Gods and Soldiers (25 page)

“I might not kill a mosquito, but I can kill a man.”

He stared at me once more, but this time only very quickly, then said, “I do not believe it.”

“How can I convince you that what I say is true?”

“I do not really know how you can do that.”

So I lifted my hand high up above my head and landed it violently on his face.

“Now you can believe that I have slapped you. Burying a knife in your neck is just as easy and requires exactly the same movement.”

This time, when he looked at me, his eyes were full of fear.

I said, “Perhaps now you will believe that I am perfectly capable of killing you, for you are no better than an insect, and all you do is to spend the thousands you take from your starving people on prostitutes.”

Before I had time to raise my hand high up in the air once more, he screamed in panic like a woman in trouble. He did not stop screaming until the police arrived on the scene.

He said to the police, “Don't let her go. She's a criminal, a killer.”

And they asked me, “Is what he says true?”

“I am a killer, but I've committed no crime. Like you, I kill only criminals.”

“But he is a prince, and a hero. He's not a criminal.”

“For me the feats of kings and princes are no more than crimes, for I do not see things the way you do.”

“You are a criminal,” they said, “and your mother is a criminal.”

“My mother was not a criminal. No woman can be a criminal. To be a criminal one must be a man.”

“Now look here, what is this that you are saying?”

“I am saying that you are criminals, all of you: the fathers, the uncles, the husbands, the pimps, the lawyers, the doctors, the journalists, and all men of all professions.”

They said, “You are a savage and dangerous woman.”

“I am speaking the truth. And truth is savage and dangerous.”

from
THE BUTCHER'S AESTHETICS

 

 

 

THE TWO FRIENDS' meetings resembled a ritual that went back to the years of holy struggle when they would drink more cups of coffee than they could count to give them energy, a small vice Laid Touhami had picked up in the mountains and the mayor at a young age, since his father considered coffee an aphrodisiac and permanently wore a necklace of coffee beans round his neck.

In fact, coffee had been behind Zineddine Ayachi's flight into the Ouarsenis and his joining the ranks of the Front. One day an enemy unit invaded his house on the false tip-off that he'd been helping the rebels, supplied by a local collaborator who was operating on a large scale for lack of specific names. His information targeted blocks of houses demarcated by roads and alleyways and numbered in sections. The soldiers surrounded Zineddine Ayachi's house; some of them climbed onto the roof while others kicked in the door with their boots. Four men suddenly landed in front of him as he sat in the yard. He stared in terror at the black jaws of the submachine guns. A finger pointed to the coffeepot beside him and a voice screamed: “Who's been here? Where are the others?” The soldier seized the single cup and the coffeepot, which he overturned. The black sand of coffee grounds fell on Zineddine Ayachi's foot, and drips of coffee stained his white shirt in damp zigzags.

“It was me! It was me!” he said.

“This coffeepot is empty,” said the soldier.

“I drank it all, it was me,” said Zineddine Ayachi.

“It must hold at least ten cups. You weren't alone! Where are the others?”

“There's only my family. I drink a lot of coffee. I can't help it.”

“You Arab donkey! You're going to show us what you can do.”

Zineddine Ayachi's wife put the coffeepot on the fire, half full of water. The soldier giving the orders filled it to the brim, then poured a packet of coffee into the boiling water. “A man that fond of coffee must like it strong,” he said to Zineddine Ayachi's wife, who sensed her husband's imminent ordeal. All the soldiers gathered in the yard. None of them wanted to miss the spectacle of the man undergoing the torture of the strong coffee dose. They cleared out all there was to eat in the tiny kitchen. Zineddine Ayachi started on the first cup and answered questions about his amazing capacity to absorb an entire coffeepot with no damage to his physical and mental health. He was supposed to sip the thick black liquid slowly; disobeying orders cost him a rifle butt across the shoulders. His wife and children were shut, sobbing, in a room. He tried downing the third cup in two gulps. The soldiers were in no hurry, they were just sorry they hadn't found any wine in the house—one of them said he thought grape juice flowed from the taps in a hot country, this paradise where vines were the only crop. The gulps of coffee fell heavily on Zineddine Ayachi's stomach, like tar soup. On the fifth cup a nauseating saliva filled his mouth, a gurgle rose from his guts, he tried to speed up the forced tasting, then a blow from the rifle butt across his back caused a retching that momentarily relieved his stomach.

