We were speechless for two whole minutes before De Stefano started mopping himself with a handkerchief.
‘You know what you have to do,’ he said to me. ‘If the Duke takes us under his wing, nothing can harm us. The man is manna from heaven. When he bets on a cat, he turns it into a tiger. How would you like to dress like a nabob, Turambo?’
‘It’d make a change. Right now, my clothes are falling apart.’
‘Then go and kick the arse of that cocky Rojo.’
‘Just watch me! Luck only smiles on you once, and I have no intention of letting it slip through my fingers.’
‘That’s the wisest resolution I’ve heard in my whole damned life,’ he said, taking me in his arms.
Gino found me on a café terrace in Medina Jedida, a pot of mint tea on the table. He sat down next to me, poured himself three fingers of tea in my glass and casually lifted it to his lips. Opposite us, on the esplanade, Moroccan acrobats in shorts were performing amazing feats.
‘Guess who came to see us today.’
‘I have a bit of a headache,’ he said wearily.
‘The Duke.’
That woke him up. ‘Wow!’
‘Do you know him? They say he’s rolling in it.’
‘No doubt about that. He’s so rich he hires people to shit for him.’
‘He came and said that if I beat Rojo, he’ll take me under his wing.’
‘Then you have to win … But watch out, if he offers you a contract, don’t sign anything if I’m not there. You’re not educated and he might put a leash round your neck that even a dog wouldn’t want.’
‘I won’t sign anything without you, I promise.’
‘If things work out for you, I’ll leave the printing works and take care of your affairs. You’re starting to make a name for yourself. Would you like me to be your manager?’
‘I’ll hire you right now. We’ll share everything fifty-fifty.’
‘A normal salary would be fine … Let’s say ten per cent.’
We shook hands to seal the deal and burst out laughing, amused by our own fantasies.
The Duke wanted to make sure we got to Perrégaux feeling fresh and on good form, so he sent a taxi to pick us up from Rue Wagram. The five of us bundled in, Francis and Salvo on the fold-up seats, Gino, De Stefano and I on the back seat. The driver was a tense little fellow, his cap pulled down as far as his ears, so tiny behind the wheel that we wondered if he could see the road. He drove slowly, in a stiff and sinister way, as if he was going to a funeral. Whenever Salvo tried to lighten the atmosphere by telling dirty jokes, the driver would turn to him with an icy look and ask him to show some restraint. Unsure if he was the Duke’s official driver or an ordinary cabman, De Stefano didn’t want to take any risks, but he didn’t like the idea of this obscure celebrity teaching us good manners.
It was a fine May day. Summer had come early, and although it wasn’t yet quite at its height, the hills were carpeted in yellow and the farms glittered in the sun. The luxuriant fields and orchards meant that the cows would be nice and fat this year. We took the road to Saint-Denis-du-Sig by way of Sidi Chami, much to the dismay of Francis, who couldn’t understand why we had to make so many detours when the railway led straight there from Valmy. The driver told us this was the route decided on by the Duke himself … It was nine in the morning. A horde of veiled women were climbing a goat path in the direction of a saint’s tomb, their children limping along far behind in single file. I looked up at the tomb, which was at the top of a hillock, and made a solemn vow. I hadn’t slept well in spite of my mother’s herbal teas. My sleep had been disturbed by tortured dreams and heavy sweating; by the time I woke up, my head was burning hot.
Opposite me, Francis was excited, his eyes shining. Discreetly, he rubbed his thumb against his index finger and batted his eyelids to amuse me. All he thought about was money, but seeing him like that made me less anxious. Gino gazed out at the landscape, fists clenched. I was sure he was praying for me. As for De Stefano, he just kept staring at the back of the driver’s furrowed neck as if trying to melt it with his eyes.
Perrégaux appeared after a bend in the road. It was a small town in the middle of a plain dotted with orchards. Here and there in the distance, patches of swamp shimmered like pearls. At the side of the road, amid the fig trees, Arab carters offered their harvest, while kids, their containers filled with snails, waited patiently for buyers. In a field, a thermal spring gurgled, shrouded in white steam. A fat colonist with a guard dog was watching a male donkey circle a female donkey on heat. I had the feeling I was seeing scenes from my native countryside.
