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Authors: Yasmina Khadra
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Red Cross is a modern version of the missionaries. You know, those guys in cassocks who used to spread the good word amongthe tribes. Joma is convinced they’re the same bunch of spies, except that the white fathers had the Bible, and the medics have vaccines.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I objected. ‘How can he say something as stupid as that? The Red Cross is a nongovernmental body. It takes action where you live and where we live too. A lot of people working for it have paid with their lives for the help they gave others. They’re everywhere where people suffer, without distinction of colour of skin or religion. They don’t baulk in the face of war, dictatorships, epidemics, or imprisonment. Your friend is being unfair and way off the mark. If he can’t recognise one of the most generous acts of our time, it’s because he’s blind and heartless.’
‘Personally, I don’t give a damn. Whether they’re spies or mercenaries isn’t going to change anything in my life. And besides, I’m not into politics.’
‘This Joma, is he the big guy with the amulets?’
‘They’re real amulets from a great marabout. Each one has a special power. They protect him against fear, bad luck, betrayal and bullets.’
‘Be that as it may, Joma is wrong. He should wear an amulet against prejudice.’
‘That’s in his nature. It’s the way he is, and that’s all there is to it.’
He listened out, went and made sure that nobody was near the cave and came back and sat down next to me. There was a more moderate look in his eyes now.
‘Why do you always carry that sabre with you?’ I asked, trying to win him over. ‘We’re chained up and we have no desire to fight.’
He shook his head. ‘It isn’t a sabre,’ he said cautiously, ‘it’s a machete.’
‘It’s a formidable weapon.’
‘It’s a piece of old iron. It’s the way you use it that makes it formidable.’
Outside, the giant started yelling at his men. The boy gave a small enigmatic smile and shrugged his angular shoulders.
‘So you’re really German?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow! … Do you know Beckenbauer?’ he asked suddenly.
The change of subject was so incongruous, I wondered for a few seconds if I had heard correctly. ‘Franz Beckenbauer?’
‘Yeah … Have you met him?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you live in Germany?’
‘Yes.’
‘It isn’t possible. You can’t live in the same country and not have met him.’
‘Oh, yes, you can. There are people who live in the same building and never meet their neighbours.’
‘That’s crazy. Here, everybody knows everybody … My father would have given anything to meet Beckenbauer. He was a fan of his. The only poster we had in the house was of Beckenbauer dribbling past an opponent with his arm in a bandage. It had been pinned to the wall a long time before I was born. And whenever my father stood in front of the poster, he’d shake with excitement … There were no other pictures in the house. Not of grandfatherwho died by falling down a well, or grandmother who I didn’t know …’
I couldn’t quite follow him.
He was biting his nails like a rodent.
‘I think I heard the name Beckenbauer before any other,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘My father wanted to be called the Kaiser, but in the village, everyone, young or old, called him Beckenbauer. It’s true, he had class, my father. He was tall and cool-headed, and he played for the local club. It wasn’t really a club, more a bunch of idlers running after a punctured ball on a dusty stretch of waste ground all day long. Whenever anyone scored a goal, he’d jump up and box the air then wave to the “stand”. The stand was a handful of kids and a few goats grazing in the bush … My father played centre back. He wore a captain’s armband even though he wasn’t the captain of the team, and a white shirt with a big number 5 on the back that he’d drawn with a felt-tipped pen. His shorts he’d cut out of a pair of trousers and
‘That’s ridiculous,’ I objected. ‘How can he say something as stupid as that? The Red Cross is a nongovernmental body. It takes action where you live and where we live too. A lot of people working for it have paid with their lives for the help they gave others. They’re everywhere where people suffer, without distinction of colour of skin or religion. They don’t baulk in the face of war, dictatorships, epidemics, or imprisonment. Your friend is being unfair and way off the mark. If he can’t recognise one of the most generous acts of our time, it’s because he’s blind and heartless.’
‘Personally, I don’t give a damn. Whether they’re spies or mercenaries isn’t going to change anything in my life. And besides, I’m not into politics.’
‘This Joma, is he the big guy with the amulets?’
‘They’re real amulets from a great marabout. Each one has a special power. They protect him against fear, bad luck, betrayal and bullets.’
‘Be that as it may, Joma is wrong. He should wear an amulet against prejudice.’
‘That’s in his nature. It’s the way he is, and that’s all there is to it.’
He listened out, went and made sure that nobody was near the cave and came back and sat down next to me. There was a more moderate look in his eyes now.
‘Why do you always carry that sabre with you?’ I asked, trying to win him over. ‘We’re chained up and we have no desire to fight.’
He shook his head. ‘It isn’t a sabre,’ he said cautiously, ‘it’s a machete.’
‘It’s a formidable weapon.’
‘It’s a piece of old iron. It’s the way you use it that makes it formidable.’
Outside, the giant started yelling at his men. The boy gave a small enigmatic smile and shrugged his angular shoulders.
‘So you’re really German?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow! … Do you know Beckenbauer?’ he asked suddenly.
The change of subject was so incongruous, I wondered for a few seconds if I had heard correctly. ‘Franz Beckenbauer?’
‘Yeah … Have you met him?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you live in Germany?’
‘Yes.’
‘It isn’t possible. You can’t live in the same country and not have met him.’
‘Oh, yes, you can. There are people who live in the same building and never meet their neighbours.’
‘That’s crazy. Here, everybody knows everybody … My father would have given anything to meet Beckenbauer. He was a fan of his. The only poster we had in the house was of Beckenbauer dribbling past an opponent with his arm in a bandage. It had been pinned to the wall a long time before I was born. And whenever my father stood in front of the poster, he’d shake with excitement … There were no other pictures in the house. Not of grandfatherwho died by falling down a well, or grandmother who I didn’t know …’
I couldn’t quite follow him.
He was biting his nails like a rodent.
‘I think I heard the name Beckenbauer before any other,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘My father wanted to be called the Kaiser, but in the village, everyone, young or old, called him Beckenbauer. It’s true, he had class, my father. He was tall and cool-headed, and he played for the local club. It wasn’t really a club, more a bunch of idlers running after a punctured ball on a dusty stretch of waste ground all day long. Whenever anyone scored a goal, he’d jump up and box the air then wave to the “stand”. The stand was a handful of kids and a few goats grazing in the bush … My father played centre back. He wore a captain’s armband even though he wasn’t the captain of the team, and a white shirt with a big number 5 on the back that he’d drawn with a felt-tipped pen. His shorts he’d cut out of a pair of trousers and
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