I undid her bodice, gazed admiringly at the undulation of her hips, followed the voluptuous swelling of her breasts with my finger, kissed her lips, which quivered with desire, then, after switching the light off in the room to make my senses fully alert and reduce the world to nothing but my sense of touch, I carried her in my arms and put her down on the bed as if placing a wreath at the foot of a monument. All I could see were her eyes shining in the darkness, but that was all I asked.
And so I discovered the sweet, irrepressible torments of the flesh.
The Duke was determined to put his own stamp on the event. He called on the best photographers and drummed up support from a whole lot of journalists to make my match the fight of the year. His photograph had been appearing on the front page of L’Écho d’Oran for several days. To ensure the greatest impact, he hired a huge hall in the centre of town used by the city council for big occasions and galas. When I got there, the street outside was swarming with onlookers. Flashbulbs popped and the men of the press jostled one another to get an opinion or statement from me. Gino and Filippi had to elbow their way through the crowd to let me through. On the opposite pavement, a group of Araberbers were shouting and gesticulating in the hope of attracting my attention. They were all in their early thirties, with ties and parted hair.
‘Hey, Turambo!’ one of them shouted at me. ‘Why won’t they let us in? We have money to buy tickets.’
‘It isn’t fair,’ another cried. ‘You have to box for us too. You’re the jewel in our crown.’
‘You’re the champion,’ the first one went on. ‘You can demand it. Insist that they let us watch the match. We’re here to support you. Those are just your enemies around the ring.’
A big red-faced man keeping watch outside the main door of the establishment asked me to go to the changing rooms without delay.
‘Why won’t they let them in?’ I asked him.
‘They didn’t provide any animal skins in the hall,’ he retorted, ‘and these apes don’t know how to sit properly on chairs.’
Gino seized me round the waist to stop me hitting the man and pushed me into the lobby, where a welcoming committee were waiting impatiently. From the hall, the din of the audience reached us. Frédéric Pau immediately led me to the changing rooms. Salvo and De Stefano were already there, nervous and sweating.
‘All the elite of the city are here,’ Frédéric said. ‘It’s up to you to get them on your side. If you win, the sky’s the limit for us.’
Frédéric wasn’t exaggerating. The hall was packed and overheated. In the front few rows sat the dignitaries, the journalists, the judges, and a restless character surrounded by microphones for a live radio broadcast. Behind, a tide of faces crimson with excitement, cooling themselves with fans and newspapers. There were just Roumis in suits here, yelling at each other, jumping up and down on their seats, or looking for each other in the chaos. Not a tarboosh or fez in sight. I suddenly felt alone in the midst of a hostile throng.
As I got in the ring, jeers rang out, soon drowned out by the clamour of a crowd getting ready to celebrate. Spotlights shone down fiercely on the ring. I thought I recognised Mouss in a corner, but the blinding lights forced me to turn away. Applause came from the left side of the hall and spread in a crescendo through the whole room. Whistles and the squeaking of chairs were added to the loud cheers. Sigli emerged from the shadows and made his way through the crowd in a white robe. He was a big, fair-haired man, his head shaven at the temples, with skinny legs. I had seen him fight two or three times and he hadn’t made a particularly good impression on me. He was one metre ninety tall, which protected his head, and he used his long arms to keep his opponents at a distance, his punches being much more of a reflex than genuine aggressiveness. I knew he was only fairly good at taking blows, and there weren’t many people who rated him highly. All the same, everyone was expecting a miracle and praying that someone would shut the mouth of the dirty Arab whose meteoric rise was starting to upset people. Sigli raised his arm to greet his fans and did a quick dance step before climbing over the ropes to thunderous applause. Below the ring, cigar in mouth, the Duke gave me a thumbs-up. Salvo gave me a drink and adjusted my gum shield. ‘Let him come,’ De Stefano whispered in my ear. ‘Walk him around a bit and then get in there with your right to rile him up. He’s a madman. If you hit him first, he’ll try and get back at you at all costs, and that’s when he’ll lower his guard.’ The referee asked the seconds to leave the ring and Sigli and me to approach. He began by reciting the instructions. I didn’t hear him. I saw my opponent’s muscles quivering, his jaws clenching in his tense face, his faltering breathing, and I sensed that he was sick to his stomach and that all his loud declarations were just a feeble attempt to help him overcome his doubts.
