A sound reached us from the end of the corridor. Much to my relief, Pau at last fell silent. He asked Gino what the noise meant. Gino reassured him it wasn’t a poltergeist but might have been a rat overturning something in the kitchen.
I took advantage of this unexpected interruption to divert the conversation. ‘When are we going to sign the contract, Monsieur Pau?’
‘What contract?’
‘What do you mean, what contract? I work for your boss now, don’t I?’
‘The Duke never said anything about a contract.’
‘Well, it’s time we sat down round a table and clarified things. In three weeks, I’m meeting Sigli. I’m not getting in that ring without first sorting out the details of my career. The Duke wants me to follow the rules. Let him do the same. And please note, it isn’t Francis who manages my affairs now, but Gino here. From today, you’ll have to negotiate with him.’
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘And now, go home, Monsieur. Tomorrow, very early, De Stefano is picking me up to go to Kristel.’
Pau took his hat off the table. His hand was shaking. ‘What should I tell the Duke?’
‘About what?’
‘About what happened in his office this afternoon.’
‘Nothing happened in his office this afternoon.’
Pau was confused. He didn’t know how to interpret my attitude. I pushed him gently outside, making sure he didn’t trip on the dark staircase, and slammed the door behind him.
‘What was all that about?’ Gino asked.
‘All what?’ I said, going back to my room.
The next day, when I got back from Kristel, Gino told me that Filippi had come to fetch him and take him to see the Duke and that, although he hadn’t signed any papers, the situation was looking better than he’d hoped. He informed me that Monsieur Pau would be coming round that evening to bury the ‘misunderstanding’ once and for all and that, in order to do that, I needed to have a good bath and put on my formal suit.
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Not this time. The situation has changed. From now on, whenever you’re invited, you’re not expected to bring your tribe with you. You just do what you’re told, full stop. But don’t worry, I’m looking after your interests whether I’m there or not.’
That evening, the car driven by Filippi pulled up outside the haberdasher’s. Frédéric Pau opened the door for me in person. From the balcony, Gino gave me a little wave and mouthed something I read as Have fun.
The seafront was swarming with people in loose shirts, and the ice-cream parlours overflowed with holidaymakers. Ladies were strolling on the esplanade, their hair blowing in the wind. Leaning on the railing overlooking the harbour, young people were gazing at the setting sun, its fire in marked contrast to the silhouette of Murdjadjo. From the top of the mountain, Santa Cruz watched over the city, hands joined and wings outstretched. In Oran, summer was a party, and the neon signs were conjuring tricks.
The car turned off from the bustle of the streets and glided slowly into the thick silence of the countryside. A strip of asphalt climbed to the heights of the Cueva del Agua. On this side of the city, you turned your back on the wonders of nature. Now wasn’t the time for contemplation. Poverty was born out of misfortune, and both were accepted as a given, like a curse handed down as punishment for an unknown crime. Huts of hessian flapped in the dust-laden breeze. On a mound of rubbish, ragged children, watched by a sad, rheumy-eyed old dog, were learning to overcome their sorrows … Further on, a sign announced the entrance to the village of Canastel. Filippi turned onto a track and plunged into a thicket filled with the sound of cicadas. We passed little cabins hidden behind reed trellises, crossed a deserted clearing, and finally came to the gate of a comfortable-looking residence perched on a belvedere overlooking the sea.
Filippi parked in a little courtyard and rushed to open the door for Monsieur Pau. Pau waited for me to get out first before getting out himself.
‘Where are we?’ I asked him.
‘Somewhere between heaven and hell.’
I looked up at the big house with its tiled roof. Tall windows with austere curtains cast their subdued light on the surrounding area. Pau motioned to me to climb the three front steps.
‘Isn’t Filippi coming with us?’ I said, a little disorientated.
‘Filippi’s a chauffeur. He’s fine where he is.’
