The Duke puffed on his cigar and sent the smoke swirling up to the ceiling. His stern eyes came to rest on me. ‘What exactly does Turambo mean? It isn’t a local name. I’ve asked educated friends and nobody could explain it.’
‘It’s the name of my native village, Monsieur.’
‘Never heard of it. Is it in Algeria?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Near Sidi Bel Abbès, on the Xaviers’ hill. But it’s vanished since. A rise in the water level swept it away seven or eight years ago.’
The other visitor, who hadn’t moved from his place since he’d come in, pursed his lips and scratched his chin. ‘I think I know where it is, Michel. I’m sure he means Arthur-Rimbaud, a village that was buried in a landslide at the beginning of the twenties near Tessala, not far from Sidi Bel Abbès. The press reported it at the time.’
The Duke looked at his cigar, turning it between his thumb and index finger, a grin at the corner of his mouth. ‘Arthur-Rimbaud, Turambo. What an abbreviation! Now I understand why, when you’re dealing with Arabs, you can never find the right address.’ He turned to De Stefano. ‘I saw your boy’s last three fights. When he knocked out Luc in the second round, I said Luc was getting old and it was time for him to hang up his gloves. Then your boy polished off Miccellino in one minute twenty. I couldn’t figure that out at all. Miccellino’s a tough customer. He’d won his last seven fights. Had he been caught unprepared? Maybe … But I admit I was impressed. I wanted to be certain in my own mind, so I made sure I attended the match with the Stammerer. And again, your boy took my breath away. The Stammerer didn’t last three rounds. That’s quite something. True, he’s thirty-three, he boozes and runs after whores, and he skips training sessions, but your boy made short work of him, and I was staggered. So my adviser Frédéric Pau here’ — he gestured reverently to his companion — ‘suggested I sponsor your boy, De Stefano. He’s convinced he’s a good investment.’
‘He’s right, Monsieur.’
‘The problem is that I hate buying the wrong merchandise and I hate losing.’
‘Quite rightly, Monsieur.’
‘This is what I propose. I believe your champion’s meeting Rojo in Perrégaux in three weeks’ time. Rojo’s young, strong and dedicated. He has his eye on the title of North African champion, which is no easy task. He’s already seen off Dida, Bernard Holé, Félix and that bruiser Sidibba the Moroccan. I was on the verge of sponsoring him, but Turambo’s really come on in the past few months and I told myself the next match will clinch it for me. If Turambo wins, he’ll be my protégé. If not, it’ll be Rojo. Have I made myself clear, De Stefano?’
‘I’ll be delighted to work for you, Monsieur.’
‘Not so fast, my friend. The ring still has to decide.’
The Duke threw his cigar on the floor, stood up and left, with his adviser hard on his heels.
We were speechless for two whole minutes before De Stefano started mopping himself with a handkerchief.
‘You know what you have to do,’ he said to me. ‘If the Duke takes us under his wing, nothing can harm us. The man is manna from heaven. When he bets on a cat, he turns it into a tiger. How would you like to dress like a nabob, Turambo?’
‘It’d make a change. Right now, my clothes are falling apart.’
‘Then go and kick the arse of that cocky Rojo.’
‘Just watch me! Luck only smiles on you once, and I have no intention of letting it slip through my fingers.’
‘That’s the wisest resolution I’ve heard in my whole damned life,’ he said, taking me in his arms.
Gino found me on a café terrace in Medina Jedida, a pot of mint tea on the table. He sat down next to me, poured himself three fingers of tea in my glass and casually lifted it to his lips. Opposite us, on the esplanade, Moroccan acrobats in shorts were performing amazing feats.
‘Guess who came to see us today.’
‘I have a bit of a headache,’ he said wearily.
‘The Duke.’
That woke him up. ‘Wow!’
‘Do you know him? They say he’s rolling in it.’
‘No doubt about that. He’s so rich he hires people to shit for him.’
‘He came and said that if I beat Rojo, he’ll take me under his wing.’
‘Then you have to win … But watch out, if he offers you a contract, don’t sign anything if I’m not there. You’re not educated and he might put a leash round your neck that even a dog wouldn’t want.’
‘I won’t sign anything without you, I promise.’
‘If things work out for you, I’ll leave the printing works and take care of your affairs. You’re starting to make a name for yourself. Would you like me to be your manager?’
‘I’ll hire you right now. We’ll share everything fifty-fifty.’
‘A normal salary would be fine … Let’s say ten per cent.’
We shook hands to seal the deal and burst out laughing, amused by our own fantasies.
The Duke wanted to make sure we got to Perrégaux feeling fresh and on good form, so he sent a taxi to pick us up from Rue Wagram. The five of us bundled in, Francis and Salvo on the fold-up seats, Gino, De Stefano and I on the back seat. The driver was a tense little fellow, his cap pulled down as far as his ears, so tiny behind the wheel that we wondered if he could see the road. He drove slowly, in a stiff and sinister way, as if he was going to a funeral. Whenever Salvo tried to lighten the atmosphere by telling dirty jokes, the driver would turn to him with an icy look and ask him to show some restraint. Unsure if he was the Duke’s official driver or an ordinary cabman, De Stefano didn’t want to take any risks, but he didn’t like the idea of this obscure celebrity teaching us good manners.
It was a fine May day. Summer had come early, and although it wasn’t yet quite at its height, the hills were carpeted in yellow and the farms glittered in the sun. The luxuriant fields and orchards meant that the cows would be nice and fat this year. We took the road to Saint-Denis-du-Sig by way of Sidi Chami, much to the dismay of Francis, who couldn’t understand why we had to make so many detours when the railway led straight there from Valmy. The driver told us this was the route decided on by the Duke himself … It was nine in the morning. A horde of veiled women were climbing a goat path in the direction of a saint’s tomb, their children limping along far behind in single file. I looked up at the tomb, which was at the top of a hillock, and made a solemn vow. I hadn’t slept well in spite of my mother’s herbal teas. My sleep had been disturbed by tortured dreams and heavy sweating; by the time I woke up, my head was burning hot.
Opposite me, Francis was excited, his eyes shining. Discreetly, he rubbed his thumb against his index finger and batted his eyelids to amuse me. All he thought about was money, but seeing him like that made me less anxious. Gino gazed out at the landscape, fists clenched. I was sure he was praying for me. As for De Stefano, he just kept staring at the back of the driver’s furrowed neck as if trying to melt it with his eyes.
Perrégaux appeared after a bend in the road. It was a small town in the middle of a plain dotted with orchards. Here and there in the distance, patches of swamp shimmered like pearls. At the side of the road, amid the fig trees, Arab carters offered their harvest, while kids, their containers filled with snails, waited patiently for buyers. In a field, a thermal spring gurgled, shrouded in white steam. A fat colonist with a guard dog was watching a male donkey circle a female donkey on heat. I had the feeling I was seeing scenes from my native countryside.