Sigli folded at the first blow. He fell onto one knee, his hand to his side, his mouth grimacing with pain. People stood up in the hall, stunned by my ‘lightning move’. Jeers rang out across the ring. Sigli staggered to his feet. What I read in his eyes was a mixture of terror and rage. He knew that he was outclassed, but was hoping he could hold out for three or four rounds. He charged at me in a desperate surge. My left caught him on the tip of his chin. He collapsed to the floor, determined to stay there to the end of the count. The fight had lasted less than a minute. The audience showed its annoyance and started leaving the hall, overturning chairs and whistling in anger. Even the Duke was disappointed. ‘You should have made their pleasure last,’ he said to me in the changing rooms. ‘When a whole lot of people take the trouble to attend a show, they want their money’s worth. Especially when the seats are so expensive. You were too quick. The latecomers didn’t even have time to sit down.’
I didn’t care.
I had won and I didn’t give a damn about the rest. There was only one thing I wanted to do: run and throw myself into Aïda’s arms.
As soon as I had done up my bag and put on my suit, I apologised to my comrades that I couldn’t celebrate my victory with them as planned, jumped into Filippi’s car and went straight to Camélia’s to give myself a well-earned bit of relaxation.
7
Place d’Armes was in jubilant mood. The trams disgorged their hordes of passengers; the carriages swayed under the weight of their occupants. The few policemen didn’t know which way to turn in the carousel of cars and pedestrians. Beneath the gigantic trees around the fountain, families in their Sunday best were taking the air, the men with their jackets over their arms, the women under their parasols, the children trailing along behind like reluctant chicks. On the steps of the theatre, a throng of spectators was waiting for the box office to open, ignoring the Arab shoeshine boys fluttering around them. Soldiers in dress uniforms were vying with eccentric young men for the attentions of the girls, each using his seductive skills with the care of someone lighting fireworks. It was a gorgeous, colourful day, as only Oran could provide, softened by the breeze coming up from the harbour and fragrant with delicate scents from the gardens of the Military Club. We were sitting at a table on the terrace of a brasserie – De Stefano, Salvo, Tobias, Gino and I – some of us drinking anisette, others iced lemonade. Gino was telling me about the party the previous evening, to which many local personalities had been invited. Salvo was praising in great detail the succulence of the dishes served at the banquet.
‘You shouldn’t have run off,’ De Stefano said reproachfully. ‘It was your victory we were celebrating. Lots of the guests were upset not to see you at the restaurant.’
‘You’re not a street pedlar any more, you’re a champion,’ Tobias said.
‘The Duke wasn’t pleased to see that you weren’t there. He gave Frédéric an earful because of you.’
‘I was tired,’ I said.
‘Tired?’ Gino said. ‘That’s no excuse. There are conventions.’
‘What conventions? I have a right to rest after a fight, don’t I?’
‘They were honouring you,’ Tobias reminded me. ‘Honours are important. The s
ame people whose shoes you used to shine were there to shake your hand, damn it! To congratulate you. To cheer you. And you run off and throw yourself into the arms of a whore.’
‘What of it?’
‘It’s unreasonable behaviour,’ De Stefano said calmly.
‘Inadmissible,’ Tobias corrected him.
‘It’s time you learnt good manners, Turambo,’ De Stefano went on. ‘When people honour you, the least you can do is be there at the ceremony.’
‘It was just a dinner,’ I said. ‘A big one, but a dinner. Plus, there was pork and wine on the menu.’
‘Do you ever stop for two seconds and think?’ Gino said angrily. ‘Try to understand what we’re telling you instead of listening only to yourself. You’ve become someone, Turambo, a hero of the city. And honours can’t be negotiated. When an event is organised in your honour, things turn sour if you’re not there. Do you follow me? There were highly placed people who’d come specially for you; even the mayor was on time, and you were nowhere to be seen.
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ I said, anxious for them to change the subject.