The taxi slowed down at the entrance to the town, jolting over the railway track so cautiously that it almost stalled.
De Stefano looked at his watch; we were an hour late.
Frédéric Pau, the Duke’s adviser, was waiting for us on the steps of the town hall. He took his watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and looked at it meaningfully when he recognised our taxi. He was angry and at the same time relieved that we’d arrived at last. The pavement was packed with cars all the way to the post office. The driver chose to park under the palm trees on Place de France, near the covered market. Curious people came to take a look at us. Someone cried, ‘That’s him, that’s the boxer from Oran. Our Rojo will polish him off in no time at all.’ Two policemen, sent by someone or other, held back the hordes of kids who had started to scream when we got out of the car.
‘I was starting to get worried,’ Frédéric Pau cried. ‘Where did you get to, damn it? We’ve been waiting for you for more than an hour.’
‘It’s the driver’s fault,’ De Stefano said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Where did you get him from? An undertaker’s?’
‘It was the boss who insisted he get you here in one piece, but I think he overdid it. Now let’s get a move on, they’re getting impatient inside.’
The Duke was lounging in an armchair, facing the mayor’s desk, his cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a white linen suit, with a hat and moccasins of the same colour. He didn’t stand to greet us and simply gestured with his arm at the man sitting behind the desk.
‘Let me introduce Monsieur Tordjman, the patron saint of the town.’
‘Let’s not exaggerate, Michel,’ the mayor said without moving from his seat. ‘I’m just a humble servant of this place. Now how about some food?’
‘Provided you give us a taster you can vouch for,’ the Duke said, heaving himself up. ‘I don’t want any cook with bad intentions laying my champion low before the fight.’
‘Our Rojo doesn’t need that kind of help, Michel. He’ll make short work of your little town mouse.’
‘We’ll see, Maklouf, we’ll see.’
The mayor was offering a ‘light meal’ on a colonial estate; it was actually a mammoth feast. The banqueting table stretched for several metres, covered in white tablecloths and bristling with an assortment of trays and baskets of fruit. There were about forty guests sitting on either side, mostly colonists and civil servants as well as dignitaries from Sig; the mayor sat in the middle, opposite the Duke. There were no women anywhere to be seen, just men with thick moustaches and bulging bellies, their cheeks scarlet and their mouths dripping with gravy, who laughed at anything and greeted every remark of the mayor’s as if it were the word of a prophet. Salvo dug in, sucking in his cheeks, his eyes darting greedily from dish to dish. Francis kept kicking him under the table, trying to restrain him, but he just grunted like an animal being disturbed and ate twice as much, completely unconcerned. As for De Stefano, he was sizing up Rojo, who was sitting next to the mayor. The local champion was eating calmly, heedless of the commotion around him. He was as tall and broad as an advertising hoarding, his face copper-coloured, his jaw square, his nose so flat you could have ironed a shirt on it. Not once did he look up at me. Cheers went up when servants in djellabas appeared with the méchoui, whole roast lambs served on large dishes strewn with l
ettuce leaves and onion slices. At that moment, Rojo raised his head; he gave me an enigmatic pout and took advantage of the scramble to leave discreetly.
