What the day owes the nigth

by Yasmina Khadra

  ‘She must be visiting family,’ I said. ‘From her dress and the way she acts, she looks like a city girl. I’ve never seen any girl around here who looks like that.’

  Suddenly the girl turned and looked at the three of us, and we froze as though we’d been caught trying to steal her handbag. Her smile broadened a little and the brooch on the neckline of her dress seemed to flash like a lighthouse in the darkness.

  ‘Isn’t she stunning?’ Jean-Christophe said, appearing from nowhere. He took the empty chair, spun it round and straddled it.

  ‘There you are,’ said Fabrice. ‘Where did you get to?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  ‘Have you and Isabelle been fighting again?’

  ‘Let’s just say that for once, I sent her packing. Can you believe it? She couldn’t decide what jewellery to wear. I waited in the living room, I waited in the hall, I waited outside, and mademoiselle still couldn’t decide which brooch to put on.’

  ‘So you left her there?’ Simon was incredulous.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Congratulations!’ Simon got to his feet, clicked his heels and saluted Jean-Christophe. ‘It’s about time someone told that priggish bitch where to go. I salute you!’

  Jean-Christophe tugged Simon’s arm and pulled him down. ‘Sit down, you’re blocking my view, you big lump.’ He nodded to the girl at the table. ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Why don’t you go over and ask her?’

  ‘With the Rucillio clan over there in the corner? I might be stupid, but I’m not crazy!’

  Fabrice crumpled his napkin, took a deep breath, pushed back his chair and announced:

  ‘Well, I’m going.’

  He didn’t even have time to get up from the table before a car pulled up and the girl got to her feet and walked towards it. The four of us watched as she climbed into the passenger seat, and flinched when she slammed the door.

  ‘I know I’ve got no chance,’ said Simon, ‘but I have to try. First thing tomorrow, I’m going to take my glass slipper and go round every girl in the village until I find one my size.’

  We all burst out laughing.

  Simon picked up a teaspoon and unthinkingly began stirring his coffee again. He had stirred it three times now and still had not taken a sip. We were sitting on a café terrace in the village square, making the most of the glorious weather. The sky was clear and the March sun spilled its silver light over the avenue. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. In the silence of the morning, broken only by the babble of the fountain, the village heard an echo of itself.

  The mayor, shirtsleeves rolled up, stood watching a group of workers paint the curb of the pavements red and white. In front of the church, the priest was helping a carter unload sacks of coal, which a boy was stacking against the wall. On the far side of the square, housewives stood gossiping around the market stalls, watched over by Bruno, a policeman who was barely out of his teens.

  Simon set the teaspoon down.

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink at Dédé’s last night,’ he said.

  ‘Is this about that girl?’

  ‘You catch on fast . . . I’ve got a serious crush on her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘What can I say? I’ve never in my life felt the way I feel about this dark-haired girl with the mysterious eyes.’

  ‘Did you find out who she is?’

  ‘Of course! First thing I did the morning after the party was track her down. The only problem is, I found out I’m not the only person interested. Even that brainless moron José is hanging around her. You can’t have a fantasy in this godforsaken town without a bunch of cretins gatecrashing it.’

  He swatted an imaginary fly with a brutal, angry gesture, then picked up the spoon and went back to stirring his coffee.

  ‘I wish I had your blue eyes, Jonas, and your angelic face!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I could try my luck. Just look at me: I’ve got an ugly mug, a pot belly, a pair of stumpy legs . . . I’ve even got flat feet.’

  ‘Girls aren’t just interested in looks . . .’

  ‘Maybe, but as it happens, I don’t have much else to offer them. I don’t have a vineyard or a wine broker’s or a fat bank account.’

  ‘You’ve got other things – your sense of humour, for a start. Girls love guys who can make them laugh. And you’re honest, you’re sincere, you’re not a drunk, you’re not two-faced. That stuff means a lot.’

  Simon batted away my compliments.

  There was a long silence. He bit his lip and looked awkward.

