My mother made us a wonderful dinner of chorba with chickpeas, roast chicken stuffed with Jerusalem artichokes, grilled liver kebabs, seasonal fruits and two large bottles of Hamoud Boualem pop bought from an Algiers grocer.
Before we sat down to eat, I begged her not to rekindle Gino’s grief. My mother had a tendency to lament the dead woman every time he came to share our meals, which rather spoilt our get-togethers. My mother gave a maraboutic sign and promised to avoid painful subjects. She kept her word. At the end of the meal, as she was getting ready to clear the table so that she could serve tea, I took a box wrapped in a kaftan from my bag and gave it to her.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Open it and see.’
She took the gift cautiously and undid the ribbons. Her eyes opened wide at the sight of the solid gold kholkhal in its casket.
‘It’s not as beautiful as yours, but it’s heavy. I looked in all the Arab jewellers’ and it was the best one I could find.’
My mother was stunned. ‘It must have cost you an arm and a leg,’ she panted.
In his turn, Mekki stood up, went to his room and came back with a cloth tightly wrapped with string, knelt in front of my mother and undid it. On the table, he placed the kholkhal with the lions’ heads.
‘I didn’t dare sell it or pawn it,’ he said. ‘I kept it for you because it’s yours. I wouldn’t have let another person have it for anything in the world.’
Moved, shaking all over, my mother put her arms around him, then around me. She kissed me. I felt her heart beating against my chest and her tears sliding down my neck. Embarrassed by Gino’s presence, she hid her face with her scarf and ran to take refuge in the kitchen.
I walked Gino home. It was a magnificent night, fragrant with amber and mint. The sky glittered with millions of constellations. A group of young men were laughing their heads off under a street lamp. We walked in silence to Boulevard Mascara. An empty tram passed us. I felt light, fresh; an honest joy filled my lungs. I was proud of myself.
‘I’m sleeping at my mother’s tonight,’ I said to Gino when we got to his door. ‘I’ll just go up and drop my bag.’
Gino put on the stair light and went up ahead of me.
When he reached his mother’s room, transformed into a living room, he gave a start. On the chest of drawers stood a brand-new horn gramophone and a pile of records in their sleeves.
‘It’s my gift to you,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said with a lump in his throat.
‘Do you like it?’
‘Of course I do!’
‘And I got you all the Jewish-Andalusian music I could find. This way, you won’t have to venture out into dangerous areas at ridiculous hours.’
Gino looked through the pile of records. ‘Where did you buy these?’
‘In a very smart shop in the centre of town.’
Gino burst out laughing. ‘Well, smart or not, they took you for a ride. These are all military band records.’
‘No!’ I said in astonishment.
‘They definitely are. Look, it’s even written on the sleeves.’
‘The crook! How did he know I couldn’t read? I was all dressed up like a matinee idol, with brilliantine in my hair. I swear I insisted on records of Jewish-Andalusian music. I told him it was for someone who loves that kind of thing … The bastard! Plus, they cost me a fortune. I’m going to have a word with him tomorrow morning.’
Touched by my disappointment, Gino let out another boyish laugh. ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. Now I won’t need to go to the bandstand to hear this kind of music, that’s all.’ He gave me a big hug. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
*
Two weeks later, De Stefano stopped me in the doorway of the gym. His face was radiant with a joy he couldn’t contain. The Duke had thought it over! ‘It’s in the bag,’ Francis said, rubbing his hands. Frédéric Pau was perched on the edge of the ring, his legs crossed, his thumbs in his braces, smiling from ear to ear. ‘Put it there, son,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘From now on, we’re partners.’ He told me that his boss was inviting De Stefano and me to his house to seal the deal. I told him I wouldn’t sign anything without Gino, much to the dismay of Francis, whose face immediately darkened. Frédéric told me we hadn’t got to that point yet, that this was just a friendly meeting. In the afternoon, a gleaming car pulled up outside the haberdasher’s on Boulevard Mascara. Gino and I were on the balcony, sipping orangeade. Filippi got out of the car in a tight-fitting bellboy’s tunic, a cap jammed on his head. He stood to attention and gave us a military salute.