‘Maybe not, but take care, it might be the end of everything for you. A champion mustn’t snub his people, especially if he depends on them. And he mustn’t do the first thing that comes into his head …’
‘Provided he even has one,’ Tobias sighed.
‘Why, do you?’ Salvo retorted.
Tobias didn’t take the bait. Since his arguments with Salvo often ended up to the latter’s advantage, Tobias wasn’t keen to make a spectacle of himself. The few jibes at me were mere diversionary tactics. The fact was, he was bored in his corner, and his expression was sombre. He kept staring at the jug in front of him, without touching it.
‘Weren’t you at the party?’ I asked him, determined to move on.
‘Oh, yes,’ he grunted, scowling so that his eyebrows met like two hairy caterpillars.
‘He’s hopping mad because Félicie refused to dance with him,’ Salvo said. ‘Was she scared he’d stick his wooden leg in her foot?’
‘Wrong. Félicie is sulking because I didn’t give her a jewel for her birthday. I gave her flowers instead. That’s more romantic, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ Salvo said, ‘but it doesn’t count.’
Tobias scratched himself behind the ear. ‘Mind your own business, egghead. I don’t like your insinuations.’
The two men looked stonily at each other.
‘What have you done with your ring, you randy bastard? Did you leave it up the arse of some old bag?’
‘Watch it, Tobias, I wasn’t being vulgar.’
‘Don’t worry. It might get jammed.’
‘You’re on good form, pegleg. What did you eat this morning?’
‘You’re the one who smells bad. Your mouth’s a sewer – when you open it the whole city starts to stink. Men like you can only do it up the arse.’
De Stefano laughed, making his paunch wobble.
‘You’re lucky I don’t have my knife on me,’ Salvo muttered.
‘I’d gladly lend you mine,’ Tobias said. ‘What would you do with it? Circumcise me?’
Gino and I were convulsed with laughter.
Francis joined us, his nostrils quivering with rage and indignation. He brandished a newspaper as if it were a tomahawk. ‘Have seen today’s paper?’
‘Not yet,’ Gino said. ‘Why?’
‘Those bastards on Le Petit Oranais didn’t pull their punches.’
Without taking a seat, preferring to remain standing to dominate us with his fury, Francis opened the newspaper with a peremptory gesture and spread it in front of him. ‘It’s the most disgusting article I’ve ever read in my life.’
‘It’s just an article, Francis,’ De Stefano said, trying to calm him. ‘Don’t have a fit.’
‘It isn’t an article, it’s a hatchet job.’
‘Someone from the editorial board told me about it this morning,’ De Stefano said calmly. ‘I know pretty much what it says. Sit down and have a beer. And don’t spoil our day, please. Look around you. Everything’s going well.’
‘What’s in it?’ Tobias asked.
‘Crap,’ De Stefano said wearily.
‘Yeah, but we want to know what,’ Tobias insisted.
Francis, who had just been waiting for permission to start, cleared his throat, took a deep breath and began reading so feverishly that his nostrils dilated even more.
‘THE SHOCK OF EXTREMES.’
‘What a headline!’
‘Spare us your comments and let’s hear what’s in the damned article,’ Tobias said.
‘Here we go then!’ His voice throbbing, Francis read:
‘Our dear city of Oran invited us to a truly dismal spectacle at the Salle Criot yesterday. We were expecting a boxing match and we were treated to a fairground attraction in very bad taste. In a ring transformed into a Roman arena, we were forced to witness a display of absurd sacrilege. On one side there was a fine athlete who practises boxing in order to contribute to the development of our national sport and who had come to impress the audience with his technique, his panache and his talent. Opposing him was a fighter like a wild beast who should never have been released from its cage. He was devoid of ethics. What can we say about this terrible farce other than express our intense indignation at seeing two conflicting worlds confront each other in defiance of the most elementary rules of decorum? Is it right to set the noble art up against the most primitive barbarity? Is it right to apply the word “match” to the obscene confrontation of two diametrically opposed conceptions of competition, one athletic, beautiful, generous, the other animalistic, brutal and irreverent? Yesterday, in the Salle Criot, we witnessed a vile attack on our civilisation. How can we not consider it as such when a good Christian is placed at the mercy of a troglodyte barely escaped from the dawn of time? How can we not cry scandal when an Arab is allowed to raise his hand to the very person who taught him to look at the moon rather than his own finger, to come down out of his tree and walk among men? Boxing is an art reserved for the world of the enlightened. To allow a primate access to it is a grave mistake, a false move, an unnatural act …’
‘What’s a troglodyte?’ I asked.