  ‘Jonas,’ he asked, ‘do you think love trumps friendship?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well . . . I saw Fabrice flirting with our vestal virgin the day before yesterday . . . It was down by Cordona’s wine cellars. Fabrice was leaning on the hood of his mother’s car, arms folded, looking cool . . . and she didn’t look like she was in a hurry to go home.’

  ‘It’s only because Fabrice is everyone’s favourite person in Río Salado these days. Girls, guys, even old men stop him in the street – he’s our poet.’

  ‘I know, but I didn’t get the impression they were talking about literature, and it didn’t look like a one-off thing.’

  ‘Hey, peasants!’ André called to us, parking his car across the street. ‘Why aren’t you down at my diner initiating yourself into the glories of pool?’

  ‘We’re waiting for Fabrice.’

  ‘You want me to go on ahead?’

  ‘We’ll come over in a little while.’

  ‘I’m counting on you.’

  ‘We’ll be there.’

  André brought two fingers to his temple in a salute and floored the accelerator, raising a growl from an old dog curled up in a doorway.

  Simon grabbed my hand.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten how you and Chris fell out about Isabelle. I don’t want that happening to me and Fabrice. His friendship means a lot to me.’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’

  ‘Even thinking about it, I feel ashamed of my feelings for this girl.’

  ‘There’s no reason to be ashamed of our feelings when they’re positive – even if they seem unfair.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘Everyone has an equal chance in love; everyone has the right to try his luck.’

  ‘Do you think I’ve got a chance? I mean, Fabrice is rich and he’s famous.’

  ‘Do I think, do I think . . . Every time you open your mouth these days you ask me that. Well, I’ll tell you what I think – I think you’re a coward. I think you’re going round in circles when you should be getting somewhere. Anyway, here’s Fabrice – let’s change the subject.’

  André’s diner was crowded and too noisy for us to really enjoy our escargots à la sauce piquante. Besides, Simon obviously felt awkward. More than once he seemed about to confess everything to Fabrice, only to change his mind as soon as he opened his mouth. For his part, Fabrice was oblivious to what was going on. He took out his notepad and began scribbling down a fragment of a poem, crossing out and rewriting as he went. His blond fringe fell over his eyes like a barrier between his thoughts and Simon’s.

  André came over to ask if we needed anything, leaning over the poet’s shoulder to read what he was writing.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Fabrice said, irritated.

  ‘A love poem! So, are you going to tell us who’s making your heart beat faster?’

  Fabrice snapped his notebook closed and looked André up and down.

  ‘I guess I’m ruining your inspiration,’ grumbled André.

  ‘You’re winding him up is what you’re doing,’ Simon barked. ‘Just go away and leave us alone.’

  André pushed his Stetson back off his head and put his hands on his hips.

  ‘What the hell is up with you? Why are you so pissed off at me?’

  ‘Can’t you see he’s in the middle of writing a poem?’

  ‘It’s just h
ot air . . . Pretty words are not the way to a girl’s heart, take my word for it. All I have to do is click my fingers and I can have any girl I want.’

  Disgusted by André’s crassness, Fabrice picked up his notebook and stormed out of the diner. Stunned, André watched him leave, then turned back to us. ‘What did I say? Has he lost his sense of humour or what?’

  We were all slightly shocked by Fabrice’s sudden departure. Ordinarily, he was the most considerate and polite of us and the least likely to take offence.

  ‘Must be the side effects of being in love,’ Simon said bitterly, realising that what he had seen between Fabrice and his fantasy girl with the mysterious eyes was not just an idle chat.

  That night we went over to Jean-Christophe’s house. He had something he wanted to talk to us about; he wanted our advice. He ushered us into his father’s small study on the ground floor. He watched us sip fruit juice and eat crisps for a minute, then announced:

  ‘It’s all over . . . I’ve finally broken up with Isabelle.’

  The rest of us expected Simon to be overjoyed at this news, but he said nothing.

  ‘Do you think I made a mistake?’

  Fabrice rested his chin in his hands and thought.

  ‘What happened?’ I found myself asking, though I had long sworn never to get involved in their affairs.

