What the day owes the nigth

by Yasmina Khadra

  My father was determined to get back on his feet, determined to prove to me that my uncle had been wrong. He worked tirelessly, worked every hour of the day, and now made no attempt to hide how hard he worked. My father, who until now had always kept his plans to himself so as not to tempt the evil eye, now told my mother every detail of his plans to find more work, earn more money – ensuring his voice was loud enough so that I would overhear. He promised us the moon. Every night when he came home, a twinkle in his eye, jingling the change in his pocket, he would talk about the house we were going to live in – a proper house with shutters on the windows, a front door of solid wood, maybe even a little vegetable garden where he could plant coriander and mint, tomatoes and vegetables that would melt in our mouths. My mother listened, happy to see her husband planning and dreaming again. Though she did not entirely have faith in these plans, she pretended to believe him, and when he held her hand – something he had never done before – she positively glowed.

  My father worked morning, noon and night, taking any job he could find, determined to be back on his feet as soon as possible. He spent his mornings helping out a herbalist, in the afternoons he did a shift for a ambulant greengrocer and in the evenings he worked as a masseur in a Turkish bath. He was even planning to start his own business.

  As for me, I wandered the streets, alone and worried.

  One morning, while I was far from home, Daho crept up on me. He had an ugly green snake wrapped round his arm. He backed me into a corner, rolling his eyes, waving the reptile’s gaping maw in my face. I had always hated snakes; they scared me to death. Daho taunted me, laughing at my panic, calling me a sissy . . . I was about to pass out when suddenly Ouari appeared from nowhere. Daho immediately stopped and stood, ready to run if my friend came to help me. But Ouari did not come to my rescue. He stared at us for a moment, and then walked on as though he hadn’t seen anything. Daho breathed a sigh of relief and, laughing maniacally, went back to torturing me with the snake. But it didn’t matter now, he could laugh all he wanted. I didn’t care. Sadness had driven out fear: I no longer had a friend.

  4

  PEG-LEG was dozing behind his counter, his turban pushed down over his face, his makeshift limb in easy reach lest he need it to fend off some light-fingered child who came too close to his sweets. His humiliation at the hands of El Moro was a distant memory. His time in the army had taught him forbearance. After years of suffering brutal NCOs with obtuse submissiveness, I suppose he considered the fleeting outbursts of Jenane Jato’s thugs just another abuse of power. Peg-Leg knew that life was a series of ups and downs, moments of bravery and moments of cowardice. What mattered was to pick yourself up when you fell, keep your dignity when you had been beaten. The fact that no one in Jenane Jato made fun of him after El Moro’s ‘humiliation’ was proof that no one could have stood up to the man. El Moro was no ordinary adversary; he was death incarnate, he was a firing squad. To face him head on and escape with only cuts and bruises was a triumph; to come through unscathed but for a pair of soiled pants was a miracle.

  Next door, the barber was shaving the head of a bald man who sat on the ground like a fakir, his open mouth revealing a single stump of tooth. The rasp of the razor on the strop seemed to give the old man great pleasure. The barber told him all his troubles, but the old man paid him no heed; he simply sat, eyes closed, enjoying the feel of the razor as it scraped across his head, which was as bald as a polished marble.

  ‘There you go!’ the barber said as he finished. ‘That head of yours is so clear now a man could read your mind.’

  ‘I’m sure you missed a bit,’ the old man said. ‘I can feel a five o’clock shadow clouding my thoughts.’

  ‘What thoughts, you old fool? Don’t tell me that that brain of yours still works . . .’

  ‘I might be old, but I’m not senile. Look again. I’m sure you missed a hair or two.’

  ‘There’s nothing, I promise you. It’s smooth as an egg.’

  ‘Please,’ the old man insisted, ‘look again.’

  The barber was no fool; he knew the old man was simply enjoying the shave. He considered his work, meticulously checking that he had not missed a single hair on the old man’s wizened neck, then he set down his razor and indicated to his customer that his siesta was over.

  ‘Come on, Uncle Jabori, time to get back to your goats.’