“Swallow it,” said one of the soldiers, “you can't waste all that coffee.”

Zineddine Ayachi seized the coffeepot, lifted it into the air like a goatskin and let the contents pour into his wide-open mouth. A coffee hemorrhage immediately spurted from his nose, prompted by the heavy punch of a gun right in the stomach. Then the soldiers took him to the Lattifia barracks, where the torture continued: they made him drink saucepan after saucepan of coffee prepared with soapy water, this time with the aid of a funnel. His denials did little to alter Zineddine Ayachi's fate; the soldiers set about ridding him of his taste for coffee so long as he would not deliver the names of the men who had shared it with him in his home. A possible way out of his ordeal crept into his mind in the brief moments of prayer afforded him by his executioners, for he sensed the end was near. The faces of those he loved, his friends and family, passed before his eyes; invoked silently, he asked each of them for forgiveness, forgiveness for his mistakes and his faults, his aberrations on this earth. In the end, Zineddine Ayachi arrived at the last name, his dead father's. Helped by the combination of circumstances or the irony of fate, his thoughts returned by a curious path to the cause of his misfortune, and he remembered the coffee bean necklace his father used to wear round his neck.

“I'll tell you the truth,” he said. “My coffee isn't really coffee at all. It's a mixture of burnt chickpeas, black pepper, paprika and coffee. My father loved this drink, it was his secret recipe. It's an excellent aphrodisiac. A man becomes a bull with that coffee! The more cups, the more thrusts.”

Every time they met in the mountains, Laid Touhami would laugh at his friend's story. Neither he nor the other resistance fighters had any need of the magic potion Zineddine Ayachi had invented in a torture chamber; without women it would be a disaster. The enemy soldiers sent Zineddine Ayachi back to his house. He was to prepare five liters of his special coffee, which would multiply their orgasms with the fatmas. The future mayor of Lattifia owed his salvation to a psychological trick: he instinctively knew that these foreigners, the masters of his country, would follow their orders but also their lust. A very short time sufficed to say good-bye to his family; the torturers' credulity would not last long. Zineddine Ayachi had no illusions about the effect of his concoction, yet he was tempted to add a few fluid ounces of piss from his belly, swollen with the soapy coffee ingurgitated through the funnel. On the Ouarsenis paths, he urinated symbolically on the enemy he'd be fighting for years to come.

A WEEK LATER, 12 June, the municipal elections. The first free elections since Independence. Dozens of parties are contending, the walls of Algiers are dripping with posters. It's a bitter, anarchic struggle between all the parties except the FFS, which has called for a boycott.

Moussa, of course, didn't vote, convinced it would be rigged as always, 99.99 percent for the FLN, the famous “Continuity within Change.”

At 8 p.m. the entire family gathers in front of the TV for the results of the polls. Visibly ill at ease, the female news anchor announces that the FIS has won a landslide victory taking three-quarters of Algeria's municipal councils. Even in the affluent districts, the well-heeled having spent the day at the beach.

Then a breakdown of the results by constituency. It's one long death knell, the FIS emerges triumphant almost everywhere, even in Kabylia.

The hydra's been legitimised.

At first Moussa laughs nervously, his knees tremble. No, it's not true . . . They're bound to say it's a joke.

Is this Iran?

Nacéra and Kahina start to cry, that's it, we're done for, they're going to force us to wear the hijab. Pa bawls at them to be quiet. Slimane's inwardly jubilant, Ma groans, her diabetes. Sahnoun's with his thriller.