  Jean-Christophe, who had been waiting for an excuse to tell all, gave a weary shrug and said: ‘Isabelle’s too complicated. She’s always finding fault, always correcting me about stupid things, always reminding me that my family is poor and she’s doing me a favour just by being with me . . . I’ve threatened to break up with her lots of times, and every time she says: “Go ahead!” This morning was the last straw. She nearly lynched me right in the street in front of everyone just because I looked at that girl we saw the other night at the party.’

  A tremor ran around the room. The table seemed to shake. I saw Fabrice’s Adam’s apple bob and Simon’s knuckles go white.

  ‘What?’ asked Jean-Christophe, astonished at the sudden silence. Simon glanced at Fabrice, who cleared his throat and stared at Jean-Christophe.

  ‘Did Isabelle catch you with that girl?’

  ‘No . . . I haven’t even seen her since the party. I was just walking Isabelle to the dressmaker’s and the girl was coming out of Benhamou’s shop.’

  Fabrice looked relieved; he relaxed a little and said:

  ‘You know, Chris, none of us can tell you what you should do. We’re your friends, but we don’t really know what goes on between you and Isabelle. You’re always saying you’re going to dump her, then the next day we’ll see the two of you walking hand in hand, so it’s hard to believe you’re really serious. In any case, it’s your business. You need to decide what you want to do. You and Isabelle have been together ever since you were at school. You know better than we do where you stand.’

  ‘But that’s my point – we’ve been together since we were at school, and I still don’t know where I stand. I don’t know if I’m happy. It’s like Isabelle owns my soul. Even though she can be difficult and she orders me around, sometimes I can’t imagine my life without her. I swear that’s the truth. There are times when all her faults just make me love her more . . .’

  ‘Forget her!’ said Simon, his eyes blazing. ‘I always said she wasn’t right for you. You can’t go through life with her like some chronic illness. A handsome guy like you, you shouldn’t give up on life. Besides, all this fighting and making up is getting boring.’ As he said this, he got to his feet – just as Fabrice had done at the diner that morning – and stormed out.

  ‘Did I say something stupid?’ Jean-Christophe asked, astonished.

  ‘He hasn’t really been himself lately,’ Fabrice said.

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Jean-Christophe turned to me. ‘You know him better than anyone; what’s going on in his head?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  Simon had got it bad, and his frustration was beginning to get the better of his natural good humour. All the insecurities he had spent a lifetime hiding from were finally coming to the surface. His clowning around and his self-deprecating jokes had been a way of hiding his faults – being fat, being short, being awkward with women. The sudden appearance of this dark-haired girl was forcing him to face up to the unspoken truths that were ruining his life.

  Simon and I ran into each other by accident a week later. He was on his way to the post office and was happy for me to tag along.

  His rage since the flare-up with Jean-Christophe had not abated. He looked as though he hated the whole world.

  We walked though the village in silence, like shadowgraphs on a wall. Having collected his forms from the post office, Simon seemed lost. He did not know what to do. We met Fabrice as we were coming out of the post office. He wasn’t alone. She was with him, and she had her arm through his. All we had to do was look at them – Fabrice in his tweed suit and her in a flowing pleated dress – and we knew. In an instant, all the bitterness drained from Simon’s face. How could he not accept this when they looked so perfect together?

  Fabrice quickly introduced us.

  ‘This is Simon and Jonas, I told you about them, they’re my best friends.’

  Framed by the sun, the girl was even more beautiful now – she was not flesh and blood but a blaze of sunlight.

  ‘Simon, Jonas, this is Émilie, Madame Cazenave’s daughter.’

  It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over me. Simon and I simply nodded and smiled – speechless, though for very different reasons. By the time we had regained our composure, they had left. We stood on the steps of the post office for a long time, unable to utter a word. How could we resent them? How could we question such loving completeness without appearing brutish?

  Simon owed it to himself to concede defeat, and this, with considerable flair, he did.

