Frédéric put his arm round my shoulders and moved me away from Filippi. ‘Sorry. I didn’t know you were a virgin. It was the Duke’s idea. Camélia’s is the most prestigious brothel in the region. Only important people go there. The girls are healthy, they know how to hold a conversation and they get regular medical checks. Plus, you don’t have to spend any money. It’s all on Monsieur Bollocq.’
He turned me towards him and looked me in the eye.
‘You’re still young, Turambo. At your age, starting out on what looks like being a fabulous career, the only thing you should think about is victory in the ring. I know that in your community, people marry very young. But you don’t belong to your tribe now. You have a legend to build. Everyone in Oran, from the dignitaries to the flunkies, the ladies to the harlots, is behind you, the Duke at the head of them. You want a wife? We can offer you concubines by the shovelful. At Camélia’s, no scenes, no worries, no judges and no dowries. Just a bit of well-earned relaxation. You come, you have a good time, and it’s thank you and goodbye … Imagine you have an important fight and your wife is ready to go into labour, imagine you have a title fight the night your kid complains of appendicitis, imagine that as you get in the ring you’re told your daughter has fallen down the stairs, what would you do? Do you put your gloves on or do you jump in a taxi and rush home? … So, girlfriends, marriage, all that mess, forget about it. You have mountains to climb, titles and trophies to win. To get there, the first thing you have to do is get rid of anything that could slow you down or distract you.’
It was clear that Gino was behind this ‘trap’. He had said the same kind of thing the other day when I had told him about Louise. Angrily, I pulled Frédéric’s hands off my shoulders and said, ‘I want to go home now.’
Gino was waiting for me calmly in the kitchen, eating a sandwich of kosher sausage, a napkin round his neck, his braces undone. A lock of hair dangled over his forehead, adding an unusual serenity to his charm. The way I slammed the door behind me and climbed the stairs four steps at a time, cursing, didn’t disturb his mocking, slightly distant smile. He seemed more interested in the gramophone droning in the living room than my bad mood.
‘What are you playing at?’ I screamed.
He cut me off before I’d finished giving vent to my temper. ‘You chose me to run your affairs,’ he reminded me, ‘so do as I say and shut up.’
The following evening, he himself went with me to Madame Camélia’s. The fact was, I wanted to go back. I was angry at myself for not having kept a cool head and dodged things honourably. Filippi’s sarcastic laughter was still ringing in my ears. I had to make amends for my self-inflicted insult …
Aïda received me with exaggerated solicitude. In spite of her efforts to put me at ease, I couldn’t relax. She told me about herself, asked me questions about my life, my plans, told me innocent jokes that barely raised the ghost of a smile, then took my jacket off, laid me on the bed and began touching me very carefully and whispering in my ear, ‘Let me see to it.’
I was in a kind of stupor when I got back in the car, where Gino and Filippi were waiting for me and sniggering. Filippi suppressed his giggling and ran out to crank up the car. Gino joined me in the back seat.
‘How was it?’ he asked.
‘Fantastic!’ I cried, drained of all my toxins.
Three days before my fight, not quite sure if it was to overcome the pressure Sigli was putting me under with his thunderous declarations or simply to rediscover a corner of paradise in Aïda’s arms, I took my courage in both hands and went back to Madame Camélia’s. All by myself, like a grown-up. With the private conviction that I had reached a turning point and was now in a position to decide my own fate. I was determined to take control. I stopped Aïda from undressing me, anxious to prove to her that I was capable of doing it myself. Aïda had no objection.
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.