‘A prehistoric man,’ Francis said, eager to continue reading out the article.
‘Let us be under no illusion. To treat Arabs as our equals is to make them believe that we are no longer much use for anything. To allow them to face us in a boxing ring implies that they will one day be granted the opportunity to face us on a battlefield. Arabs are genetically destined for the fields, the mines, the pastures and, for those able to take advantage of our vast Christian charity, for the signal honour of serving us with loyalty and gratitude by doing our washing, sweeping our streets and looking after our houses as devoted and obedient servants …’
‘What prehistoric man are they talking about?’ I asked.
‘Don’t you get it?’ Francis cried, annoyed at being forced to interrupt his reading. ‘He’s talking about you.’
‘Do I look as old as that?’
‘Let me finish the article and I’ll explain.’
‘You don’t have to explain anything,’ Gino cut in. ‘We’ve heard enough. That article is just like its author: only good for wiping your arse on. We know the journalists who work on Le Petit Oranais. Fanatical racists, with as much restraint as a bout of diarrhoea. They don’t even deserve to be spat at. Remember the anti-Semitic massacre they caused in the Derb a few years ago. In my opinion, we should ignore them. They’re just low-grade provocateurs who prove, through their editorial line, that the civilised world isn’t always where we think it is.’
‘I don’t agree,’ Francis yelled, spittle showing at the corner of his mouth. ‘The man who wrote this rubbish has to pay for it. I know him. He used to go to the Eldorado cinema when I worked there as a pianist. He wrote film reviews for his paper. A pathetic nobody with a face like a barn owl, as thin as a pauper’s wag
es, ugly and untrustworthy. He lives not far from here. I suggest we go and have words with the bastard.’
‘Calm down, my boy,’ De Stefano grunted.
‘No Algerian can keep calm without forcing himself. If we give in, we lose face.’
‘Shut up, Francis!’ Tobias roared. ‘You can’t fight journalists. They’ll always have the last word because they’re what counts as public opinion.’
‘Tobias is right,’ De Stefano said. ‘Remember how those bastards on Le Petit Oranais treated Bad-Arsed Bob, or Angel Face, or Gustave Mercier. They lifted them up only to dump them. Bob ended up in an asylum. Angel Face killed his poor wife and ended his career in jail. Gusgus works as a bouncer … Fame is also paid in kind. What matters isn’t the occasional blows we take, but the nature of the marks they leave on us.’
All eyes turned to me.
I raised my glass of lemonade to my lips. The jibes, the filthy names, the vulgar insults: I’d hear them again and again every time I climbed into a ring. They were part of the atmosphere. There is no fight without abuse. At first, the jeers and the racist remarks hurt me. With time, I learnt to handle them. The Mozabite, my uncle’s partner, would say to me, ‘Fame can be measured by the hatred it arouses in its detractors. Where you are praised to the skies, others trip you up; such is the balance of things. If you want to see things through to the end, don’t linger over the droppings you crush beneath your feet, because there will always be some on the path of the brave.’
‘Are you going to let this go?’ Francis said.
‘It’s the only way to move on to serious things, don’t you think?’ I said, meeting his indignant gaze.
Francis slammed the paper down on the table and walked away, giving us the finger and telling us to go to hell. We watched him until he had disappeared round the corner. Calm returned to our table, without the open camaraderie that had prevailed a few minutes earlier. Hands grasped glasses and tankards; only Salvo had the courage to go further. De Stefano heaved a big sigh and sank into his chair, visibly annoyed by Francis’s intrusion. Gino picked up the paper, opened it at the offending page and read the article to the end in an unsettling silence. To dispel the unease that was starting to affect all of us, Tobias hailed the waiter, but then didn’t know what to order.
The Angels Die Page 20