  ‘Please . . .’

  ‘Enough is enough, I said. I’ve better things to do with my time.’

  The old man grudgingly got to his feet, peered at himself in the sliver of mirror, then pretended to rummage through his pockets.

  ‘I think I must have left my money at home,’ he said, trying to sound exasperated.

  The barber smiled; he had seen this coming.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Uncle Jabori.’

  ‘I was sure I’d put it in my pocket this morning, I swear to you. Maybe I lost it on the way here.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ the barber said wearily. ‘God will repay me.’

  ‘I won’t hear of it!’ said the old man politely. ‘I’ll go and get it right this minute.’

  ‘That’s very touching. Just try not to get lost on the way.’

  The old man twisted his turban round his head and hurried off. The barber watched him go, then squatted on his munitions box.

  ‘It’s always the same – do people think I do this for fun?’ he muttered. ‘This is my living, for God’s sake! How am I supposed to eat tonight?’

  He ranted on, trying to get Peg-Leg to respond.

  Peg-Leg ignored him.

  The barber went on for several minutes, and when the ex-soldier still did not react, he took a deep breath and, staring up into the sky, started to sing:

  I miss your eyes

  And I go blind

  Every time you look away

  I die a little every day

  Searching for you

  In vain among the living

  What does it mean to live this love

  When all the world proclaims

  That you are gone?

  What will I do now with my hands

  Now your body is not here . . .

  ‘Use them to wipe your arse!’ yelled Peg-Leg.

  It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over the barber. He was sickened by the vulgar way the grocer had broken the spell, the beauty of his song. Looking on, I felt sad, as though I had been woken from a dream.

  The barber tried to ignore Peg-Leg; he shook his head sadly, cleared his throat and tried to begin again, but there was a lump in his throat and his heart was not in it any more.

  ‘You can be such a pain in the arse!’

  ‘What about you, forever wailing those pathetic songs of yours?’ Peg-Leg shifted lazily on his box.

  ‘What if I am?’ the barber said. ‘Look around. There’s no one here, there’s nothing to do. The whole place is dying and there’s not a soul around can even raise a smile. If a man can’t sing, what’s left?’

  Peg-Leg jerked his thumb at the coils of rope on the hook above his head.

  ‘There’s always that. Take your pick, tie one end to the branch of a tree, wrap the other end around your neck, then bend your knees and you’ll have peace; that’s a sleep no one can disturb.’

  ‘Why don’t you go first? You’re the one who hates life.’

  ‘How am I supposed to go first? I’ve got a wooden leg – I can’t bend my knees.’

  Resigned, the barber sat back on his munitions box and put his head in his hands – probably so he could go on humming to himself. He knew there was no one to listen to his song. His only muse was one he conjured out of whispers and sighs, and he knew he would never be worthy of her. The sliver of mirror reflected the disparity between his lowly body and his grand desires: he was short, scrawny, and so stooped he was almost a hunch back, as ugly and as poor as Job himself; he had no house, no family and no prospect of making his pitiful life any better. And so he contented himself
with living in a dream, an unattainable dream, a dream he could not admit to in public without seeming a fool, a dream that in private he gnawed on like a juicy bone.

  It broke my heart.

  ‘Come here, lad,’ shouted Peg-Leg, unscrewing the top of the jar of sweets. He handed me a sweet, gestured for me to sit next to him. He stared at me for a long moment.

  ‘Let me look at your face, son,’ he said, lifting my chin with his finger. ‘Well, now . . . The good Lord was particularly inspired when he made you, wasn’t he. A face takes talent. How come you have blue eyes? Is your mother French?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your grandmother, then?’

  ‘No.’

  He tousled my hair with his calloused hand, then slowly stroked my cheek.

  ‘You have the face of an angel, lad.’

  ‘Leave the kid alone,’ hissed Bliss the broker, appearing suddenly around the corner.

  Peg-Leg jerked his hand away quickly.

