She stood up and walked back to the house. She went up to her room but didn’t switch the light on. She hadn’t invited me to join her. She didn’t come to the outhouse as she had on previous nights. I waited for her, then, unable to bear the sense of abandonment that had taken hold of my refuge, I decided to leave the farm. There was no bus for Oran at that hour, but I needed air.
I slept in the hut of Larbi the fruit seller.
5
My mother was beside herself. She hated people dropping in unexpectedly. She liked to make sure that her guests had the best possible reception; in other words, in a house that was clean and tidy. It was after midday when I surprised her at lunch, the low table littered with scraps of food. The look she gave me was full of reproach. Especially as I wasn’t alone: Irène was with me. My mother looked her up and down, her gaze lingering on her short skirt, her red-painted mouth, her bare neck. She ordered us to stay in the courtyard until she had finished clearing up. Irène was laughing to herself, amused by this surly woman who hadn’t even taken the trouble to say hello.
The neighbour’s children giggled in their corner, watching us, their impish little heads arranged one on top of the other in the doorway.
I had told my mother about Irène, but she wasn’t expecting to see her in her own home. In our traditions, it wasn’t done. Taken by surprise, my mother had to resign herself to the situation. She began by closing the door of the room where my father was rotting away and admitted us to the living room.
Irène handed her a little package. ‘Chocolate for you, Madame.’
We sat down on mats. Irène found it hard to pull her skirt down over her knees. I offered her a cushion, which she hurriedly put against her legs. My mother served us mint tea. As we sipped it, she weighed up my companion, examining her thoroughly, ostentatiously, evaluating her age, her strength, her curves, her freshness, the way she held herself, increasing Irène’s embarrassment and making her put down her glass for fear of her tea going down the wrong way.
‘Does she speak Arabic?’ my mother asked me in Kabyle.
‘Yes.’
‘Is she a Muslim?’
‘She’s a believer.’
‘I think she’s too old for you.’
‘And I think she’s very pretty.’
‘Yes, she’s pretty. But she doesn’t look easy to handle, not the kind to let herself be ruled with an iron fist.’
‘Maybe that’s why I chose her.’
‘I get the feeling she’s knows a thing or two about men.’
‘She’s been married before.’
‘I suspected as much. She’s too beautiful to have been spared that.’
Irène was smiling as she listened to us. She knew we were talking about her and guessed the sense of our words. ‘You have a beautiful house, Madame,’ she said in Arabic.
My mother made a maraboutic sign to ward off the evil eye. She said nothing more and even allowed herself to withdraw in order to leave us alone. Mekki arrived with a shopping bag, which he put down on the ground when he discovered us in the living room. The look he gave Irène was unambiguous. He went straight back out into the street, horrified by the ‘outrageous dress of that painted foreigner’.
‘You don’t bring a half-naked woman to the house,’ he yelled at me later. ‘I bet she drinks and smokes. Women who dare to look men in the eyes are not desirable. What are you hoping for by going with her? To be the same as her people? They’ll reject you. To impress the people of your community? They already feel sorry for you.’ He turned to my mother. ‘Why don’t you say something, Taos? He’s your son.’
‘Since when do women have an opinion?’
‘He’s planning to marry an unbeliever. One who’s been rejected, what’s more. A wreck her own people are tired of. What does she have that our virgins don’t? Make-up? Her offensive dress? Her shamelessness? It’s all too obvious that she’s older than him.’
‘I’m older than my husband.’
‘Am I to understand that you approve of your son?’
‘He can do what he likes. It’s his life.’
Mekki smashed his fist against the wall. ‘We’ll be the laughing stock of the neighbours.’
‘Have we ever been anything else?’ my mother retorted.
‘I’m still the head of this family and your husband’s return doesn’t change that. I shan’t approve a union the saints would never bless. Your son’s being corrupted. He’s spent so much time with unbelievers, he’s starting to be like them. If he’s making money, why not benefit a girl from his own people?’