‘Did Bébert fire you from his garage?’ Gino shouted down to him.
‘No.’
‘Then what are you doing in that uniform? You look like a soldier in his Sunday best.’
‘I’m a chauffeur. The Duke was looking for a driver. De Stefano told him about me, and the Duke hired me immediately. He has a good business head, the Duke. For the price of one employee, he’s got himself a chauffeur and a mechanic … I have something for Turambo.’
‘Come up, it’s open.’
Filippi carefully took a package from the back seat and joined us upstairs. There were two suits in their wrapping, one black and the other white, two shirts and two ties.
‘They’re from the boss,’ he said. ‘He wants to see you looking handsome tonight. Go to the hammam and get yourself cleaned up. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. Make sure you’re ready; the Duke’s a stickler for punctuality.’
Filippi came back at sunset. I’d had my bath and put on the black suit, and Gino had helped me knot my tie. I stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, combed, scented … and barefoot. I didn’t have any suitable shoes. Filippi offered me his own shoes, not the ones he was wearing, but the ones he had at home, in Delmonte. It was on our way. We made a detour to pick up De Stefano and, at eight on the dot, we were at the Duke’s door.
The Duke lived in a big villa in the south of Saint-Eugène, or to be more accurate a magnificent manor house surrounded by a huge, luxuriant garden. An Arab guard opened the gate, which had a gold thistle on it. We had to go a good thirty metres along a gravel drive lined on either side with hydrangeas and small bushes pruned into cubes before we reached the canopied front steps of the house.
Frédéric Pau was waiting for us on the top step in a charcoal-grey frock coat that made him look like a heron. He adjusted De Stefano’s tie, asked him to take off his straw boater, then looked me over and adjusted a few things, a crease in my jacket, a hair out of place.
Members of polite society were chatting in a big, high-ceilinged room, beneath a massive chandelier. There were elegant ladies with elbow-length gloves, accompanied by distinguished-looking gentlemen with outlandish moustaches. When he saw me, the Duke opened his arms wide and cried, ‘Ah, there’s our hero!’ He didn’t embrace me, or even hold out his hand; he merely introduced me briefly to his guests, who looked me up and down, some with interest, others with curiosity, before turning away from me and returning to the sophisticated hubbub. They were all of a certain age, women and men, probably married couples, reeking of successful business and high positions. De Stefano whispered in my ear that the fat man with the swollen nose was the mayor and the skinny gentleman with the greying temples was the prefect. Out on the veranda, a Parisian dignitary in a tailcoat and top hat was pretending to take the air in order to distance himself from the locals and enhance his metropolitan aura.
A servant passed between the guests with a tray of glasses. De Stefano eagerly accepted a glass of champagne; I didn’t take anything, intimidated by the luxury around me, the ladies’ sophisticated clothes, their companions’ regal disdain.
A neat, bouncy young girl approached me, hands twisted behind her back, her face red with embarrassment and curiosity.
She was cute, with her blonde plaits and her big blue eyes.
‘I’m Louise, Monsieur Bollocq’s daughter.’
I didn’t kn
ow what to say in reply. In the distance, De Stefano winked at me, which annoyed me for some reason.
‘Papa’s convinced you’re going to be world champion.’
‘The world’s a big place.’
‘When Papa says something, it always happens.’
‘…’
‘I love boxing. Papa won’t take me to see matches, so I listen to them on the radio. Georges Carpentier’s fights are amazing. But I won’t cheer him on the way I used to now that Papa has his own champion …’
Shyly she went up on tiptoe. Her tongue moved back and forth over her thin lips.
‘How can you take the blows round after round? The announcer almost fainted when he described the flurry of blows you exchanged in the ring.’
‘You train a lot to keep going.’
‘And does it hurt when you box?’
‘Not as much as a toothache.’
A refined lady came along and cut short our conversation. She must have been in her forties and was very grand and aggressive. Barely glancing at me, she seized the girl by the arm and led her away from me.