  ‘I didn’t do nothing,’ he whined.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ said Bliss. ‘I’m warning you, the boy’s father is a brute – he’ll rip your other leg off as soon as look at you, and I won’t have a legless cripple on my street. They bring bad luck.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Monsieur Bliss.’

  ‘You know and everyone else round here knows what I’m talking about. If you’re so keen on war, why don’t you fuck off to Spain instead of hanging around here drooling over little boys? They’re always fighting some war in Spain, they need cannon fodder.’

  ‘How can he?’ the barber interrupted. ‘He’s got a wooden leg that doesn’t bend at the knee.’

  ‘Shut up, you cockroach,’ Peg-Leg roared, trying to save face, ‘or I’ll make you swallow your rusty razor blades one by one.’

  ‘You’d have to catch me first.’

  Bliss waved for me to clear off.

  As I scrambled away, my father appeared from a narrow alleyway and I ran to meet him. He was home earlier than usual and I could tell from the parcel under his arm that he was in a good mood. He asked where I’d got the sweet I was eating, then marched over to Peg-Leg and tried to pay for it. At first the grocer refused to take the money – it was only a sweet, he said – but my father would have none of it and insisted he take it.

  Then we went home.

  My father unwrapped the brown paper package and gave each of us a present: there was a scarf for my mother, a dress for my little sister and a pair of brand-new rubber boots for me.

  ‘You’re mad,’ my mother said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a lot of money, and you need the money, don’t you?’

  ‘This is just the start,’ my father said, getting carried away. ‘Soon, we’ll have a new house, I promise. I’m working hard and I’m doing well. Things are looking up, so why not make the most of it? I have a meeting with a well-established merchant on Thursday, a serious businessman. He’s going to take me on as his partner.’

  ‘Please, Issa, don’t say another word. You’ve never had much luck. Don’t talk about your plans if you want them to come true.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to tell you the details, just that this man said that to make me a partner in his business, I would have to invest a certain sum of money. And . . . I’ve got the money!’

  ‘Please, don’t say any more,’ my mother begged, spitting on the ground to ward off the evil eye. ‘Say nothing, and let things take their course. The evil eye has no pity for blowhards.’

  My father did not say any more, but his eyes shone with a joy I had never seen in him before. That night, he was determined to celebrate his reconciliation with Lady Luck. He had been to the butcher’s, wrung the neck of a capon, plucked and cleaned it and brought it home – hidden at the bottom of a straw basket out of respect for our neighbours, who rarely had much to eat.

  My father was suddenly happier than a gang of boys let loose at a carnival. He was counting off the days until he would be a partner in his own business. Five days, four, three . . .

  He worked as hard as he ever had, but now he invariably came home earlier so he could have the pleasure of seeing me run to meet him. He needed me to be awake when he got home to reassure me that his luck had changed, that there were clear skies ahead, that he, my father, was strong as an oak, capable of moving mountains with his bare hands . . .

  Then came the long-awaited Thursday.

  There are some days the seasons shun, days that fate and demons spurn, days when our guardian angels desert us, when a man is left to his fate and is forever lost. That Thursday was such a day. My father realised it as soon as he woke; I could see it in his face. To the end of my days I will remember that day – an ugly, miserable, brutal day of torrential rain and thunderclaps that rang out like a curse. The sky brooded, the coppery clouds lowered.

  ‘Surely you’re not going out in weather like this?’ my mother said.

  My father was standing on the threshold of our room, staring at the dark, bruised sky as at some evil omen. He considered postponing his meeting, but fortune does not favour those who hesitate. He knew this and dismissed his feeling of foreboding as the Devil attempting to disconcert him. At the last minute, he turned and asked me to go with him. Maybe he thought that if he brought me along, fate might relent, might spare him any low blows.

  I slipped on my hooded gandurah, my rubber boots, and hurried after him.

