It was after midnight. Gino and I had been sleeping when there was a knock at the door. Going down to open up, I’d been surprised to see Frédéric Pau standing in the street, puffing on a cigarette. He’d apologised for disturbing us. It was obvious he wasn’t there by chance. The way he was smoking betrayed a nervousness I’d never seen in him before. I’d stood aside to let him come up. It occurred to me the Duke might have fired him; I was wrong. Monsieur Pau had come to lecture me …
Gino joined us in his pants in the living room, which was dimly lit by an old oil lamp because of an electricity blackout. As soon as he was seated, Monsieur Pau got straight to the point. He’d been given the task of clearing up that afternoon’s misunderstanding, following the words the Duke had said to me in his office. Gino, still half asleep, couldn’t follow much of the discussion. His eyes darted from my tense mouth to Frédéric Pau’s conciliatory hands, trying in vain to grasp what it was all about. I hadn’t told him about the incident in question. The Duke had wounded me deeply and I had preferred to save my resentment for Sigli, my next opponent, an arrogant fellow who was constantly shouting from the rooftops that he would polish me off in the first round. So I was furious with Pau. He was revealing everything without realising the embarrassing situation he was putting me in. However many pained looks I gave him, in the hope of making him aware of his indiscretion, he just kept on talking.
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.