  13

  SPRING WAS gaining ground. The dew on the hills shimmered in the dawn light like a sea so inviting you wanted to strip off, dive in and swim until, exhausted, you found a shady tree where you could lie and dream, one by one, of the things the good Lord had made. Every intoxicating morning was a miracle, every stolen moment a fragment of eternity. In the sunshine, Río Salado was a marvel. Everything the sunlight touched turned to dream; nowhere in the world had my soul ever found such peace. News of the outside world filtered through as garbled rumours that did nothing to disturb the pleasant rustle of the vines. We knew Algeria was at war, that a seething anger festered among the people, but the villagers in Río Salado seemed to care little about this. They built high walls around their happiness; walls with no windows on the outside world. They were content to gaze at their handsome reflections in the mirror, then head off into the vineyards to harvest the sunshine.

  Río Salado was unperturbed. The burgeoning harvest promised good wines, a dazzling whirl of dances and fruitful marriages; the ominous thunderclouds gathering elsewhere could not be allowed to darken a sky of such pure, perfect blue.

  Often, after lunch, I would sit in the rocking chair on the veranda for half an hour so I could gaze out over the dappled greens of the plains, the ravines of ochre clay and the many-coloured mirages rising in the distance. The view was almost otherworldly in its serenity. I would gaze out across the fields and doze. Sometimes Germaine would find me, head thrown back, mouth open, and would tiptoe away so as not to wake me.

  Río Salado was waiting expectantly for summer. We knew time was on our side, that soon the beaches and the grape harvest would breathe new life into us the better to enjoy the feasting and the riotous bacchanalia. Already summer loves blossomed in the idle hours like flowers in the sunlight. Girls strolled down the main street, dazzling in their summer dresses, flaunting bare arms or a flash of tanned shoulder. The boys on the café terraces were wont to fly into a rage if someone began delving into their secret sighs and fantasies.

  But the very things that made some hearts beat faster be
calmed others. Jean-Christophe and Isabelle broke up. The whole village gossiped about their turbulent relationship. I watched as my friend shrivelled. Usually Jean-Christophe was always quick to call attention to himself; he loved to shout to people across the street, to stop traffic, to yell to a barman for a beer. He had always been self-centred and self-seeking, proud to be the centre of his own universe. Now he could not bring himself to look people in the eye, pretended not to hear when some called to him from across the road. He could be tortured by an innocent smile and would analyse the least comment for some malicious implication. He became quick-tempered, distant, and half mad with heartache. I was worried about him. One evening, having spent the day roaming the hills far from wagging tongues, he went to André’s diner, and after knocking back several bottles, was so drunk he could barely stand. José offered to give him a lift home, but Jean-Christophe punched him in the face, then picked up an iron bar and drove the rest of the customers out of the diner. Alone amidst the empty benches and tables, he clambered up on to the bar and, reeling and staggering, his nose streaming with blood, pissed copiously over the flower beds, roaring that he would do the same to the bastards talking about him behind his back. It took considerable skill to steal up on him, take the iron bar, tie him up and carry him home on a makeshift stretcher. The incident provoked a howl of indignation in Río Salado. They had never seen the like of it. This was hchouma – mortal shame – something no Algerian village could forgive. Anyone might stumble, fall and pick themselves up again, but having sunk so low, a man lost the respect of others and often their friendship. Jean-Christophe knew that he had overstepped the mark, and knew that he could not show his face in the village again. He set off for Oran, where he spent his days wandering aimlessly from bar to bar.

  Simon, for his part, was pragmatic. He took his fate in his own hands. He had long been tired of being a factotum, frittering his life away in an office that smelled of mildew and interminable lawsuits. It was a job ill-suited to his sense of himself as the life and soul of the party. He had neither the temperament nor the forbearance for a career as a badly paid pen-pusher. The office walls were closing in; his world was reduced to a sheet of yellow paper. He was suffocating, waiting like a dumb animal for a bell to tell him he could go home. Worst of all, he realised, the worries and anxieties of his job were the only things that still reminded him that he was human. One morning after a blazing row with his boss he resigned, determined to set himself up in business and be his own boss.