The match took place in the open air, on a cleared area of the town’s park. A cheerful crowd jostled around the ring. As I was getting ready to step up and join the referee, an Araberber in a gandoura whispered in my ear in a Kabyle accent: ‘Show them we’re not just shepherds.’ Cheers rang out when Rojo stepped over the ropes. He greeted his fans simply and walked slowly to his corner. His robe was taken off. He braced himself against the ropes, did a few knee bends then straightened up, his muscles tense and his face inscrutable. The first three rounds were well balanced. Rojo hit straight and hard and took my punches with Olympian calm. He was correct and polite, a real gentleman, following the referee’s instructions to the letter; conscious of his skill, he was managing the fight like the good technician he was. His feints and dodges delighted the crowd. De Stefano yelled at me to keep my distance, to avoid exposing myself to my opponent’s sudden jabs. Every time I hit home, he would bang his fist on the floor of the ring hard enough to dislocate his wrist. ‘Put him under pressure!’ he would cry out. ‘Keep your guard up! … Don’t cling to him! … Watch his right! … Back up, back up fast! …’ Rojo kept his composure. He had a plan and was trying to make me fall in with it, as if he knew me by heart – as soon as I prepared my ‘torpedo’, he would make sure he veered to the opposite side to throw me off balance. In the fourth round, as I trying to avoid being forced into a corner, he surprised me with his left. My gum shield shot out of my mouth and I saw the sky and earth merge. The floor of the ring fell away beneath me. De Stefano’s voice reached me as if through a series of walls. ‘Get up! … On your feet! …’ Salvo’s grimacing face looked like a carnival mask. I couldn’t quite figure out what was happening. The referee was counting, his arm coming down like a machete. The yells of the crowd made me lose my bearings. I managed to grab hold of a rope and pull myself to my feet, my calves wobbling. The bell saved me … ‘What the hell got into you?’ De Stefano cursed while Salvo rubbed my face and neck with a towel soaked in water. ‘I told you to keep your distance. Don’t let him get you in a corner. It isn’t his right you should watch out for, it’s his left. Work on the body. I don’t think he likes it. As soon as he moves back, go in with all guns blazing … He was starting to hesitate, damn it! He’s yours for the taking …’ The fifth round was an ordeal for me. I hadn’t recovered and Rojo didn’t give me any respite. I sheltered behind my gloves and stoically withstood his onslaught; De Stefano was almost apoplectic. The minutes dragged on. The blows echoed inside me like explosions. I was choking, dehydrated and thirsty. Between two dodges, I looked for Gino in the crowd as if the smallest sign from him could save me; all I could see was the Duke’s disapproving pout as the mayor teased him mercilessly. In the seventh round, exasperated by my stamina, Rojo started to lower his guard. His punches became less and less precise and his moves had lost their spring. I took advantage of a badly managed clinch to land a series of punches that catapulted him onto the ropes. Just as he charged, I hit him with my left cut on the tip of his chin. He slumped and collapsed on his stomach. Silence fell over the park. The referee started counting. ‘Stay down!’ someone yelled at Rojo. ‘Get your strength back!’ On the count of eight, Rojo stood up. His eyes were blurred and his guard was weak. He tried to retreat and lean on the ropes, but I pursued him with a shower of blows that took him aback. He’d had enough of dodging; he punched in the air and clung to me, literally thrown off balance. By the time the bell came to his rescue, the champion of Perrégaux didn’t even know where his corner was. De Stefano was jubilant; he was yelling things in my ear, but I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I had my eyes fixed on my opponent. He was at the end of his tether and so was I. I had to find a flaw in his apparatus, a fatal flaw. I was shaken, exhausted, certain I couldn’t hold out much longer. Rojo handled the next two rounds bravely. I was leading on points; he knew it and was trying to catch up. In the eleventh round, just as my strength was about to give out, my left hook set off from deep inside me, drawing on the last ounce of its effectiveness, and split the air. I thought I could hear the bones in Rojo’s neck crack. My fist smashed into his temple with such power that I felt a terrible pain explode in my wrist; its shock wave went through my arm and inflamed my shoulder. Rojo whirled around and fell, throwing dust up from the floor. He didn’t get up. De Stefano, Salvo, Francis and Gino climbed into the ring and threw themselves on me, mad with joy. I had the vague feeling I was weightless.
The Duke came to see us in the changing rooms as we were packing up our things. He shook my hand without taking his cigar out of his mouth.
‘Congratulations, son. It was hard, but you held out.’
‘Thank you, Monsieur. It’s the first time I’ve fought a real champion.’
‘Yes, I like his technique a lot.’ This was said to the whole team. ‘To be quite honest with you, I’d have preferred Rojo to win. He’s a great artist.’ There was regret in his voice.
De Stefano scratched his head under his straw boater, puzzled by the Duke’s attitude. ‘Turambo didn’t let you down, Monsieur.’
‘I didn’t say that. He was perfect.’
‘But you don’t seem pleased, Monsieur.’