I let him curse and went out to join Gino on Boulevard Mascara.
The Duke advanced me part of the money to buy a Fiat 508 Balilla sports car. I was in seventh heaven. In Medina Jedida, the urchins ran after me, shrieking as if at a carnival. They threw their chechias into the air and almost got run over. My mother refused categorically to get in and let me take her for a ride. She didn’t trust me, unable to resign herself to the idea that her son might own a car and drive it without crashing into a wall.
I loved driving along the avenue, my elbow resting on the windowsill, the wind on my face. I savoured the intoxication of a freedom I had never imagined. Irène and I went everywhere, even going as far afield as Nemours. Tlemcen was ours, as were the still-rudimentary resort at Hammam-Bouhadjar, the beaches of Cap-Blanc and picnics in the woods. Occasionally, we took Ventabren with us. We’d sit him at the foot of a tree and bustle around a campfire. Our grilled meat made us smell of smoke for the whole day. In the evening, we’d go to the cinema. I had a particular liking for swashbuckling adventures, but Irène hated violence and couldn’t bear stories that ended sadly; she preferred romantic films with happy endings, where the two lovers embraced and the audience cheered.
I was living through the happiest days of my life.
Five months before the big match for the North African title – Pascal Bonnot, the reigning champion, twice postponed our match for dubious reasons – the Duke summoned me to his office. Gino, Frédéric and De Stefano were there, as were two tough-looking men I’d never seen before who could easily have been gangsters. The Duke told me his plan. As far as he and his advisers were concerned, a stay in Marseilles was essential, on the one hand to prepare in secret, and on the other hand to benefit from the help of the best trainers in France.
I accepted.
The same day, I announced to Irène that I was going across the Mediterranean for eight weeks’ training. We were in the stable. Irène was grooming her mare. She didn’t react, just continued brushing her animal as if she hadn’t heard me. Light rain was falling on the hill.
‘I’d like you to come with me to Marseilles.’
She gasped scornfully. ‘You want me to go with you to France?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about my father?’
‘We’ll take him with us.’
She put away her brush and threw a blanket over the mare. Her gestures were brusque. ‘My father will never want to leave here. This land is his flesh. Nothing in the world suits his soul better than these hills. What landscape could make him forget this magnificent view over the orange groves and vineyards stretching as far as Misserghin, and the scrub where the wolves howl at the moon every night?’
She pushed me aside slightly because I was standing in the light.
‘Neither my father nor I will ever agree to let this land out of our sight. To us, it’s the gods’ most perfect creation.’
‘We’ll come back here afterwards.’
‘After what? We’ll never agree to leave here, I tell you. Not for a day, not for a minute. Even when we sleep, it’s the only thing we see in our dreams.’
I followed her out into the courtyard. She was walking fast as if trying to shake me off.
‘This is my career, Irène.’
‘I never said it wasn’t. And I’m not stopping you from going wherever you like. We aren’t married yet. In fact, I don’t think we ever will be. I hate bo
xing.’
‘It’s a profession like any other. It’s my profession.’
She stopped abruptly and turned round to face me, her lips quivering with anger. ‘What kind of profession is it where you just have to go down twice in succession for the descent into hell to start? I know about it, you know, and I’m not thrilled about it. Pipo from Algiers, Fernandez, Sidibba the Moroccan – they all trained here. They slept in the same outhouse you’re sleeping in now, they ran on the same tracks. They all thought they were invincible. Girls fell into their arms and the crowds worshipped them. They had their photographs in the papers and their posters on the walls. They dreamt of money and adventure, and Pipo was even planning to build himself a palace on the heights of Kouba. And one night, in a hall full to bursting, with the spotlights on him, bang! He was down! Shock horror. The invincible Pipo is down! And everything collapses around him. The last I heard, he has more alcohol than blood in his veins and can’t even find his own way home.’
‘I’m not Pipo.’