‘Louise, my dear, you should leave this young man alone. We’ll be sitting down to eat soon.’
She was Madame Bollocq.
Louise turned several times and gave me a sad smile before disappearing among the guests.
At the table, the Duke delivered a solemn speech in which he promised that Oran would soon have its North African champion – me, of course. This fine city deserved to have idols it could flaunt in the faces of those snobs in Algiers, and it was imperative that we all work together, politicians, businessmen and sponsors, to restore the lustre of the most emancipated city in Algeria. He spent a long while boasting of my potential and my achievements, insisted on the need to stay with me until I reached the top, and warmly thanked the mayor, the prefect and the other dignitaries who had agreed to join him and make this evening the beginning of a new era crowned with trophies, sensational titles and outstanding sportsmen. At the end of his speech, he raised his glass to all those who, in a large or small way, out of self-interest or loyalty, with their money or simply with their hearts, were contributing to the rise of the wonderful city of the two lions.
All through the dinner, while the ladies and gentlemen stuffed their faces and laughed at the Duke’s anecdotes – he was on truly entertaining form – Louise kept looking at me and sending me friendly signs from the end of the banqueting table.
*
Gino came to my room, curious as to why I hadn’t switched the light off, or why I was lying fully clothed on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. He sat down on a chair next to me, lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in my direction.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Do I look like something’s wrong?’
‘No, but you’re up to something. Your silence worries me, and your insomnia too. Have you signed something behind my back?’
‘I’ve already agreed with De Stefano. It’s you, and you alone, who’ll handle my business affairs.’
‘So why aren’t you asleep? You have two training sessions tomorrow and your next fight’s in three weeks.’
I was silent for a while before confessing, ‘I think I’m in love.’
‘So soon?’
‘I guess you’d call it love at first sight.’
‘Is it serious?’
‘Yes, seeing that I can’t sleep.’
‘And who’s the lucky girl?’
‘Her name’s Louise. She’s the Duke’s daughter. The problem is that she’s only fourteen or fifteen.’
‘Are you sure that’s the only problem?’
‘I’m a man now. I need a wife and children.’
‘Stop putting a spoke in your own wheels. You really don’t need to complicate your life with all that. You’re too young to have a noose round your neck. Get that idea out of your head, and fast. A champion needs a good punch bag and his freedom. And anyway, the Duke would give you a beating if he found out you had a crush on his daughter.’
‘What do you know anyway?’
The next day, halfway to the gym, I turned round and hopped on the first tram that came along. In a florist’s in Saint-Eugène, I bought a pretty bunch of pink peonies and found myself ringing at the Bollocqs’ gate. The Arab asked me what I wanted. I showed him my flowers. He asked me to follow him to the front steps of the manor and await Madame’s instructions. Madame Bollocq didn’t seem pleased to see me. I told her I’d brought a gift for her daughter. She told me that was kind of me, but that there was no need, and asked the guard to walk me back to the gate. I didn’t have a chance to catch a glimpse of Louise.
Towards midday, Frédéric Pau informed me that the Duke wanted to talk to me. Immediately. I got down from the ring and went to change. Frédéric was waiting impatiently in the car. He drove me straight to the Duke’s office, which was on the seafront.
The Duke dismissed his adviser and closed the door behind him. We were alone in a big room adorned with old paintings and figurines.
‘It seems you came to the house,’ he said, taking a big cigar from a gold case on a chest of drawers.
‘That’s right, Monsieur. I was in the area and I thought —’
‘I have an office, Turambo,’ he cut in, putting the cigar down and glaring at me.
‘I wanted to give Louise flowers.’
‘She has a whole garden full of them or didn’t you notice?’
I’d been expecting to sign papers or talk about matches, and the Duke’s remark threw me. I had no idea where he was going with this, but it was clear he blamed me for something.
With his finger, he motioned to me to follow him. We crossed his wood-panelled office and went out onto the balcony, which overlooked an inner courtyard in the middle of which stood a huge plane tree. The Duke leant on the wrought-iron balustrade, sniffed the air, moved his face into the sun’s rays then, without turning to me, pointed to the tree.