An Arab dressed like an Abbasid eunuch – turban pinned at the front, a shimmering kameez above a baggy sirwal, horned slippers and a broad sash around his waist – bowed when he saw Pau on the steps.
‘Larbi, tell Madame Camélia that Monsieur Pau is here.’
‘Right away, sidi,’ the man whispered before disappearing down a hidden passageway.
The main room, which had a faint odour of perfume and tobacco, was twice as large as that of the Bollocq house. At the time, I couldn’t have put a name to the gargantuan furniture in it. The walls, hung with cold materials, were adorned with dark frescoes, paintings of naked odalisques, sophisticated lamps, bevelled mirrors and hunting trophies. On potbellied chests, bronze statuettes rubbed shoulders with porcelain figurines and hieratic candelabra. Opposite the cloakroom, presided over by a pale-faced old lady, was a wood-panelled counter, blood-red in colour, above a silver cabinet filled with crystal objects. A smartly dressed young man in a bow tie was working the lever of a chrome-plated machine with all his might. He greeted us with a slight nod before being hailed by a client who seemed about to fall into a drunken coma. Couples kissed on sofas in alcoves covered in Florentine mosaics, not at all disturbed by prying eyes. Their casualness shocked me more than the brazenness of their embraces. I had thought that kind of shameless display only happened in shady bars where whores fleeced sailors and fights were always breaking out; seeing it in these hushed, opulent surroundings, practised with the most disgusting audacity by men in white collars and dance-hall starlets, was a great surprise to me. I had thought that distinguished people cared about appearances …
A red-carpeted marble staircase led to the upper floor, where an old harridan with exposed breasts sat on guard duty, smoking a cigarette in a long holder. She watched over an assortment of young girls in suspenders, with arched backs and plump buttocks, perched on high stools at the counter, glasses in their hands. All around, on padded and brocaded banquettes, other slightly drunk women chatted with smartly dressed gentlemen, some of them sitting on their knees, others letting themselves be boldly groped.
‘Come, let me introduce you to a future champion of the world,’ Frédéric Pau said, bringing me back down to earth. He led me to the far end of the room where a tall black man in a three-piece suit was lounging on a sofa, with two barely pubescent girls all over him. The man was a force of nature. He was drinking a glass of brandy, knees crossed, crushing one of the girls, a blonde, with his free arm, while she writhed with pleasure. Both girls were carefully made up and wore satin lingerie through which their firm breasts and frilly knickers could be seen. They seemed captivated by the man.
‘Is it true you hit Jacquot?’ asked the other girl, a brunette with short hair, eyes half hidden by her curly fringe.
‘It was a misunderstanding,’ the man grunted in a lazy voice.
‘I saw him at the casino,’ the brunette went on, ‘and didn’t recognise him. What did you hit him with? His nose was completely flattened. The poor man’s profile was ruined.’
‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘Please tell us why you hit him,’ the blonde said excitedly, cuddling up closer to the man.
The tall black man put his glass down on a table in front of him, buried the blonde beneath his armpit and let his other hand run over the brunette’s thighs. ‘I was training hard when Jacquot said to Gustave, “What a stud, your boy.” So I punched him in the face.’
‘But that’s not an insult,’ the blonde cried, ‘in fact it’s a compliment. It means you’re in great shape.’
> ‘Yeah,’ the black man sighed, ‘except I’d never heard the expression before. Gustave explained it to me later. I told him Jacquot could have found another way to flatter me …’
The two girls fell silent when they saw us standing over them. Intrigued by his companions’ sudden silence, the tall man turned his head, frowning.
He drew his lips back displaying a row of gold teeth. ‘Are you listening at doors now, Frédo?’
‘Not at all,’ Frédéric Pau reassured him. ‘I wanted to introduce our new champion.’
The black man looked me up and down.
I held out my hand; he looked at it scornfully.
‘I haven’t got my white gloves on, boy,’ he grunted rudely.
‘I have a feeling we’ve met before,’ I said.
‘In your dreams, kid,’ he said, turning his back on me.