  We were soaked to the skin by the time we arrived at the meeting place. My feet squelched in the rain-filled boots, the sodden hood of my gandurah weighed on my shoulders like a yoke. The street was deserted, except for an overturned cart; there was no one to be seen . . . or almost no one. Because El Moro was lying in wait, like a bird of prey perched over the fate of man. When he saw us arrive, he stepped from his hiding place, his eyes like the barrels of a gun, dark sockets in which death seemed to smoulder. My father was taken aback. Before he could react, El Moro lashed out with his head, his foot, his fist. My father fought back as best he could, determined not to give in, but El Moro was quick; he ducked and weaved and in the end this thug got the better of my father, who, though brave, was a quiet, unassuming farmer unaccustomed to fighting. El Moro tripped him, and as he fell, he pinned him to the ground and began pounding him, clearly intent on killing him. I was petrified. It was like a nightmare. I tried to scream, to rush to my father’s aid, but not a nerve or a muscle in my body would respond. Blood and rainwater coursed into the gutter, yet still El Moro did not give up: he knew exactly what he was looking for. When at last my father stopped fighting back, the animal crouched over his prey and pushed up my father’s gandurah. His face lit up like a lightning flash in the darkness when he saw the purse strapped beneath my father’s armpit. He slashed the straps with a knife, smiled as he felt the weight of the purse, then disappeared without so much as a glance at me.

  His face a bloody mess, his gandurah hiked up exposing his belly, my father lay where he had fallen. I could do nothing to help him. I was in some other world. I don’t remember how we got home.

  ‘I was sold out,’ my father cursed. ‘That thug was lying in wait for me. He knew I was carrying that money. He knew it . . . This was no stroke of bad luck, that bastard was waiting for me.’

  Then he said nothing.

  For days and days he did not say another word.

  I have watched huge cacti split in a rainstorm, seen cliffs crumble; watching my father in the weeks and months after the attack was no different. He was slowly coming apart, unravelling thread by thread. He crouched in a corner, refusing to eat or drink, his head buried in his lap, his hands clasped behind his neck, silently brooding on his hatred, his fury.

  He knew now that no matter what he did, what he said, he was doomed to disaster, and no oaths sworn on mountaintops, no holy vows could change the course of his fate.

  One night we heard the voice of the local drunk howling and raging along the street, his filthy tirade ec
hoing across the courtyard like a baleful wind whistling through a tomb. It was a rasping voice, filled with bile and scorn, that called all men dogs, all women pigs, that predicted dark days for the wretched and the cowardly; a voice that dripped with self-righteous scorn, with bloated pride; a voice the people of Jenane Jato had learned to recognise amid the thousand apocalyptic rumblings – the voice of El Moro.

  When he heard it, my father looked up so quickly he slammed his head against the wall. For a moment he stayed crouched in the corner, petrified. Then, like a ghost emerging from the gloom, he got to his feet, lit the oil lamp, rummaged through a pile of clothes, pulled out a battered leather case and opened it. His eyes shone in the lamplight. He held his breath, hesitated a moment, then plunged his hand into the bag and the blade of a butcher’s knife flashed in his fist. He put on his gandurah, slipped the knife into the sleeve. I saw my mother stir. She knew what her husband was thinking, knew the madness of it, but she dared not say anything: this was not a woman’s business.

  My father stepped into the shadows and I heard his footsteps in the courtyard dying away like prayers carried on the wind. The door to the street creaked as it swung shut, then there was silence . . . a roaring silence that kept me awake, watching for my father until morning.

  He crept back furtively at dawn, took off his gandurah and threw it on the floor, slipped the knife back into its case. Then he went back to the murky corner where he had been brooding since that fateful Thursday, curled up and did not move again.

  The news spread like wildfire through Jenane Jato. Bliss, the broker, was overjoyed. He went from door to door shouting, ‘El Moro is dead! He will never terrorise any of us again! Someone stabbed him through the heart!’

  Two days later, my father took me to my uncle’s pharmacy. His eyes were bloodshot, his beard dishevelled and he was trembling as though he had a fever.

  My uncle did not come out from behind the counter, suspicious that we had shown up unexpectedly at a time when most shopkeepers were only rolling up their shutters. He assumed my father had come to take revenge for the insult some days earlier. When at last my father spoke, my uncle was visibly relieved.