. Maybe he’d followed me all the way from Rue du Général-Cérez.