Frédéric took me by the arm and dragged me away.
‘Who is that brute?’
‘His name’s Mouss,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He’s a heavyweight. It’s hardly surprising you thought you knew him. You’ll have seen his posters on walls and his picture in the papers.’
‘Did you see how he treated us?’
‘He has a bad attitude. He’s very full of himself. One day, someone asked him, “Who are you?” He replied, “I’m Me.” “Don’t you have a name?” And Mouss replied, “I don’t need one because I’m unique.” See what I mean? I thought he’d be delighted to make the acquaintance of a promising colleague from his own community. I was wrong. But we shouldn’t let that stupid megalomaniac spoil our evening.’
A woman looking like a priestess, an artificial beauty spot on her cheek and her blue eyes adorned with false eyelashes, came towards us. With her hair swept back into a large bun and her haughty bearing, she carried her sixty years as if carrying a sceptre. She was beautiful, with an indefinable but impressive charm, but her hardness and arrogance immediately intimidated me.
‘How wonderful to see you again, Monsieur Pau,’ she said, wearily dismissing the servant scurrying behind her.
‘No happiness is complete if it isn’t shared, my dear Camélia.’
She briefly glanced at me with a regal eye. ‘Is this the young man Monsieur Bollocq told me about this morning?’
‘That’s right.’
In a hurry to get rid of me, she sent a coded sign to the old harridan sitting upstairs and told me to go up and join her. As I hesitated, not understanding what was expected of me, Frédéric Pau said encouragingly, ‘What are you waiting for? Go on.’
The woman passed her gloved hand under my companion’s arm and drew him over to the bar. ‘Let’s have a drink, dear Frédéric. People as polite as you are becoming increasingly rare around here. Tell me, how’s your lovely wife? Still a slave driver?’
They abandoned me on the spot.
I climbed the stairs unsteadily. I had an unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The harridan, clearly some kind of maid, stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray and seized a fan, which she waved over her garishly made-up face, her blouse open on the bulges of her belly, her navel as big as the barrel of a musket. She led me down a maze-like corridor with a polished floor. On either side there were doors. Through them, bursts of laughter, noises of lovemaking and orgasmic moans could be heard. My unease increased as I advanced. The old harridan opened a door at the end of the corridor and I found myself looking into a cosy room where a young woman sat at a pretty dressing table, brushing her long black hair, which fell all the way down her back. She threw me a look that made me freeze.
‘Aïda,’ the maid announced before withdrawing, ‘here’s the young man you were expecting.’
Aïda smiled at me. With her finger, she motioned me to enter. As I stood stunned in the doorway, she got up, gently drew me inside and closed the door. She smelt good. Her big doe-like eyes enveloped me with an intensity that choked me. My heart was pounding in my chest, I had a lump in my throat, and I was sweating profusely.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
I couldn’t swallow.
She examined me, amused by my embarrassment, then went over to a low table covered with bottles. ‘Would you like a drink?’
I shook my head.
She came back to me, a little disconcerted this time. ‘I assume preliminaries are a waste of time for young Arabs.’
With a mystical gesture, she undid the braid of her shirt and the thin muslin veil that covered her slid silently to the floor, revealing a perfect body, with high breasts, full hips and slender legs. The woman’s sudden nakedness threw me completely. I turned on my heel and almost ran out of the room. I got lost several times on the way back.
The maid frowned when she saw me beating a retreat.
Once in the little courtyard, I braced myself against my knees and breathed deeply to shake off my dizzy spell, which was now turning to nausea. The breeze outside refreshed me a little.
Filippi got out of the car. ‘Are you all right?’
With my hand, I motioned him away.
I needed to snap out of it. Frédéric Pau joined me, completely taken aback by my reaction. I demanded that he take me home immediately. He asked me to calm down and tell him what had happened.
‘You should have told me,’ I said.
‘Told you what?’
‘That we were going to a brothel.’
‘Why?’
‘I wasn’t prepared.’