‘It doesn’t matter, you’ll meet the same fate. It’s inevitable. One day, you’ll meet someone who’s stronger than you and you’ll find yourself on the floor. Your fans will turn away from you because their hearts only beat for new blood. You’ll try to make a comeback, fighting with nonentities. You’ll be displayed in a dilapidated ring like a fairground strong man. When you don’t have any power left in you, you’ll drown your sorrows in seedy bars and come home to ruin my nights. And if I don’t like it, you’ll beat me to prove to yourself that you’re not the lowest of the low.’
‘I’ll never raise my hand to you.’
‘That’s what men say when they aren’t dead drunk. My father always had a flower for my mother when he came home in the evening. He was attentive and affectionate, and he treated my mother with a lot of respect. She was the cherry on his cake … Like you, he climbed the ladder without slipping, sure that he’d reach the top and stay there. Like you, he won fight after fight at the beginning of his career. Everything went well for him. By the age of twenty-seven, he was champion of France and nearly became world champion. Then he met his tamer. Deprived of his title, he started doubting – and changing. Whenever he won, he reverted to being the father I knew. Whenever he lost, he turned into a monster I was just beginning to discover. When he came home, no more flowers for my mother, just complaints and excuses to cause scenes. From my bed, I’d hear him swearing like a trooper. In the morning, my mother would stay shut up in her room so that I wouldn’t see the marks on her face. In the evening, when she sensed that my father was about to return, she’d tremble like a goat waiting for a hyena’s approach. To overcome her fears, she started drinking. Sometimes, she’d climb out through the window and run off into the night. My father would have to look for her at the neighbours’ or else in the fields. He’d bring her home, promising never again to raise his hand to her, to stop drinking, to stop choosing the wrong enemy. The respite would last a few days, a week, then, without warning, the scenes would start again.’
Her face was right up against mine, contorted with sorrow; tears flooded her lashes.
‘My mother went through hell,’ she continued, hammering out her words. ‘She was as beautiful as an angel, but by the age of thirty-five she’d grown old. Her face reflected nothing but her ordeal. Until the night she ran away and didn’t come back. She left for good and we never heard from her again … That’s right, Amayas! My mother left because she was tired of being a punch bag for a boxer who’d fallen from favour … And since then, I’ve never stopped hating boxing. It isn’t a profession; it’s a vice! Deposed gods aren’t forgiven. Cheers are closer to jeers than disappointment is to madness. I have no desire to share my life with someone who’s damaged in body and spirit. I don’t see myself growing old scraping a washed-up drunkard off the ground. That’s not for me, Amayas. Fame in the ring is like a yo-yo, and I don’t like its highs and lows. I’m a stupid, innocent dreamer. My happiness is in the harmony of things. I want to live with a man who’ll look at my fields the same way I do and have the same contempt for wealth and show. That’s my price for believing you love me. And then I’ll love you too, with all my heart and strength.’
*
The Duke started tearing his hair out when he heard that I didn’t want to go to Marseilles to train. According to Frédéric, he’d been positively apoplectic. His shouts rang out through the entire building. Some members of his staff had deserted their desks, while others had barricaded themselves behind their files. It didn’t impress me. I refused to go to Marseilles. Gino called me all the names under the sun. ‘When are you going to stop behaving like an idiot?’ he cried, nervously loosening his tie. ‘I’ve had enough of cleaning up after you.’ His attempts to win me over failed. The Duke didn’t beat about the bush. He just threatened to fire Gino if he couldn’t make me see reason.
Francis declared it was a waste of time to reason with someone as stupid as me. ‘The police say that nationalist agitators are active in the mosques, hammams and cafés. Turambo must have risen to the bait. He’s easily influenced. A charlatan in a turban must have filled his head with stupid ideas.’
‘I’m not interested in politics,’ I cried.
‘Then it’s a relative or a jealous neighbour who’s driven you crazy. Arabs battle for advantages. As soon as one of them manages to keep his head above water, the others try to cut it off.’