The Duke threw his cigar to the floor and crushed it with the tip of his shoe. ‘I still have to think about it. Turambo can take the blows, but Rojo’s more agile, more elegant and more technical.’
De Stefano grabbed his handkerchief and mopped his face. His Adam’s apple stuck in his throat and he had to swallow several times to dislodge it. ‘What is there to think about, Monsieur?’
‘Let’s just say your boy didn’t convince me.’
‘But, Monsieur,’ Francis said in a panic, ‘Turambo’s only just starting out. At this stage of his career, Rojo was spending most of his fights clinging to his opponents like an octopus.’
‘I said I’ll think about it,’ the Duke said resolutely. ‘I’m the one who’s going to invest heavily, not you. This is my money we’re talking about, and money doesn’t grow on trees. I want my own champion and I’m prepared to spare no expense to have him. But I need guarantees. Turambo didn’t give them to me today, not all of them. I found him less good than before. He was variable and lacked determination.’
That wasn’t how De Stefano saw things. He felt betrayed. His flushed face looked as if it was about to fall apart. He took his courage in both hands and dared stand up to the Duke. ‘Turambo won, didn’t he? That was your condition, Monsieur. Rojo has had sixteen professional fights and this was the first time he was knocked out.’
De Stefano could use all the arguments in the world, the Duke wouldn’t budge. He motioned to Frédéric Pau to follow him and left us standing there in the changing room.
We weren’t allowed a taxi on the way back.
We returned to Oran by bus, surrounded by rough peasants, baskets filled with cackling poultry and bundles smelling of manure.
5
De Stefano had cherished a lot of dreams since the Duke had dangled the prospect of financial help in front of him. He thought he might renovate the gym, install a new ring, along with punch bags and all the other paraphernalia that went with it, recruit potential champions and relaunch his career. It was too good to be true, but he had to believe in it after so many pious wishes. For years now he’d been asking luck for a helping hand, without ever giving up. Did he have any choice? The gym was his whole life; he’d fallen into it before he’d learnt to stand. He’d known highs and lows, gone from the peaks to the gutter, and not once had he considered throwing in the towel. For him, there was nothing after boxing, no income, no relaxation, just a total blank. With the Duke as his sponsor, he was sure he could force the hand of fate. Already, in boxing circles, people had started to be jealous of him. He himself had no qualms about telling everyone that the Duke had come to see him to discuss business and lay the groundwork for a fam
e that would mark entire generations. At night, in the bars, he would gather around his table a cluster of friends and make their heads spin with his staggering plans. To prove to them it wasn’t just wishful thinking, he’d buy rounds; his slate looked like a complicated maths puzzle, but the barman didn’t need to be asked twice, convinced as he was that the gym in Rue Wagram was getting a new lease of life.
Every day for a week after we got back from Perrégaux, De Stefano would go through the press, hoping to come across an article praising my victory over Rojo, one that might make the Duke see reason. But neither L’Écho d’Oran nor the evening paper Le Petit Oranais said anything about my fight. Not even a short item. De Stefano was outraged. It was as if the gods were conspiring against him.
I didn’t really grasp what was at stake. I’d go so far as to say that De Stefano’s dismay didn’t affect me. I knew that the Roumis had a strange mentality, that they complicated their lives because they didn’t really believe that ‘everything is written’. As far as I was concerned, things obeyed imperatives that were outside my control; I just had to make the best of it. To rebel against fate, far from averting it, might bring even greater misfortunes down on your head, pursuing you even to your grave … I trained morning and evening, with growing flair, certain that fortune was smiling on me and that my salvation was at the end of my gloves. The press might have ignored me, but the Arab bush telegraph was buzzing to its heart’s content, spicing up my matches and building statues to me on every street corner. In Medina Jedida, not a single café owner would allow me to pay for what I consumed. The children cheered me and old men stopped telling their prayer beads when I passed and called down blessings on my head.
I invited Gino to dinner at my mother’s. My latest victories having brought me a small fortune, I wanted to celebrate that with the family. Mekki joined us reluctantly. He didn’t like the fact that I’d become a boxer, but he didn’t hold it against me too much. I wasn’t a child any more.
The Angels Die Page 17