‘It isn’t a boxing match, Turambo. Don’t tell me you’ve never slept with a girl …’
Filippi guffawed. ‘Is that why you’re so upset?’
‘Filippi!’ Frédéric snapped. ‘Get back behind the wheel and start the engine.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Filippi exclaimed. ‘The giant slayer collapses at the sight of a nice frizzy pussy. I wasn’t prepared,’ he aped me in a grating voice. ‘I suppose you should have got some training in first in the toilets.’
Frédéric put his arm round my shoulders and moved me away from Filippi. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were a virgin. It was the Duke’s idea. Camélia’s is the most prestigious brothel in the region. Only important people go there. The girls are healthy, they know how to hold a conversation and they get regular medical checks. Plus, you don’t have to spend any money. It’s all on Monsieur Bollocq.’
He turned me towards him and looked me in the eye.
‘You’re still young, Turambo. At your age, starting out on what looks like being a fabulous career, the only thing you should think about is victory in the ring. I know that in your community, people marry very young. But you don’t belong to your tribe now. You have a legend to build. Everyone in Oran, from the dignitaries to the flunkies, the ladies to the harlots, is behind you, the Duke at the head of them. You want a wife? We can offer you concubines by the shovelful. At Camélia’s, no scenes, no worries, no judges and no dowries. Just a bit of well-earned relaxation. You come, you have a good time, and it’s thank you and goodbye … Imagine you have an important fight and your wife is ready to go into labour, imagine you have a title fight the night your kid complains of appendicitis, imagine that as you get in the ring you’re told your daughter has fallen down the stairs, what would you do? Do you put your gloves on or do you jump in a taxi and rush home? … So, girlfriends, marriage, all that mess, forget about it. You have mountains to climb, titles and trophies to win. To get there, the first thing you have to do is get rid of anything that could slow you down or distract you.’
It was clear that Gino was behind this ‘trap’. He had said the same kind of thing the other day when I had told him about Louise. Angrily, I pulled Frédéric’s hands off my shoulders and said, ‘I want to go home now.’
Gino was waiting for me calmly in the kitchen, eating a sandwich of kosher sausage, a napkin round his neck, his braces undone. A lock of hair dangled over his forehead, adding an unusual serenity to his charm. The way I slammed the door behind me and climbed the stairs four steps at a time, cursing, didn’t disturb his
mocking, slightly distant smile. He seemed more interested in the gramophone droning in the living room than my bad mood.
‘What are you playing at?’ I screamed.
He cut me off before I’d finished giving vent to my temper. ‘You chose me to run your affairs,’ he reminded me, ‘so do as I say and shut up.’
The following evening, he himself went with me to Madame Camélia’s. The fact was, I wanted to go back. I was angry at myself for not having kept a cool head and dodged things honourably. Filippi’s sarcastic laughter was still ringing in my ears. I had to make amends for my self-inflicted insult …
Aïda received me with exaggerated solicitude. In spite of her efforts to put me at ease, I couldn’t relax. She told me about herself, asked me questions about my life, my plans, told me innocent jokes that barely raised the ghost of a smile, then took my jacket off, laid me on the bed and began touching me very carefully and whispering in my ear, ‘Let me see to it.’
I was in a kind of stupor when I got back in the car, where Gino and Filippi were waiting for me and sniggering. Filippi suppressed his giggling and ran out to crank up the car. Gino joined me in the back seat.
‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Fantastic!’ I cried, drained of all my toxins.
Three days before my fight, not quite sure if it was to overcome the pressure Sigli was putting me under with his thunderous declarations or simply to rediscover a corner of paradise in Aïda’s arms, I took my courage in both hands and went back to Madame Camélia’s. All by myself, like a grown-up. With the private conviction that I had reached a turning point and was now in a position to decide my own fate. I was determined to take control. I stopped Aïda from undressing me, anxious to prove to her that I was capable of doing it myself. Aïda had no objection.
The Angels Die Page 19