‘What are you trying to insinuate, Francis?’
‘I’m trying to save you from a fall. You mustn’t listen to your people. They’re envious. They resent you because you’re less and less like them, because you’re a success. They’re jealous. They’re not looking out for you, they want you to fail. They want you to fade away, to become a shadow of yourself so that everyone can go back to the darkness. That’s why you people lag behind other nations. Always fighting each other, blowing each other apart, destroying each other with slander and betrayal.’
‘My family have nothing to do with my decision.’
‘Damn it, do you realise the grave you’re digging for yourself?’
‘Provided it’s not for you.’
Francis spat on the floor. ‘I always thought Arabs were blinkered. Now I know why you’re their champion.’
I took a step in his direction.
He took out a flick knife. ‘Lay your dirty barbarian mitts on me and I won’t leave you a finger to wipe your arse with.’
His eyes burnt with a murderous flame. The most surprising thing was that neither De Stefano, nor Frédéric, nor Gino condemned Francis’s attitude. We were in the manager’s office. In the embarrassed expressions around me, I saw a faint aversion. Their tight jaws, their drawn features, their stiffness showed revulsion for me. I had strangers around me. These men I’d held dear, these good friends who were as important to me as my family, these fine men with whom I’d shared my joys and sorrows, were rejecting me simply because for once I didn’t agree with their plans. I realised at that moment that I was nothing but a modern-day gladiator, a boxing-gala slave only there to entertain the gallery, that my kingdom was limited to an arena outside which I didn’t count at all. Even Gino was acting in his own interests; he was more concerned about his privileges than my wounds. And I was wounded to the core. Wounded and disgusted.
Sick at heart, my eyes went from Gino to Frédéric, from De Stefano to the flick knife.
‘You bunch of vultures,’ I cried. ‘What I want deep down doesn’t come into your calculations. It doesn’t interest you. All you care about is the trade-off: blows for me, money for you.’
‘Turambo,’ Gino moaned.
‘Don’t say a word,’ I said. ‘I think everything’s been said.’
Francis was just putting away his knife. My right catapulted him against the wall. Surprised, he slid to the floor, his hands over his face. Seeing his bloodstained fingers, he whined, ‘Shit! He broke my nose.’
‘What did you expect from a barbarian?’ I said.
The w
indow pane broke clean across when I slammed the door behind me.
A few days later, I overheard Jérôme the milkman asking Alarcon Ventabren if the men who had come to see him were criminals. They were chatting behind the stable, facing the sun, Ventabren in his wheelchair and the milkman on his van. When he left, I wanted to know more about that strange visit.
Ventabren shrugged. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really bad,’ he said. ‘Your friends are desperate. They told me you’re refusing to go to Marseilles to train and asked me to reason with you.’
‘And?’
‘I think a period of training in France is important for you.’
‘Did they threaten you?’
‘Why would they threaten me? I’ve been punished enough … You know something, my boy? When you choose a path, however difficult it is, you should see it through to the end. Otherwise, you’ll never know what it has in store for you. You’re a champion. You represent a lot of challenges, and a lot of hopes are riding on you. Mood swings have no place in this kind of adventure. You do what you’re told, that’s all. Irène’s a fine woman, but women don’t know when to stop interfering in men’s business. They’re possessive and they exaggerate their role in life. They reduce the basics to the little things that suit them. Men are conquerors by nature. They need space, room to move about in that’s as big as their hunger for success. Wars are men’s obsession. Power, revolutions, expeditions, inventions, ideologies, religions, anything that moves, reforms and destroys in order to rebuild is part of the vocation of men. If it was only up to women, we’d still be chewing on mammoths’ bones in the back of a cave. Because a woman is a fragile creature without real ambition. For her, the world stops with her little family and she measures time in relation to the age of her children. If you want my advice, son, go to Marseilles. Don’t leave the table when the banquet is made up of honours and titles. For a man, life without glory is nothing but a slow death.’
The Angels Die Page 28