was then aware that he and Fabien were no longer alone. Fabien’s voice rose up, indicating that he was a man again, one of an army of men, not calling for so much as acknowledging the reinforcements, and when Kader had jumped away from the knife someone behind him had grabbed him around the waist and his abdomen shrank from the blade all by itself and then he was whirling, spinning free of their grasp, his arms flailing and as he ran he was aware of their weight beside his, aware that he flew while they only seemed to stamp harder on the ground. But it had not been satisfactory. There had been no glory in the fight with Fabien.
There had been a time when he had dreamed of glory. As a kid he was the best footballer Nanterre had and his coach believed ina great future for him. When he was twelve he began to prepare for trials at the famous training centre in the forest west of Paris where he would have played football six hours a day. But he didn’t grow. The other kids did; their voices broke, their muscles developed, dark hair sprouted from their nostrils. Time passed. He was still better than the others technically but the force of their kick so surpassed his own that he was made to play piston, an inglorious position that required much mobility and little efficacy. At fifteen, puberty had still not come. He began to deal and he got fed up with waiting. When it did come, the following year, he outgrew everyone. But it was too late; he didn’t care any more. One evening his mother had asked him why he was back so early.
I left the team, he replied. I left like a prince.
His mother clutched her head.
Like a prince, she had moaned. Like a prince.
Kader looked out of the window of the RER. Years later the phrase was funny. Like a prince was what you said when you jumped before you were pushed. What he liked about Amadou was that he never needed such phrases. With Amadou, there was no posturing. He did not nudge his balls in public. He stood tall, his feet firmly on the ground. He did not play the caïd for women either. He had not started smoking with the other ten-year-olds in the class, nor had he ever racketeered younger kids. When anyone had tried it on him, it soon became clear that they would have to saw off his hand before he gave up his watch. Not that he squealed; he was just stubborn, sufficient unto himself. Like Thuram. But, thought Kader, as the train pulled into La Défense station, what would he know about a professional footballer who was probably worth over 300 million francs? What could he possibly know about a person like that? Thuram might be black but he was from another planet.
As the doors opened Kader felt a rush of fear in the face of Amadou’s absence. Without Amadou there beside him he suddenly feared his own nature. Amadou was like his name, all love and gentleness, while Kader saw grounds for conflict everywhere. Amadou had left a CD in the Discman for him. It was Bach. Amadou liked classical music. He said it was the last good thing white civilisation had produced, that after all this time it had come into the public domain, so to speak. It’s for everyone,he had said. And what people like us do with it, weave it into our music, is a healthy mixture of gratitude and revenge. Gratitude and revenge: Kader had liked that.
He put on the headphones and turned on the machine. The woman beside him was staring at him. He tried to ignore her and enjoy the music. But the hag was crowding him. He unhooked the headphones from behind his ears.
Want a listen? It’s Bach.
But the woman made a tutting sound and turned away.
What is it, you miserable bitch? Don’t you like Bach?
Just then Kader caught sight of the man standing in front of the nearest set of doors, saw him reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, and his cop radar made him forget the woman. Just as the siren sounded to signal the doors closing, Kader upped and jumped off the train.
The next train came in no time. It was a
There had been a time when he had dreamed of glory. As a kid he was the best footballer Nanterre had and his coach believed ina great future for him. When he was twelve he began to prepare for trials at the famous training centre in the forest west of Paris where he would have played football six hours a day. But he didn’t grow. The other kids did; their voices broke, their muscles developed, dark hair sprouted from their nostrils. Time passed. He was still better than the others technically but the force of their kick so surpassed his own that he was made to play piston, an inglorious position that required much mobility and little efficacy. At fifteen, puberty had still not come. He began to deal and he got fed up with waiting. When it did come, the following year, he outgrew everyone. But it was too late; he didn’t care any more. One evening his mother had asked him why he was back so early.
I left the team, he replied. I left like a prince.
His mother clutched her head.
Like a prince, she had moaned. Like a prince.
Kader looked out of the window of the RER. Years later the phrase was funny. Like a prince was what you said when you jumped before you were pushed. What he liked about Amadou was that he never needed such phrases. With Amadou, there was no posturing. He did not nudge his balls in public. He stood tall, his feet firmly on the ground. He did not play the caïd for women either. He had not started smoking with the other ten-year-olds in the class, nor had he ever racketeered younger kids. When anyone had tried it on him, it soon became clear that they would have to saw off his hand before he gave up his watch. Not that he squealed; he was just stubborn, sufficient unto himself. Like Thuram. But, thought Kader, as the train pulled into La Défense station, what would he know about a professional footballer who was probably worth over 300 million francs? What could he possibly know about a person like that? Thuram might be black but he was from another planet.
As the doors opened Kader felt a rush of fear in the face of Amadou’s absence. Without Amadou there beside him he suddenly feared his own nature. Amadou was like his name, all love and gentleness, while Kader saw grounds for conflict everywhere. Amadou had left a CD in the Discman for him. It was Bach. Amadou liked classical music. He said it was the last good thing white civilisation had produced, that after all this time it had come into the public domain, so to speak. It’s for everyone,he had said. And what people like us do with it, weave it into our music, is a healthy mixture of gratitude and revenge. Gratitude and revenge: Kader had liked that.
He put on the headphones and turned on the machine. The woman beside him was staring at him. He tried to ignore her and enjoy the music. But the hag was crowding him. He unhooked the headphones from behind his ears.
Want a listen? It’s Bach.
But the woman made a tutting sound and turned away.
What is it, you miserable bitch? Don’t you like Bach?
Just then Kader caught sight of the man standing in front of the nearest set of doors, saw him reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket, and his cop radar made him forget the woman. Just as the siren sounded to signal the doors closing, Kader upped and jumped off the train.
The next train came in no time. It was a
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