‘You see that tree, Turambo? It was here long before my great-grandmother. Probably before the first civilised people even settled in this barbaric country. It’s survived invasions and a whole lot of battles. Often, when I look at it, I wonder how many love affairs started beneath it, how many confidences were exchanged in its shade, how many plots were hatched under its branches. It’s seen generations pass and yet there it is, imperturbable, almost taciturn, as if nothing had ever happened … Do you know why it’s survived the centuries and why it’ll survive us? Because it’s stayed stubbornly in its place. It’s never going to trample on the roots of other trees. And it’s right. The reason it’s fine where it is, relaxed, well-behaved, is so that no other tree can come and overshadow it.’
‘I don’t understand, Monsieur.’
‘You should know this, young man. To me, you’re just an investment. You’re not a member of my family, you’re not a friend. You’re a racehorse on which I’ve bet a lot of money. I may indulge you and spoil you, but that has nothing to do with affection: it’s so that you don’t disappoint me or short-change me. But whatever the satisfaction you give me, you’ll always be the little Arab from the souk who’d do better not to take for granted the favours people do for him. Do you follow me?’
‘Not really, Monsieur.’
‘I thought as much. I’m going to try and be clearer.’ He tapped on the balustrade with his finger. ‘I don’t want you to ring my doorbell without being invited, and I forbid you to go anywhere near my daughter. We aren’t of the same class, let alone the same race. So stay in your place, like that tree, and nobody will step on you … Have I made myself understood, Turambo?’
My hands had left damp patches on the edge of the balustrade. The sun was burning my eyes. A cold shower would have been less of a shock.
‘I have to go and train, Monsieur,’ I heard myself stammer.
‘An excellent idea.’
I wiped my moist hands on the front of my trousers and walked back to the main door.
‘Turambo!’ he called.
>
I stopped in the middle of the room, without turning round.
‘In life, as in boxing,’ he said, ‘there are rules.’
I nodded and went on my way.
That day, I let myself go on the punch bag until my arms were almost pushed back into their sockets.
6
‘The Duke would give you the moon if you asked him,’ Frédéric Pau said to me, ‘but you can’t even swat a fly without his permission. He’s strict with everyone. He and I have known each other since we were barefoot boys in the gutter. We stole fruit from the same orchard and bathed in the same trough. And yet I’m at his beck and call. Because he’s the boss … I acknowledge he’s been hard on you. He admits it himself. But don’t make a big deal of it. He just wanted you to know that there are lines that mustn’t be crossed. I assure you he has an enormous amount of esteem for you. He wants to make you a legend. He’ll get you to the top, I guarantee it. Only, he insists on certain principles, do you follow me? Otherwise, how can he get people to respect him?’
It was after midnight. Gino and I had been sleeping when there was a knock at the door. Going down to open up, I’d been surprised to see Frédéric Pau standing in the street, puffing on a cigarette. He’d apologised for disturbing us. It was obvious he wasn’t there by chance. The way he was smoking betrayed a nervousness I’d never seen in him before. I’d stood aside to let him come up. It occurred to me the Duke might have fired him; I was wrong. Monsieur Pau had come to lecture me …
Gino joined us in his pants in the living room, which was dimly lit by an old oil lamp because of an electricity blackout. As soon as he was seated, Monsieur Pau got straight to the point. He’d been given the task of clearing up that afternoon’s misunderstanding, following the words the Duke had said to me in his office. Gino, still half asleep, couldn’t follow much of the discussion. His eyes darted from my tense mouth to Frédéric Pau’s conciliatory hands, trying in vain to grasp what it was all about. I hadn’t told him about the incident in question. The Duke had wounded me deeply and I had preferred to save my resentment for Sigli, my next opponent, an arrogant fellow who was constantly shouting from the rooftops that he would polish me off in the first round. So I was furious with Pau. He was revealing everything without realising the embarrassing situation he was putting me in. However many pained looks I gave him, in the hope of making him aware of his indiscretion, he just kept on talking.
The Angels Die Page 18