Through the window, a mighty clamour echoes from every corner of the city. Moussa goes out onto the balcony and sees a dense moving throng, a vast black ocean. Hordes of bearded young men in kamis, thousands of them, in the grip of hysteria. Koran in hand, they chant verses and slogans: “Sharia now! There is no God but Allah.”

Behind them, kids parading behind a barefoot, snotty-nosed self-appointed leader waving a makeshift flag, a torn plastic milk sachet on the end of a long reed.

All around, cars honking, ululations, traffic jams. The FIS stewards zealously direct the cars. Moussa recognises familiar faces: Spartacus, Baiza, Mustapha, Fatiha's brother. Look, even Slimane's down there, for God's sake. Going to have to sort him out, give him an earful, he deserves it.

Moussa doesn't want to see or hear any more. He goes back to his room to calm down and breaks out in a sweat. This isn't really happening?

What to do?

A chill runs down his spine. His mind's frozen, his limbs numb, his blood pressure plummets, he paces up and down. It can't be true? Better off sticking with the FLN in that case . . .

His mouth's dry, he goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. His grandma, wearing a yellow and bright pink Kabyle dress, asks him what's going on.

“This is it, the FIS has won, we're dead.”

“Dead? The FIS, who's the FIS?”

Moussa goes back to his room and stares at the Michael Jackson poster and his own, side by side. Calm down, dammit. Yeah the FIS'll be buggered. Carry on, work, work, work, hang in there. Music . . .

 

The following Thursday, there's a wedding at Frais-Vallon. Late afternoon, usual briefing with the band. Sort out the set.

Djelloul's taking care of the transport. Pick-up truck for the gear and the musicians.

Moussa rides in front, of course.

Djelloul's the band's official driver. He charges 100 dinars for each musician and has a good night out. Djelloul's never had a car of his own, he always drives the ones he's repairing.

Rashid should be coming. When Rashid comes, it's important, it's not the same.

Forgotten anything? No, set of strings for the mandola, found them at the last minute, black market. Stage outfit chosen with care, and the posters. Rashid's given him three, first proofs. He told him to put one on a display stand, clearly visible. Visibility is crucial.

Djelloul reverses into a parking space, puts on the hand brake, and turns off the engine. Everyone gets out, loads of people, cars parked haphazardly, kids. They're shown into a kind of dressing room—big cushions on the floor, smell of perfume, cakes.

On a side table is some Muslim whisky—in a teapot, in other words. They roll joints, take slugs of whisky, buff their shoes to a shine, tune their instruments.

Rashid chats to Moussa as he dresses in front of a huge mirror. He tells him about a video he saw on MTV and suggests ideas for Moussa's look. Moussa feels good when Rashid's there. Rashid knows his shit, fuck yeah, solid.

Dazzling in his green-spangled suit and leather tie, and fragrant with perfume, Moussa gives the band last-minute instructions, the order of the songs. Final adjustment to his bow tie, everyone looks immaculate.

Sound check, then launch into the first number. Vibe tense at first, audience on edge, the elections, shadow of the FIS?

Pouring all his rage into his mandola, Moussa goes straight for the gut, no pissing about. Let's do it!

From the first song, the audience goes wild, men and women. They invade the dance floor. Moussa's on a high, he tries out different styles of song, different moves.

By the fourth number, he's Hendrix: he plays the mandola behind his head, on his knees, the crowd's ecstatic.

Then it's the break, Moussa's in front of the mirror, checking his kohl, his teeth, his tie, his make-up. Everyone's congratulating him, that was amazing, thank you.

The bridegroom, wearing a tuxedo and white burnous, comes over in person to thank him. Moussa wishes him joy and lots of children.

In the mirror, Moussa looks himself in the eye. He can see into the far distance, a faint green glimmer at the back of the cave. The smell of certain, early fame. Yesss, he's away.

Where's that joint got to, anyway? The bassist.

Moussa:

“Hey, don't bogart that joint.”

Bassist, doesn't quite catch what he says:

“Huh, what?”

Moussa, cool velvet: